Seconds later, the seat slammed him from behind and the ejection harness straps bit into his shoulders. He gulped down a quick breath at the sensation, as familiar as every curve of Tomboy’s body. More so, reallyhe’d spent more time in a Tomcat than in her.
The bow of the ship thrust forward quickly to meet him.
Fourteen seconds later, he felt that sickening drop as the aircraft departed the carrier, that moment of sheer panic every pilot feels as gravity fights to suck the aircraft down into the sea. One of his own personal nightmares was a soft catapult shot where insufficient steam power on the downstroke led to insufficient airspeed. The results were almost always fatal, unless the pilot were quick enough to eject before the Tomcat hit the water. And every time he launched, he was certain it had just happened. His fingers closed around the ejection handle.
As always, however, he felt the Tomcat grab for altitude at the last moment. The engines screamed as they fought to overcome the relentless downward pull. Slowly, too slowly for anyone’s comfort, the aircraft gained altitude.
One last mission, one last combat patrol, one last chance to stare the enemy in the face and find out who was the better pilot. He hoped it would be worth it.
Santana watched as the Tomcat shot up into the air. The American fighter had a higher thrust-to-weight ratio, as well as a higher wing loading factor, giving it greater power than the MiG but decreasing its turn radius. And just as he knew the capabilities of the American fighter, so he was certain that the U.S. pilot knew exactly what his MiG was capable of. Decades of planning and training to fight the Soviet Union had given the Americans an enormous lead in the arcane field of dissimilar fighter tactics.
The Cubans had been similarly diligent, drawing upon the expertise of their Soviet masters for research and advice.
The Tomcat’s ventral side was a cold, gleaming silver in the sparse starlight. Already the sky had started to lighten almost imperceptibly, a foreshadowing of the dawn that would soon break. By that time, when the sun was finally visible, only one of them would still be in the air.
The best tactic for a more maneuverable aircraft such as a MiG versus a behemoth like the Tomcat is to fight an angles war, restricting the plane of combat to the horizontal as much as possible and preventing the larger craft from using its greater thrust-to-weight ratio to attain altitude and therefore, potential airspeed on the smaller one.
Santana assessed the tactical strategic situation. It seemed like the pilot had not started his ascent soon enough, leaving some possibility that the angles fight could be turned to the Cuban’s advantage immediately.
Santana put his MiG Fulcrum into a hard left turn, standing the nimble aircraft on its wing as he ducked underneath the path of the offending Tomcat. He knew what the American intended to gain altitude, roll over, and drop in behind him for a killing shot. By forming a T with the ascending aircraft, he made that probability unlikely.
In a few more seconds, he would see if his plan was working. Then he could judge the geometry of the engagement and quickly correct the agile Fulcrum’s course as necessary. The seconds ticked by inexorably.
“Furball forty miles to the east,” Tomboy said. “Recommend we come left slightly to avoid it. That is, if what you really want to do is get the BDA you said you were after.”
Tombstone clicked his mike twice in response, annoyed by Tomboy’s insight. She knew as well as he did that what he really wanted to do was vector over to the furball, pick off a MiG, and go one-on-one as he had so many times before. Even the absence of a wingman to assist him in a combat spread didn’t bother him. He’d fought solo against MiGs more times than most of these pilots had trapped on a carrier.
Instead, he eased the aircraft to the left, swinging wide of the engagement. Maybe later, after he’d had a chance to see what he’d come to see, and radioed the results back to the carrier. Maybe one last time but duty first. Whatever else he might have felt about flying, his obligation right now was to the carrier. And to Batman. This aircraft had been released to him for one purpose and one purpose only to obtain critical information for the carrier group commander not to allow him to live out some boyish fantasy one last time.
“Feet dry in five mikes.” Tomboy’s voice was still coldly professional, empty of any trace of “I told you so.”
Tombstone spared one last look off to the right, searching the sky for the aircraft that he knew were dancing deadly waltzes with each other at this very minute. Then he refocused his attention on the heads-up display inside. Duty first.
“Oh, you bastard,” Bird Dog muttered. “You slimy little Cuban bastard.” He craned his neck over and stared down, hoping to catch a glimpse of the aircraft darting underneath his flight path. He thought he saw it-the dim sparkle of starlight on hardened painted metal but he couldn’t be certain. For now. Gator and the radar provided a better picture of their relative positions than eyesight.
“Under you,” Gator warned. “Still turning Bird Dog, he’s an angles fighter.”
“Of course he is,” Bird Dog snapped. “So would I be if I were flying a MiG against a Tomcat. Well, we’re going to have to put the kibosh on that little scenario.”
He jerked the Tomcat into a hard right turn, breaking off the ascent.
as he leveled off, he let the tomcat roll 180 degrees until he was standing on his port wing, pointing down toward the ground. The maneuver cost him altitude, which was just what he intended. He waited until he was approximately level with the MiG, then continued to roll, twisting twice more until he was head-on-head with the MiG.
And take that, you motherfucker. Nose-on-nose, you’re mine.
“Watch him,” Gator warned. “With his turning radius, he’ll be out of here in a heartbeat.”
“He turns, and I’ll be on his ass,” Bird Dog answered.
“Which is just where I want to be for a Sidewinder.”
Santana snarled at the radar picture reflected in his heads-up display.
He’d halfway expected it, hoping against crazy hope that his first maneuver in angles fighting would win the battle, but clearly the American was too well trained to fall for it. Still, he had started his ascent too late. Now, nose to nose with a closure speed in excess of Mach 2, the American would undoubtedly expect him to use his greater maneuverability to turn out of the confrontation.
The American had made one mistake maybe he could be enticed into making another. Santana held the MiG on a steady course and bore in, waiting for the right moment.
“Inside minimums!” Gator screamed. “Bird Dog, you can’t shoot now.
It won’t fuse.”
The pilot swore, damning his overconfidence. He’d been so sure the MiG would turn. The MiG had to turn to take advantage of its aerodynamic advantages and maneuverability. It made no sense for the MiG to have continued on. Bird Dog had been waiting for the turn, intent on shooting a Sidewinder up the bastard’s ass. Instead, he was facing the equivalent of two freight trains roaring toward each other on the same piece of track. And now he’d lost his opportunity no way to take a Sidewinder shot now. Well, he’d have to pull out of this engagement, or at least go for the overshoot and come back for another maneuver.
What had made the Cuban undertake this game of chicken? Maybe they weren’t as well trained as doctrine had taught, and didn’t really understand how to use every advantage of the more nimble fighter in a furball. If that were the case, then he could count on the other pilot making another mistake sometime soon. And it would be his last one.