Captain Second Rank Stralbo, commander of the second MiG squadron, had been
dodging a team of aggressive American fighters, but somehow one of them had
still wound up on Stralbo’s tail. Luckily the American cowboy had already
used up his infrared homing missiles. Two long bursts of gunfire hadn’t
scored any hits on Stralbo’s MiG as yet, but it was only a matter of time. It
was clear that Stralbo was completely outclassed.
Terekhov rolled his plane into position above and behind the American,
still shouting for Stralbo to break to the left so he could line up his shot.
The targeting diamond centered on the F-14 and turned red, the locking tone
sounded in his ear, but Terekhov held his fire. “Roll left, Stralbo!” he
bellowed again.
It was as if the American pilot had a charmed life. Just as Stralbo
started his turn the Tomcat banked in the opposite direction, as if suddenly
aware of the threat. Terekhov stabbed at the firing stud, but too late. He
had lost the target, and the missile streaked off into the distance, harmless.
Then his threat indicator lit up.
Turning his head back and forth, he spotted the second F14 angling in
from his aft port quarter. He had forgotten the American fighting style, the
“loose deuce” that allowed wingmen to cover each other flexibly. Soviet
fliers rarely used anything but a tight “welded wing” formation, and it was
easy to forget that not all adversaries followed the tactics he had become
used to in half a lifetime in the cockpit.
He caught sight of a plume of flame below the Tomcat’s wing. This one
still had missiles.
Terekhov wrenched his stick back and shoved his throttles full forward.
Acceleration pressed him into his seat as he climbed. Fighting to retain
consciousness, he watched his radar through a red haze, saw the blip that was
the heat-seeker closing … closing …
In a smooth motion he cut his power with a swift jerk of the throttles
and triggered a pair of flares. It was a risky move that could lead to a
flame-out or an uncontrolled spin, but by suddenly killing his hot
afterburners and throwing out the flares he stood a good chance of defeating
the American A-9M.
The missile went off a good hundred meters behind and below him, and he
instantly shoved the throttles into the highest afterburner zone and turned
sharply toward the American plane.
0942 hours Zulu (0942 hours Zone)
Tomcat 204
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“It’s getting too damned thick here, Mal,” Batman said. “There’s too
many of the bastards!”
The RIO’s reply was all business. “That MiG’s coming down on Trapper!
Three o’clock!”
Batman cursed and accelerated into a turn. “This guy’s starting to piss
me off,” he commented. The same MiG had spoiled his chances of taking out
another Russian a few moments before. The Russkie was good, that much was
certain. The guy had dodged Martin’s Sidewinder and then turned to carry the
attack back to the Americans.
“Watch him, Trap!” he warned. “I’m on the way!”
“He’s all over me!” the lieutenant responded, sounding worried. “Hurry
up, Batman! Hurry up!”
He spotted the two planes, Martin climbing sharply, the Russian matching
him move for move. “Lead him this way! Come left! Left!” Then a missile
leapt from the MiG’s wing. Martin’s Tomcat was turning, climbing … And
then there was nothing left but a fireball.
CHAPTER 17
Thursday, 12 June, 1997
0942 hours Zulu (0942 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“They got Trapper! Trapper’s hit!”
Coyote heard the edge in Batman’s voice. Wayne had already fired both
Sidewinders, so he was down to nothing but guns … and now his wingman had
been hit. “Get the hell out of there, Batman!” he called. “Disengage!
Disengage!”
“No can do, man,” Batman replied, sounding calmer now, grim and
determined. “They’d be all over me if I tried.”
“We’ll get you some support.” Grant cursed under his breath. Powers was
still clear of the fighting after his first brush with Russian missiles, but
he hadn’t made much of an effort to get back into the game, and Coyote wasn’t
about to depend on him for anything. That left it to Grant … or to