The Orange lead was also leading the northern, or “Exxon” flight. The “Mobil” flight lead, on the southern CAP station, acknowledged the call. Both groups of fighters, north and south, were turning toward the two inbound enemy groups. The middle fighter group, a flight of Saudi F-15s, would remain on station in case things went to hell and the intruders managed to get too close to Al-Kharj.
In the AWACS, Harper studied his scope. It looked like the bandits were turning again. Just as he predicted, the intruders were turning back toward the target. Nose on with the defending fighters.
“Bandits coming nose hot,” he called. Bearing one hundred, range sixty, thirty thousand. Weapons free, Orange lead. Acknowledge.”
“Roger, weapons free,” replied the Orange lead. It meant they had the go-ahead to fire simulated missiles as soon as they were in range. He was getting solid radar hits now. Not quite in AIM-120 range, but getting close. This was going to be a turkey shoot.
“Stinger flight is sorted.”
It was the message Maxwell had been waiting to hear. DeLancey was reporting that he and his stingers were down on the deck — and they had the enemy fighters located and identified.
Maxwell made one last situational check: His strikers had good separation — ten miles. The Orange fighters were coming at them, probably in afterburner, judging by the closure speed. Supersonic and accelerating.
Time for the next move.
“Ninety-nine Strikers, go cold,” Maxwell radioed, ordering his flight to turn away from the enemy.
In unison, the two Blue groups executed a hard right turn to the east, which placed them in a trail formation perpendicular to the oncoming Orange fighters.
Rolling out of his turn, Maxwell peered again at his radar — and he saw exactly what he had hoped to see: The Orange fighters were coming after them. Like leopards chasing an antelope, they were in a classic pursuit curve.
Almost in firing range.
Thirty thousand feet below, the Blue fighter package — four F/A-18 Hornets and four F-14 Tomcats — were in a full afterburner vertical climb, streaking upward like rockets from a launcher. Neither group was using radar. They were emitting no electronic warnings to the Orange fighters or to the AWACS.
Directly above them, specks against the milky Arabian sky, were the two groups of F-15s.
The first warning came from Harper, in the AWACS. His voice sounded like he’d been goosed with a cattle prod. “Exxon! Pop-up bandits inside five miles, altitude unknown!”
A second later, more bad news. “Mobil! Threat, snap vector zero-one-zero for ten miles nose hot, climbing!”
The F-15 pilot leading the Exxon Group craned his neck, frantically searching. Where the hell were they? Under him? How could they get here without putting out a radar warning…?
Suddenly he knew. Shit! The red radar warning scope light was flashing on his panel like a beacon from hell. Where the fuck did they come from?
He whipped his Eagle into a nine G turn. “Exxon One, spiked at eight o’clock!” Then he saw it — the distinctive delta shape of an F-14 Tomcat. Coming up at him. Locked on so tight the guy could be shooting spitballs.
A second later he heard the inevitable calclass="underline" “Splash one F-15, southern group, angels 29, in a hard left turn.”
The Eagle pilot was officially “dead.” But maybe the rest of his flight would engage the bandits…
“Splash two F-15s, southern group.”
Two F-15s down. Aw, hell. But they had two more still alive —
“Splash three!”
“Splash four!”
It took less than ten seconds. All four F-15 Eagles in the southern group were dead. For them the exercise was over.
The Exxon leader rolled his wings level and glumly acknowledged. He and his entire group were out of the game. It occurred to him that it was probably the shortest air-to-air engagement he’d ever been in. The worst part was that he knew he’d be hearing about this from the swabbies every time they came ashore. Those Navy assholes were merciless.
But he still had the Mobil group. They were in their own furball with another gaggle of Blue fighters. He could hear them chattering like magpies on the radio, calling out targets, yelling that they were spiked.
Maybe the war wasn’t over yet.
Killer DeLancey knew even before he flipped on his acquisition radar that he had committed too early. He should have waited another ten seconds, fifteen maybe, before going vertical and popping up. He’d given the F-15s a precious few seconds of reaction time to counter the attack.
His second section, led by Flash Gordon, had managed to get a quick kill on the nearest pair of F-15s. But the second two, with a few more miles of maneuvering room, had turned hard and fast into their attackers — Killer and his wingman, Hozer Miler.
“Take the trailer, Hozer!” Killer barked in his radio. “I’ve got the leader.”
“Copy that,” answered Hozer, grunting against the high G load. Hozer would engage the wingman while DeLancey killed the leader.
Delancey could see it was going to be an old-fashioned turning fight, a classic Lufberry circle with the lead F-15 on one side of the circle, his own Hornet on the other. Nearby, Hozer and the second F-15 were engaged in their own separate turning duel.
This wasn’t DeLancey’s style of fighting. It was primitive, flying supersonic fighters in a hard G-pulling flat turn like this, trying to get inside the other guy’s radius. This was World War I Richtofen and Rickenbacker stuff. DeLancey preferred to use the spectacular vertical capability of the Super Hornet to swoop and pounce on the enemy like a hawk plucking a mouse.
But it was okay with DeLancey. He had never lost a fight to an F-15 puke, and today wasn’t going to be a bit different. It was just more work this way.
Pulling hard, sweat pouring down from inside his helmet, DeLancey kept his eyes on the lead Eagle across the circle. He could see the puffs of vapor spewing from the fighter’s wings, a product of the high G load the Air Force pilot was pulling.
But DeLancey could see the angle between them decreasing. In tiny increments, he was gaining the advantage. He knew that in a turning fight, almost no supersonic fighter in the world, including an F-15 Eagle, could beat a Super Hornet. It was just a matter of time, a few more turns of the circle… he would have his nose on the Eagle’s tail pipes. The F-15 would be dog meat.
In his peripheral vision, DeLancey caught an occasional glimpse of Hozer Miller, flying his own Lufberry circle, closing on the second F-15. Hozer’s target was high, pulling hard, trying to evade the missile-firing cone of the pursuing Hornet.
Suddenly the second Eagle stopped trying to evade. Instead, he shallowed his turn, dropped his nose and pointed his jet across the circle.
At Killer DeLancey’s Hornet.
DeLancey had no time to react. “Hozer! Shoot the sonofabitch—”
Too late. “Fox Two! Splash one Hornet,” came the voice of the Eagle pilot.
Killer was dead.
A second later: “Splash the F-15.” Hozer killed his target — but not before the Eagle pilot had fired his simulated Sidewinder missile at Killer DeLancey.
In his cockpit, DeLancey slammed his fist against the canopy rail. A surge of fury flashed over him like heat from an explosion. He couldn’t believe it. That goddamned Air Force prick! It was a cheap shot — totally unexpected and illogical. Stop defending, kill the lead Hornet, sacrifice yourself. A stupid decision in real combat. But this was a war game, and it was perfectly legal.
Ten seconds later, Flash Gordon’s section of Hornets dispatched the surviving F-15. “Splash the lead Eagle,” reported Gordon.