on showing only one air contact a Tomcat, according to the ESM gear
that had made it an AWG-9 radar in search mode.
But where were the others? There should have been at least three other
Tomcats in Bombcat configuration, along with some fighters armed with
anti-air missiles for protection, not one lone Tomcat straggling off
toward the boat. No, he corrected, not straggling already alerted to
what was happening around him, and climbing for altitude to gain a
superior fighting position.
It was inconceivable that only one aircraft could have so fatally
damaged Cuba’s master plan. Inconceivable and unacceptable. The
Tomcat pilot was probably congratulating himself right now, dreaming of
the awards and medals he’d receive for such a daring mission. Even
more unacceptable.
Santana pulled the nose of the MiG up and headed for the sky. He
needed some altitude, something to force this into a horizontal-plane
battle of angles as he’d had earlier with the last Tomcat victim. For
if he had anything to say about it, this particular Tomcat pilot was
going to see his dreams of glory turn into his worst nightmare.
0723 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 202
“Not so fast, buddy,” Tombstone murmured. He was concentrating on the
attack geometry between the MiG and the Tomcat, seeing in three
dimensions the advantage that the MiG was trying to obtain. “If you’re
like the other MiG pilots I’ve been up against, you have a much better
idea of what your aircraft will do than mine, although my former
squadron may have given you just a little refresher course on it very
recently. Still, I’m betting that you’re a lot more familiar with MiGs
than you are with Tomcats. Let’s just see, shall we?” Tombstone
kicked on the afterburners again and watched the fuel gauge spiral
down. The Tomcat seemed to stop in midair, ceasing all forward
movement to turn into a flaming arrow launched toward the sun. “Can
you match that rate of climb? I don’t think so not with your low
thrust-to-weight ratio. You may have the maneuverability, but I’ve got
the power.”
At least until I run out of gas. He winced to see how far to the left
the arrow pointed. There wasn’t going to be time to try this twice it
would be a close-in-knife fight, first punch-wins engagement. And
after that . . . well, he’d try to make it to the tanker, and if not
.
.
.
well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d ditched an aircraft.
He radioed Batman and asked that the tanker be brought in as close as
feasibly possible. “Already on it,” Batman said. “And he’s got two
fighters buster with him, just aching to get a piece of a MiG.”
“Not a chance. This one’s mine.” Tombstone brought the Tomcat into
level flight, now at thirty-five thousand feet.
His fuel consumption rate was much lower this high, but not
sufficiently economical to make up for the gas he’d sucked up on
afterburners. Still, the MiG probably didn’t know that.
He watched the MiG ascend, climbing at a shallower angle, but still
impressive. He vectored toward it, intending to cut him off before he
reached Tombstone’s altitude. One of the purposes of gaining altitude
was to force the MiG into playing Tombstone’s game, into trying to
match the Tomcat’s rate of speed. He couldn’t all the MiG could do
would be to gain altitude while-losing speed. With any luck, he’d be
going too slow to maneuver quickly out of Tombstone’s way.
The second reason for taking the MiG now was to avoid an angles
fight.
It was a battle that the Tomcat pilots were trained to avoid at all
costs. Never play the adversary’s game make him play yours. The key
to successful fighter tactics was an aggressive, heads-up attitude,
exploiting the adversary’s weaknesses while playing to your own
strengths.
For the Tomcat, that strength was power. The MiG had the corresponding
weakness.
Tombstone flipped the Tomcat over to watch the MiG ascend, then nosed
down still inverted to meet him. He heard the low growl of a
Sidewinder insisting it had acquired an interesting target. Tombstone
was headed east, right into the rising sun. Did the Sidewinder have