at discretion.”
They were outnumbered three to one, but the two MiGs of Soviet Naval
Aviation would give a good account of themselves regardless of the odds.
Senior Lieutenant Nickolaev was one of the squadron’s best pilots, despite his
reputation for indulging in the kind of cowboy flying the Americans
worshipped.
Terekhov cut in the MiG’s afterburners, feeling the thrust of the
powerful Isotov RD-33 turbofans pressing him into his seat. Pulling back on
his stick, he aimed for the clouds.
0917 hours Zulu (0817 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201 Redwing Flight
Coyote watched as flame engulfed the wing of the Tu-95, hardly able to
believe what he was seeing. Sheered off by the blast, the wing fell away, and
the aircraft spun off out of control, plummeting for the ocean below. As the
Bear plunged, Coyote saw Koslosky’s Tomcat, its wing visibly damaged,
obviously in trouble.
It had all happened too fast … so fast that he hadn’t been able to stop
it. The horror of what had happened dulled his reactions. Viper Squadron had
just fired the shots that could lead to outright war.
Then Nichols was shouting over the ICS. “Better look sharp, Skipper.
Watch the MiGs!”
He jerked his attention away from the tableau of falling Bear and
struggling fighter to see the lead MiG climbing fast ahead. “Batman! We’ve
got a situation here!”
“On our way!”
“Skipper! Skipper! MiG two’s on my six! I can’t get control to dodge
him!” That was Koslosky’s voice, sounding panicky.
Coyote banked and turned in time to see the MiG flash past in pursuit of
the stricken Tomcat. With a curse Grant tried to bring his plane around, but
he seemed to be moving in slow motion compared to the other planes.
The flare he saw under the MiG’s port wing was a missile launch, probably
an AA-8 Aphid heat-seeker. “Break left! Kos, break left!”
“Can’t do it, Skipper!” Koslosky replied. Then his voice rose. “Wild
Card! Eject! Ej-”
The missile hit the Tomcat before Koslosky could finish. Coyote turned
his head as the explosion ripped the plane apart, feeling sick.
“Oh, God,” he heard Nichols say behind him.
“Save it. I want that bastard!” Teeth clenched, Coyote wrenched his
stick over and started after the Fulcrum.
0918 hours Zulu (0818 hours Zone)
Tomcat 204 Ajax Flight
“Lead MiG’s climbing fast, Batman. Looks like he wants to loop in and
nail Coyote.”
“Not if we get there first, he won’t.” Batman shoved the throttles all
the way forward and thumbed his selector switch. Sidewinders were their best
bet for these conditions.
Behind him he heard Malibu on the radio channel back to the Jefferson.
“Dragon’s Lair, Dragon’s Lair, this is Ajax Two-oh-four. We are engaging.
Repeat, we are engaging.”
Once Batman would have felt satisfaction at those words. Now he knew
nothing but a cold gnawing in his guts. They had crossed the line.
0918 hours Zulu (0818 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201 Redwing Flight
“Come on, you bastard,” Coyote muttered. “Come on.” The lock-on tone
was loud in his ears. “I’ve got tone!” He hit the firing stud. “Fox two!
Fox two!”
“He’s jinking!” John-Boy said.
The MiG banked and dropped fast, and the heat-seeker flashed past.
“damn!” Coyote felt his fist tightening around the stick. That MiG driver
was good … and he himself had been just a little too quick off the mark.
“Easy, Coyote,” Nichols told him. “What’re you always telling us? Fly
with your head …”
Grant gave a short nod and forced himself to cool off. There was little
room for the aggressive hot-dogging so beloved by Hollywood in a real ACM
situation. It was the cool hand, the technician who knew precisely what his
aircraft could do and was willing to take it to the edge of the envelope, but
never beyond, who scored.
Ahead the MiG started a tight turn to the left, the kind of nimble
maneuver the smaller Soviet fighters were particularly good at. Coyote pulled
back on the stick, bringing the Tomcat’s nose up into a steep climb to bleed
off airspeed and keep from overshooting the target plane. He rolled left,
almost standing the F-14 on its wing so he could keep the MiG in sight, then