Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

Doberman watched his adversary disappear into the distance. Part of him was relieved — and another part of him was pissed, since he had blown an opportunity to make history by shooting down another plane in an A-10A. He pulled the Hog into a lazy turn south, once again looking for his wingmate.

He was beginning to wonder why no one answered his radio hails when a dark shadow in the top corner of his eye warned him he had taken the Iraqi much too lightly. Only an extreme, gut-wrenching pull to the right that shook every bolt in the Hog’s body saved him from being perforated by the diving fighter’s guns. Even so, he caught some lead in the rear fuselage; the Warthog grunted and hissed at the flesh wound.

Cursing himself, Doberman flattened his jet out less than a hundred feet off the hot Iraqi sand.

The Iraqi pilot was obviously out of missiles. But he had learned from the first head-on-head attack. He sat high above, staying south, obviously waiting for Doberman to run for it. He looked like a cat eyeing a can of tuna.

What a cat wouldn’t do for a can opener the size of those DEFA guns the Mirage carried.

Not that Doberman was worried. He knew he’d come up with something. Hog drivers always did. He just didn’t know what that something was yet.

Better to let the Mirage commit itself, he decided. Cannon versus cannon, I like the odds. I just have to make it quick while I still have enough gas to get home.

He tried contacting Dixon again; then called to his other squadron mates.

No response. What was with those guys?

The F-1 suddenly snapped out of a turn and accelerated in his direction. Once again the Iraqi had made his move too soon, though he had more altitude and speed and so would still hold the advantage when they finally closed.

Doberman drew a deep breath, then tapped the throttle bar for good luck. If he chose to, he might be able to break off now and run away to the west, slide back and escape. It would strain his fuel reserves to the max, maybe beyond, but it would keep him in one piece.

But where was the fun in that?

He was just moving his stick to angle for another head-to-head encounter when a white light seemed to shine on the F-1 from above the clouds. In the next second, the enemy plane disappeared, replaced by a burst of frothing white vapor.

Pedals to the metal on as they flew north back toward the GCI site their two wing mates had been tasked to hit, A-Bomb and Mongoose heard the AWACS vectoring a pair of F-15 interceptors to nail the Iraqi fighter. The MiGs had changed course, but both the Mirage and the A-10A had gotten up off the deck and reappeared on the Sentry’s scope. The distance and effects of ground clutter interfered somewhat with the Sentry’s ability to track the planes, but considering that the controller was two hundred miles away and keeping track of several million other things, he did a hell of a job. The radio exchange crackled over the airwaves like an old-time radio drama.

“Turbo Three, contact fifteen east SierraSierra, five thousand,” called the lead F-15 pilot. He was telling his wingmate and the AWACS controller that he had the Mirage on his radar.

“Don’t hit the friendly,” answered his wingmate.

“Sorted. Aw shit. Clean now. Fuck me.”

A-Bomb echoed the Eagle pilot’s curse. The fighter had lost the Mirage. A-Bomb leaned forward in his seat, trying to urge a few more miles per hour out of the Hog. He and Mongoose had all the stops out but were still at least two minutes away.

“Clean high,” said one of the F-15 pilots. It wasn’t clear which one.

“Contact. Five thousand. At twelve, eleven east, uh—”

“Screw the numbers, just do it!” screamed A-Bomb.

His mike wasn’t open, but as if in answer to his urging, the Eagle pilot called a missile shot — “Fox One,” the time-honored signal that a Sparrow air-to-air radar missile had been launched.

“Fifteen, fifteen, turn right,” said the second Eagle pilot, the rest of the transmission scorching into unintelligibility.

Did they get the Mirage?

Static filled A-Bomb’s ears.

It was like listening to the final seconds of a basketball championship on a malfunctioning AM radio. Except that a lot more than bragging rights were at stake.

Cursing, he slapped the com panel, as if that might somehow clear the reception.

Wow, thought Doberman, as his adversary turned into a silver-black glow. I’m having a religious experience.

That or my oxygen hose is kinked all to hell.

In the next second, he realized that something had taken out the Mirage.

Something American, he hoped. F-15s flying combat air patrol out of the south, most likely. But why hadn’t he heard them on the radio? Why hadn’t he heard anything on his radio?

Doberman, turning the Hog southwest, flipped through several million frequencies before realizing, duh, that his communications gear had given up the ghost.

No wonder he’d lost Dixon. And his wing mates.

Damn, they were probably halfway back to Al Jouf by now.

Hell, he better watch for the Eagles, in case they decided to take him out for not answering their hails.

The pilot searched the skies in vain for his benefactors. They had to be F-15s, firing Sparrows from beyond visual range; anything else would be doing victory rolls in front of him. Maybe they’d gone on to put out some other fire.

Doberman’s relief mixed with disappointment as he checked his course toward SierraMax, the squadron rendezvous point. He’d been robbed of his best shot at the scumbag. Instead, he was going to have to buy some stinking pointy-nose jock a round of drinks.

Would he have beaten the Mirage?

Shit yeah. Damn straight. Cannon versus cannon, nothing could take the Hog. He was just lining up when those guys broke up the party.

Hell, even Dixon would have wiped the Iraqi’s ass for him. Where was that boy, anyway? He should have been over Doberman’s back; would have gotten the damn Iraqi before he launched the missiles.

Maybe he’d make the nugget stand for the F-15er’s beer.

Mongoose heard the Eagle pilot call “Hotel Sierra” as the Iraqi jet turned into instant scrap metal.

Hot shit. Got that son of a bitch right between the eyes.

Mongoose and A-Bomb were still a good ninety seconds south of Doberman. Meanwhile, the two Eagles had already kicked toward the east, backing up another pair of F-15s that had been sent after the Fulcrums Cougar had first warned them about.

“Devil One this is Cougar. We have you headed north. Please advise.”

Well, at least the controller was being polite, Mongoose thought to himself. He waited for the second call before answering. When he did, he asked a question of his own.

“We’re short one Hog,” he told the Sentry. “You see him anywhere?”

The overworked controller was temporarily stumped. Mongoose spotted Doberman’s plane — at least he assumed it was Devil Two. The Hog was heading south about two miles away.

“I’m on him,” responded A-Bomb before he could even finish pointing him out.

“His radio must be out,” Mongoose told his wingman after the plane failed to respond on any frequency. “Take him back to Al Jouf.”

“Where are you going?”

“I got to find junior.”

“Say Goose, you looked at your fuel gauge lately? It’s that big dial on the right side of cockpit, right near the handle you have to pull if the tanks run dry.”

Damn A-Bomb. Always a wise ass.

“Yeah, just take Doberman home,” he snapped. He glanced at the map folded out on his lap, calculating that he had just enough in his tanks for a pass back over the GCI site before running home.