The effect was like stomping on the brake of a moving car. The Tomcat lost speed dramatically, immediately, quickly slowing to almost stall speed. Within a second, the MiG overshot us, and I jammed the throttles back forward to full afterburner and restored the swept-wing configuration of the aircraft. Now we were on his tail, our radar in targeting mode and IR seeking missiles at the ready.
"Fox two, fox two," I said over tactical, indicating that I'd launched a heat seeker at the MiG. I rolled out of the pursuit, rolled away from his line of travel, pitched the nose of the Tomcat up, and started gaining altitude as fast as I could. Ilanovich saw me, pulled off one of those amazingly tight turns that I now knew he was capable of, and started following me into the air. There was no way he could catch me, but as soon as he steadied up on a course behind me, I cut to the right and broke out of the turn, circling back around to go head-on-head with him. "Fox three," I called, claiming a Sparrow launch.
Even as the words left my mouth, I saw the MiG jink violently, curving around underneath me and coming up behind in an attempt to break the missile lock. I heard the seeker head warble, then die out, indicating we'd lost lock.
Before Ilanovich could settle in for the killing shot, I tipped the Tomcat over and was heading for the deck. Mindful of the seven-thousand-feet altitude limitation, I pulled up well ahead of the boundary, giving myself a margin of safety. Ilanovich appeared to have lost me briefly, but quickly reacquired. He came down after me, staying slightly above me and attempting to prevent another wild race for the sky.
I was trapped between the MiG and the imaginary earth. I needed airspeed and distance.
Back in the afterburners, jinking and rolling and trying to prevent a missile lock. I turned at every opportunity, trying to avoid presenting that all too attractive engine exhaust to his heat seekers. Finally, I twisted away from him and headed for the open sky again.
Instead of the beautiful textbook example of a vertical rolling scissors, this was true dog-fighting. I broke off my ascent suddenly, striving for minimum turn radius, wheeling and darting about in the sky as the MiG kept up with me. He could cut inside my turn radius at every opportunity, if he knew which way I was going. I feinted once, then curved back around to climb up his ass again. "Fox three!"
"Time is up, admirals," the air controller announced. "Please return to base, at your convenience." The message was repeated in Russian, although we knew Ilanovich's English was good enough that he'd understood it the first time.
"Well, what do you think?" I asked Gator, as I put the Tomcat in a gentle bank back toward the airfield. "We win that one?" "I think so, Tombstone," Gator said thoughtfully. "That first Sidewinder shot ― he wouldn't have had a chance after that. The one after you guys got serious, I mean."
"Yeah, I think so. But then again, he was within guns range for a bit there. We could have sustained some damage and not even known about it.
If it had been for real." I let his reference to our initial easy pace go unchallenged.
I landed first, with Admiral Ilanovich not far behind. Being back on deck brought me down off the high I'd been experiencing in the air, and I felt almost disgruntled as I ran through the preshutdown checklist.
Admiral Ilanovich met us on the tarmac, midway between the two aircraft. I offered a salute as he approached, but he surprised me by simply walking up and throwing his arms around me for a quick, hard hug.
"It was good, so very good," he said enthusiastically. His pale face had taken on a new ruddiness, and his eyes were shining with the sheer pleasure of the flying we'd gotten in.
"It was, wasn't it?" I punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Damn you, for that last turn." He knew which one I meant, the one that would have surely sent a heat seeker up my butt if it had been for real.
"Ah, but your altitude ― may I compliment you, Admiral, on your airmanship? It was truly a pleasure to fly with you." There was no denying the sincerity in his voice.
"And you as well. Perhaps we should call this one a draw, do you think?" I asked. I gestured up to the tower. "There may be points scored and decisions made, but between you and me, it was very, very close."
"Agreed ― it was a draw." He rubbed his face with one hand, leaving a bright, ruddy mark on his skin. "I do have some influence with the judges, you know."
"I don't doubt it. Again tomorrow?"
"If the weather permits," he agreed.
We were back at the hangar by then, still buoyed up by the feeling of companionable competition. Skeeter and his counterpart were walking out to meet us, and the atmosphere between them was clearly not one of good fellowship. I nudged Ilanovich in the ribs, and he laughed. "I hope they don't realize how much fun we've been having," I said.
"I will not tell them if you do not."
We left it at that and went over to talk to our respective team members. I heard the younger Russian aviator's voice. Hard, almost sharp, but maintaining the line between courtesy and inquisition. Skeeter was just barely more tactful with me.
"Admiral Magruder!" I turned to see a man walking across the tarmac toward me, a pleasant expression on his face. "Congratulations on the fine flight, sir." His English was clear and unaccented. I frowned, trying to remember his name from the banquet the night before.
"I have some information for you," he said, when we were clear of earshot of everyone else. "I am to tell you ― go west." With those words, he passed a small packet over to me, shielding his movements from view with his body. I took the packet immediately, and tucked it into my flight suit, careful to keep anyone, even Skeeter, from noticing.
Lab Rat had told me we might meet men such as this, contacts from the other agencies that had interests around the world. With those two words go west this man had irretrievably engaged my interest. I knew instinctively, with a sudden, deep surety, that within the package I would find the next step on the trail to finding my father.
He hadn't mentioned the woman I'd met the previous night, though.
What was her name ― Anna something? Were they working together? Anna was undoubtedly Russian, and Skeeter had filled me in on her occupation as an agricultural spy. Just what did her duties include? I'd made it a point to remind Skeeter to keep his little head under control, warning him I'd have the Cossacks castrate him if he slept with her. He'd assured me of his pure and innocent intentions, although from the look that Sheila sent him, I had some doubts. But I thought if anybody could keep him under control, she could.
So what now? Wait for Anna's people to contact me again? Or break off on my own, follow whatever instructions were included in the package that'd just been passed to me?
Or ― last and least satisfying ― do nothing. Look through whatever the man had slipped me and wait for one of them to approach me again.
I decided to do just that. After all, I'd been waiting for thirty years already. A few more days wouldn't hurt.
5
Lunch was pretty decent, probably better than decent by Russian standards. There was something that looked like beef stroganoff in one dish on a hot serving-line buffet and I filled up on that. I saw Sheila watching me and grinned evilly at her. We had a deal ― no more burritos before flying ― but I figured that the Russian version of beef stroganoff wasn't included in that agreement. Last time I'd splurged on Mexican before flying, she said she was either going to start carrying a gas mask or get a new pilot.