fiery burst of flaming debris and whirling fragments. “Javelin
Three-oh-eight!” he heard over his headset. “I’ve got one on my tail! Got
one on my tail! I need help!”
“There he is!” Teejay warned. “Two o’clock, one mile!”
Javelin referred to aircraft of VFA-161, one of Jefferson’s Hornet
squadrons. Coyote could see the Hornet in a tight turn, a MiG close behind.
The range was great enough that Coyote decided to use a Sparrow. “Hang on,
Javelin Three-zero-eight,” he called. “When I give you the word, break left.”
“Hurry up! Hurry up! This guy’s all over me!”
“Three … two … one … break!”
Twisting hard to the left, the Hornet dropped clear of Coyote’s cone of
fire, clearing the way for a solid radar lock on the MiG. Coyote triggered
the lock, then sent the AIM-7 shrieking through the sky as Teejay continued to
illuminate the MiG with the AWG-9 radar. “Fox one!” he called, and held the
Tomcat steady for a desperate several seconds as the semiactive homer closed
on the target … merged with it … then detonated in a searing flash.
“Yah!” Teejay screamed. “That’s splash three! Splash three!”
A threat warning warbled in Coyote’s headset.
“Someone’s locked on,” Coyote called. “God damn it, Teejay! Where is
he?”
“I don’t know, man, I don’t know. Christ, it’s gettin’ too crowded up
here!”
The entire sky was now a confused tangle of contrails, of aircraft, of
the crisscrossing trails of antiship missiles, of plunging streamers of
smoke–funeral pyres of aircraft and men. It was impossible to single out any
one missile trail …
“He’s on our six, Coyote! Comin’ shit-hot fast!”
Twisting in his seat, Coyote saw the MiG. God … was it the same one
he’d nearly caught earlier? He couldn’t tell, but this one was crowding in
close, lashing him with fire-control radar, lining up a perfect shot, one that
couldn’t miss.
“Hang on, Teejay!” Coyote rammed the throttle to Zone Five afterburner
and hauled back on the stick.
The Tomcat clawed for the sky.
CHAPTER 18
Monday, 23 June
0419 hours Zulu (0519 hours Zone)
Tomcat 200
Over Romsdalfjord
Coyote held the Tomcat in a sharp, full-powered climb until Teejay
shouted that the Russian pilot was committed, goosing his Fulcrum in hot
pursuit of the F-14. Then he pulled the throttles back hard, cutting power to
seventy percent, and brought the nose up higher, until they were hurtling
straight toward the zenith. A thin layer of clouds exploded past them. Cold
sunlight bathed the aircraft in a dazzling radiance.
Bleeding off air speed, Coyote held the Tomcat in its climb, drifting
toward ten thousand feet, hanging the aircraft at the ragged edge of a stall.
Then he kicked the rudder over, letting the F-14 fall to port in a low-speed
vertical turn. Sky, clouds, blue mountains, and water wheeled around the
Tomcat’s canopy. In the space of three seconds, Coyote had reversed course
and was now hurtling straight down toward the Romsdalfjord, which filled his
forward windscreen like a huge and colorful map. Punching through the broken
clouds once more, he saw Jefferson below and to the west, a tiny, gray
rectangle walled in by black cliffs.
He saw the pursuing MiG, a thousand feet below and still climbing toward
him. With their combined velocities, the gap between them narrowed in a
flash. There was no time to take aim and fire, no time to do anything but
nudge stick and rudder in an instinctive maneuver to avoid collision.
They passed, starboard to starboard. In that instant, freeze-framed by
the adrenaline pounding through his system, Coyote glimpsed every detail of
the MiG: the high, angular tail fins; the flat body; the helmeted pilot
staring back at him through his canopy; the number 501 picked out in red and
white against the gray painted nose.
As soon as the MiG was past, Coyote brought the stick up, feeling the
massive, crushing weight of G-forces piling up on head and chest. Breathing
became difficult. He bore down with the muscles of neck and diaphragm,
grunting hard to deliberately force blood from heart to head as his peripheral
vision started closing down. It was as though he were peering through a