still be in the air.
The best tactic for a more maneuverable aircraft such as a MiG versus a
behemoth like the Tomcat is to fight an angles war, restricting the
plane of combat to the horizontal as much as possible and preventing
the larger craft from using its greater thrust-to-weight ratio to
attain altitude and therefore, potential airspeed on the smaller one.
Santana assessed the tactical strategic situation. It seemed like the
pilot had not started his ascent soon enough, leaving some possibility
that the angles fight could be turned to the Cuban’s advantage
immediately.
Santana put his MiG Fulcrum into a hard left turn, standing the nimble
aircraft on its wing as he ducked underneath the path of the offending
Tomcat. He knew what the American intended to gain altitude, roll
over, and drop in behind him for a killing shot. By forming a T with
the ascending aircraft, he made that probability unlikely.
In a few more seconds, he would see if his plan was working. Then he
could judge the geometry of the engagement and quickly correct the
agile Fulcrum’s course as necessary. The seconds ticked by
inexorably.
0513 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 201
“Furball forty miles to the east,” Tomboy said. “Recommend we come
left slightly to avoid it. That is, if what you really want to do is
get the BDA you said you were after.”
Tombstone clicked his mike twice in response, annoyed by Tomboy’s
insight. She knew as well as he did that what he really wanted to do
was vector over to the furball, pick off a MiG, and go one-on-one as he
had so many times before. Even the absence of a wingman to assist him
in a combat spread didn’t bother him. He’d fought solo against MiGs
more times than most of these pilots had trapped on a carrier.
Instead, he eased the aircraft to the left, swinging wide of the
engagement. Maybe later, after he’d had a chance to see what he’d come
to see, and radioed the results back to the carrier. Maybe one last
time but duty first. Whatever else he might have felt about flying,
his obligation right now was to the carrier. And to Batman. This
aircraft had been released to him for one purpose and one purpose only
to obtain critical information for the carrier group commander not to
allow him to live out some boyish fantasy one last time.
“Feet dry in five mikes.” Tomboy’s voice was still coldly
professional, empty of any trace of “I told you so.”
Tombstone spared one last look off to the right, searching the sky for
the aircraft that he knew were dancing deadly waltzes with each other
at this very minute. Then he refocused his attention on the heads-up
display inside. Duty first.
0514 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 201
“Oh, you bastard,” Bird Dog muttered. “You slimy little Cuban
bastard.” He craned his neck over and stared down, hoping to catch a
glimpse of the aircraft darting underneath his flight path. He thought
he saw it-the dim sparkle of starlight on hardened painted metal but he
couldn’t be certain. For now. Gator and the radar provided a better
picture of their relative positions than eyesight.
“Under you,” Gator warned. “Still turning Bird Dog, he’s an angles
fighter.”
“Of course he is,” Bird Dog snapped. “So would I be if I were flying a
MiG against a Tomcat. Well, we’re going to have to put the kibosh on
that little scenario.”
He jerked the Tomcat into a hard right turn, breaking off the ascent.
as he leveled off, he let the tomcat roll 180 degrees until he was
standing on his port wing, pointing down toward the ground. The
maneuver cost him altitude, which was just what he intended. He waited
until he was approximately level with the MiG, then continued to roll,
twisting twice more until he was head-on-head with the MiG.
And take that, you motherfucker. Nose-on-nose, you’re mine.
“Watch him,” Gator warned. “With his turning radius, he’ll be out of
here in a heartbeat.”
“He turns, and I’ll be on his ass,” Bird Dog answered.
“Which is just where I want to be for a Sidewinder.”