Rogue Element

The two targeted F-16s had time to make panicked half-turns away from the centre aircraft before the high-explosive warheads in the AIM-9s detonated behind their engines. The lock tone provided by the F-16s’ threat indicators barely gave the pilots any time to react, let alone begin effective evasion. Toad watched both aviators eject as their crippled aircraft nosed forward and broke up in the sky, rolling over into fireballs and spraying the canopy below with liquid flame and molten aluminium.

Major Shidyahan bugged out of the engagement. He had flown in with five other aircraft, the pride of the TNIAU, with men he had loved and respected as fine aviators, professionals and warriors. Now, most of those comrades were dead, and all the aircraft except his had been shot down. Shidyahan was filled with rage and frustration. He was against a force with superior weapons and tactics and he felt he had no choice. Whatever these people — these Americans — were doing illegally in Indonesian airspace, he was powerless to prevent. The major executed a 180 degree turn just as his engines started sucking vapour. Fuel! He couldn’t remember hearing the low-fuel warnings in his headphones. He tried to gain as much height as he could but his airspeed was low. There was no alternative and he pulled the ejection handles. The bubble canopy blew off and rocket charges blasted the major’s seat clear of the doomed aircraft.

* * *

‘Ferret Leader. Ferret Rotor. We have cannon shell damage and falling fuel gauges. We will need a tanker in approximately thirty minutes.’

Jesus! The V22 had indeed taken hits. ‘Roger that, Ferret Rotor,’ Toad responded. This sortie was going to hell, just as things were starting to look up.

‘Ferret Handler. Bandits. Bandits. Bandits. Seven. Repeat seven. West. Eighty-five miles. Angels ten. Heading zeroniner-zero.’

Toad wished he hadn’t tempted the Big Feller Upstairs by blaspheming. Things were about to get really fucking hot.

The call from Ferret Handler, the AWACS, sounded mighty familiar. It was almost identical to the call that had announced the arrival of the previous flight of F-16s. Only this time there were more bandits, and he had only one missile left, and merely a heater at that.

They really had to get the hell out of Dodge now. Toad’s eyeballs stood out on stalks when he checked his fuel pressure. It was touch and go whether he’d even make it back to the tanker, let alone a friendly carrier deck. He looked across at his wingman and got a hand signal for low fuel from him. Fuck-all ordnance, fuck-all fuel. They wouldn’t last another round of air-to-air combat.

‘Ferret Rotor. Are you airworthy?’ Toad enquired.

‘Affirmative, Ferret Leader. Some damage. One engine gone. She’s flying well but losing fuel.’

‘Ferret Rotor. Time to go. Do you have a maximum estimated cruise speed?’

‘Estimate cruise two-fife-zero…’

Toad was impressed. The V22 had taken hits, lost an engine, and had who knows what other damage, yet it was still capable of flying at 250 knots, only a handful of knots shy of the maximum cruise speed available when both engines were turning. Toad had that clammy feeling on the back of his neck. The fresh Indon fighters could jump them at any time, and probably would. There was nothing they could do about it, except fly as low and as fast as they could, hugging the ground where radar was least effective. And keep their fingers crossed.

Toad saw on his screen the seven bandits approaching from the west at 3000 metres. About three minutes remained to interception. Toad guessed that they would be able to survive the first pass — maybe — but the V22’s goose was cooked. Their options had run out. It was goodnight.

Then six new idents appeared on the screen, closing on the group of fighters from the east at frightening speed. The Indonesian planes scattered like chaff before them. Toad looked up and saw six missiles cross the sky 1000 metres above him from right to left: AMRAAMs. Jesus — a beautiful sight.

‘Finger-lickin’, this is Hound dog inbound from the east. Apologies for the dee-lay,’ drawled the thick Louisiana accent.

Major Toad Sanders was up for Colonel and the word was out. Colonel Sanders. He smiled. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard jokes about changing his call sign from Toad to Finger-lickin’, or even Secret Herbs and Spices, for Christ’s sake!

Three new idents appeared on Toad’s screen, inbound at phenomenal speed. Super Hornets. The navy’s new all-purpose attack fighter. A beautiful plane. In fact, Toad had to admit that he would have welcomed even a few determined Cessnas.

The Indonesian fighters were dispersing, the fate of the last flight of F-16s having stolen their bravado. They departed as quickly as full afterburner could take them. Two AMRAAMs found their marks. The other four timed out, but their job was done.