We picked up contact on the MiG almost immediately. You hear all sorts of things about advanced radar systems, but in my mind, there is nothing that can beat the AWG-9 radar as a fighter weapons control system.
Even in the older models, it could track up to twenty-four targets and guide missiles to six of them simultaneously. Everything feeds into it, I mean everything ― although it was developed particularly for the Phoenix air-to-air missile, it also takes care of your Sparrow, Sidewinder, AMRAAM missiles, as well as the gun ― though later upgrades have replaced almost all the old components with miniaturized digital packages. With the AWG-9, you get good detection capability out to a hundred and fifteen nautical miles, across a front of more than a hundred and fifty nautical miles. The latest versions track targets as low as fifty feet off the ground and up to eighty thousand feet, a vast improvement over the earlier look-down limitations of the original system.
I caught the MiG in general search mode and immediately switched over to single-target track mode. My RIO did, actually, although the way Sheila and I worked together it was like we were one mind.
"He's acquired us," Sheila warned. Like I needed her to tell me that ― I could hear the insistent beep beep beep of her ESM gear going off.
The MiG knew we had him, too. He turned away from us, probably in preparation for enticing me into an angles fight at this altitude. I wasn't buying it. I put the Tomcat into a steep climb, grabbing for altitude. We were closing each other at well over Mach Two, and I was hoping to force him into an altitude game early on. Not that I thought the very first maneuver would win ― they would have put their best guy up, and I was certain he wouldn't fall for a rolling yo-yo immediately. However, I couldn't let him get me on the defensive, make me start reacting to his maneuvers at altitude.
The basic game plan wasn't complicated. Standard tactics against a MiG, something the admiral wanted to see in operation for himself. We knew it generally worked ― hell, we kicked their asses every time we'd come up against them ― but in this encounter we had full telemetry of both the Tomcat and MiG, something our science guys would drool over later back at VX-1.
Not that gathering scientific data was my primary purpose in life.
Mostly, I just wanted to kick his ass.
I rolled up through twenty-five thousand feet, with Sheila feeding me information continuously on what the MiG driver was doing. He milled about uncertainly at altitude, then reluctantly gave chase. He couldn't catch me, I knew, so I was sure he was counting on calculating the exact moment of my climb, when I'd tip my nose over and start back down. He'd cut out of the pattern at that point and wait to catch me on the downswing, slipping in behind me for a tail shot. Or what would have been a tail shot, if we had actual missiles. Both of us sported blue-painted dummy loads rather than the real thing.
It's slightly inaccurate to call them dummy loads, because they're much more than just dead weight on your wings. Each one of these missiles, although it has no warhead and no propulsion system, is a simulator in its own right. It stores tracking data from the AWG-9, records your firing orders and targeting information, all of which can be downloaded later for study. Additionally, each one of these has the MILES gear mounted on it, the laser simulators for the actual missile.
I pulled out of my climb at twenty-nine thousand feet, letting the Tomcat nose over gently to give me a good look at the MiG. He was still climbing, but rolled out of it as soon as he saw me stop my ascent. He peeled off to the north, in level flight away from me before the Tomcat had even nosed over.
I felt the G forces push me back in my seat as we started our descent.
"Not too far, Skeeter," Sheila warned.
Right ― like I need a RIO to tell me how to fight an air battle. I clicked my mike once in acknowledgment. As we descended past twenty-four thousand feet, the MiG was already starting his turn back in toward us. I knew what his plan was use his maneuverability against my speed, catch me when my inertia was too great to let me turn away from him. He was closing quickly now, descending slightly to maintain an excellent firing position on my tailpipes. Sheila's ESM gear increased its frantic beeping, indicating that he'd shifted to targeting mode.
At the third frantic beep, I hauled back on the yoke and pulled us out of the descent, simultaneously rolling to my right to bleed off additional airspeed. It's always a trade-off, this altitude versus airspeed game, and I was betting that I knew my Tomcat performance characteristics a hell of a lot better than he did. When I finished the roll, I was at seventeen thousand feet, accelerating and ascending into nose-on battle with the little bastard.
Thirty seconds later, we screamed past him so close that I heard Sheila gasp. Yeah, a little bit too close ― more so than had been briefed, that was for sure. The rules of engagement said that we were to maintain a one-thousand-foot altitude separation at all times. But as much as they run on about the damn MiG's maneuverability, I figured it was at least more his hit than mine. Besides, we hadn't been that close ― but RIOs are like that, always getting excited about stuff.
"Maintain your separation," I heard a voice say over tactical. I groaned, recognizing it immediately. Not the Russian GCI, or the air traffic controller. No, this was somebody I had to listen to ― the admiral.
"Aye, aye, Admiral," I responded immediately. "He got me a bit on that one."
A moment of silence on the net, then, "Right." Even over the circuit, I could hear the admiral's tone of voice well enough to know that he wasn't buying it.
"Let's just try that again, shall we," I said out loud.
"You heard the admiral," Sheila answered.
"I'm not talking about that," I snapped. "The rolling scissors ― you know that's what is going to get him in the end."
She sighed. I let it pass.
We pulled back into a steep descent, and this time I kicked in the afterburners to give us an extra boost of power.
The MiG overshot us, and had to turn back into our plane of attack.
By the time he was back in position, following me up, I was passing twenty-four thousand feet again.
"He's got you," Sheila snapped. "Jesus, can't you let me get in position for just a second to get off a missile?"
"Always so eager," I murmured. "Just wait for it, baby." I could get away with that kind of comment in the air, although not on the ground. I might even have to pay for this one later, but I was enjoying myself just too much to care.
I waited for twenty-nine thousand feet again, then edged over into another descent. This time, I rolled it, and in afterburner that generated some significant G forces for my backseater. She yelped in protest at the lack of warning, then shut up and started her M1, the forced breathing exercises that keep you from graying out. Harassing her about panting in the backseat is always good for a few laughs. At least on my part. Too bad she's so quick with the elbows-to-the-ribs routine ― my last bruise was just starting to fade.
Again we descended, this time passing much closer to the MiG, who had not rolled out quickly enough. I waved as we went by, straining to move my hand under the mounting G forces. Just as we passed, I saw him roll out of his climb and stay inverted to keep an eye on me as I descended. Then he pitched nose-down into a descent himself, almost immediately in firing position on my tail. Again, the sharp warning of the ALR-67 threat receiver was my cue. I banked back out of the descent, swinging out in a tight arc to drop in behind the MiG.
"Nice, nice," Sheila said. "I've got him ― got a lock!"
"Sidewinder," I agreed, toggling the weapon selection switch on my stick to the appropriate location. We were close, almost close enough to go for the gun. For just a moment I was tempted.