"Chalk up one for the Javelins," Batman announced. "I see a chute. Good chute."
"We have more blue bandits closing, Batman," his RIO said. "I'm reading ten bogies coming at us from down on the deck."
"What're they doing, launching them at us from submarines?"
He let the Tomcat's inverted fall accelerate. Another explosion in the distance, and the excited shout of "Splash one MiG!" marked another kill. The Hornets were arriving in force now. The MiGs, already scattered by the dog-fighting, were being caught alone or in pairs. The battle was about to become a slaughter.
But the fresh wave of MiGs could change everything. "Give me a vector, Malibu!" he yelled. Blood lust sang in his ears as he accelerated.
Major Pak knew the fight was hopeless even as his MiGs closed with the Americans. The dogfight had already scattered across ten miles of sky, a fight which the Americans with their better radars and better weapons were certain to win. His squadron might be able to overwhelm one more F-14 with numbers, maybe even two… but it was definitely time for the MiGs to retire. Aircraft and trained pilots alike were valuable resources in the PDRK, and to squander either without good cause ― or a clear advantage ― was criminal.
"One more pass, comrades," he told the other pilots tucked in close behind his aircraft. "One more pass, then scatter and make for home. I doubt that the Yankees will have the stomach to pursue."
The irony of using Mao's guerrilla tactics from the cockpit of a combat interceptor was delicious. Hit-and-run raids were designed for people's armies, untrained peasants with inadequate weapons facing a superior foe. It was strange to see the same theory applied to dog-fighting with modern jet aircraft.
He was close enough to the Yankees now that his radar was burning through their jamming with ease, tracking a target ten thousand feet above him at a range of nearly four miles. He heard the tone of a weapons lock and released another missile.
He didn't see the American Hornets until they were right on top of him.
Marty French twisted his Hornet over in a tight, inverted turn, tracking the flight of MiGs rising up from the sea. The pipper on his HUD crawled across one of the target symbols, then flashed ACQ as the warble sounded over his headset. Lock!
A Sidewinder hissed off his port wingtip. "Fox two!" he called.
"I see your fox and raise you, Skipper," Lieutenant David McConnell called from the Hornet tucked in off Frenchie's left wing. "Fox two!" Tigershark McConnell triggered a second missile an instant later. "Fox two!"
One of the MiGs in the Korean formation exploded, transformed into unfolding blossoms of smoke and orange flames as the first missile struck; the second missile hurtled through the fireball. The MiG pack scattered then as if blown apart by a bombshell. French pulled his Hornet around, maneuvering onto the six of one of the fleeing MiGs. "Okay, people," he called over the radio. "Let's show 'em how it's done."
Major Pak rolled his MiG hard. Sea and sky chased one another across the curve of his canopy, and then he cut in his afterburner and the kick slammed his seat into his back with pile driver force.
His wingman's voice was shrill in his headphones. "Yankee devil on my tail!" Captain Song Tae-Hwan shouted, panic in his voice. "Help me! Help me!"
Pak brought his aircraft right, searching the sky. There! One of the American Hornets had slipped into position behind Song, closing now for a kill. Pak knew it was too late for Captain Song, but perhaps there was an advantage here for himself. Still on full burner, he closed with the American Hornet from below and behind.
"I'm on him." The MiG filled Frenchie's HUD display, the delta form twisting wildly in an attempt to break free. The Hornet closed relentlessly. "Too close for missiles. I'm going for guns."
He flicked the weapon selector and the gunsight reticle replaced the targeting symbol on his HUD. The MiG was already well inside the outer circle which marked the cone of vulnerability. He continued to pull back on his stick, working to bring his Hornet's M61 cannon dead on target. His lead computing optical sight ― LCOS in fighter parlance ― drew a line which showed him exactly how far ahead of the target to fire.
"Almost there…"
He cut his afterburner, then popped the Hornet's air-brakes. For a moment, the F/A-18 lagged, and the fleeing MiG drifted squarely into his gunsight. French squeezed the trigger and felt the muted thunder as 20-mm shells tore into the enemy MiG.
Pak saw the orange-colored tracer rounds drifting from the F/A-18 toward the wildly twisting Captain Song, smashing into the fuselage and tail. Bits of metal chipped and scattered, and then the canopy itself seemed to explode in fragments of plastic and glass. Flame licked from a gash at the root of the left wing. Song was done for, but he'd held the American's attention just long enough.
The Hornet grew in the circle of his target reticle. The only radar input to his HUD was range, but Pak had calculated the deflection perfectly. He squeezed the trigger and the roar of his MiG's GSh-23 cannon filled the cockpit, filled Pak with a surging, drunken joy.
The American's braking maneuver almost caught Pak by surprise as he found himself closing on the Hornet much faster than he'd anticipated. He had an instant's glimpse of tracer fire tearing into the American aircraft's tail and belly, and then he was hauling the stick hard to the right to avoid colliding with the Hornet from astern. His MiG shuddered as it rode across the buffeting wake of the F/A-18.
Then he was in the clear, rolling past the stricken American aircraft.
Marty French felt the shock of the 23-mm rounds slamming into his F/A-18's hull and pulled his stick hard to the left. Orange tracers seemed to float past his starboard side as he rolled clear, and then he was plunging toward the sea.
"Hornet Three-oh-one," he said with a calmness he did not feel. "I've been hit."
He held his breath as he pulled back on the stick. If there'd been severe damage to controls or control surfaces, this was where he'd find out… it leveled off. The controls felt a bit mushy, but the F/A-18 was still flying, still in control. He took a quick look around. He'd not even seen the guy who nailed him, so intent had he been on the target.
"Hornet Three-oh-one, this is Homeplate," a voice said over his headset. "What is your condition, over?"
Gingerly, he experimented with his stick. The aircraft was sluggish, but it responded to the touch. Red and amber tell-tales flickered on his console. Compressor power was down slightly, but he could compensate. He might be losing some fuel. "Homeplate, Hornet Three-oh-one. I've been holed, but she's manageable." He worked the controls some more until he was satisfied that everything was still working. He watched the numbers flicker on his fuel readout for a moment. "I'm losing some fuel. It's not serious yet."
"Three-oh-one, do you feel it advisable to eject?"
"Negative! Negative! Anticipate no problem with a normal trap."
"Copy that, Three-oh-one. Bring her on home."
Frenchie did a fast calculation in his head. Range to the Jefferson was one hundred twenty miles… about eighteen minutes at this speed. He balanced time against the rate of fuel loss. Fine. He could hold her that long, and get her safely down on deck.