Red Tide, стр. 36
All sorts of thoughts flickered through Greer’s brain as he pushed the yoke forward. What was the other plane anyway? An aging South Korean made KAI T-50 was his best guess, since that’s what he and his fellow pilots had been told to expect if the Filipino air force came out to play.
What was the pilot trying to accomplish? They want to force us down, Greer thought. And pump us dry. That ain’t a-gonna happen.
So, what to do? The T-50 had every possible advantage except one. And that was too much speed. The problem was nothing new. Jet fighters had an average takeoff speed of something like 150 mph, while single engine prop jobs could lift off at about 70 mph.
So anytime a fighter tried to intercept something like a Cessna it was impossible for the jet to pull up next to the smaller plane and hang there. A differential that Greer planned to take full advantage of.
“Roll through all the frequencies,” Greer ordered, as he passed the headset to Dalisay. “Find the jet jockey. Chances are he’s trying to talk to us. Tell him you’re Wong, and stall for time.”
Greer pulled out of the dive about 500 feet off the ground and began to zig zag as a stream of tracers shot past him. Thanks to its speed the T-50 had been able to circle back around and come up from behind!
Greer heard Dalisay speak. “This is Johnny Wong. Stop shooting!”
The key was to ignore the back and forth and look for an opportunity of some sort. Greer’s eyes were drawn to a pair of strobing lights in the distance. Cell towers? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were close together. Very close together. Could the asshole on his tail fly? Greer was going to find out.
Dalisay continued to babble all sorts of nonsense into the mike as the Cessna closed on the towers. Where was the T-50 anyway? Circling? Or on his six? Greer hoped for the latter. Some right stick put the 172 on target. But Greer was having second thoughts as the flashing beacons rushed at him.
Then, before he could chicken out, the red beacons flashed past both wings. Greer pulled back on the yoke and was starting to climb—when a flash of light lit the inside of the cabin—and a blast wave hit the Cessna. “Something blew up!” Mary exclaimed, as she looked out through the back window.
Greer banked to the right, saw a pile of burning wreckage, and realized that the T-50 was down. Would the government send another T-50? Of course, they would.
The fiery wreck would serve as an excellent marker. Start there and head south. That’s all the next plane or planes had to do.
But the 172 would cover some important miles while the Philippine air force was getting its shit together. Greer glanced at the fuel gauge, didn’t like what he saw, and decided to ignore it.
***
Aboard the PHM Cumulus, west of Karakelong Island, in the Celebes Sea
The incoming call was heard on the bridge. “This is Longjohn and Smoker inbound from the south with missiles and guns. Whatcha got? Over.”
Barkley spoke into her headset. “This is Seadog-Three. We’re expecting a light plane. It will ditch north of Karakelong Island. Philippine and/or Chinese fighters may be chasing it. Keep them off us but don’t overfly any Filipino territory. That would constitute an act of war on a neutral country. Do you read me? Over.”
“Loud and clear,” came the reply. “Over.”
Ryson turned to Lee. “Put a call into the sky spooks,” Ryson said. “Ask them for any imagery they may have regarding shipping south of Mindanao Island, and north of Karakelong. I want to know what kind of assets the Filipino government sends to intercept us.”
“Yes, sir,” Lee said, and left the bridge.
“We’re rounding Karakelong,” Barkley said. “And turning onto our new course. ETA at the projected crash site is just under an hour.”
“Confirm with the Fractus,” Ryson replied. “And tell Conte that, in the case of a ditching, I want him to pull the pilot out of the drink. The Cumulus will take up a position to the north and shield him from surface craft that may enter the area.”
“Aye, aye,” Barkley replied. “Permission to rotate the crew through the galley.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ryson said. “Assuming Wong makes it to the rendezvous we’re going to be busy.”
***
One-thousand feet above Mindanao Island, the Philippines
The headset was unplugged so the voice boomed through the plane’s ceiling mounted speaker. “This is Filipino air force plane Cat-2. You will immediately execute a one-eighty and follow my directions. Otherwise, I’ll shoot you down.”
Greer executed a tight 180 degree change in heading, and pulled the yoke back into a near vertical climb. That caused the airspeed to drop. Then, before the 172 could stall, he applied a hard rudder, putting the plane into a vertical flat-turn, with his port wing pointing straight up.
The maneuver was called a wingover. And something Cessna 172s weren’t designed to do. But Greer knew he was near Mindanao’s southern coast, and hoped to shake his purser just long enough to go feet wet, and reach the ditch site.
As the Cessna’s speed fell off Greer made a 180 degree flat-turn over the top of the climb, dived to his original altitude, and was back on course. He thumbed the mike. “This is Kilo Wong. I have a T-50 on my ass, and I’m about to cross the coast at 1,000 feet. I’m turning my navigation lights on. Be advised that I have two, repeat two passengers, both wearing PFDs.”
The response came as a surprise. “Roger that, Kilo. This is Longjohn and Smoker. Two 18s in from the west with missiles and guns … We’ve got you buddy