“He’s still coming!” Hitman called. “Stoney, he’s still coming!”
Tombstone hadn’t gotten close enough to see the MiG-29’s number, but he had a strange feeling he was facing that same Indian pilot who had come close to killing him more than once already. It was a coincidence . . . but- a small one. Good pilots survived longer than bad ones in die tangle of modern aerial combat . . . and good pilots tended to seek one another out in the closest thing the twentieth century had to a Medieval joust, knight against knight
The insistent chirp of his radar threat warning sounded in his headset. “Tombstone! He’s locked! He’s going to take his shot!”
^’Hang on, Hitman! Just a little further around . . .”
“Launch! Stoney! He’s launched!”
“Chaff!”
“Chaff away!”
He’d deliberately gone into a hard, slow-speed turn directly across the Indian MiG’s line of fire, hoping the other man would fire despite the difficult angle. Picturing the radar-homer’s path in his mind, Tombstone waited another three beats . . . then rammed the stick back to the right, breaking into a hard split-S. His left hand hit the wing control override, folding the wings back to the sixty-eight degree combat sweep, then slammed the throttles forward to Zone Five burner. The roar of the twin engines kicked him in the spine like a sledgehammer, driving the breath from his lungs.
Tunnel vision closed in. His HUD readout showed seven Gs . . . eight . . . nine . . . !
His whole body hurt, and speech, even breathing, was impossible. He knew he was on the thin, ragged edge of
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blacking out, but he held the turn as his compass reading spun through the numbers . . . one-ninety . . . two hundred . . . two-ten . . .
The threat warning was off. The enemy missile had been decoyed by the chaff … or simply missed, unable to correct for Tombstone’s wild maneuver.
And then the other plane was ahead, crossing from left to right with his belly facing Tombstone’s F-14. The Indian MiG had held his own left turn a hair too long and was still in the break. Tombstone had snapped around in the unexpected maneuver and slid into position for a launch. It was a tough shot … as tough as the one the Indian flyer had tried a moment earlier.
Blinking against blurred vision, willing the pain in his throbbing head to subside, Tombstone dropped his targeting pipper across the MiG. No … too close, even for Sidewinders. He would have to go for guns.
The Indian was rolling toward him now . . . had seen him, less than a thousand yards away. Tombstone turned to keep with hun, letting die target reticle lead the MiG.
Tombstone’s sharp eyes picked out the hull number: 401.
He also spotted something else. There were no missiles slung beneath the MiG’s wings. The radar-homer he’d just popped at Tombstone had been his last one. Possibly there’d not been time to rearm when he’d landed earlier. Or possibly he’d loosed five of his six AAMs earlier in the fight.
MiG and Tomcat closed with one another. At two hundred yards, Tombstone could see the other pilot, his helmet visor back. He was making no effort to escape but was watching Tombstone’s approach with what could only be described as professional interest.
The guy knew Tombstone had him and was waiting to die.
Tombstone shook his head. What was it Army had always said. Chivalry gets you dead.
True enough, and the MiG pilot still had his cannon. Still, there came a time when there was simply no point in further slaughter. The Indian MiG pilot was an opponent now, not an enemy . . . and there was a sharp difference between the two. Tombstone waggled his wings in salute . . . then broke left, passing behind the other plane close enough to feel the shudder of his jet stream.
“Hey, Hitman? Hitman! Are you still with me?”
AmUGEDDONHOOE
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There was no response over the ICS. The nine-G turn had knocked his RIO out
“Viper Leader, Viper Leader, mis is Victor Tango One-one-” Tombstone jumped, wondering if the Hawkeye controller fhad spotted his rather unprofessional breach.