Biggles at the Gas Station

Reginald Braithwaite-Lee


"You're... Biggles?" The crew chief goggled at me like a horrible fish.

I held my temper and patiently assured him that I was, in fact, Ensign Biggles, and no, there was no relationship to anyone he had ever heard of or read about. But he knew that, just like the others knew. That I wasn't, well, never mind then.

Ignoring the whispers, I kept my voice very, very calm and directed him to join me as I performed a walk around. Then, strapped in, I went through the checklist with him. An F-16 requires twenty pages of checklists, almost 100 items. But this plane, the CF-18, requires more than 150. He's experienced, and we step through the list efficiently.

I'm relieved to get down to business after our awkward meeting. It's a dirty thing we do, this flying and fighting and killing and maiming. And the dirtiest thing about it is the way we do it. Not filled with sorrow, not bowed under the weight of the responsibility, not even charged with a mad bludlust, but instead we soldier on in a series of rituals and precisely choreographed social graces.

It seems like just minutes until I'm slammed back into the Martin-Baker NACES Mark 14, both engines at 30% afterburner, winging into the sky towards death, towards destiny. But, like the cycle races of my schooldays, the point is not to go to anything, but instead to get away from the Earth, away from the looks, away from the whispers...


Without thinking, my hands level the Hornet into the Fighting Wing formation. My escort, another CF-18, will lead me on a feint towards a minor North Korean airbase where some USAF F-16s from another base will be flying CAP, then I'll be on my own in a high speed run to my assigned target, a fuel processing facility that has acted as a forward supply for operations near the border.

My headphones come alive with a Tally-Ho. Ahead, I can see my wingman climbing. I follow suit, switching to Air-to-Air. My hands have acted again, arming my AMRAAM AIM-120s and selecting Track While Scan. The radar obediently vectors a bogey at 20 miles, dead on 12:00. With a roar, the burners light and we close like majestic stags, bracing for a collision.

My wingman is distancing me. He has the advantage of being armed strictly for CAP, while I must lumber with a full complement of mud-flinging ordnance. And he can light his burners with impunity, since he gets to go home after the escort. I have to conserve fuel -- Hornet pilots are always thinking about fuel.

Another bandit appears on the screen at 2:00. I consider engaging, but keep to the playbook and lock the first bogey, my finger caressing the trigger as I jockey for a shot and switch the radar to ACM. My hands have acted again, and as I nose down, unloading, the afterburners go quiet, the short dive maintaining the Hornet at its maximum turn speed.

I see a trail as my wingman fires, and as the bogey jinks, evading, I fire, my missile seeking the bogey over the near minimal range five miles between us. I can see my wingman pulling hard to 9:00, trying to come around onto the bogey's tail, but the bogey is pulling hard to 3:00. For a ridiculous moment time stands still and I realize that he should have crossed noses earlier, and that by the time he gets another shot it will be over.

Then the blood hammers in my head as I saddle up and switch to a Sidewinder. My AIM-120 missed--the range was too close after all--and with the curious jinking motion that it shares with its namesake, the AIM-9 leaves the rail as soon as I enter the bogey's cone of vulnerability. In scant moments the MIG is plunging to earth, trailing smoke from the proximity hit.


My wingman is still out of the picture as I engage the second bogey, who I can visual at 12:30. There is a telltale puff as he engages his burners, and I hope that my wingman will read the change in the play and cover for me. At seven miles I launch my remaining AIM-120, hoping that I have better luck. Missing the first bogey has me rattled.

Remembering the maxim of always keeping something in reserve, I switch to guns and suddenly realize that the irritating alarm in my ears is the missile warning tone. With mounting panic I fought to control myself and watched as the HUD lit up with a new, deadly symbol: M4. Death was reaching across those miles with steely fingers and a smoke trail that I can't visual even with the HUD's help.

"Atoll, Atoll" I cry as I angle towards it, slamming the burners on full. At two miles I'm over hard, full military power, dropping countermeasures, then over again to the missile, the world compressing into a narrow tunnel. Something crackles in my headphones, but I can't seem to concentrate.

It seems like minutes have passed when I level out. The missile has passed and I realize that I'm grinning like a mad fool, my lips stretched in a rictus across my face. It's an odd moment, when you cheat Death. Ahead, I see someone else isn't so lucky. There's a smoke trail ahead, and as I watch it plunges in a fireball out of sight.

"Hornet Two, punching out." As it dawns on me that something is seriously wrong, I spike a radar source at 2:00. There definitely shouldn't be any MiGs within miles -- the raid should have pulled the all clear. My ACM radar won't vector bogeys ooutside of 10 miles, so I turn towards it. As the Hornet banks, the HUD lights up with a ground threat, nine miles.

Something is tickling my brain, and suddenly I remember. IntelOps had noticed activity in this area, and now I realize that the airfield at Hyun Ni must be staging intercepts despite the diversion in the next sector. I switch to Air-to-Ground and the situation is plain. A SAM site is flashing like a beacon on my ARAD radar.

I'm also spiking third and fourth bogeys at 16 and 20 miles. I've got my hands full, and I begin to regret carrying two AIM-120s instead of an extra four AIM-9s. I switch back to Air-to-Ground and select one of my two HARM AGM-88s. I've got to play decoy duck to take out the SAM site: wait until he achieves a full lockup, then fire before he gets off a SAM.

As I dive on him, I hear the warning tone and 7 miles the HARM leaves the rail, speeding at more than three times the speed of sound. The tone ceases as the SAM site shuts down, and I turn towards the third bogey, now at just eight miles.

My fingers are busy again, and I'm back in Air-to-Air with my last AIM-9 armed. The lock indicator is seeking vainly across the HUD. With a wrenching snap-roll I'm nose on to the bogey and the Sidewinder leaps off the rail. At five miles it's at the very edge of lethality. But I'm too busy to worry about him, because Death is reaching for me with another missile at four miles.

This time I can see its awful smoke trail, and at two miles I'm hard over to 9:00, reversing the rolling turn as the missile lances into proximity detonation range. I hear its explosion, but it seems to be a clean miss and I track my bogey, now at 1:30, as he vectors across my nose.

As I prepare for a lead pursuit, the bogey suddenly pulls hard towards me. I see a puff behind him and my Sidewinder seems to pass right through him without detonating. For a moment I dumbfounded. Perhaps this is how he felt after seeing my doppler turn and countermeasures fool *his* missile. But there is no time for philosophy. The fourth bogey is now on my ACM radar and I know that I need to down this cunning pilot before his wingman can take a shot.

I ease back to 420 knots and turn hard to 9:00, trying to lead the bogey who is also turning to 9:00. As I do so, he suddely reverses, perhaps trying to avoid a RQ missile shot. Whatever his reason, he is dead meat as my Hornet rolls quickly and pulls into a perfect tracking guns shot. My tracers light up the length of his fuselage and his MiG disintegrates in mid air.


I pull into the fourth bogey, and my HUD lights up as he puts a missile in the air at six miles. I'm trying to pull lead on the bogey, tracking to 1:30, and as I roll away from the bogey's nose I see him responding, pulling towards me. The missile swerves as I reverse hard to 9:00, and I continue the rolling reverse inverted into a Split S. As I pull out, trees fill the windscreen and I know I'm flat on the deck. But my Hornet mysteriously responds and springs into the air in a seven G pullup.

I twist about in my seat looking for the bogey, and I spot him continuing his turn to try to keep me in Lag. With a glance at the HUD I can see that I haven't the energy to extend away and try again, so the next best thing is to stay inside minimum missile range and out-turn him. The Hornet pulls around to 5:00, and as he turns towards me I try to rattle him with an edge of the envelope snapshot.

Happy Days! A sudden flash and he's pouring smoke, trying vainly to twist away from the cannon shells. In a moment he's gone, diving to the deck and grovelling in the weeds as he flees. I pull over to try to get a last shot at him, and as I do a parachute opens below me.

I dip my wings and then streak towards my target. I am in my element, alone in the sky, far from the whispering questions, the covert stares. Here in the air I stand alone, measured by noone, needing no approval.

I launch my Maverick AGM-65Es, their trails streaking to Earth, their glass, unwinking eyes seeking out the buildings below. From my high perch I cannot feel the destruction they wreak. I am busy identifying targets in the display, lining them up like targets in a shooting gallery. There is a surreal quality to this act, this 'nintendo warfare'.

Then I am vectoring onto the target, lining up my run in the HUD. This is the most dangerous phase of any mission, the release of free-fall ordnance, iron bombs. Having cleared the skies of enemies and eradicated the solitary SAM site, the bombing is anticlimactic. I fight to maintain my concentration.

The target lies below me, 'pickled' by the CCIP computer. As I pull-through I reflexively jink, my fingers deploying chaff and flares. My caution is warranted: tracer fills the sky as Archie seeks me out. A few more jinks and I am safely out of range and heading back to base.

Base. Never home, never sanctuary. Back to the place where I am the outsider, where I am the solitary enigma. Where I will sleep fitfully and wait, patiently, for another chance to fly, another chance to be absolutely alone.


From: opendocguy@codestorm.com (Reginald Braithwaite-Lee)