At sixty seconds to firing range, the computer had the attack completely mapped out for him; all he had to do was choose the option and push the button.
“I have something,” warned Timmy. “Shit — I’m spiked.”
“ECMs,” said Howe.
A ground unit had just come on to the west. It wasn’t an ordinary radar: Working with a microwave transmitter, it had managed to find Timmy’s stealthy profile. The electronic countermeasures quickly snapped the invisible chain that was trying to latch on to his wingman’s plane, but the damage had been done; the Indians knew they were under attack.
Not that it would do any good. He was thirty seconds from firing range.
“Guard dogs are coming for us,” warned his wingman.
“Yours,” said Howe. “Fire at will.”
Timmy tucked his wing down, angling toward the Sukhois as they separated from their mothership. They were roughly seventy miles away, each plane a mile right and left from his wings. He figured they’d go for some sort of bracket once he made it clear which plane he was going to attack; that pilot would move to engage while the wingman swung out, ready to pounce when the other broke. If Timmy kept coming down the middle — something they’d have to figure he might try, given the juicy target behind them — they could simply turn and have at him as he came past, confident that their Lyulka AL-31F turbofans would allow them to catch up in the unlikely event that they misjudged his speed; the Russian-built jets had an awesome capability to accelerate, matched by only one or two airplanes in the world, and exceeded by only one.
Which happened to be the plane they were going against. The fact that the Indian pilots apparently thought they were facing a lone Pakistani F-16 gave Timmy a tremendous advantage, as did their likely weapons set: The Indians were not known to have the most advanced Russian R-77 or AA-12 missiles, and while their R-27 Alamos were very potent, all of the radar versions were well known and could be knocked off by the Velociraptor’s ECMs. IR missiles, of course, were a different story — even the most obsolete heat-seeker could be a pesky PIA under the right circumstances — but Timmy didn’t intend to get close enough for the Sukhois to launch any.
He made a cut south, purposely taking the fighters away from his flight leader. That put him temporarily on the nose of the plane on his right, which didn’t react. The radar locked both bandits tight and the Velociraptor prompted him to fire. Timmy waited a few more seconds, riding in so he’d be positioned better to hunt the other planes.
“Fire one, fire two,” he said finally. The interceptor seemed to grunt its approvaclass="underline" The AMRAAM vertical ejector launcher spit the missiles from the ventral bay with a force of roughly 40 g’s. Timmy didn’t make the traditional radio call warning that he had fired; the shared radar and weapons system took care of that for him, giving Howe an audible tone as well as designating the targets and showing the missile tracks on his screen.
As soon as the missiles were away, Timmy hit the throttle and accelerated, his focus now on the two Sukhois that had hung back with the AEW plane. He knew they’d be somewhere between the 767 and him, but he wasn’t exactly sure where: ECMs, apparently aboard the big plane, had managed to significantly degrade his sensors.
Something for the tech guys to work on.
The radar plane was about ten degrees to the southeast with its gas pedal to the floor and descending. He guessed the other Sukhois would be near its tail. He checked Howe’s position — running in from the east, no more than ten seconds from firing — then decided that he would just hold his course for a bit until his targets turned up.
The Velociraptor gave him a buzz. His first missile had hit home. Target one was history.
Something had gone wrong with the second shot, however. The Sukhoi was turning and accelerating, trying to solve the mathematical equation that would give it a shot on his tail. Timmy’s RWR went ape shit: The Sukhoi fired a pair of Alamos from twenty miles. Timmy threw the Velociraptor into a set of hard zigs, chaff exploding behind him to confuse the radars in the missiles’ noses. He lost one almost immediately, but the second was working with super glue: It hung on his back even though he was taking nearly 8 g’s with his evasive maneuver.
Timmy felt his heart smack against his ribs: This was what he liked about flying. He jabbed at the ECM controls, even though the fuzzbuster was already singing songs in fifty different languages at once. A hard turn west, more chaff, a flick on the stick and he came clear, the missile detonating itself about two and a half miles from his right wingtip.
There wasn’t any time to celebrate — the RWR called out a new warning: A pair of SA-2A SAM missiles had just been launched five miles ahead, and damned if one of the Sukhois he’d been looking for hadn’t chosen this moment to turn up — three miles behind his butt.
Smack in the middle of heat-seeker range, a point which the Indian pilot underlined by launching two missiles, then following up with two more.
Howe waited until Timmy had engaged the Sukhois to make his move. The Indian AEW aircraft wasn’t particularly difficult to follow. As he closed to twenty miles Howe’s holographic HUD caged the target with a rectangular “fire” cue, showing that it was now in easy range for the AMRAAMs. He waited a second longer, making sure the gear wasn’t being overly optimistic, then dished out a pair of AMRAAMs; within seconds the missiles were galloping forward at Mach 4.
Howe turned his attention to his wingman, who was drawing a lot of interest to the southwest. One of the two fighters Timmy had engaged had dodged his missiles and was sweeping around from the north, angling for a rear-quarter attack. The RWR lit with fresh contacts, this time from ground-based radars; the Indians were throwing everything into this one, launching SA-2As, their best long-range anti-aircraft missiles. Timmy danced in the right corner of Howe’s screen, another Su-27 behind him.
“Two, your six!” warned Howe. “Break!”
“Yeah, I see the asshole,” replied Timmy. “Fucker’s dead meat.”
Howe wasn’t too sure of that, but he was too far away to help his wingman with that pursuer. Instead he went for the throttle, aiming to keep the northern Sukhoi off. With his momentum down he didn’t quite have a shot; he had to build more closure or momentum toward the enemy or his arrow would be shrugged off at long range.
And where the hell was the other Sukhoi?
Howe’s AMRAAMs struck the radar plane in quick succession. One of the warheads ignited fumes in the plane’s fuel tank, and the explosion broke the aircraft into several pieces, five of which were big enough for Howe’s radar to track as they disintegrated. Howe barely noticed, however, focusing on the northern Sukhoi as he tried to decide whether the Indian was running away or angling for an attack. He didn’t want to waste a missile on someone who was already out of the game.
The HUD’s rectangular piper jammed the Sukhoi into its sweet spot. Howe fired, figuring better safe than sorry; as the missile shot away he got a fresh warning on the SA-2s, one of which had managed to sniff out his airframe and was heading in his general direction. As Howe jinked left, the F/A-22V’s radar gave the AMRAAM a fresh update on the targeted Sukhoi, still flying a perfect intercept, apparently unaware that it had already been caught in the crosshairs.
The SA-2B was an ancient weapon; early versions had been targeted at B-52s over Vietnam, and it was an SA-2 that had taken out Gary Powers’ U-2 in 1960 at the height of the Cold War. That had all happened an awful long time ago, and while the missile — code-named Guideline by NATO — had been updated, it was thoroughly understood by the people who had put the Velociraptors’ ECM suite together. Even so, it had to be respected: With a warhead that weighed just under three hundred pounds and a velocity that could top Mach 3.5, its boom could definitely lengthen a pilot’s day.