No Return: Part 4

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3

Part 4

"Warning Yellow, weapons hold" Commander Gilbert's sharp voice broke through the static, asking Sandy to prepare for an intermediate stage in the process of preparing to fire.

"Aw Jesus, this is for real," Sandy told her back-seat pilot.

She looped her F-14 Tomcat around and pursued the bogies. A poised female voice from an omnipresent Hawkeye AWACS soothed her nerves. The AWACS radio operator gave Sandy the speed and the direction of the four PAF bogies. PAF was supposed to be a friend, not a bad guy, Sandy thought. But her orders were orders-she was asked to track them, ready to shoot.

About the author

Nishith Vasvada migrated to the United States in 1985 and attended Texas A&M University. He currently lives in Texas and works with a multinational chemical company as an environmental engineer. When not working, and when not busy raising his two children, and not chasing the hone do errands for his wife, he sits at his Mac Performa 630 and dreams up stories. Contact Nishith Vasavada at vnish@worldnet.att.net with your comments.

Now Sandy was closing in on the Falcons at Mach 1.5 speed. Her Radio Intercept Officer-RIO--"Red" Harper occupying the rear seat was in charge of the AWG-9 Doppler multi-mode radar and the weapon system. "Ease up, Sandy, you can do it." He assured her.

"Basher 23 to Watchdog 15." Commander Gilbert's voice crackled over the radio.

"Watchdog 15." Sandy replied, unaware that her voice echoed in the Oval Office.

"The bogies are confirmed bad guys. Shoot them at will, repeat, shoot at will."

Pause. Sandy's hands froze. Suddenly her stomach churned; her mouth dried. Breathe, Sandy, it's okay. She coaxed herself.

Mercifully, the training took over.

Click.

"Copy that, shoot at will, Basher 23."

When the AWACS assured her that the Falcons carried no airto-air missiles, Sandy was relieved. The F-16s outnumbered her, but she outgunned them.

Sandy's brain raced through her options. Her first choice was the latest C+ version of the Phoenix long-range missiles with range of a hundred and twenty five miles. She carried two of them. What worried her was this: The Phoenix had never been used in an actual combat. Ever. Even in the war against Iraq, the Allies never needed the Phoenix because of the overwhelming air superiority. Most fighter pilots would die for the bragging right of firing a Phoenix in a real combat. Sandy wasn't so sure if this was an honor--to kill someone with an exotic weapon never fired yet with that sinister purpose. She banished the ambivalence distracting her from the mission, the ambivalence for which she had no time. Assuming both Phoenix hit their targets, she still had to worry about the surviving Falcons.

Her next choice was a pair of SPARROW III medium-range missiles with an effective range of thirty miles. If the Phoenix hit their targets, she would finish the surviving Falcons with the SPARROWS. Even if the rascals somehow survived the SPARROWS, the two short-range Sidewinders attached on the wing pylons above the Phoenix mounts would take care of them.

And God forbid, but, if it came to a classic dogfight, the Tomcat had an internal 20-mm Gantling gun fitted on the left side to shoot down the Falcons.

When Sandy got within hundred miles of the four aircrafts, her RIO Red Harper turned on the Doppler radar and illuminated the PAF Falcons.

"Fox three, fox three," Red Harper announced in a highpitched voice. He had fired a Phoenix missile. The Tomcat lurched in response to the missile's separation. Soon, he fired another.

Sandy prayed for both Phoenix to home in on their targets.

The radar warning receivers on all four Falcons screamed as soon as the Tomcat's Doppler radar found them. Wing Commander Aslam of the PAF was an experienced pilot. He had shot down two Russian Su-22s over Afghanistan with the cannon of his Falcon. He recognized the threat to the aircrafts immediately. In a split second Aslam turned on his electronic jamming pod, broke the formation, and went into a tail-spinning, missile-evading dive. The tactic worked. He even saw the missile fly by in a smoking arch. But his wingman was not so fortunate; he took a direct hit on the external fuel tank, lighting up the sky in a monstrous ball of fire and smoke.

The AWACS warned Sandy: "One missile on target. One missed." At that very moment Aslam knew his mission was in jeopardy, if not entirely doomed. But he was not going to quit. He ordered the two surviving pilots to carry on while he took on the attacker.

The two remaining PAF fighters split in opposite direction: One headed north to New Delhi, the other south to Bombay. But the Indians, warned with ample of time to prepare, were ready. Stationed at the air base near the city of Jamnagar on the West Coast of India, the turbo-prop mounted radar dome of the IAF AWACS detected the on-coming Pakistani bogies.

Four IAF Mig-29 Fulcrum jets scrambled from Jamnagar in hot pursuit of the north bound Falcon. The PAF Falcon realized the odds. He was outnumbered. He chose an ignominious retreat to his base in Sargodha instead of a certain death.

A mix of Mirage 2000 and Su-30s flying out of the air base at Pune overpowered the Falcon heading for Bombay. The PAF pilot sought permission to land his plane and surrender. The permission was not granted. The IAF squadron leader ordered him to eject and abandon his plane over the Arabian Sea, hundred miles too far from his target. He had exactly sixty seconds to make up his mind. He ejected in twenty.

Aslam had no doubt who the intruder was. It had to be the U. S. Navy aircrafts from the Fifth Fleet; they were well out of the range of the Indian Air force planes. Aslam turned on the Falcon's radar and found the lone enemy plane. He wished he had a couple of air to air missiles, but he had none. The 20-mm gun with 500 rounds was his only weapon. With what he had, he went after the attacker in a daring move.

"You have company, Watchdog Fifteen," The Hawkeye AWACS warned Sandy.

On the chin-mounted television camera used for long range target identification, Sandy noticed a single Falcon closing the distance between them.

"Fox One, Fox One." RIO Red Harper announced he had launched both SPARROW medium-range missiles.

Sandy waited for what seemed like an eternity before she realized her RIO was telling her something. Both SPARROWs had failed to lock on the enemy. Even in the dripping tension she realized that the Falcon had managed to get out of the missiles' range. She knew then that her enemy was no pushover.

"Tally one, Tally one." Red Harper said, indicating that he had a visual on the PAF Falcon.

Sandy understood this move: The PAF Falcon was attempting to get within close enough range to use his gun. She was not going to let the sucker get on her tail. The last thing she wanted was an enemy plane on her six o'clock. Even in the age of electronic warfare, the fundamental rules of engagement still applied. If he can get on my six, He will kill me!

She must avoid a knife fight--a close-in, high speed chase-with an adversary who had already survived three missiles. Sandy calculated she had to beat the Falcon at its game, lure him within ten miles and score a kill with her remaining two Sidewinders. She plunged the Tomcat in a gut-wrenching dive, grunting to keep the blood out of her brain as her body soaked the 7-G force. In a move that surprised Aslam, Sandy headed straight for the Falcon.

"Bogy at Thirty miles, angle 8, angle 8." Red Harper rasped, indicating the presence of Aslam's Falcon at eight-thousand feet.

"Centering the T."

"Fifteen miles. Centering the dot."

Sandy's brain processed the information etched on the computer screen in the green glow of the cockpit. The dizzy speed of event had suddenly lost meaning and she saw things in unreal slow motion. Her grandfather had told her how he used to "zone out" in the midst of dog fights in his F-86 Saber jet in the Korean war. But this was happening to her; she was living it. And yet she was so detached from everything. The only other time she had felt so surreal and out of her self was when she had scuba dived in the Gulf of Mexico.

"I've got the tone." Red Harper announced.

"Select Fox 2. Select Fox 2."

"All right, Fox 2."

"Shoot him."

"I lost the tone."

"Lock him up. Lock him up."

"I can't; I don't have a goddam tone!"

The Pakistani Falcon was already blazing his 20-mm gun; she saw over the TV camera. In a breathtaking change in course--a batturn in fighter-pilot lingo-- Sandy swerved away from the attacker, gaining distance.

"Fox two. Fox two." Red harper's excited voice burst in Sandy's ears, indicating he had finally locked and fired the allaspect Sidewinders.

Aslam fired deception flares to evade the missiles. But Sandy held the advantage now: She was on Aslam's six o'clock, directly behind him, ready to finish off with the gun if the missiles failed. She didn't have to. The missiles picked the heat off the Falcon's wings and distinguished it from the decoy flare.

"Good hit." Sandy screamed.

"Pilot ejected."

"I see good chutes in the air here."

"Get your asses out of there." Commander Gilbert interjected.

"Okay... let's head west. Head west." Sandy said with relief. Would the missions over Iran ever get this exciting? She wondered as she dropped down to 500 knots and headed back.