was still tracking, but Slider wanted to position himself to nail the
guy if he gave the air-to-air missile the slip.
“I’m going for a Sidewinder lock,” Lobo said over the tactical channel.
“I’ve got a shot …”
“Get out of there, Lobo. He’s mine!”
“Screw you, Slider. Fox two!” A white contrail seared into the sky
ahead of Slider’s F-14, swinging upward as it tracked the exhaust of the
MiG.
“AMRAAM’s been suckered, Slider,” Blue Grass told him. “Miss!”
“Shit!” Glancing back over his shoulder this time to make sure he was
clear, he threw his Tomcat right. He wanted to maneuver into a good
position to catch the MiGs still rising from the Ura Guba air base. Lobo
could have the damned Fulcrum.
1140 hours
MiG 744
Near Ura Guba
In an ImmelMann, the aircraft goes into a twisting, vertical climb,
dropping chaff or flares if it’s trying to break a missile lock, then
rolling out at the top in an unpredictable direction. The Fulcrum pilot
had already lost the American’s AMRAAM radar lock; now, he could see the
Sidewinder coming up after him, and his next maneuver was designed to
defeat that as well.
Releasing a scattering of fiercely burning flares, he rolled out of his
climb coming straight back toward his attackers, deliberately swinging
his twin engine exhausts away from the heat-seeking missile and
throttling back at the same time.
While the AIM-9M was an all-aspect heat-seeker, its sensors were not
infallible. This time they preferred the white-hot lure of burning
magnesium to a target that had suddenly dwindled away to almost nothing.
The Sidewinder flashed past and out of the fight, as the Fulcrum stooped
from the top of its climb, diving straight toward the pair of Tomcats a
mile ahead and below.
The Russian was grinning as he locked onto one of the gigantic F-14s
with the huge, multi-barrelled 30mm rotary cannon mounted inside his
port LERX.
The Fulcrum shuddered as the gun thundered.
1140 hours
Tomcat 209, Shotgun 1/4
Arrenberger was halfway into his turn when the tracers came searing past
his cockpit, bright yellow globes of light that looked as big as
grapefruit and close enough to touch.
Something hit the Tomcat in the belly hard, the thump rattling Slider’s
teeth.
“Christ, Slider!” Blue Grass was screaming, his voice ragged. “Get this
turkey out of here!”
Turkey. Navy fliers reserved the name for the Tomcat, an aircraft that
they loved, but which could betray them by its size and by its slow
maneuvering compared to the more nimble MiG-29. Already into his turn,
right wing high, Slider pulled the Tomcat into a barrel roll, sliding up
and over the stream of tracers flashing toward him from the oncoming
MiG.
Too late. The MiG pilot had already corrected for the changing angles
between his aircraft and Slider’s. Five more rounds slammed into the
Tomcat with a rippling shudder of tortured metal, and Slider saw the
flash of his starboard engine warning light.
“Shit!” He opened his mike to the tactical channel. “This is Shotgun
One-three! I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Power in his starboard engine was dropping. Another burst of 30mm
cannon fire smashed into his aircraft, and then Blue Grass was
screaming, an inhuman screech of raw agony.
“Blue Grass! Blue Grass!”
His RIO wasn’t operating the ICS switch on the cockpit floor, but his
screams were loud enough for Slider to hear them anyway. “My legs!” And
then his RIO was screaming again, a nightmare keening that went on and
on as the MiG kept coming …
CHAPTER 25
Tuesday, 17 March
1140 hours (Zulu +2)
Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4
Lobo had a split second to make the right choice. Her Tomcat was
pointed straight at the oncoming MiG, and her HUD was already set to
air-to-air-missile mode. With the range between her aircraft and the
MiG dwindling rapidly to nothing, she could break away and circle,
trying to get on the bad guy’s tail, or she could extend her climb for a
critical few seconds in an attempt to make a kill. It would have to be
a Sidewinder launch; she didn’t have time to switch to guns.
Bring it to the left … There! Lock! Fire! “Fox one!” she shouted,