allowed for nighttime flight. In wartime they would fly as low as the light and terrain allowed, one hundred feet or even less. From here on, they would use wartime procedures.
The target range was in a small plain, with several north-south valleys leading down to it. The two F-16s dropped into one of them, relying on the valley walls to mask their approach from enemy radars that weren’t there now, but that would be if this were the real thing.
They had arranged for Hooter to make the first attack. Tony rocked hiswings again and they accelerated, changing formation. Hooter held back, allowing Tony to take the lead. He selected “Flare” on his weapons panel.
The two jets screamed out onto the plain at four hundred knots. As they cleared the valley, Tony pulled up and hit the weapons release. Behind him a million-candlepower flare lit up the plain with white magnesium light. Tony imagined all the attention he would be getting right now and practiced evasive maneuvering, popping chaff and flares to decoy any missiles that might have been fired at him. The wild maneuvering alternately pushed him into his seat, then pulled him out of it. If he hadn’t been strapped in, his head would have been thrown against the canopy.
Hooter pulled up behind Tony, too, but only until he could see the target—a ten-meter-wide paint mark on the ground. Then he nosed over into a shallow dive. He steadied up and pressed his stick’s “pickle switch,” locking the F-16’s weapons computer onto the target’s location. The HUD changed, showing lines leading to the target and the range. As soon as he was happy with the lock, he increased throttle to full military power and closed on the aim point at over five hundred knots.
The light from the flare was starting to fade, and shadows flickered on and off the target. The landscape streamed by, flashing past almost too fast to consciously see, and Hooter concentrated on lining his nose up exactly with the target line on the HUD. The word RELEASE flashed in the corner and he pressed the release button on the stick, simultaneously twisting it hard to the right. He grunted hard, tensing his muscles as his weight suddenly quintupled. The practice bomb flew off the rack, literally thrown toward the target as the plane turned away.
They both turned south and headed out on a prearranged bearing. Hooter called, “Good timing on the flare, Saint. Any earlier and I wouldn’t have locked on in time.”
Tony looked over to pinpoint his wingman’s plane against the dark night sky. “Your run looked good, Hooter. My turn now, watch the interval on approach.”
They reversed roles and prepared for another run on the target. In wartime, making a second run on a now-alerted enemy was a good way to suddenly lose an airplane. But this was training, and each aircraft had enough bombs for three attack runs.
Tony’s first run on the target was good, but Hooter’s evasive maneuvers were pretty limp. They switched again and Tony told John to keep one eye on him as he threw the ship around. On the next attack run, Hooter’s flare didn’t ignite so they bugged out of the target area and reformed. As they turned back south for Hooter’s final go at the much-abused paint spot, Tony shifted in his seat. He was starting to get tired and he had a few runs left to go. He frowned and settled in to concentrate on the oncoming target.
As Tony pulled up and hit the flare release, he heard a beep-beep-beep sound in his earphones. He spared one glance at his threat display, then pushed the ship over into a six-g turn to the left. At the same time he called, “Hooter! Scrub the run and join on me! Inbounds.”
His mask pressed into his face, and he tensed his body to fight the g forces.
Hooter’s voice was excited. “Roger, you have the lead. I’ll come up on your right.”
As he heard his wingman’s voice in his helmet, Tony thumbed a button on his throttle. The radar display changed to air mode, the
The target range was in a small plain, with several north-south valleys leading down to it. The two F-16s dropped into one of them, relying on the valley walls to mask their approach from enemy radars that weren’t there now, but that would be if this were the real thing.
They had arranged for Hooter to make the first attack. Tony rocked hiswings again and they accelerated, changing formation. Hooter held back, allowing Tony to take the lead. He selected “Flare” on his weapons panel.
The two jets screamed out onto the plain at four hundred knots. As they cleared the valley, Tony pulled up and hit the weapons release. Behind him a million-candlepower flare lit up the plain with white magnesium light. Tony imagined all the attention he would be getting right now and practiced evasive maneuvering, popping chaff and flares to decoy any missiles that might have been fired at him. The wild maneuvering alternately pushed him into his seat, then pulled him out of it. If he hadn’t been strapped in, his head would have been thrown against the canopy.
Hooter pulled up behind Tony, too, but only until he could see the target—a ten-meter-wide paint mark on the ground. Then he nosed over into a shallow dive. He steadied up and pressed his stick’s “pickle switch,” locking the F-16’s weapons computer onto the target’s location. The HUD changed, showing lines leading to the target and the range. As soon as he was happy with the lock, he increased throttle to full military power and closed on the aim point at over five hundred knots.
The light from the flare was starting to fade, and shadows flickered on and off the target. The landscape streamed by, flashing past almost too fast to consciously see, and Hooter concentrated on lining his nose up exactly with the target line on the HUD. The word RELEASE flashed in the corner and he pressed the release button on the stick, simultaneously twisting it hard to the right. He grunted hard, tensing his muscles as his weight suddenly quintupled. The practice bomb flew off the rack, literally thrown toward the target as the plane turned away.
They both turned south and headed out on a prearranged bearing. Hooter called, “Good timing on the flare, Saint. Any earlier and I wouldn’t have locked on in time.”
Tony looked over to pinpoint his wingman’s plane against the dark night sky. “Your run looked good, Hooter. My turn now, watch the interval on approach.”
They reversed roles and prepared for another run on the target. In wartime, making a second run on a now-alerted enemy was a good way to suddenly lose an airplane. But this was training, and each aircraft had enough bombs for three attack runs.
Tony’s first run on the target was good, but Hooter’s evasive maneuvers were pretty limp. They switched again and Tony told John to keep one eye on him as he threw the ship around. On the next attack run, Hooter’s flare didn’t ignite so they bugged out of the target area and reformed. As they turned back south for Hooter’s final go at the much-abused paint spot, Tony shifted in his seat. He was starting to get tired and he had a few runs left to go. He frowned and settled in to concentrate on the oncoming target.
As Tony pulled up and hit the flare release, he heard a beep-beep-beep sound in his earphones. He spared one glance at his threat display, then pushed the ship over into a six-g turn to the left. At the same time he called, “Hooter! Scrub the run and join on me! Inbounds.”
His mask pressed into his face, and he tensed his body to fight the g forces.
Hooter’s voice was excited. “Roger, you have the lead. I’ll come up on your right.”
As he heard his wingman’s voice in his helmet, Tony thumbed a button on his throttle. The radar display changed to air mode, the
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