…And so begins the boring flying.
The plan was direct to Easter Island, (or Isla de Pascua, or Rapa Nui), however as we were starting the jet, a Peruvian official ran out to greet us and explained a situation they were having.
Concerned locals had been reporting sightings of an unidentified aircraft along the coast near the town of Pisco. The FAP (lol, Peruvian Air Force) is up on staring angrily at a pissed of FAE (Ecuadoran Air Force, No Comment), and we happen to be the highest performance jet in the area.
Eager to have the at least one South American country not pissed at us, we punch the numbers for fuel, then agree. With newfound purpose, we taxi to the active.
Taproom 102 readying for take off, Lima baking in a comfortable heat in the background.
The sand and sea.
As we climb, Gibbo gets my attention on intercom.
Gibbo: You remember what our first nav point is?
Me: ASIA, I believe.
Gibbo: Yup.
Me: Why do you ask?
Gibbo: sound of pockets unzipping
My curiosity is rewarded with the instantly recognizable open cords of ASIA’s 1982 hit blasted over the intercom.
Gibbo’s an alright guy in my book.
We both jam out as we climb to altitude, I can hear the distinct sound of someone beating against the radar console in time with the irresistible drum beat (to be fair I’m doing the same thing).
We’re almost to ASIA when I hear the next song (Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas, for the record) abruptly cut out.
“Radar contact, 80 miles, angels 14. Got him in TWS” Gibbo calls. No sooner than he does I hear a sharp tone and look down to a hence forth unused instrument: the RWR. The Peruvians weren’t kidding.
I’m still processing the moderate shock the RWR even works when Gibbo adds “Holy ■■■■, this guy is trucking, twelve hundred knots of closure, altitude increasing”.
The bogey keeps his speed up as he rapidly climbs to roughly co-altitude. I tell Gibbo to put him in STT, and begin configuring the jet for a fight. I select the A/A master mode, replace the HSD with the TID repeater on the lower screen, and bring up the TCS repeater on my VID (the upper screen).
There’s something there, but I can’t make out what it is. I tell Gibbs to give me NARROW on the TCS
enhance
I instantly recognize the shape in a primal sense, but intellectually I know that it’s not possible. It can’t be what I think it is. I can hammer it out later, merged!
[grunting intensifies]
I’d explain how this went, but I’ll let Slider do it for me.
There isn’t much out there that can turn one circle with an GE-110’d F-14. Here’s our end state.
As I approach, I’m confused to see that my eyes did not betray me…
“That’s a gorram F-4!” Gibbo shouts. I know he’s furiously taking pictures as I pull up on it’s port side.
Confusion does not begin to describe the thoughts coursing through my head. Where’d an F-4 come from. Peru doesn’t fly them, wait, no one in South America flies them, we never exported down here! Why is it Israeli? Why does it have AIM-7Es and old AIM-9s on it? One wing fuel tank?
I switch to guard to begin to try and seek answers to this torrent of questions, all I hear is @klarsnow’s cackle.
I suddenly don’t want to know.
He asks me how the mission to Antarctica progresses. I answer well, and consider asking how whatever he’s doing is going, but think better of it. What I don’t know, I can’t be compelled to testify. We briefly chat, apparently he’s about to head back stateside (not sure if that’s good or bad), and thought he’d tail me out here to say goodbye. I thank him, and wish him well on his flight north. He asks if I want some pictures before he heads off, and before I can answer Gibbo is on the net commanding he pop flares.
I get one of my own for… posterity.
Pictures taken, Klar gives a wing waggle, and slide’s off into the distant, back towards the South American land mass, and I can only hope, not Ecuador.
Suddenly myself and Gibbs are alone once more, with only our jet and the big blue sea. I reconfigure the jet for travel, and Gibbs takes the time to cue up the last way point while searching for where his Ipod was flung in our brief, but tumultuous dog fight.
I hear Bowie’s Life on Mars? as I put us on course for Easter Island, our tanker, and danger.