It doesn’t happen in Aces High very often, particularly in the MA. AWACS radar in the cockpit and billboard-size neon icons makes sure of that. Still, every once in a while the dogs of war or fate or simply luck and an inattentive enemy pilot conspires to recreate that almost mythical event: the perfect bounce.
There I was (doesn’t every fighter jock start the story that way?) cruising towards A30 last night to help the Knights take it away from the Bishops. I arrived just in time to watch our goons storm the map room and capture the field. No problem, I think to myself. At the other end of this island, to the northwest, a single enemy base remains under enemy control. I decide to indulge in my patented, nap-of-the-earth, lone-wolf stalking trick. I drop down below radar to about 75 feet above the earth and set course to the northwest at full military power; lean, clean, and with a bone in my teeth.
As I skim over the undulating terrain, skirting between peaks and riding ridgelines, my face is a mask of concentration. My eyes follow their ritualistic pattern, burned into my psyche by countless low-altitude sorties: scan instruments, sweep the horizon, scan instruments, sweep the high 360, repeat. Every minute or so I risk a quick glance at the map display to check my position and look for radar contacts.
As I reach a position only a few miles out, I notice a red bar appear in the grid that contains my destination. Under most other circumstances, this would be a bad thing. Not today, though. The whole point of this exercise is to find enemy activity at the base. Not too much, and not too early in my approach. I want the to catch someone just after take off, there attention diverted by the details of getting airborne, setting climb trim and power, checking the map and setting their course. It has been my experience that there is a critical few minutes after take off from a base not under obvious attack where people just aren’t into their SA routine yet.
My craft’s nose lifts over a ridgeline and the enemy airbase lays spread out before me on the coastal plain. I’m tearing along at over 300 knots, riding along the seaward slop of a mountain, when I see the flash of sunlight off silvered wings, low over the water at my 1 o’clock. The bogie appears to have just lifted off from the enemy base. Does he see me? Could he possibly not see me? Without waiting for an answer to these questions, I kick full right rudder and point my nose down hill. As I reach the bottom of the slope, I yank back to bottom out a mere few meters above the level ground, then shove the throttle past the detent and into boost. The airspeed indicator’s needle is quivering at close to four hundred knots as I make another minor adjustment to point the nose at the enemy plane.
The dot becomes a silhouette, which becomes a plane-form that takes on detail as I rapidly close the distance from his low six. He is in a shallow climb directly away from me, maneuvering only minimally. My heart begins to beat wildly against my ribs, my breathing becomes shallower, and my legs and fingers take on the now familiar tingling of adrenaline. The range winds down faster and faster as I slowly pull beneath him: 1,500 meters, 1,100, 800, 600…
The enemy fighter hangs suspended above me, impossibly large in the top of my canopy, yet impossibly far away. At 500 meters, I pull back smoothly back into a climb. The target creeps down the windscreen, and every second I expect him to suddenly break into a wild defensive maneuver. Surely he must see me! The desire to fire my guns becomes a nearly unbearable pressure behind my eyes. At last it is centered neatly in the reticule.
At 400 meters I can contain myself no longer. I pull the trigger and a hail of 50-caliber slugs fill the air around the enemy fighter like angry bees. Flashes sparkle along his wings, and pieces of airplane scatter in his wake. I stop firing for just a fraction of a second, then give it one more burst. This time, oily smoke belches forth and my adversary’s horizontal stabilizer flutters away. His mortally wounded craft swoons upward in a drunken lurch before tipping over one wing and beginning a last, gyrating plunge to the sea. The PERFECT bounce!
It is with a mixture of relief and regret that I watch a parachute canopy blossom just above the wave tops. I give the wings a waggle as parting salute, the push the nose back down. Leveling off at 50 feet, I head back towards the enemy base. Perhaps he’ll launch again right away. Perhaps someone else will. I spot another dot lifting off, an enemy paratroop carrier. I grin maniacally as I again slew the nose towards this new target. Target rich environment…got to love it!
Some will argue that the most satisfying kill is the hard fought dogfight with a cunning and alert opponent. For me, nothing compares to the perfect bounce.
