Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (76 page)

 
          
The
Libyan pilot whipped off his oxygen mask in frustration. “I tell you, Control,
there are numerous enemy aircraft out here!” he shouted again. “I am tracking
one now, and there were one, maybe two others up here as well. I think
Tripoli
is under attack from the south!”

 
          
“You
are ordered to proceed immediately to point
Amm
and intercept and identify unknown aircraft inbound toward the capital!”
the ground controller said. “Backup aircraft are being prepared now. Proceed
immediately!”

 
          
The
MiG-23 pilot had no choice. No ground radars had picked up these low-flying
bandits. Aircraft north of the city could mean anything—inbound passenger
airliners, cargo planes, anything but an attacker. Low-flying unidentified
aircraft weaving and jinking around south of the city could mean only one
thing: enemy aircraft. But the controller was telling him to chase the target
he could see. He was an idiot—but he had complete authority, too.

 
          
He
angrily jammed his throttles forward and yanked the stick hard right, zooming
northward. He didn’t even think of his wingman, trailing to his right and
slightly higher—he hoped he was paying attention and didn’t get fried as his
leader cut right in front of him.

           
It took only four minutes for the
pair of MiG-23s to reach the intercept anchor point.
“Hibr
flight, proceed on heading three-zero-zero. Your bogey will
be at your
twelve o’clock
,
range fifty K, descending through four thousand meters.”

 
          
“Acknowledged,
Control,” the pilot said. “How about sending some fighters up to track down the
bogeys I found near Kadra?” No response from the controller—he couldn’t see any
targets down south of the city, so he wasn’t going to send any planes there.

 
          
“Hibr
flight, bogey at your
twelve o’clock
, forty-five K, still descending, now
through three point five K meters. Report when tied on.”

 
          
The
MiG-23 flight leader activated his intercept radar and found the aircraft
almost instantly—it was a solid radar lock-on, not weak and intermittent like
the other one.
“Hibr
flight has a
bogey at my
twelve o’clock
,
forty-two K meters range, three point zero K meters altitude.” He keyed two
switches on the instrument panel near the throttle that sent out coded
interrogation signals. “Negative mode two, mode C, and mode four IFF.”

 
          
“That’s
your bandit,
Hibr
flight.”

 
          
The
target was in a shallow descent, heading right for
Tripoli
at close to six hundred kilometers per
hour. Every now and then it would make a sudden move—a sharper descent, a fast
turn one direction or the other, and at one time it even appeared to be doing a
one-eighty. Large bombers needed to transfer alignment maneuvers for inertially
guided air-launched weapons—maybe that’s what this aircraft was doing. But one
thing was for sure: It was definitely heading for
Tripoli
, and it was unidentified.

 
          
The
rules said shoot it down.

 
          
“Hibr
two, take tactical spacing,” the
leader called to his wingman.

 
          
“Acknowledged.”

 
          
The
lead MiG-23 pilot flew above and past the target, then started a rapid left
descending turn that quickly brought him right on the bandit’s right rear
quarter. The aircraft had no exterior lights whatsoever, and no lights were
visible on the side of the fuselage either—definitely not an airliner. He moved
in close enough so he could clearly see the outline of the plane against the
growing brightness of the horizon as
Tripoli
came closer and closer; then he turned on
his identification spotlight.

 
          
“Control,
Hibr
flight has visual
identification,” the leader radioed. “Bandit is a DC-10 aircraft. It has a
U.S.
registration number, N-three-oh-three
Sierra Mike. I see no weapons or any unusual protrusions or devices. The
aircraft is completely dark, and... Stand by, Control.” The pilot slid forward,
letting the searchlight shine in the copilot’s side of the cockpit. “Control,
it appears the bandit’s right cockpit sliding window is open, and there appears
to be smoke trailing out from the window, repeat, the bandit seems to be
venting smoke from his cockpit. Smoke is also trailing from what appears to be
an open cockpit escape hatch. There are only flashlight beams in the cockpit—no
lights whatsoever. This aircraft may be having an inflight emergency. If he has
shut off all aircraft power, that could be the reason why he has not responded
to us and why he has no lights on.”

 
          
“Hibr
flight, be advised,
Suf
flight of four and
Kheyma
flight of two are joining on you,
ETE three minutes.”

 
          
“Control,
I don’t need any more fighters up here,” the leader said perturbedly. “This is
a commercial aircraft with what appears to be an inflight emergency. He’s not a
combat aircraft. I think I can get him turned away from the coast myself—I
don’t need six more fighters in the area. Have those extra planes go look for
the bogeys I found south of
Tripoli
.” But his suggestion went unheeded.

 
          
Within
minutes there were three different kinds of jets buzzing around the stricken
American-registered cargo plane:
Hibr
flight of two MiG-23s,
Suf
flight of
four MiG-29s, and
Kheyma
flight of
two MiG-25s. The problem was, no one could decide exactly what to do about this
intruder. He was obviously a noncombatant, and he was obviously in trouble.
They tried light signals, but it wasn’t clear if their searchlights were
penetrating the smoke in the cockpit. They couldn’t see inside, and it was
obvious no one in the cockpit could see out.

 
          
Finally
the MiG-23 flight leader switched his number two radio to the international UHF
emergency frequency: “Unidentified American cargo plane, this is
Hibr
flight of two of the United Kingdom
of Libya Royal Air Force. You are in restricted airspace and in violation of
Libyan law. You are ordered to reverse course immediately. I say again, reverse
course immediately or you will be attacked.”

 
          
There
was no answer. The flight leader repeated the message on the VHF GUARD
emergency frequency; still no response. He was about to switch back to his
controller’s frequency to request permission to open fire when he heard a
scratchy, frightened voice say, “I hear you, Libyan fighters! I hear you! This
is November three-oh-three Sierra Mike on VHF GUARD channel. I am on a handheld
emergency radio. Mayday, mayday, mayday, can you hear me, Libyan air force?”

 
          
“I
can hear you, Three Sierra Mike,” the flight leader replied. “You must reverse
course immediately! In ten kilometers you will enter restricted Libyan
airspace, and we will attack. Reverse course immediately! Acknowledge!”

 
          
“This
is Three Sierra Mike, we have a catastrophic fire in the cockpit and we were
forced to evacuate the cockpit. The aircraft is on autopilot, and we are trying
to put the fire out. As soon as we put the fire out we can retake control of
the plane. Don’t shoot! We are a cargo plane. We’re carrying relief supplies
bound for
Khartoum
,
Sudan
, on an international flight plan. We have
twenty-two relief workers on board plus a crew of five. Give us time to get the
fire out. Over.”

 
          
“Three
Sierra Mike, you are flying into restricted Libyan airspace during a time of
severe emergency flight restrictions,” the flight leader said. “This is a
wartime situation. If you do not reverse course in two minutes, I will have no
choice but to open fire. You must do everything you can to reverse course or at
least stay out over the
Gulf of Sidra
.
I will be forced to open fire if you do not comply.”

           
“Please, for God’s sake, don’t
shoot!” the pilot cried. “We’ll have control of our plane in less than two
minutes! Please, stand by!”

 
          
“Think
he’s for real, lead?” the wingman radioed.

 
          
“I
know I’d have a tough time if my cockpit was filled with smoke like that,” the
flight leader said. “We’ll wait until he crosses the twenty-kilometer mark,
then open fire if he doesn’t turn away.”

 
          
It
seemed to take forever—the big American plane was definitely slowing down. The
other Libyan fighters circled, jockeyed around, and generally tried their best
to fly night- staggered formation with the crippled American plane. No one
departed—all the pilots wanted to watch when
Hibr
lead fired his missile and brought the big plane down.

 
          
Tripoli
Air Defense Control confirmed the orders moments later: shoot to kill if the
plane crosses the twenty- kilometer ring.

 
          
“Three
Sierra Mike, this is
Hibr
flight, you
are ordered to turn away now,” the flight leader radioed. “I am ordered to
shoot you down if you do not comply. This is your last warning.” He then angled
upward, clearing the DC-l0s powerful wake, and started to maneuver behind the
big plane. The lights of
Tripoli
were brilliant, filling the horizon below—he was afraid that maybe he
was too late, that twenty kilometers was still too close. Even if the plane was
hit, could it still glide on fire and hit the city?

 
          
At
that moment, the smoke stopped streaming out of the DC-l0’s cockpit, and the
big plane started a slow ten-degree bank turn to the left. It took almost
ninety seconds, but finally the big plane was heading away from
Tripoli
. It was just thirty seconds—about three
kilometers—away from the flight leader pressing the button on his control stick
that would send the DC-10 crashing to earth.

 
          
“Too
bad,
Hibr
flight,” one of the other
pilots radioed. “We thought you’d finally get a chance to hit something this
time.”

 
          
It
wasn’t funny, the lead pilot thought—he was
sure
that this was nothing but a feint for an attack from the south. This plane had
managed to draw off nearly all of
Libya
’s alert fighter patrols away from the
capital.
Something
was not right
here. ...

 
          
“Suf and Kheyma
flights, this is
Hibr
lead. I’m getting close to bingo
fuel,” the flight leader radioed.
“Hibr
flight is going to depart the formation and head to base. Escort this bastard
out of our airspace.”

 
          
“You
got it,” one of the other pilots said.
“Suf
flight has the lead. We’ll stay in formation with the American until he’s well
away.” The leader of the flight of two MiG-23s descended to five hundred meters
below the American cargo plane, then turned south; a few moments later, his
wingman was in loose fingertip formation.

 
          
“Hibr
flight, this is Control.
Understand you are declaring bingo fuel at this time.”

 
          
“Negative,
Control,” the flight leader said. “We’re twenty minutes from bingo. I want
vectors to the last position of those unidentified radar contacts south of
Tripoli
.”

 
         
“Cut
it kind of close, didn’t you?” the DC-l0’s flight engineer asked as he removed
his emergency firefighting mask. He collected the empty casings of the smoke
signal flares he had been shooting out the window and put them in an empty
canvas survival bag. “That fighter departed to get behind us to shoot our asses
down, didn’t he?”