Adequate! How many Soviet pilots could lay claim to flaming an American F-14? He looked to left and right, noting that the other aircraft of the attack group were still with him. Airspeed was close to six hundred knots now, their altitude eighteen thousand feet. Somewhere ahead, very close now, were the American aircraft, pinned against the sky by Moon Attack Group out of Kosong to the south.
This part of the plan had been his. The MiG-21 was inherently inferior to the Yankee F-14s, which could out-climb, out-run, out-last, and carry more ordnance than the smaller Soviet-designed, 1950s-era aircraft. The only way the MiGs could win was to gain an overwhelming numerical superiority, preferably by isolating part of the American strike force. And this Pak had proceeded to do once it was clear that the Americans were not going to penetrate North Korean air space. It had been his suggestion to launch the Kosong strike force to engage the enemy's tactical air patrol, drawing them off so that his force could hit either the bombers or the American fighters, whichever gave the Koreans the best odds. Outbound from Wonsan, he'd decided that the F-14s made the best target. From what little he could see through the Yankee jamming, the F-14s were already outnumbered in their dogfight against the Kosong MiGs.
And he could grab one other advantage as well. "Star Group, this is Leader. Prepare to execute Plan Dagger." He listened for a moment to acknowledgments from three of the other aircraft. Then, "Execute!"
Pak pushed the stick forward, and his MiG-21 nosed over, picking up speed as it headed for the Sea of Japan. His wingman and eight other aircraft, half of the entire group and the best pilots in his command, followed.
It was always dangerous dividing one's forces in the face of the enemy, and splitting into two sections risked defeat in detail. But the situation demanded daring. The Americans knew the Wonsan MiGs were coming, but their exact numbers would still be uncertain. It was just possible that ten of the Wonsan MiGs could be lost by approaching at wave-top height, hidden from the American radar planes in the scatter from the ocean surface. Perhaps this way, Pak thought, his force could retain a small edge of surprise. Then they would isolate some of the American aircraft…
CHAPTER 15
Batman's RIO opened the intercom. "Here they come. I read twelve bogies inbound at angels eighteen, eight miles, speed six hundred plus."
Still too far for Sidewinders, but that would change soon enough. "Let's drop our Sparrow. Get a lock, Malibu."
"I'm working on it… Target lock, bearing two-eight-five. You got tone."
"I hear it." He brought the aircraft five degrees right. Malibu's targeting radar covered a wide swath ahead, but he wanted to keep it simple and point his Tomcat dead on at the enemy target. His finger touched the firing switch and the heavy Sparrow jolted free of the F-14. "Fox one!"
Lieutenant Gary Ashly pulled up one hundred feet above the gray chop of the ocean, his Tomcat's wings extended straight out from the fuselage. The air was so heavy with water at this altitude that thick curls of vapor bled from his wings and tail as he circled at low speed, searching for the downed men. His RIO, Snoops Whitridge, saw the dye marker first, a yellow stain on the water half a mile to starboard.
"Shotgun Leader, Tomcat Two-five-one. We have a dye marker in sight."
"Roger that, Two-five-one," Snowball Newcombe's voice replied. "Homeplate says SAR is on the way."
"Copy, Leader." Dragon opened the intercom channel. "Snoop? Let's see if we can raise anything on the SAR channel."
"I'm on it, Dragon. This is… shit! Kick it, Dragon! Kick it!"
The Tomcat's afterburners roared in instinctive response to the RIO's shout. "Talk to me, Snoop!"
"Bandits at two-eight-five on the deck. They're on the deck!" There was a flash as one of the MiGs launched… then another. "Launch, Dragon! I have visual on a launch!"
Sluggishly, the Tomcat's nose came up…
Major Pak could not have asked for a better shot if he'd planned it out in advance. Skimming in across the sea practically at wave-top height, he'd not gotten a clear radar return from the American F-14 until he was a mile and a half away. He'd been lucky on two counts. The Yankees still seemed unaware of his group's presence, and it was pure chance which put the lone American Tomcat directly in his path.
From a mile away, Pak could easily see the F-14's large body, could clearly see the wings in their full-forward, low-speed configuration as it banked in a turn from right to left in front of Pak's MiG.
Pak had thoroughly studied American aircraft and tactics during his training assignments in the Soviet Union. Tomcats, he knew, had the attitude of their wings controlled by the aircraft's computer. While this could be overridden by the pilot, usually it was the computer which determined when the wings would be extended, a decision based almost entirely on the aircraft's speed and attitude.
While it was an efficient way of gaining extra lift in low-speed, low-energy maneuvers, this high-tech application carried with it a significant drawback. He could glance at a Tomcat's wings and take a good guess at the size and placement of the aircraft's maneuvering envelope ― that invisible cone of air in front of the plane determined by speed, lift, and handling characteristics where the aircraft would be within the next few seconds. The American aircraft was in a hard, left-hand turn at less than three hundred knots, its pilot holding it just short of a stall in a mushy, nose-up loiter.
Pak squeezed the firing trigger and an Atoll missile slid off the wing in a rush of smoke and flame. A fraction of a second later, Pak's wingman triggered a second missile. Ahead, the American fighter rolled, aware now of its sudden peril.
Too late. Pak's missile arrowed into the Tomcat squarely between the two upright tail-fins. A flash sent chunks of metal spinning as flame ballooned from ruptured fuel lines. Then the entire aircraft was a mass of flame as the fuel tanks blew; the second Atoll vanished into the firestorm and exploded, completing the destruction, scattering tiny fragments of debris across a mile-long footprint of ocean. Seconds later, Pak's fighters howled through the boiling trail of smoke which marked their second kill of the day.
"Victory to the Fatherland!" Pak yelled over the radio. The raw adrenaline throb of combat fury throbbed in his veins. "Now… with me, comrades!" Afterburners shrieking, the North Korean aircraft angled up to join the dogfight overhead.
"That's two!" Batman exulted as orange flame blossomed in the distance and Malibu abruptly lost the tracking lock on the AWG-9. In the next second, though, the savage joy was wiped away as a pair of MiGs dropped onto his tail, forcing him to cut left, then right, weaving madly.
"They're right on our six, Batman," Malibu yelled. The Tomcat's airframe shuddered and roared with its twistings. "Time to get out of Dodge."
"We're outa there!" He cut in the Tomcat's afterburners and pulled up sharply, rocketing straight up in a twisting Immelmann. The MiGs fell behind but kept following, trying for a lock. "This is Tomcat Two-three-two," Batman called over the radio. "I've got two on my tail! Two on my tail!"
"No sweat, Two-three-two," a voice replied. "The cavalry just arrived."
Batman saw the Hornet flash past half a mile to starboard, a Sidewinder already coming off the rail.
Batman cut his burners and dropped the Tomcat onto its back. He could see the MiGs half a mile below, splitting left and right as the Hornet's missile rocketed toward them, tracking the right-hand MiG. Moments later there was a flash and one of the Korean jet's wings crumpled in flame and scattering fragments. Batman saw a smaller flare of light as the MiG's cockpit blew free and its pilot ejected.