by Larry Bond
MUSTANG LEAD
With the tankers and antishipping planes gone, Mann felt like a ball and chain had been removed. Under Rancher’s direction, the Counterweight raid accelerated from attack aircraft cruising speeds to fighter intercept speeds. Blips representing hostile aircraft covered his radar now, although enemy jamming still cluttered parts of the scope with fuzzy white blotches.
He could only spare a short glance at the radar screen itself. Much of the data on it was automatically fed to his Hornet’s HUD anyway, and a pilot who spends too much time heads-down is sure to get surprised one day. And surprises in air-to-air combat are usually fatal. He scanned the sky and double-checked his weapons settings. It would be several more minutes before they were in Sparrow range.
But the F-14s would be in range a lot sooner than that. He looked down at them now, wings swept back and still spreading out from a close formation used by attack planes to one more suitable for high-altitude missile combat.
“Cactus, Lasso, Longhorn, you are clear to engage assigned targets. Out.” Rancher’s voice ordered the three Tomcat squadrons under his command to attack. Each of the thirty F-14s carried four long-range Phoenix air-to-air missiles, two shorter-range Sparrows, and two Sidewinders for dogfighting. Like Mann’s Hornet, they also carried two drop tanks. The tanks were slowing them down, but the Tomcats would hang onto them — until the fuel they carried was gone, or until the fighters were going into a close-in fight where maneuverability counted for more than endurance.
Now, almost before Rancher finished his transmission, each F-14 fired once. White lines, tipped with fire, appeared in front of the Tomcats. They shot straight out ahead of the big, twin-tailed planes for a fraction of a second, then suddenly pitched up and climbed almost out of sight.
The smoke trails flashed past the formation, but Mann’s eyes followed the missile tracks as long as possible. Just as the first group of missiles disappeared, the three F-14 squadrons fired again.
Following the first wave, the second wave of Phoenix missiles climbed until they were out of the troposphere entirely. Following preset flight commands, they leveled off at over 100,000 feet. The near vacuum twenty miles up allowed each missile to reach Mach 5 and hold it, even after its rocket motor burned out. Their targets were seventy miles down-range — well within the missiles’ range. They would reach the EurCon formation in a minute and a half.
MINISTRY OF DEFENSE
Stunned and panicked shouts echoed in his ears. The crowded situation room filled with questions and accusations as Gibierge tried desperately to concentrate on the voice at the other end of the command circuit.
Desaix, rising out of his chair, shook the admiral’s shoulder, demanding that he explain, that he act.
Gibierge, shouting into the handset to make himself heard, yelled, “Attack now! Push them in at full speed! Remember, we only need one hit!”
He hung up, and realized that the man demanding his attention was not some aide but the Foreign Minister of France, the controlling mind of the European Confederation.
“Explain this,” ordered Desaix in a barely controlled voice.
“It’s an offensive fighter sweep, sir. Based on the information there” — Gibierge waved an arm at the display — ”we are facing the combined fighter strength of both aircraft carriers.”
He shook his head in astonishment. “The Americans are not conducting an attack on Wilhelmshaven or any other land target. They flew the same profile as attack aircraft, and mixed enough attack planes into their formation to fool us.” Gibierge pushed down a sneaking admiration for his American counterpart. This Admiral Ward was wilier than he had thought.
Desaix still looked lost.
The admiral hastily sketched out his deductions with one eye locked on the display. “If we had not been launching our own strike, we would have thrown every fighter we had at them. The Americans would have met our planes with their own and outnumbered us. Then, with our air defense forces crippled, their real strikes would suffer fewer losses.”
Desaix scowled. “So now instead of our air defenses, they are going to decimate ‘the cream of our air forces.’ We must abort the strike now, before they get in range.”
“At this stage that would be almost impossible, Foreign Minister. It would also be unnecessary.” Gibierge half argued, half pleaded with the politician. “Our own fighters almost match theirs in numbers. While they occupy the Americans, our Mirage attack jets can accelerate to maximum speed and slip past. And they will be in launch range in just a few minutes.”
Desaix started to object, but Gibierge stopped him. “It’s too late, Foreign Minister. Events move too quickly in an air battle. The orders have already been given.”
A display operator’s voice cut through the confusion. “Strike leader reports they are under missile attack.”
OVER THE EURCON STRIKE FORCE
The Phoenix missiles, linked back to their launching aircraft, nosed over, plunging almost straight down at the enemy planes a dozen miles below them.
Both waves of American missiles flashed through the enemy formation in an eyeblink. Every EurCon plane immediately pulled up into a weaving climb, trying to force each attacking missile to waste energy turning and climbing itself.
The Mirage 2000 and Tornado crews could have jettisoned their loads and lived. With a few exceptions, they chose to keep their own missiles and trust to luck. Without those weapons, their mission would be a failure. Most managed to evade the attacking Phoenixes by jinking and dropping chaff.
The jammer aircraft suffered the worst. Six elderly Mirage F1 fighters each carried a centerline jammer pod. Weighing half a ton, the pod sent out signals that could hide a whole squadron of aircraft from radar, as long as they stayed within a few miles.
Their electronic noise served as a perfect beacon for the Phoenix’s “home-on-jam” feature. Each F1 was swarmed by several missiles. Roughly half the pilots realized what was happening and switched them off, but it was a futile gesture.
Only one Mirage F1 survived.
The long-range American attack had stripped the EurCon strike of its jamming support. Dodging the missiles had also wasted precious time and fuel and disrupted their formation.
But their orders were clear. Nosing into a shallow dive, the EurCon planes went to full military power.
OVER THE NORTH SEA
As their radar scopes cleared, new commands vectored the U.S. Navy squadrons toward the accelerating EurCon raiding force. The opposing groups of aircraft were forty miles apart at thirty thousand feet, heading straight for each other at a combined speed of twelve hundred knots.
The EurCon side fielded about sixty fighters of three types, all equipped with long-range air-to-air missiles. A squadron of Rafales were the newest and deadliest of the three, accompanied by delta-winged Mirage 2000s, old but still effective. The German contribution was limited to the elderly F-4F Phantom II. They were still escorting more than forty French and German Tornado and Mirage attack jets.
The Americans had just over eighty planes and they launched first. Two Hornet squadrons carried the AMRAAM, a “smart” air-to-air missile. It outranged all French and German weapons. Twenty-four white smoke trails drew arcs from one group to the other.
Diving down into the enemy’s scrambled formation, the advanced AMRAAM seekers ignored the lone EurCon jammer.
The AMRAAMs were targeted on the greatest threat, the Rafale squadron. Each plane pulled up into a wild series of maneuvers. Many missiles missed, but five aircraft, the best fighters in the EurCon arsenal, were hit and disappeared in black and gray explosions. The rest were prevented from firing back for a few precious moments.
The other EurCon fighters were not maneuvering, and the Mirage 2000s fired a salvo of active radar homing Mica missiles. The German Phantoms added their own fire, American-built Sparrows. Almost fifty missiles arrowed toward the oncoming navy planes.
Simultaneously the Americans fired again. More AMRAAMs and Sparrows lea
pt from under gray-painted wings, speeding toward the EurCon planes still twenty-five miles away. Both sides saw each other only as blips on glowing radar screens and target designator boxes on HUDs.
That was a serious problem for the French and German aircraft. Their screens were still cluttered with American jamming. It didn’t stop them from launching missiles, but it slowed them down, and in air combat, time is a weapon of its own.
Surrounding the navy fighters were six EA-6B Prowlers. Packed with antennas and electronics, their transmitters were so powerful that the signals were lethal to nearby personnel on the ground. They felt out the electronic spectrum, found the enemy radar and radio frequencies, then poured electronic radiation into them like a waterfall. Tied together by their own data links, the six jamming planes were welded into a single unit, sharing information and assigning targets.
Another missile salvo flashed out from the American planes, matched by a more ragged salvo from the EurCon side. Planes from the opposing sides were just coming into visual range. Tracks from half a dozen different missiles filled the air between the two formations. Even as the missiles struck aircraft of both sides, the two formations merged.
MINISTRY OF DEFENSE
Radar tracking of the combat was now meaningless. Gibierge could only see a hash of blue and red symbols on the left-hand screen. One thing was clear. There were fewer and fewer blue symbols.
The only sound in the room was the formation radio circuit. Like commanders half a century before, all the waiting men could do was try to pick out stray scraps of information from the frantic calls of the pilots, fighting hundreds of miles away.
“… three planes to port… launching now… stand by, break now!.. I’m hit, my port wing’s gone…” Each voice had its own background of warning beeps and howls, and one was accented by the roar of a rocket motor igniting as a missile launched.
On a separate frequency, emergency locator beacons sent out their beep-beep-beep signals, marking the locations of downed pilots. They appeared on the display, too, but there was no way to tell which side they belonged to. There were a lot of them, though, and their numbers grew steadily.
MUSTANG LEAD
Mann hoped like hell his wingman was all right. He’d lost sight of the other F/A-18 only a minute into the fight, and he’d been far too busy since then to look for him.
There were too many planes climbing, diving, and turning through too little airspace. Over half his attention was devoted to avoiding a midair collision, not to killing the enemy. He’d nearly lost it once already, when a hard break away from somebody’s missile had almost slammed him into a scissoring German Phantom.
He looked around, rapidly scanning a sky full of arrowed shapes at every aspect and angle possible. Streaks of smoke marked the passage of missiles between the rival aircraft, as well as the places where planes had died. The lower edge of the dogfight was marked by colored parachutes.
It was a battle of snap shots and fleeting chances. He’d scored one gun kill early on, firing instinctively as a Mirage filled his canopy. The French jet had fireballed, rocking his Hornet. Since then, though, he’d felt like a ball in a pinball machine.
A Tomcat appeared out of nowhere, passing in front of him at high speed. Beyond it was a Rafale, facing away from him, nose-up.
With Sidewinder already selected, he brought his Hornet’s nose over, waiting for a tone. Nothing. Damn it!
He switched to guns and increased the throttle, intending to close the range before firing. Instead, the track light on his radar warning receiver lit up. A frantic glance over his shoulder revealed a Mirage at his five o’clock.
Abandoning his quarry, Mann chopped the throttle and pushed the stick forward, unloading the Hornet’s wings. Then he broke hard left, turning into the delta-winged French fighter. They passed within a dozen yards of each other, canopy-to-canopy.
Another Tomcat hurtled toward him, approaching almost head-on and in pursuit of the Mirage. Mann brought his nose right to clear the F-14, and had a spectacular view of the Tomcat’s Sidewinder as it left the rail. He didn’t see the result. He’d spotted a German Phantom above and to starboard. Increasing the throttle, he pointed the Hornet’s nose up a little, risking a stall to bring the enemy aircraft into his sights. The Phantom’s engines weren’t as stealthy as a Rafale’s and this time his heat-seeking missile’s tone was clear and strong. Perfect!
Mann’s thumb pressed the fire button on his stick. The Sidewinder dropped off its rail and covered the quarter mile between the two planes in an eyeblink. It scored a direct hit, slamming into the German’s left wing and blowing it off.
He watched the F-4 start to spin, almost too slowly. Still in slow motion, its canopy popped off, and Mann saw a blast of smoke and flame flare in the cockpit. The Phantom’s ejector seat tumbled free of the torn aircraft, carrying its pilot to the relative safety of the North Sea.
“Mustang. This is Rancher. All units, vector three one five. Bandits inbound at level ten. Buster.”
Mann recognized the CAG’s voice, and the meaning of the call. Three one five degrees was a rough bearing back to George Washington. Some of the EurCon attackers had broken clear of the dogfight. “Buster” meant to intercept at full power.
He keyed his mike. “Roger, Rancher, all Mustangs to three one five. Hatchet out.”
He advanced the F/A-18’s throttle. He felt his aircraft’s speed build up quickly, carrying him out of the fight. He adjusted his course, then cast a quick glance at his six o’clock. At full military power, his engines made a dandy IR target. Fortunately nobody was following him.
Mann spotted several other Hornets, all on the same course, scattered above and below him. His radar showed a cluster of contacts in front and below him at twenty miles — all headed toward the carrier at high speed. They were still out of launch range but wouldn’t be for long. The F/A-18 was light now, without its drop tanks and half its missile load, almost clean.
Mann noticed the “Bingo” indicator light come on. Building up this last burst of speed had drained his fuel supply. He was going to need a tanker, and soon.
He selected his last Sparrow and locked up a target. “Mustang Lead, engaging.”
USS GEORGE WASHINGTON
“Admiral, we’ve got ten-plus inbounds at five-fifty knots. Fighters are engaging. We’ve got Dale on that side, weapons tight. She’ll be in range soon, but we have to get the fighters out of there first.”
March’s report and implied recommendation was half formality, but it was Ward’s decision to make. Sitting in his command chair, surrounded by displays, he felt a little superfluous. “Clear the fighters and tell all ships to go to weapons free.”
It was the only logical thing to do. He had missile ships facing an incoming enemy attack with their hands practically tied behind their backs. Going to weapons-free status would clear them to fire SAMs more effectively. Any air target not positively identified as friendly would be fair game.
Ward nodded toward the symbols showing fighters chasing after the EurCon strike planes. “What’s their fuel state?”
“Tankers are already on the way, sir.”
Ward nodded and went back to watching the displays. It wasn’t really a feeling of being superfluous, he decided. Events were just out of his hands now. His plan was in motion, and everyone else had a job to do but him.
MUSTANG LEAD
“All units, this is Rancher, break off and steer zero four five.”
Mann gauged the distance to the remaining bandits and reluctantly turned to the ordered course — heading away from George Washington and the enemy. The EurCon aircraft were too far ahead and too close to the battle group’s SAM envelope to catch.
He added his own “Mustangs, form on me” to the CAG’s command and waggled his wings. It was time to count noses.
Behind him, the remains of four EurCon attack squadrons tucked into two tight formations. Of nearly fifty attack aircraft that had ventured out to challenge the Americans, onl
y eight were left. Others were limping home, nursing damage that made it impossible to press on. Most were gone — blown out of the sky by guns or missiles. Three far out in front were German Tornados. The five trailing behind were Mirage 2000s carrying ASMP nuclear missiles.
Decimated by the navy fighters, the French and German pilots knew they were on borrowed time. They no longer watched their fuel gauges, but simply poured on all the speed they had. Their only hope of survival was to reach launch range and salvo their weapons. After that, each of them could evade and try to make it home while the Americans tried to deal with the missiles. Even a rubber raft looked attractive after the hellride they’d all gone through.
In accordance with their attack plan, the Tornados, well out in front now, fed targeting data to the Mirage pilots. The French plane’s short-range radar could not see the U.S. ships at this distance, and precise targeting data was crucial. Their ASMP missiles didn’t have radar seekers that could home in on moving targets. Designed to attack stationary objects on land, they mounted only a plain inertial seeker. Just before launch, each pilot would set his missile’s target as a simple geographic location.
As the Mirage crews took the range and bearing supplied by the Germans, they tried to calculate flight times, the American carrier’s course and speed, and come up with the proper impact point. Even with a nuclear warhead, a sure kill could only be guaranteed against a warship if it landed within a mile and a half. The damage radius was twice that. At the distance they were firing from, that worked out to a margin of error of less than two percent. But then, all they needed was one good hit.
With their target locked in, the Mirages fired. Five finned missiles dropped from centerline pylons and flew northwest, accelerating rapidly past the speed of sound.
