Free The Warbirds by Richard Herman Page B

pedals, wagging the F-4’s tail. Jack broke out of his loose formation and moved two thousand feet to Fairly’s right and five hundred feet above him. The fighters had moved into a tactical formation from which they could support each other in an engagement. Fairly calculated how he could set up an interception on the C-130 that could be switched into an engagement with the bandits should it be necessary. It all depended on how good Nelson was at running intercepts and if he could find the bandits on his scope. “How’s the radar?”
    “It’s a good set,” the young lieutenant replied. “All the test checks were OK. I’ve got it set up for air-to-air, fifty-mile range. It’s not much good beyond that. Don’t worry, I’ll get the first radar contact on Grain King.”
    Fairly hoped it was not a false show of confidence. “Jack, listen up,” Fairly said over the UHF radio. “If we have to rendezvous on Grain King, the first one with a radar contact will run a standard intercept to the stern of the C-130. If we have to engage the bandits, the first one with a radar contact or visual on the bandits is lead. Run a hot intercept head-on into the merge. Number two will fall in trail two miles. Lead will blow on through the bandits and reverse. We want them to turn and two will go for a sandwich. Don’t let them get on Grain King. Support whoever’s engaged.”
    “Roger,” Jack answered his flight leader. “Thunder, trade your mother for the first contact on that magic box of yours,” he told his backseater over the intercom.
    “Stinger, Outpost. Say state.” The radar post was asking for the fighters’ armament, fuel and oxygen.
    Fairly answered, “One-One and One-Two are guns only, fifteen minutes play time, lox sweet.” The radar site understood he meant they had internal gatling guns, couldstay in the area for fifteen minutes before fuel would force them to the tanker, and had plenty of liquid oxygen.
    16 July: 1540 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1740 hours. Western Egypt
    “Stinger One-One, Outpost. Grain King is on your nose, five-five nautical miles from you. Altitude twenty-five thousand feet, heading zero-niner-zero degrees. The bandits are at your one-thirty position at five-five from you. They are intercepting Grain King. Do not intervene unless a hostile act is committed.”
    Thunder’s voice came over the radio, deep and clear. “One-Two has a radar contact at twelve o’clock, five-four miles, level.” He touched the radar’s elevation wheel, raising the antenna’s elevation a whisker. Slowly, he played the gain, breaking out the target.
    “Roger, Stinger One-Two. That is Grain King,” Outpost replied. “Rendezvous on Grain King. Fly heading two-six-five.”
    Outpost’s orders were clear. The radar controller was still in control of the developing intercept. Fairly cursed his bad luck, radar set, and backseater.
    “Jack, arm ’em up,” Fairly ordered, directing the pilot to throw the sequence of switches that activated his gun and made it “hot” while he did the same. Jack’s fingers moved over the switches, just as they had so many times on the gunnery range before he strafed the target panels. But this time he paused and went through the sequence again, making sure that all his switches were in the right position. No switchology errors, he thought as he lifted the switch guard and threw the final Master Arm toggle.
    Jack glanced at the radar scope in front of him, satisfied to see the bright return of the C-130 sliding down the scope. He noticed that Thunder did not reduce the scope’s range to fifty miles when Grain King moved inside forty-nine miles. Thunder was searching for the bandits, a much more difficult target to break out on the old radar set. Hell, the pilot thought, we need a pulse Doppler radar. But if anyone can make this set work, it’s Thunder.
    “Stinger, fly two-six-eight.” Outpost ordered the twofighters to adjust their heading a few degrees. Thunder was