Mentally, he counted down the seconds. The two F-14s were cruising
directly toward the oncoming missiles at a hair under Mach 1.
“Those missiles are gettin’ damned close, Coyote,” Trapper said.
“I see ’em.” Blips on his radar display, closing … closing … He
could see them now, three white contrails scrawled across the sky ahead.
“Okay, on my mark, three … two … one … break!”
He pulled the Tomcat nose-high, then brought his right wing over, falling
into an inverted plunge toward the sea. Coyote couldn’t see the Russian
missiles now, but he knew their radars would have registered the maneuver,
that the missiles would be angling down now, plunging after the diving F-14s.
“Hit the chaff, Teejay!” he called.
Packets of aluminized mylar fibers, cut to the length of the AA-11s’
radar waves, wafted into the Tomcat’s slipstream and exploded, scattering
false targets across the sky. Coyote kept his eye on the altimeter indicator,
like the steps of a ladder flicking up the right hand side of his HUD. Eight
thousand … six … four …
“Hang on, Teejay! Here’s where it gets rough!”
0752 hours Zulu (0852 hours Zone)
MiG 501
Over the Norwegian Sea
“Evasive!” Terekhov snapped the order as he brought his MiG sharply
left. He pressed the countermeasures button hard several times, firing chaff
to decoy the oncoming American Phoenix.
For a moment, the aircraft of Harvest Reaper scattered and milled. The
Phoenix plunged through them, then detonated with a dazzling flash. Terekhov
winced as MiG 599 exploded, sending Lieutenant Vadim Filatov’s plane plunging
toward the sea.
“Harvest Reaper,” he called. “Form up! Maintain formation, damn you!”
It is like a cavalry charge, he thought. Or no, he corrected himself, it
is like mounted Don Cossacks surging across the steppes wielding steel that
flashed and glinted in the morning light.
The range closed.
0752 hours Zulu (0852 hours Zone)
Tomcat 200
Over the Norwegian Sea
Coyote brought the F-14’s nose up again, pulling out of the dive as the
weight of eight men pressed down on top of him, mashing him into his ejector
seat. He’d angled the aircraft in such a way that he was pulling up into the
oncoming missiles once more, presenting the smallest possible radar cross
section to their rather small brains, as chaff packets continued to blossom
behind.
“Hit!” Teejay called, the word grunted to force it out against the
crushing G-force of the pullout. “We … got … the … bastard! …”
Coyote had seen it repeated on his own display, the merging of the tiny
spark of the AIM-54C with the larger blip of a Russian fighter, the slight
fuzzing, the sparkle of tiny fragments, the flicker as the distant aircraft
changed aspect … and fell.
This, he thought, was the ultimate test of Man and Machine, the
one-on-one joust between skilled men in high-tech armor. G-forces built
relentlessly as he pulled out, aware now that one of the Russian missiles,
still dropping toward the sea in response to Coyote’s wild dive, was starting
to curve around and up, arcing toward impact with the fleeing American fighter
…
… but not fast enough. Its downward momentum was too great, its course
correction too late. The missile hit the water and detonated with a shivering
crash.
Coyote saw the plume of white water a hundred yards to starboard. One
down …
And two! The second explosion was closer, but farther astern. Teejay
reported the detonation with a jubilant yell and Coyote sagged against his
safety harness, relief coursing through his body. Alive …
“Where’s Trapper?” Coyote called. “Where’s Trapper?”
“Don’t see him!” Teejay replied. “No, there! At zero-nine-five with one
on his tail!”
“Trapper, this is Coyote! Watch your twelve!” Trapper’s Tomcat was
hurtling at wave-top height toward a large island, one of dozens dotting the
Norwegian Sea a few miles off the coast. Coyote wondered if Trapper, his
attention focused on the Russian missile swooping toward his tail, had missed
the island cliffs looming dead ahead.
“Roger that, Coyote,” Trapper called. “I’m giving the sumabitch the
brush-off!”
Coyote saw the silver glint of sun on aircraft wings as the F-14 skimmed
the cliff tops of an island a mile to the north. The sky above the island