Ed Lawrence caught the orange-black fireball in his peripheral vision, then led his anvil force into the Israelis. He saw the F-l5s, having expended most of their Sparrows, close to visual range, lowering their noses and meeting his three squadrons head-on. There were bogeys all around the clock, and what remained of the formations moments before was shredded as the opposing forces swept through one another at 1,100 knots closure. They each pulled into abrupt, mind-blurring climbing turns to bring weapons to bear. But two Saudi flights kept going.
Devil flashed through the initial line of Israeli fighters, passing up the option for a head-on Sidewinder shot. The percentages were too low at that rate of closure. Instead, at high speed he raced on west. He knew the second line of Israeli jets would be about five miles behind the Sparrow shooters. From 500 feet above the terrain, his four sections pulled up to attack the second group as the first line of Israelis desperately reversed to assist. But most were too closely engaged with the pilots of Black, Orange, and Green Squadrons. Lawrence knew, having occupied the Israelis on his anvil, that Geoff Hampton's hammer would be swinging downward just about now.
Twenty-five miles southeast of the main combat, orbiting behind Orange Base, were two Tornadoes. Both were specially fitted for electronic warfare, the ECM pods on the hardpoints under their variable-sweep wings. Both also carried electronic counter-counter-measure avionics attempting to neutralize the Israeli jamming, but this met with limited success. The radar portion of the combat was limited to the early phase, and now it was eyeball to eyeball.
Geoff Hampton looked down at the "furball" of milling fighters 4,500 feet below him. He deployed his two squadrons, sending Brad Williamson's Red around to the north to hook in behind the main Israeli force, while leading White straight into the fight.
Hampton had never been in aerial combat. His twenty-two years of flying had included twelve on active duty with the RAF and four as a contracted Jaguar pilot in Oman. The remainder of his career had been spent in clandestine activities in Africa and the Middle East, affording a wide variety of experience. Now he moistened his lips beneath his oxygen mask, anticipating the ultimate test of his life.
Rolling over, Hampton called, "White Lead is in."
He began stalking a lone Eagle on the fringe of the furball. It was sound doctrine-avoid the center of the fight, where an opponent may appear at any quarter and surprise you. Don't go "tits up" if you can help it-far better to avoid inverted attitudes and retain better orientation. Hampton accepted this tenet, despite the fact that his extensive aerobatics background had made him as comfortable inverted as upright. But above all, he wanted to maintain what the Yanks call "situational awareness." Know what the hell is happening in the three miles of airspace around you.
Hampton pressed his attack on the Eagle from its nine o'clock position. The Israeli saw him at two miles and made a hard left turn into the attack. Hampton leveled his wings, pulling the F-20 into eighty-degree climb and passed the lead to his wingman, Lieutenant Quabis Mendat. With the nose well up, Hampton kicked rudder and brought the Northrop around to a nose-low attitude in position to support Mendat. But it was not necessary.
Few things are as terrifying for a fighter pilot as to turn as hard as his aircraft will sustain, the airframe at its structural limits under heavy buffet, and see behind him an opponent who cannot be pushed out of his radius of turn. The Israeli captain watched in awe as the F-2 °C out-turned him, its nose beginning to pull inside his own turn radius. When he saw the underside of the Northrop's fuselage, an icy hand clutched his stomach-a terrible certainty that the pilot behind him was able to track him in the gunsight. The Israeli's turn into Hampton had set him up for a six o'clock pass by the wingman, whom he had not seen.
With his neck twisted to scan behind him, the twenty-seven-year-old Israeli's head weighed nearly a hundred pounds. His neck muscles strained to sustain the five-G load which his entry airspeed allowed in a maximum-banked turn. Momentarily he thought of reversing the turn, but he knew that would gain a few seconds respite at best. At worst it would get him killed sooner.
He thought of the other option. He could pull the yellow-and-black-striped handle between his knees and catapult himself out of the fight, into the Arabian desert. He could live to see his family again.
Or he could sustain his turn, knowing that if the Saudi behind him didn't shoot in another few seconds, the Eagle's surprising maneuverability would begin to stabilize the combat.
He decided to fight.
In that instant he saw the bright flashes from the F-20's nose, and his life ended as 12 of the nearly 200 rounds in the burst raked the top of his aircraft, smashing the canopy, cockpit, and seat.
Brad Williamson took his flight into the combat from the north-northeast, gaining a favorable initial position on four F-16s. The Falcons were covering some Phantoms, which boldly dived to the deck and proceeded to their target at 200 feet. Williamson sent his second flight after the bombers and locked horns with the nearest F-16.
The Israeli saw him coming and pitched up into a climbing turn.
Brad was willing to play that game. He admitted to himself that he was not as comfortable turning with a 16-he had 2,000 hours in Falcons-but he would play the vertical game willingly. After two upward-rolling scissors he was gaining the advantage and knew the third evolution would be decisive. The trick was energy management. The former Thunderbird knew the F-16 could not fly as slowly as his own airplane in the pure vertical. When the Israeli reached minimum controllable airspeed, he would have to nose over. The Tigershark, however, could go to zero airspeed and hammerhead-turn back on top of him.
With his neck craned back, Williamson carefully watched the dancing F-16, suspended in infinity through the top of his canopy. There was no up or down, left or right; only motion relative to one another. Then the American saw the movement he needed. The F-16 abruptly pitched over and nosed down to regain airspeed:
Instantly Williamson stomped right rudder, forcing the nose to slice down and around, emerging from a sixty-degree dive above and behind the brown-and-tan-camouflaged Falcon. Williamson got a good missile tone, closed to less than one mile, and pressed the trigger.
The port Sidewinder flashed off the rail and corkscrewed slightly as it sensed its target. The F-16 had gained enough momentum to begin an evasive turn but it was not enough. The AIM-9 sliced off the Falcon's tail and the pilot ejected.
Williamson let out a howl of exultation. Briefly he pondered the chance of buying that Israeli driver a drink this evening. What a kick to hear it from that guy's viewpoint! He glanced down again, taking bearings on where his opponent would land, and began to circle the likely spot.
"Red Lead! Break right! Break… "
Williamson's instincts began to take over. In automatic response to his wingman's call, he slammed the stick hard over to begin evading whatever Red Two had seen. He felt a heavy lurch, heard an impossibly loud bang, and vaguely felt the onset of searing heat. Then Brad Williamson died.
Red Two looked down at the aerial debris. He could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. The F-16 he had been fighting zoom-climbed from Brad's bellyside in a turn and collided. In an instant both aircraft were windblown smoke and shards of metal. The Saudi shook himself, glancing around the clock, and detected friendlies out at three o'clock. He bent the throttle to join them.