broke free from the target, then a second and a third, all trailing
smoke in graceful arcs toward the jungle. The bandit was popping
flares, trying to break Bayerly’s lock.
“Made It!” Stratton yelled. “I see him! The other bandit’s all over
us!”
“Hold on, Kid! I’m on this one.”
“Oh, shit! He’s going’ for a lock, man!”
“Cowboy Leader, this is Homeplate. Your request for weapons release is
denied. Repeat, denied. Standard ROEs apply. Fire only if fired
upon.”
“Kid! Where’s our tail?”
“On our six, range one mile! He’s got a lock! Made it, he’s got
lock!”
Bayerly could hear a second tone over his headset. The Tomcat was being
targeted by the second MiG. “Tell me when he launches!”
“He’s closing, Made It! Still no launch.”
“Come on … come on …
1409 hours, 14 January
Tomcat 201
Tombstone saw the second MiG lining up on Bayerly’s Tomcat. He’d heard
the order relayed from Homeplate, but he couldn’t wait and do nothing
while the enemy plane took a shot at Made It and Kid. He dropped the
Tomcat’s right wing and slipped into a steep dive. “Hang back, Batman,”
he called. “We’re going in.”
“That’ll violate the hard deck, Tombstone,” Batman replied.
“We’ll discuss my fitness report later.” He saw three aircraft symbols
on his HUD now, Bayerly sandwiched between two MiGs. “Dixie! Tickle
that guy with a radar lock.”
He lined up on the trailing aircraft, waiting for the warble that told
him he had a lock. If he couldn’t fire the missile, at least he could
startle the MiG’s pilot, who would hear the radar lock as a tone in his
own headset and know an American plane had him in its sights.
“Tone,” Dixie called.
The target MiG did not waver. Either he wasn’t aware of Tombstone’s
weapons lock, or he was gambling that the Americans would not fire
first.
“He’s not going for it,” Tombstone said. “Going to buster. He rammed
the throttles full forward, cutting in the Tomcat’s afterburners.
Acceleration slammed him against his seat.
With startling swiftness, the trailing MiG swelled to fill his HUD.
Tombstone cut the burners, then finessed the stick to starboard, angling
the F-14 so that it would pass the MiG on its right side with a few
yards to spare. At close range, Tombstone could see details of the
other plane’s construction down to the individual rivets along the
fuselage. It was not a Soviet export aircraft, he saw, but a Shenyang
J-7, a Chinese copy of the MiG-21 built under license. He’d faced them
before over Korea. It was silver with red control surfaces, and he
could read the numbers on the nose. There were no national markings or
unit ID, however. Was it Chinese, Burmese, or something else?
The pilot looked back at Tombstone across the narrow gap between the
aircraft, eyes wide above his oxygen mask. Tombstone brought his stick
back to the left, closing the gap slowly, drawing closer … closer …
The J-7 pilot needed no further urging. As Tombstone brought the F-14
tight across the Shenyang’s bow, the other pilot cut his aircraft
sharply to the left, breaking contact with Bayerly’s plane and angling
away from Tombstone with his own afterburner blazing. Tombstone held
the turn, pulling a full circle as he began climbing once more.
“Cowboy Leader, this is Sierra Bravo.” Tombstone could hear the Hawkeye
calling Bayerly. “Cowboy Leader, be advised you are entering Burmese
airspace. Come to course one-eight-zero, execute immediate.”
Tombstone leveled off at ten thousand feet, searching the northern
horizon. Dixie spotted Bayerly’s plane first on radar and gave him the
bearing. Tombstone could see him then, the second of two contrails
flitting across the jungle, two miles to the north and down on the deck.
The border was invisible, but Tombstone knew that Bayerly had already
crossed the line and was plunging deeper into Burmese territory with
every second.
1409 hours, 14 January
Tomcat 101
Bayerly’s thumb caressed the trigger as the MiG grew large in his HUD.
“Cowboy Leader, this is Sharpshooter Leader,” Magruder’s voice called
over the radio. “Break off, Made It. Break off!”
“Cowboy Leader, this is Homeplate,” a second voice added. “Terminate