RIO, Terry “Walkman” Walker, could lock one of their Sparrows onto the
reflected radar energy.
“Looks like a good shot,” Mustang called. “Fox one!”
The AIM-7 Sparrow shooshed away from Tomcat 210. Batman kept his F-14
aimed at the target, visible on his telephoto display as an Su-27. On
Batman’s HUD, it was still a computer symbol, invisible to the naked eye at a
range of almost eight miles. The enemy aircraft were swinging left and right
now, scattering across the sky as they broke into their combat approach.
Batman stayed with the Sukhoi until he saw the Sparrow ride the beam squarely
into the target. The flash lit up the AXX-1 display. “That’s one!” Malibu
called over the tactical net. “Splash one for Mustang and Walkman!”
Seconds later, a MiG’s wing exploded as a Sparrow launched by Mad Dog
sliced into it and ignited the fuel. In an instant, the Fulcrum was spinning
wildly toward the sea, trailing flame and a comet’s tail of smoke. Russian
missiles were in the air now, AA-10s and AA-11s. The two groups of aircraft
approached one another with a combined velocity of well over Mach 3.
“Missile at eleven o’clock!” a voice yelled in Batman’s headset. Was
that Beaver? “Break, Mad Dog! Break!” Other voices mingled, confusing,
urgent, giving the spinning dance of sea and sky outside the canopy a surreal
air, at once dangerous and remote.
“Hit the chaff! Hit the chaff!”
“Christ, that one almost got us!”
“Watch yourself. Two o’clock low. I’ve got two Fulcrums coming up
fast.”
“Break left, Beave! Break left!”
“I see him, Mad Dog. Cover my six! I’m on him!”
Aircraft twisted and turned, trying to claw one another from the sky. A
MiG flashed along Batman’s port side, so close he saw the sun flash from the
pilot’s visor. His threat warning chirped and he twisted left into a dive,
dropping five thousand feet before pulling out, as Malibu dumped chaff all the
way. The missile shot past Batman’s canopy, close enough to touch. Its
proximity fuse set it off with a bang that rocked the Tomcat,
but–miraculously–no lights winked from Batman’s trouble board.
Climbing again, Batman spotted a Fulcrum, a mile ahead and climbing
sharply. A glance showed Batman that the bandit was tracking Tomcat 233.
Like Mustang, Lieutenant Paul Francis Camerotti, called “the Beaver”
because of a legendary incident with a captain’s daughter while he was in
flight training at Pensacola, was new to the squadron. His RIO, Lieutenant
Commander Vince “Hard Ball” Bollinger was an old hand, though he’d been with
CVW-20 for less than a year. Batman had never cared much for the Beaver, who
liked to brag and sometimes let the Navy aviator’s inborn arrogance carry him
a bit too far in casual conversations over a drink or in the ready room.
There was no thought for that now at all. “Beaver!” Batman called.
“You’ve got one comin’ up on your six, way low. Come right and I’ll pick him
off!”
“Thanks!” Beaver sounded tight, a bit shaken. The battle had lasted
less than a minute, but the strain was already telling. “Coming left …”
“Target lock!” Batman yelled. “Good lock! Fox two!” A Sidewinder slid
off the Tomcat’s rails, streaking toward the MiG just as the Russian fired.
An AA-8 Aphid rocketed toward Tomcat 233, drawing a delicate white line in the
sky.
Seconds later, Beaver cut in his afterburners, his tailpipes lighting up
suddenly like a pair of angry orange eyes.
“Negative on the burners!” Malibu called. “It’s a heat-seeker!”
Beaver was already dropping flares, a string of burning white pinpoints
of light, but the missile was ignoring them as it streaked toward the F-14’s
exhaust.
“Beaver!” Batman called. “Cut your burners, man! You’ve got a
heat-seeker coming up your ass!” The Tomcat’s afterburners were far hotter
than the engine at lower throttle settings, a beacon no IR homer could miss.
Too late. The missile, an AA-8 Aphid, slashed into the tail of Tomcat
233 and exploded. Batman saw the aircraft shudder, then belch smoke as the
left stabilizer tore free. For a long second, Beaver struggled to bring his
aircraft under control, but the fight was clearly hopeless.