Two American aircraft had drawn off toward the north and appeared to be
moving toward the sea. At the moment, several MiGs out of Port Vladimir
had cut them off and were moving to intercept.
And Averin was in an ideal position to angle in on the Americans’ rear,
attacking them from the ideal set-up point off their tails while they
were concentrating on the Russian forces in front of them.
He studied the images, which grew clearer moment by moment despite the
jamming as he drew closer to them.
Yes … definitely two planes, one in the lead, the other trailing,
possibly already damaged from the way it was moving. Averin selected
one of his short-range R-60 missiles, the infrared homer Western pilots
called “Aphid.” If he could get close enough, he could send the R-60
right up the Yankee pilot’s ass before he even knew he was being hunted.
1146 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
“Hey, Striker!” K-Bar called. “Got a straggler, pulling off toward the
north. Range about ten miles.”
Striker stared at his display, trying to interpret the complex weave of
moving blips. It looked like the MiGs were boxing Chris and Arrenberger
in, with one lone straggler coming in on them from behind.
“Batman, Striker!” he called, going to zone-five burner. “I got a
target! I’m in pursuit!”
“Damn it, Striker! Where the hell are you going?”
But Striker wasn’t listening. His full concentration was focused on
that lone Russian MiG, now eight miles ahead. He selected an AMRAAM and
went for a radar lock.
1147 hours
MiG 871
East of Ura Guba
Lock! Averin grinned behind his oxygen mask as he squeezed the firing
trigger on his stick, loosing the R-60 heat-seeker from its cradle
beneath his wing. The target was still on afterburner and arrowing
directly away from him, providing a target he couldn’t miss.
1147 hours
Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4
The Tomcat slammed toward the north, twin spears of flame roaring from
its engines. The air was heavy with moisture, and streamers of mist
appeared, streaking aft from both wings.
“Range four miles,” Vader warned. “One of ’em’s got a radar lock on
us.”
“Selecting AMRAAM,” Lobo replied. “I’ve got him on my HUD.”
“Missile launch! Radar-homing missile is locked onto us!”
“Lock! Tone! Fox one! Now hang on! Breaking right! Hit the chaff!”
As her AMRAAM shrieked toward the north, Chris pulled into a hard, tight
turn, dumping clouds of chaff to break the approaching missile’s radar
lock.
The G-forces built, crushing her down against her seat until she’d come
about a full one-eighty and was heading south once more.
“Lobo! Missile incoming, straight ahead!”
“What-”
She didn’t have time to react or to analyze. For one fatal instant, she
thought that Vader was referring to the radar horner fired by the Port
Vladimir MiGs, a missile that was now behind them. As she jinked right,
still dumping chaff, she realized that Vader had just picked up another
missile, a heat-seeker, arrowing in from the south … now so close she
could see it as a black pinpoint silhouetted against its own exhaust,
rapidly growing larger.
As she pushed the Tomcat farther into the turn, the new missile slid
toward her left shoulder but seemed to be moving much more quickly now,
curving slightly to meet her turn, leaping straight toward her cockpit
with heart-pounding speed.
“Flares!” she yelled at Vader. “Pop flares!”
1147 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
“Fox one!”
The AMRAAM streaked toward the Russian MiG, now only three miles ahead
… but Striker had already seen the flash of the MiG’s missile launch.
Shit!
Was he already too late?
1147 hours
Tomcat 207, Shotgun 1/4
Lobo knew it was already too late. Dropping flares, reversing her turn
to take her toward the new missile instead of away, she knew there was
nothing more she could do. The missile slammed into the Tomcat’s left
wing close by the engine. There was a shattering explosion, and then
half of the F-14 was ablaze and she was tumbling through a dizzying
spin, earth alternating with sky in her canopy. Centrifugal force
pinned her for a moment against the side of the cockpit, but she was