Douglas was only on his second cruise as an F-14 aviator after spending several years in “mud pounders” like A-7s and A-6 bombers. Air-to-mud guys, Roberts thought, were much different than fighter pilots. Bomb runs took discipline, timing, strict adherence to the plan — qualities that were probably big minuses in fighter pilots. Real fighter jocks used the ROE as a guideline, but relied on their wits to defeat an enemy — you never went into a fight with the whole thing worked out in your mind ahead of time. Unfortunately, Douglas always did. “The ROE says…”
“Screw the ROE, Banger,” Roberts said. “You gotta attack.
“Bullet, bandit at twelve o’clock, twenty miles,” the AWACS controller reported. “Range to Flashlight, forty miles. Range to home plate, Blue plus seventy…” The controller kept on rattling off an endless stream of numbers at Douglas; the young pilot turned the litany out of his mind. They had the intercept, that’s all that mattered now… “A head-on shot will miss. It’s low percentage…”
“So what? If he jinks away from the Sparrow, we mix it up with him. Take the shot…”
“Gimme a few seconds to get an angle on ’em…”
“We don’t have time for that, Banger — those bozos might even hit each other. Either way, we keep them from driving right into the recon plane. Take the damned shot…”
“A nose-to-nose Sparrow shot won’t do shit,” Douglas said — Roberts knew he was really confused when his young pilot used first names instead of his call sign. “We gotta try something else.” On interplane frequency, Douglas said, “Lead’s going vertical. Take spacing and watch my tail.” “Two.”
“Hang on,” he said to Roberts. “I’ll try a vertical jink; maybe these guys will break off and go for me.” Roberts was going to protest, but Douglas wasn’t ready to listen: he pulled his F-14 Tomcat up into a 45-degree climb, a radical move but well within the 65-degree maximum-depression angle for the AWG-9 radar — losing a lock-on with the Chinese fighters would be disastrous right now — waited a few seconds for about a hundred knots of airspeed to bleed off, then began to level off. The radar remained locked on with the range now closing to fifteen miles.
“Shit. Nothing’s happening…”
“You gotta take a shot, Banger. These guys won’t stop.” “Lead, this is Two. No dice. The Chinks aren’t moving. I’m well clear.” Douglas’ wingman was prompting him to take a missile shot as well.
Just then they heard on their AWACS controller’s frequency, “Bullet flight, home plate sends code Zulu-Red- Seven, repeat, Zulu-Red-Seven, proceed immediately. Acknowledge.”
“Jesus, Banger, get the sonofabitch…” Roberts knew they had screwed up. While Douglas was trying to decide whether or not to shoot, the Chinese fighters were about to blast within the one-hundred-mile “bubble” surrounding
“Bullet Six has a judy,” the third flight of Tomcats reported. “Clear Poppa.” The third and probably the fourth flights of Tomcats were armed with AIM-54 Phoenix missiles, which were designed to kill enemy aircraft from ranges of over eighty nautical miles — as soon as the RIO locked onto a target, a Phoenix missile could probably hit it. But a Phoenix usually shot into a “basket,” a section of airspace near the enemy fighter, and then the missile homed in on illumination signals from the launch aircraft — that made it very dangerous for any nearby fighters who might be in or near the missile’s basket. Bullet Six could not engage as long as Bullet Two was in the area.
“Bullet Two is engaging,” Douglas cried out on the interplane frequency. He snapped his Tomcat into a steep left rolling dive, pulling on the stick to keep the fast-moving Chinese attackers on his radarscope. “Bullet Three, release, clear, and cover to the right.”
“Bullet Three’s clearing right.” Douglas’ wingman made a hard climbing right turn, quickly moving up and away from the kill zone and accelerating back toward the fleet. If Douglas missed and the Phoenix missiles from Bullet Six and Seven missed, Bullet Three could make one last shot at the fighters with his Sparrow radar-guided missiles; it was up to
Roberts coached his frontseater in as they completed the turn above and behind the Chinese attackers: “Range twenty miles… seventeen miles… holding at seventeen miles… good tone, clear to shoot…
