In his daze he had been flying blind, running without even realizing it,
and the Tomcat had left the fight a long way behind. Shaking his head from
side to side to try to clear it, Powers gritted his teeth and banked left.
He had allowed himself to give in to panic, and that was something he
could never atone for. But Cavanaugh was right. They had to get back into
the battle. Even if he had to die today, Powers would die fighting. The
alternative–living with the knowledge of having turned his back on the others
when they needed him–was unthinkable.
“All right, all right, Ears,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’m taking
us back in! Now shut up and find us a target!”
He pushed the throttle all the way forward, and his hand only shook a
little bit.
0945 hours Zulu (0945 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“Two bogies, three o’clock! Watch ’em, Coyote, they’re closing fast.”
Grant glanced to the right at John-Boy’s warning and saw the two MiGs
streaking toward them, flying wing-to-wing. He stiffened as the threat
receiver shrilled a warning.
“They’re locking on!” John-Boy called unnecessarily.
“Tell me something I don’t know!” Coyote shot back, jerking the stick
hard to the right to turn into the two attackers.
The enemy planes crossed behind the Tomcat at a sharp angle, the radar
lock momentarily broken. Coyote looked back again over his left shoulder in
time to see the lead MiG starting to match his right bank. The second Russian
aircraft was slipping to the outside of the turn, reacting slowly to the
change or more concerned with guarding his wingman’s tail than he was with
maintaining the tight formation.
The tone sounded a second time as the lead MiG lined up again, and this
time Coyote swung sharply back to the left. His finger tightened on the
trigger on his joystick as the Tomcat’s nose swept past the trailing MiG, but
there was no apparent effect. Guns were chancy at best except at very close
range, despite their popularity with Hollywood filmmakers. But with both his
Sidewinders expended the M-61A1 20-mm cannon was the only firepower he had to
work with.
“Goddamn!” Lieutenant Commander Sheridan swore. “They got Loon and the
Saint! No chutes. I don’t see any chutes …”
Another Tomcat gone. Lieutenant Adam Baird, “Loon,” had been planning to
marry his girl after this cruise was over. Now he never would. Coyote hadn’t
seen much of Whitman, who’d only come aboard with Magruder’s flight. Was it
only three days ago? It seemed like an eternity.
He couldn’t let himself think about it. Instead he cut back across the
two MiGs again in another right-hand turn. The trailing plane was trying to
cut back toward him now, its role reversed by the new situation. Coyote
squeezed the trigger again in a series of short, fast bursts as he lined up.
In a defensive situation like this there wasn’t time to wait for a sure
target. All a flyer could do was take his best shot and trust to luck.
And this time luck was with him. As he flashed past the MiG Coyote saw
the port-side wing coming apart, ripped loose by his cannon fire. Over his
shoulder he saw the canopy pop and the Russian pilot hurtle clear of the
disintegrating aircraft. His chute opened a moment later.
This far from the Russian fleet, though, there wasn’t much chance the man
would live long enough to be picked up alive.
“Beautiful!” John-Boy exalted from the backseat. Then, serious again,
the RIO went on. “Watch your six, Coyote. His buddy’s coming in mad!”
He glanced at the radar display and cut back on his throttle just as the
threat indicator shrieked its warning once more. The MiG shot past to the
left of the Tomcat, and for an instant Coyote considered pursuing. But right
now he couldn’t afford to keep up this running battle. By his best count
there were still at least ten MiGs in the air, and with Baird gone and Powers
still out of the battle there were only four American planes still in action.
They had to tighten up and try to support one another if they were going to