unidentified contacts disappeared from Hack’s radar. He didn’t have time to wonder why— the other, apparently the one that had turned its radar onto Johnny, began angling for his wingmate.
Bandit?
Or a confused allied plane with battle damage?
The Eagles and the unidentified contact were moving toward each other now at just under 1200 miles an hour. They were thirty miles apart; Hack had sixty seconds to decide whether to fire.
Maybe less. The RWR warned that a ground radar ahead had begun tracking him. Hack ignored it, trusting that the Eagle’s advanced avionics and his altitude would protect him, at least for the moment.
The bottom of Hack’s heads-up display indicated he had four Sparrow III AIM-7 air-to-air missiles, ready to go. He took a breath, narrowing his focus on the boogie. He was just coming into range.
He queried again. Still no ID. His heart was pounding on overdrive, but something in his head was warning him away – the plane wasn’t acting like a MiG, he thought.
“Tiger, I’m locked on a target,” he told the AWACS controller as calmly as possible. “I want IDs. I can’t find that A-10.”
But the transmission was overrun. He tried again; if he got through he didn’t hear the reply.
“Piranha One, I’m still spiked,” said Johnny.
If the boogie was a MiG-29s with beyond visual range weapons, Hack’s wingmate was going to be history in about twenty seconds.
If it was a beat-up Warthog, friendly fire was going to claim its first victim of the air war.
“Fox One, Fox one!” he shouted to his wingmate, warning him that he was firing a medium-range radar missile.
CHAPTER 19
A BOVE IRAQ
26 JANUARY 1991
1603
A s soon as Doberman heard the Eagle pilot call the radar missile shot, he slammed his plane back toward Wong and the rest of the Snake Eaters ground team. Their radio frequency buzzed with static; he worried that maybe the MiGs had been coming after them.
“Devil One, this is Snake Eater. Please reply,” said Wong. The transmission crackled and broke up.
“ Devil One,” said Doberman, pointing his nose back in the direction of the highway. He was roughly eight miles south of the village. “Hey, Wong, you got a target for me?” he snapped.
“We have a tel erector approximately three miles west of Kajuk beneath a culvert on the highway,” Wong told him.
“Okay, good. Yeah, okay.” Doberman could see the hill in front of him on the left; the culvert would be almost dead on. He immediately began a sharp turn west, deciding to work the Hog down to a thousand feet for the attack. He’d swoop out of the north, turning around the village, riding down toward the culvert, trading a little bit of angle for a longer, better view.
“There are other developments,” said Wong before he had completed his turn.
“Yeah?”
“A Gaskin SA-9 mobile launcher has been set up on the hill behind the erector, immediately to the north. Excuse me,” added Wong. “I’m told another is approaching.”
Doberman cursed but didn’t alter course. The Gaskin was a seventies-era missile with a heat-seeking warhead. Compared to missiles like the SA-2, its range and altitude were relatively limited— but it was sitting just to the side of his attack route.
It would fire as soon as he pulled up. He could let off diversionary flares and jerk his butt around, but it’d be tight.
At best.
Doberman’s eyes hunted through the terrain, spotting the hills where the village was located. He was too far away to make out any buildings there, let alone the highway and SAMs.
He could go for the antiair first, but that would be a bitch with two of them. By the time he splashed the first— if he splashed the first— the second might be ready to fire.
And without a wingman.
“Give me the layout, Wong,” he said. “Are those SAMs set up or what?”
“One definitely is. The other has taken a position at the south side of the road. The mean time for launch . . . ”
“Yeah, yeah,
Bandit?
Or a confused allied plane with battle damage?
The Eagles and the unidentified contact were moving toward each other now at just under 1200 miles an hour. They were thirty miles apart; Hack had sixty seconds to decide whether to fire.
Maybe less. The RWR warned that a ground radar ahead had begun tracking him. Hack ignored it, trusting that the Eagle’s advanced avionics and his altitude would protect him, at least for the moment.
The bottom of Hack’s heads-up display indicated he had four Sparrow III AIM-7 air-to-air missiles, ready to go. He took a breath, narrowing his focus on the boogie. He was just coming into range.
He queried again. Still no ID. His heart was pounding on overdrive, but something in his head was warning him away – the plane wasn’t acting like a MiG, he thought.
“Tiger, I’m locked on a target,” he told the AWACS controller as calmly as possible. “I want IDs. I can’t find that A-10.”
But the transmission was overrun. He tried again; if he got through he didn’t hear the reply.
“Piranha One, I’m still spiked,” said Johnny.
If the boogie was a MiG-29s with beyond visual range weapons, Hack’s wingmate was going to be history in about twenty seconds.
If it was a beat-up Warthog, friendly fire was going to claim its first victim of the air war.
“Fox One, Fox one!” he shouted to his wingmate, warning him that he was firing a medium-range radar missile.
CHAPTER 19
A BOVE IRAQ
26 JANUARY 1991
1603
A s soon as Doberman heard the Eagle pilot call the radar missile shot, he slammed his plane back toward Wong and the rest of the Snake Eaters ground team. Their radio frequency buzzed with static; he worried that maybe the MiGs had been coming after them.
“Devil One, this is Snake Eater. Please reply,” said Wong. The transmission crackled and broke up.
“ Devil One,” said Doberman, pointing his nose back in the direction of the highway. He was roughly eight miles south of the village. “Hey, Wong, you got a target for me?” he snapped.
“We have a tel erector approximately three miles west of Kajuk beneath a culvert on the highway,” Wong told him.
“Okay, good. Yeah, okay.” Doberman could see the hill in front of him on the left; the culvert would be almost dead on. He immediately began a sharp turn west, deciding to work the Hog down to a thousand feet for the attack. He’d swoop out of the north, turning around the village, riding down toward the culvert, trading a little bit of angle for a longer, better view.
“There are other developments,” said Wong before he had completed his turn.
“Yeah?”
“A Gaskin SA-9 mobile launcher has been set up on the hill behind the erector, immediately to the north. Excuse me,” added Wong. “I’m told another is approaching.”
Doberman cursed but didn’t alter course. The Gaskin was a seventies-era missile with a heat-seeking warhead. Compared to missiles like the SA-2, its range and altitude were relatively limited— but it was sitting just to the side of his attack route.
It would fire as soon as he pulled up. He could let off diversionary flares and jerk his butt around, but it’d be tight.
At best.
Doberman’s eyes hunted through the terrain, spotting the hills where the village was located. He was too far away to make out any buildings there, let alone the highway and SAMs.
He could go for the antiair first, but that would be a bitch with two of them. By the time he splashed the first— if he splashed the first— the second might be ready to fire.
And without a wingman.
“Give me the layout, Wong,” he said. “Are those SAMs set up or what?”
“One definitely is. The other has taken a position at the south side of the road. The mean time for launch . . . ”
“Yeah, yeah,
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