Thunder in the East (28 page)

He went in for a third, equally successful run, blasting away the convoy's rear pair of jeeps.

Now he knew it was time to go after the gold APC itself.

It was easy to lock the Maverick onto the APC-the gold-painted vehicle was emitting every kind of "signature" that he could think of. He brought the cranked-arrow fighter down to 125 feet, did a quick vertical translation to avoid the pesky SA-7 shoulder-launched SAM that had had his cockpit threat warning abuzzing, and lined up the APC through his special video-visor helmet.

His finger cradled the missile-launch system trigger. The electronic image of the APC now filled his field of vision. He was about to blow it apart.

"Get ready," he whispered to himself. "Three . . . two . . . one . . ."

But then a voice inside him said: Don't do it »

He suddenly yanked back on the stick and put the F-16XL into a screaming climb, flipping a switch that would temporarily disarm the Maverick.

What was this? he thought. He had been blasted with a sudden flash of intuition not to destroy the APC. He closed his eyes and let the 312

feeling soak through him.

It was as if every nerve ending in his body was telling him to go in and take out the APC, while this small, but persistent buzz in his brain told him not to ...

He immediately turned back and flew over the area, watching as the APC -its drivers no doubt confused but thankful -found a side road and quickly scampered into the woods. He climbed and set a course back to Erie, disarming his remaining missiles for good.

He didn't know why his sixth sense warned him off. But after all this time, he knew better than to distrust his perceptive instincts . . .

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It was a Free Canadian AWACs plane that saw them first.

Secretly patrolling the skies above the Erie base, the E-2A-a military version of the Boeing 707-had detected the incoming force as soon as the first enemy aircraft lifted off from the airfield in Syracuse.

The word was immediately flashed to the United American Combat Communications Center in the Erie control tower. Seconds later the base's air raid klaxons were going full-throat. The antiaircraft weapons were turned on and manned, and ground mechanics quickly started working on their respective jets. Within two minutes, the first of the UA scramble jets were taking off.

J.T. was the flight leader of the first intercept group, piloting one of four Football City F-20s.

"We got twelve blips in the first wave," he called out to his three partners as they rushed toward the enemy airplanes. "They look to me like Floggers.

Twelve more two minutes behind them, and a third dozen 314

lingering out on the periphery. This last group might be Fitters. No escorting fighters, so far ..."

General Jones, monitoring the radio transmissions on the ground, broke in on J.T.'s line. "That third group will probably hang back or they might disperse and come in from a different direction," he said. "We'll keep an eye on them and the second group here. You guys try to cut off that first wave."

J.T. was already doing that. He let go with a long-range Phoenix missile while the enemy was still 46 miles away. Each of his three counterparts did the same thing-firing their single Phoenix missiles at the still over-the-horizon targets.

Upon releasing their missiles, J.T.'s flight streaked up to 21,000 feet, 5000

feet above the altitude of the approaching enemy. Each pilot watched his radar screen as their Phoenix missiles homed in on the first dozen Soviet-built Floggers.

"Go baby, go . . ." J.T. urged his particular rocket.

Suddenly, one of the blips disappeared from his screen. Then another vanished.

Then another and another.

"Yee-hah!" J.T. yelled out, mixing in with similar exclamations from his partners. "Four bye-byes . . ."

But their celebration was brief. There were still eight Floggers heading right for them. And 12 more behind them. And 12 Fitters somewhere behind them.

J.T. knew the easy part was over . . .

He was in visual range of the first wave of oncoming Floggers when his APG

radar starting clanging. He pumped up the visual on the screen and saw a whole new series of blips rising up to meet his flight.

"Jesus, they did bring some interceptors with them . . ." he whispered as he watched as many as two dozen indications appear on his display. Instantly he knew The Circle had pulled a fast one. They had

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flown their slower attack force-the Floggers and the Fitters-at a normal altitude. But they had sent their Fulcrum interceptors at about 250 feet, under the Free Canadian radar screen.

He quickly got his radio. "These guys have babysitters," he said. "They flew their interceptors below the radar line-of-sight . . ."

Now he knew they would have to tangle with the Fulcrums, and while doing so, the first two waves of Floggers would get through. The second flight of F-20s had by this time caught up with him, as did an eight-flight of the Texas F-4s.

The odds were now 16 United American fighters against 24 Fulcrums . . .

Jones was quickly on the line. "We're launching everything we can to stop the first two waves of Floggers that get through," he told J.T. "You guys have to take on those Fulcrums. Good luck . . ."

Less than a minute later the skies about 25 miles from Erie were a swirl of F-4s and F-20 Tigersharks and MiG-29 Fulcrums. Sidewinders flashed, nose guns spit flaming lead. AA-10 air-to-airs returned the fire, the Fulcrum's formidable cannon adding to the fray. Two Fulcrums went down. Then another.

But then a valuable F-20 got it, caught between two MiG-29s.

J.T. himself blasted one Fulcrum to bits even as he was launching a Sidewinder at another one further away. He saw two F-4s buy it within a second of each other, another-its entire fuselage bathed in flames-purposely collided with a MiG-29, causing both to explode in a tremendous flash of fire and smoke. He felt a lump gather in his throat as he watched for friendly parachutes.

There were none . . .

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Meanwhile the attack force of 20 Floggers-the first and second wave-aircraft were passing right over the dogfight and heading for the Erie base.

To counter the approaching force, Jones had taken the unusual step of sending up his attack planes-the A-10 Tankbusters and the A-7 Strikefighters-to intercept the enemy. Neither airplane was well-suited to air-to-air combat, but then again, neither were the oncoming Floggers.

He also radioed around the base to check on the SAM and AA teams. All sixteen of his Hawk and Roland SAM sites were hot and tracking the ap-preaching force, as were their three dozen radar-guided AA guns. Five roving teams of three men apiece were dispatched to the edge of the airfield, armed with shoulder-launched Stinger and Blowpipe antiaircraft missiles. Several of these teams were made up of the baseball players liberated during the Cooperstown Raid. Ib a man, they had volunteered for service. So Jones had assigned them to SAM duties as well as to the base's rescue squads.

In the meantime, the heavy bombers at Erie were also in the process of taking off. The luxury of the Free Canadian AWACS warning allowed Jones the time to order them to get off the ground and avoid being targets during the air raid.

The B-52s went first, followed quickly by the B-ls and then the heavy C-5

gunships and the various other cargo ships. Each airplane immediately struck out to the north and into friendly Canadian air space, each pilot knowing the Circle attackers wouldn't have the equipment nor the intestinal fortitude to chase them.

All the while, Jones was hovering over the base's huge radar screens watching the approaching enemy.

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"Ten miles to go," the radar operator told him. "Our A-10s and A-7s will meet them head-on in about a minute."

Jones shook his head at the absurdity of the situation. It was like sending out two sumo wrestlers to fight a boxing match.

Ben Wa opened the throttle on the A-10 to full and leveled off at 15,000 feet.

Rarely did this kind of airplane even venture up to this height, never mind fight at it. Altitudes of 5000 feet and below was much more to its liking. But the situation was desperate, and therefore required desperate measures.

He was the flight leader for the entire attack airplane force. He knew that none of the A-lOs or A-7s were carrying air-to-air missiles, nor were they equipped with any hot-shot radar systems. But neither were the Floggers. No, this battle would be fought with the nose cannons-in his case, the GE GAU-8/A Avenger sticking out of his snout. The Strikefighters, who were a little more adept at interception, but not much more, were armed with twin Vulcan cannons.

He was the first to spot the lead line of Floggers. They had come down to 12,000 feet and were descending fast in order to get to their attack altitude of 500 feet. They were flying in four groups of three, the Fitters somewhere behind them.

Ben ordered his guys to go in attack formation. He knew they would have to make this quick. They were only eight miles from the base and he didn't want to be in the line of fire when the UA antiaircraft forces started doing their thing.

"OK, guys," Ben radioed. "We each get one pass. Make it a good one."

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He nosed his A-10 into a steep dive and released his nose gun safety switch.

Without benefit of an intercept radar system, the Floggers had no idea that the A-10s and A-7s were about to pounce . . .

He actually saw the expression on the face of the pilot of the first Flogger when he looked up, his mouth open in amazement as the A-10 bore down on him.

He tried to bank away, but it was too late to move the large MiG-27 Flogger, which was actually an over-loaded version of a MiG-23 fighter. Ben opened up at just under 150 feet. He felt the kick of the Avenger as he fired off a three second burst. Two hun- '• dred and thirty seven armor-piercing incendiary shells immediately impacted on the cockpit of the Soviet-built attack plane, ripping through the pilot's head and chest. The airplane went into an instant nose dive, its bullet-riddled pilot slumped over the controls.

Ben pulled up and away, firing off a glancing burst at the trailing two Floggers. He twisted in his seat to see that his guys were mimicking his maneuver perfectly. Three of them had passed through the formation behind him before the Circle pilots got the message and started to disperse their closed-in rank. Two Floggers flipped over and headed downward, with another smoking heavily.

Then the second wave of A-10s dove through the confusion of Floggers, each one with his Avenger blazing. Two more MiGs went down.

Now the A-7s came on. Each pilot selected a Flogger and went after it, guns blazing mercilessly. The lighter, if not faster, A-7s were able to imitate every twist and turn the Soviet planes made. The big Vulcan bullets ate through the MiG-23's tail sections as if they were flesh.

It was all over in 45 seconds, still quite long in dog-319

fight terms. Eight Floggers had been hit in the surprise intercept, three badly damaged enough to turn back.

Not a single A-10 or A7 was lost.

Trouble was, nine Floggers made it through the gauntlet and were now just a minute away from attacking the Erie base . . .

J.T. had exhausted all his Sidewinders and was now taking on the Fulcrums with his nose gun.

The dogfight, which had swirled around for an eternity of pure savagery, was now winding down in intensity. It was as if the very jets themselves had run out of breath and were looking for their second wind.

More than twelve Fulcrums had been shot down at a loss of five F-4s and three F-20s. Four enemy fighters had been damaged enough for their pilots to turn back and three more had simply departed the fight, either for lack of ammunition or nerve to continue.

The five surviving MiGs were still out there, battling to get closer to the Erie base and cover the Floggers during their attack.

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"Here they come!" someone on the eastern fringe of the Erie base called out.

The first Floggers to reach the edge of the base were met with a stream of SAMs and AA fire.

Still the Circle pilots brought their aircraft down to 500 feet and began arming the large air-to-surface Kerry missiles.

"We've got six coming in from the south . . ." the officer in charge of base air defense radioed Jones. "Three more from due east . . ."

"Stay on them!" Jones shouted back, even as he heard the popping of the AA guns going off.

He ran outside, Captain Dozer at his side. Neither of them could stand to watch the attack on the passive electronic radar screens although the CIC was heavily fortified and therefore was a safer place to be.

The base was in a state of barely-controlled confusion. The AA guns were going off with deafening frequency, a sound broken only by the occasional whoosh! of a Hawk or Roland SAM lighting off.

"Jesus, General, here comes two of them!" Dozer yelled to Jones, pointing to the east.

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Sure enough, two Floggers, flying side-by-side, roared in, nearly on top of them, and let go their Kerry missiles. Both men watched in horror as the air-to-surface bombs screamed down and impacted on two hangars no more than 200 feet away. The resulting blasts knocked both of them off their feet.

"Christ, they've got those missiles loaded with high explosive!" Jones yelled out, quickly getting up.

Both hangars-one a housing for three departed B-52s and the other a maintenance facility-had been reduced to piles of smoking rubble.

Just then two more Floggers came in. They too released their Kerrys, but just as the trailing attack craft launched his missile, his tail was hit by a direct shot of a Hawk antiaircraft missile. The powerful weapon blew the rear third of the Flogger to bits. The Soviet plane immediately flipped over and plowed into the space between two hangars, exploding on impact.

"What a shot!" Dozer yelled, his tone mirroring the excitement of the air raid.

"Here comes another one!" Jones shouted, as a single Flogger dropped a Kerry on a fuel depot at the far edge of the base. The Soviet missile impacted right on the side of a nearly empty storage tank. Still the resulting explosion shook the ground like an earthquake.