Finally, we were both satisfied. We motioned to the ground technicians that we were ready to strap in.
This time, we'd be judged not on ACM ― Aerial Combat Maneuvering ― but on our performance at both the MiG and the Tomcat's secondary mission ― bombing. The pods slung on our wings were also capable of recording all the relevant data for a bombcat, as our aircraft was formally called when in this configuration.
In addition to the simulator pods on our wings, our bombing runs would be monitored by an observation team airborne over the IP ― the Impact Point.
The MiG and the Tomcat each had one real five-hundred-pound bomb slung under the wings, and this time Illya was going to see just how badly outclassed he was. I'd scored first in every bombing practice run on the range since I left the training pipeline, and I wasn't about to let some Commie bastard show me up this time. Not after the cheap tricks he'd pulled on me so far, for I was convinced that he was behind the altimeter reset as well.
The Tomcat is even better on bombing runs than a MiG. It's like comparing a Hornet with a Tomcat. The sheer power and massiveness of the Tomcat, which makes it less maneuverable in the air than either of those, makes it the preferred platform for carrying ground ordinance. The Hornets and the MiGs simply don't have the power to carry much, and that's the real reason that Hornets will never replace Tomcats completely in the battle group. They drink too much gas and they don't carry enough weapons.
I'd studied the charts of the area extensively and knew the approach to the IP was surrounded by low hills and a couple of higher peaks. Sheila had used her tactical decision aids to plot in the best course, allowing for evasion of the imaginary SAM sites that ringed the area and giving me some room to maneuver in case we ran into any surprises. I'd looked it over and signed off on all of it, although in truth she was the better mission planner of the two of us.
As soon as the cockpit was secured over our seats, Sheila said, "You want to tell me what all that was about?"
"Well, we still want to make sure they haven't tampered with anything," I said, deliberately misunderstanding her question and answering as though she was referring to the extended preflight. "Can't be too careful around these Russians, you know."
"You're the one who ought to be careful," she snapped. "And don't think the admiral doesn't notice you playing patty-cake with that Russian.
Didn't Lab Rat warn you about that? When are you going to quit thinking with your little head?" "There's nothing going on with her," I said hotly. Partly because it was true, and partly because it pissed me off that there wasn't. Anna had given every indication that there could be, and I was a little annoyed that the current circumstances ― like being inside Russia, for God's sake ― prevented me from following up on the clear signals she was giving off. The things a man has to do for his country.
"Besides, what about you and Brent?" I pitched my voice a little bit higher as I said his name, imitating her Minnesota accent. I've always been good at that, and it drives her up a wall.
"What, the career American diplomat?" she snapped. "And just what could be suspicious about that?" "Oh, nothing," I said airily. "He sure seems to be sucking up to you, though."
"Sucking up? Since when do you care who I talk to?"
"And since when did you become my own personal hall monitor?" I demanded.
That settled it for a while. The yellow shirt gave me the signal to taxi, and I let off the brakes and jammed the throttles forward, not caring if it jolted her in the backseat. After all, she'd agreed on one thing ― I got to drive, not her.
Sheila subsided into an angry muttering, but I could feel her movements in the back of the aircraft ― sharp, short, and staccato.
Clearly, she was pissed. That made me come to my senses a little.
"Listen, it's none of my business," I said. "Let's just forget about it and fly the mission, OK?"
"I will if you will," she answered, a sweetly saccharine note in her voice. "Just be careful about which stick you're grabbing up there, OK?"
"That was a shitty thing to say," I snapped.
"Can dish it out but can't take it?"
I gave up my attempt to restore harmony in the cockpit. Regardless of how she pissed me off, Sheila was a pro. Let her deal with her own snit, as long as it didn't affect the mission. I took off well short of where I had the time before, rolling into the air with a sharp, crisp motion. I grinned, wondering whether Sheila or Tombstone would give me the most grief if I pulled a hot-shit approach when we came back in, waiting until the last minute to lower my landing gear. Sheila, probably, I decided. Based on Tombstone's earlier reaction on our first engagement with Illya, he'd probably find at least some public reason to claim it had all been part of the plan. I knew Sheila wouldn't let me off so easily.
We ascended to eleven thousand feet, circled for a moment, then at the signal headed off for the IP. The Tomcat was its normal, beautiful self, purring under my fingertips like ― hell, don't start thinking like that, I told myself. This was a Tomcat, not a cute little Russian agricultural spy.
I descended smoothly to six thousand feet, following Sheila's directions smartly, almost anticipating each command. The heads-up display was feeding me information from her plot, showing me when the turns were coming up. The radar detection envelopes of the imaginary SAM sites were painted in yellow on the display, indicating that they were all in normal search patterns. If and when the game controllers decided we were entering the fringe of a detection envelope, we might see the indicators turn red as they switched into a track mode.
"Down another one hundred feet," Sheila ordered. "Put a little bit more of the hill between us and the site."
I complied immediately, nosing down even farther to the ground.
Now, this was more like it. No imaginary deck to come up and smack me in the face, just the sheer pleasure of flying low enough over the countryside to get a good look at it. Even at almost Mach One, you can make out the general details. It seems like you're going so much faster when you're this near to the earth.
Now, what I really like is flying nap of the earth, so close that you can almost reach out and touch the trees. The Tomcat, at least on the later variance, has excellent terrain-following radar that can keep you locked at practically any altitude near to the earth. The only thing you have to watch out for then is power lines and telephone poles, which can increase the pucker factor by the next order of magnitude during night bombing runs.
"Problems," Sheila said. The yellow envelope of the easternmost SAM site turned red on my display at the same time. Her ALR-67 receiver beeped out its warning.
"I thought we were low enough," I said.
"We are ― it shouldn't be getting us." Sheila's voice was calm, a shade more terse than normally.
"Well, evidently it is," I said. This is one of my great failings as a member of the team, my tendency to point out the obvious to someone who already knows it.
"You think I can't see that?" she snapped. "Get down a little lower ― you comfortable with that?"
"Your wish is my command." I nosed the Tomcat down, a gradual descent rather than a sharp one this close to the ground. Finally, at two thousand feet I steadied up. "How's that?"
"It's still got us ― I can't figure it out ― wait! It's got to be there." She clicked in a targeting symbol that was reflected immediately in my heads-up display. "It's part of the game," she explained rapidly.
"It's got to be ― an unbriefed SAM site, just to test our reactions."