black, fuzzy tunnel. A reading on his HUD showed 9 Gs as he opened the
throttles and added thrust to the torture of the high-G pullout.
Where was the MiG? “Tee … jay!” he grunted against the intolerable
pressure. “Do you … see … him?”
There was no answer and he assumed he’d put his RIO to sleep. The
G-force eased as the Tomcat bottomed out in its dive and began climbing again.
Coyote twisted his head back and forth, scanning for the other aircraft.
Where was the guy?
Tracers streamed past his cockpit, glowing gold and looking as large as
grapefruit only feet away from Coyote’s head. He felt a jarring crash
transmitted through the Tomcat’s frame, just as he whipped the stick over,
twisting away from that deadly cascade of shells.
The MiG-29’s laser aiming gave the Russian pilot an undeniable advantage
in close-up dog-fighting, the chance of getting a hit with every burst. The
only way Coyote could counter was to stay on the move and stay alert, never
giving the other pilot a chance to close and lock on.
But damn, this guy was good, a shit-hot pilot with an airplane to match.
“Teejay! Are you with me?”
“Uh … yeah, man. Rough ride …”
“We’ve got a real top gunsikov here. Help me watch him!”
“I see him, Coyote. Comin’ up on our right!”
The MiG flashed past the Tomcat, eighty yards to starboard. Coyote
yanked the stick back to the right, swinging the F-14 into a turn across the
other plane’s tail. He flicked the weapons selector to guns, watched the LCOS
predict the target’s forward movement, and squeezed the trigger. It was a
difficult shot, designed to slash across the target’s expected path with a
stream of Vulcan shells sprayed like the sweep of water from a hose.
Magically, the Russian anticipated his move, rolling on his back and
going nose-down just as Coyote fired.
“Shit! I overshot!”
“Clean miss, Coyote. Keep it chill, guy.”
Since the days of the Red Baron, the essence of ACM–Air Combat
Maneuvers, the classic dogfight–had been to put yourself in the head of the
opponent, to anticipate his next move and use the laws of physics–energy and
gravity, drag and thrust–to place yourself in a position where you could take
advantage of your foreknowledge of his actions. What made the exercise a
challenge was the knowledge that he was doing precisely the same. Guess wrong
and you might end up in his sights; guess right and you might survive.
The Russian’s roll evolved into a break to the left. Coyote knew that if
he’d been in the same position he’d have tried to pull that break into a wide
turn, one that would bring him around onto his opponent’s tail. That
position, on the other guy’s six, was the ultimate goal of every dog-fighter,
the point in space where the enemy could be shot at, without having him shoot
back.
Coyote was in a gentle turn to the right, with plenty of airspeed..
translating into plenty of energy for any maneuver he cared to make.
There was a trick Coyote remembered, something he’d learned about in ACM
classes and exercises. Tombstone had talked about pulling it once, during a
dogfight with North Korean MiGs several years ago. Almost by reflex, he
sharpened his turn and slapped the override that governed the position of his
wings.
The Tomcat’s variable-geometry wings slid forward to their extended
position but at a higher speed than that for which they were designed. The
aircraft shuddered with the unaccustomed stress.
“Hey, man!” Teejay called. “What the hell are you doing?”
The position of a Tomcat’s wings was controlled by an on-board computer,
which adjusted them in or out depending on the aircraft’s speed and need for
additional lift. At low speeds the wings extended almost straight out; at
high speed they were swept back, transforming the F-14 into a sleek, hurtling
arrowhead. The design allowed the pilot to increase his wing area and lift,
though normally the Tomcat handled this function automatically. Though it
increased the plane’s maneuverability, one tactical problem with the design
was the fact that an opponent could take one look at an F-14 in a turn and, if