“Copy that.”
Clark ended the call.
He looked up and saw Ding at the top of the stairs. “We needto roll, boss!” he said, pointing to the south. The perimeter fence in that direction was no longer visible, having been swallowed by a massive wall of dust.
Clark hurried up the stairs, and as soon as he was inside, Ding retracted them and shut the entry door. The jet began taxiing. He could feel the airframe being buffeted by gusts and heard the low-frequency hum of the last engine cranking to life. He belted into a webbed seat just as the familiar acceleration began.
Soon they were in the air, the big jet jolting and rocking like a carnival ride.
Ding, sitting next to him, looked back into the wide cargo bay. “Ever been in one of these?” he asked.
“An Il-76? Yeah, a long time ago. I remember we about froze when we got to altitude—heaters don’t work for crap.”
“Cold never really bothered me.”
“Never used to bother me either,” said Clark. “But lately I’ve been feeling it more.”
“Guess you’re just getting—”
“Don’tsay it!”
Ding grinned, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
67
Glock 21
65 Nautical Miles Northwest of Port Said, Egypt
0536 Local Time
Under any other circumstances, it would have been a beautiful night. A high half-moon hovered silver and bright, and a pale dawn glow had begun painting the eastern horizon. Unlike the tempest that had descended on Al-Jaghbub, the air here was smooth, the visibility unlimited.
There was no time to appreciate any of it.
“Two-one, two-three has a contact at twelve-thirty low, forty-five miles. Angels five, heading east.”
“Two-one copies, I’m picking up two bogeys now, five miles apart. Both ten o’clock, same heading and altitude.”
The Hornet’s Multifunctional Information Distribution System, or MIDS, exchanged radar information among the four aircraft. Within a minute, eight of the ten targets appeared on Lava’s display. What he saw was a tactical geometry from hell.
“Okay, Glock flight,” he said, “these targets are widely spaced. I show sixty miles from the northern bogey to the southern. Wewere told to expect ten, so the last two are probably even farther out.”
“Two-one, two-three. I suggest we split into singletons.”
The same idea had been brewing in Lava’s head during their scalding eastward run. The tactical model of entering combat with a wingman at your side, of having mutual support, was sacrosanct in the fighter world. But right now, with no long-range missiles loaded, splitting up was their only chance to handle so many widely dispersed targets before they reached the canal entrance.
“Two-one copies. No other way, divide and conquer.”
The Hawkeye had fallen farther back, but its crew was still able to monitor the frequency. “Glock two-one, Sparky. You are cleared in hot. CAG reiterates targets must be engaged feet wet.”
“Two-one copies—drop ’em in the drink only.”
With one look at his map, Lava realized that was going to be a challenge. “Two-one shows the most advanced drone twenty miles from the coastline. Check master arm on. Standard sort, everybody takes two. Engage the target closest to shore first.”
The others acknowledged.
Lava looked over his shoulder and saw Spanx and Gooch break away south. Each jet would target a pair of drones. The procedure for sorting targets was second nature. Be it radar or visual engagements, right and left, and high and low, were used as discriminators. This was done to avoid two jets targeting the same hostile in the heat of combat. Gooch, on the right side of the formation, would intercept the rightmost two drones. Spanx, second on the right, would take the next two inboard. The same division applied on the left side. Altogether, it would account for eight of the ten targets, assuming they could reach them in time. Then they would have to hunt down the last two Shaheds.
