Cold Warriors: The Essex Class in the Cold War

February 13, 1959
Over the Ceram Sea

Lieutenant Colonel Dedy Iskander checked his calculations against those of his navigator. Everything depended on their navigation being accurate. If they were off by even a few miles, the odds were good that they would not have enough fuel to land safely back at base. If their calculations were correct, they should begin picking up the low-powered homing beacon from the KRI Gadjah Mada in the next few minutes. The old British and Dutch destroyer had been positioned in the seas below to provide a navigational checkpoint for the bombers and fighters to home in on.

Once the formation was overhead of the old ship, they could adjust their course accordingly to ensure that they all arrived over the Dutch airbase as planned. With just a little luck, they could plaster the base and put it out of service long before the coming invasion.

Far ahead of him, he saw one of the F-5s flash his lights and rock his wings, the signal to the rest of the formation that he had picked up the homing beacon. Almost as soon as he had seen the fighter signal, he began to hear the homing beacon himself. Listening intently to the signal, Colonel Iskander adjusted his course slightly to put the destroyer dead on his nose.

Three minutes after picking up the signal, the Indonesian formation streaked above the destroyer and made their final turn onto their attack vector. Ideally, they would have preferred to come at the target from different angles to keep the Dutch from vectoring all their fighters onto them, but their fuel constraints prevented that. Instead, they would bull straight in and rely on their fighters to defend them. Hopefully.

February 13, 1959
Mokmer Airfield, Biak, Western New Guinea


Across the base, alarm klaxons sounded and frantic men ran to their assigned duty stations. On the flight line, crew chiefs hit starter switches even as their plane's pilots rushed from their ready room. The scream of jet engines filled the air as turbines began to spin. The cause for all this haste? Radar operators had detected a large number of contacts heading straight for the airfield.


Though the lesson had been taught to a different Air Force in a different war, Pearl Harbor had not been forgotten and the Royal Netherlands Air Force had learned their lessons well. Every available fighter was taking to the skies to defend their airspace. Of the squadron's dozen fighters, eight were flight ready. Of the other four, one was getting an engine replaced, one had lost hydraulic pressure on it's last flight and had barely made it back to base in one piece, the weapon's system in the third had failed and it's guns refused to fire while the fourth had developed a crack in the starboard wing, a testament to the age of the fighters and the hard service they had seen.


The maintenance officer for the squadron cursed aloud as he watched helplessly from the ground. He had warned his superiors that maintenance on their aged fighters was becoming a problem. Their planes were quite simply worn out. Now they would pay a price for that.

February 13, 1959
Off the coast of Biak at 40,000 feet

Captain Cas Baas said a brief prayer of thanks for that wonderful invention known as radar. Thanks to the radar on the island, and the Indonesians flying at such a high altitude, they'd had more than enough time to climb above the enemy formation and position themselves in a near perfect ambush to dive on them out of the sun. He could see the formation below him. And he could see fighters mixed in with the bombers. So the Indonesians expected them to target the second group instead of the first? Smart. But he and the men with him were smarter.

There were a dozen big lumbering bombers down there and he was under strict orders that every round he fired had better hit one. The fighters couldn't hurt the base, the bombers could. Over the radio he heard his squadron CO call out the orders: "On my mark, attack in pairs. Stay in formation and don't try to tangle with their fighters. Good luck lads, I'll see you all back on the ground. Mark."

The first pair winged over into their dives followed by the next two, then his pair. By that time he was too concerned with what was happening in front of him to care whether the last pair had followed. With his engines screaming, he pushed his Meteor to the edge of it's envelope. He'd already armed his guns before starting his dive and he waited as his target started to fill his gunsight. They were maneuvering now, jinking and turning, trying to throw off the attacking fighter's aim. But he would not be denied. His finger caressed the trigger and he felt the reassuring thunder of his guns as they spat out shells. Bellow him, sparks flashed from the wings of a bomber before the port wing folded up and collapsed, sending the bomber spiraling out of control.

Cas didn't even get the chance to celebrate his victory as tracers flashed past his cockpit. Snap rolling to the right on pure instinct, an Indonesian MiG flashed past. Jesus, that was close, he thought! Putting his head on a swivel, he brought his old fighter around in as tight a turn as he dared at this altitude. He wanted another bomber. Instead he heard a frantic, "Five, break left!"

Throwing his pane onto its wing he tried to escape whatever was coming at him. He was nearly too late. He felt his bird shudder as two shells slammed into his right wingtip. A quick glance at his instruments told him everything was still working. Another half second and those shells would have done a lot more than put a couple holes in his wing.

A MiG rolled across his nose and a half second burst sent a dozen shells into its belly. But whether he damaged or destroyed it, he couldn't be sure. Trying to check would kill him. He needed to find the bombers, but the fighters were keeping him occupied. Finally, he glimpsed them, and he rolled to intercept. But half of the first wave of Indonesian fighters had turned back towards them. And they would reach him before he reached the bombers. A sense of rage and shame at his failure to stop the bombers started to burn in him. He turned back into the furball, knowing it was his only option.

February 13, 1959
Furball over the Ceram Sea

Major Saleh Basarah's cockpit was filled with the sound of his curses. He knew what to expect, where to look for them and how they would attack and still the fucking Dutch had shredded their formation. The first pair of fighters had flashed through before anyone could react and claimed a pair of bombers. The second pair had nearly as free of a ride and claimed one bomber destroyed and another damaged for their efforts. The third pair's attack had been partially disrupted with only a single bomber hit, though that one had gone down in flames. The fourth pair hadn't even damaged one of the bombers and one of them had been shot down by his wingman.

He was on the hunt for blood now. Three precious bombers had been lost and a fourth damaged. A full third of their strike force damaged or destroyed in seconds. The Dutch would pay for this. He had sent a few rounds at the lead ship in the third pair that dove on them before they were past, but he didn't think he hit him. As he soared past the final diving Meteor, he pulled his plane over to reengage and ended up on the tail of an expertly flown Dutch fighter. He had to remind himself that he had a big speed advantage over his straight winged opponent and forced himself to throttle down a bit. He didn't want to overshoot.

Twisting and turning across the sky, he danced with the Dutch Meteor in the most beautiful ballet known to man. It was a dance of death though. Only one of them could survive this dance, and he was determined to be the one that did. Finally, he got inside the Dutch plane when its pilot let himself bleed off too much energy in a turn. Saleh grinned under his oxygen mask as his finger brushed across the trigger. A one second burst and the Meteor exploded in a million pieces as explosive shells ripped into engines and fuel tanks. That was one bomber avenged.

Swiveling his head to maintain his situational awareness, he spied a lone Dutch fighter streak away from the furball and towards where the remaining bombers continued to lumber on towards their target. No, my son, you will not be bothering them again today he thought. Pointing the nose of his F-5 at the Meteor, he was surprised to see the enemy pilot turn back into the furball. But then his eyes caught more movement as he saw half of 12 Squadron turning back towards them. Ah, the better part of valor.

Saleh glanced at his fuel gauge, did some quick mental gymnastics and lit his afterburner. The kick as it lit off pushed him deep into his ejection seat. He would steal in behind the Dutch and make a fast, slashing attack and be gone before the other pilot ever knew what hit him. He just about had his shot lined up when felt his plane shudder from what he knew was a hit and he was forced to abandon his attack just to survive.

Going totally defensive for the moment, Saleh sent his plane into a dazzling display of aerobatics while he wondered where the fuck his wingman had gone and why he hadn't warned him of the approaching fighter. During one particular maneuver, when he was upside down, he glimpsed what looked like an F-5 falling towards the ocean far below. His wingman? He couldn't be sure. But whoever he was, Saleh avenged him. A Meteor, its pilot intent on his own hunt failed to see him and blundered across his nose. A second of gunfire as he flashed past and the Meteor was falling, wreathed in smoke and flames.

His own dogged pursuer was falling behind as Saleh used his speed advantage for everything it was worth. When he turned again, he could see only a single Dutch plane, limping towards Biak, smoke trailing from one of its engines. Surely this was not it? The Dutch must have more than a single obsolete squadron out here. Not that it would matter to him. The combat and the few seconds of afterburner he had used meant he had to start for home now if he didn't wish to swim part of the way.

When his squadron and their sister formed up again, Saleh counted noses and he was shocked at what he saw. Of the twenty-four F-5s that took to the air only an hour or so ago, he counted only ten. His commanding officer's was not among them. Several pilots reported damage that ranged from major to minor. He would need to alert search and rescue for those planes and pilots that would be unable to make it back.

February 13, 1959
Over the Ceram Sea

Cas Baas had thrown himself fully into the fight after turning back into the furball and he claimed one more MiG shot down with another damaged. But it wasn't enough. The Indonesians had put three times as many fighters into the air as they had been able to. He had finally turned to run when he couldn't see any more friendly planes in the sky.

There were eight of us this morning. Now there's only me. He couldn't dwell on that, not if he wanted to survive. His machine needed all his attention. He'd been hit in the wings again and one of the hits had fodded his starboard engine. It was trailing smoke, but so far it hadn't burst into flames. The sluggish way his plane responded to his control inputs told him that the control cables were likely damaged as well.

He didn't know how many planes they had shot down, all he knew was that they had gotten the worst of it. Seven planes shot down, only God knows if their pilots were able to punch out in time. He called the airfield on the radio to warn them that he was coming in damaged but there was no reply. He tried again. And again. And again. But still, the radio remained silent. An icy ball of dread began to form in his stomach. Did he even have an airfield to return to?

A empty airfield versus some Indonesian fighters and bombers, was it worth it.

But Indonesia while having suffered losses in both fighters and bombers did mange to destroy the Netherlands fighters and with that can claim air dominance.