prove himself.
“Man, it could all happen today,” he said aloud over the ICS. “If the
goddamned Russkies are really looking for trouble, we’ll give it to ’em,
right?”
From the backseat Kirshner sounded bored. “Throttle back, rookie,” he
said scornfully. The RIO was an old hand, but his blase manner wasn’t enough
to dampen Koslosky’s mood. “It’s just another Bear hunt.”
Koslosky edged the throttle forward a little. Maybe that’s all it was to
Kirshner. “Come on, Wild Card, loosen up,” he protested. “If the Russkies do
start something it’ll be our big chance. Wouldn’t you like to draw first
blood for the squadron?”
“Sure. But we won’t.” He could almost see the RIO’s grimace of
distaste. “First off, the Commies’ll back down, just like they always do.
And second, even if something does go down, do you think the Old Man’s going
to let a nugget get off the first shot? Try reality just for a change, okay,
kid?”
Koslosky didn’t answer. If things started happening, he thought, he’d be
in on it. Nothing was going to keep him from joining the ranks of the select,
the fraternity of aviators who’d earned themselves a kill. If Scandinavia was
really heating up, he might come out of this war another multiple ace like the
Deputy CAG, Magruder.
That thought made him all the more anxious for action.
0912 hours Zulu (0812 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201 Redwing Flight
“Two-oh-eight, ease up your throttle and watch your heading,” Coyote
snapped into the radio mike. The bogies would be on top of them soon, and he
had better things to do than worry about some over-eager fighter jockey who
wouldn’t pay attention.
“Affirmative,” Koslosky said.
“They’re coming up fast, Coyote!” Nichols said. “Down on the deck and
really moving!”
“Right,” Coyote said. “Kos, break left and come in over the Bear,
parallel and on top of him. Don’t push him too much, but keep with him. And
stay clear of his tail gun, just in case.”
“Yes, sir!” the younger flyer replied. The Tomcat started to bank away,
turning as it lost altitude and cut back speed. The swing wings flared out,
giving it the look of a predatory bird swooping low toward its prey. A moment
later Coyote lost Koslosky’s plane in the clouds.
He pushed the stick to the right and started a descending turn of his
own. “Talk to me, John-Boy. Talk to me.”
“Range fifteen, closing … closing …”
Mist enveloped the cockpit as the Tomcat dropped through the cloud layer.
Coyote kept one eye on the altimeter and the other on his radar display. He
wanted to close in fast, before the Russians had time to react to his
maneuver.
Then they were out of the clouds, and the Russian planes were there.
He got a good look at the lead jet, one of the navalized MiG-29Ds known
in the NATO F-for-fighter lexicon as Fulcrum. This model was pretty much
identical to the ones that had been flying for years with front-line Soviet
air units, with a minimum of conversions to fit it for the carrier
fighter/attack role. The Russians had strengthened the undercarriage, added
an arrester hook and some avionics that roughly matched the Tomcat’s ILS and
ACLS gear. Other than that it remained what it had started out as–an
extremely effective answer to the very best fighter craft in America’s modern
arsenal.
The second MiG was close by the leader, not quite in a rigid welded-wing
formation, but far tighter than the typical American flight. The Bear trailed
them, turboprops thundering. He spotted Koslosky moving into position as he
finished his turn and dropped easily into place alongside the Bear.
In the cockpit he could see a Soviet pilot wearing an old-fashioned
leather flying helmet. The Russian was gesticulating at him, flashing three
fingers repeatedly. So he wasn’t going to play coy like Batman’s quarry from
the other night. This one wanted a chat on 333.3, and from the urgency of the
gestures he wanted it in a hurry.
“American fighter, American fighter,” Coyote heard as he switched
frequencies. “You are about to be violating restricted airspace. You are
urged to withdraw for your own safety.”