Jake squeezed the trigger on the stick. The first Phoenix left in a blaze of fire. It would go after the target with the highest priority.
He punched the chaff button on the right throttle four times in quick succession with his left thumb and looked outside. A thin smoke trail on a downward vector slightly left marked the Phoenix’ path.
The defensive countermeasures system was on automatic repeat; it should defeat the incoming missiles. He squeezed off more chaff while looking outside, trying to catch a glimpse of the oncoming machines and missiles in this age of superspeed war in the sky.
“Incoming’s gonna miss us … Phoenix tracking … Bull’seye!”
The large planes were shown on the display as targets five and six, now separating. Jake turned fifteen degrees left to intercept.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a planform view of a sweptwing fighter turning hard, vapor pouring off the wingtips as the pilot pulled maximum G. Even as the sight registered on Jake’s brain, he was by and gone, through the formation and hurling onward, nose still down a couple of degrees, Mach 2.2 on the airspeed indicator.
When the MiGs completed their turn they would fire more missiles, since it would be impossible to overtake him in a tail chase.
“Quick, the second Phoenix on that guy ahead turning south.” There was no time to spare. The nuclear weapons had to be in one of those two airplanes, and a missile from the MiGs might come up their tailpipe any second.
“Locked on,” Toad reported. “You can shoot!”
Jake squeezed off the last Phoenix. It, too, departed in a blaze of fire and was gone in a few heartbeats, accelerating to Mach 4 and climbing as it sought its target forty miles away.
“We’re at bingo fuel,” Toad said.
When the window blew out, Qazi was blinded by the dirt and trash that filled the air. His seat belt and handcuffs saved him. Eyes shut, he fought the hurricane that tried to rip him from the seat and hurl him bodily through the window.
And then the hurricane subsided, although the noise level remained unbelievably high. He opened his eyes and looked around. El Hakim was gone, as was the guard. Noora was lying on the floor at his feet, her head at an odd angle and her skirt up around her waist.
He became aware of a painful ache in his ears. And the plane was descending, its left wing down steeply. The wind coming in the empty window socket was very cold.
His hands were numb and blood oozed around the handcuffs where they had cut his wrists. He fumbled with the seat belt and got the buckle unfastened and used the pistol on the chain of the cuffs that held him to the arm of the seat. When he stood he swayed uncertainly, the pain in his ears still severe. He stepped carefully over Noora’s naked legs.
Jarvis was still in his seat. Apparently he had had his seat belt fastened. He looked at Qazi terror-stricken as the aircraft continued its downward plunge. The pain in Qazi’s ears was lessening, but he was beginning to feel light-headed. How high had the plane been?
El Hakim’s second bodyguard, who had been in the rear cargo bay with the weapons, came staggering through the door. Qazi shot him. He stumbled before he reached the fallen man and had to crawl toward him. The man was still alive. Qazi shot him in the head this time and seized the Uzi.
He lay there by the body gasping. His vision was coming back. And the wing of the plane seemed to be rising. He could feel the Gs pressing him toward the floor as the pilots fought to pull out of their uncontrolled descent.
When the Gs subsided, he pulled himself erect and went forward toward the cockpit, steadying himself with the seat backs as he proceeded. Jarvis was cowering in his seat, still gasping for air.
He still had a chance. He would make the pilots fly to Benghazi. Once there he could put together a coalition of colonels to take over the government. It could be done. The professional soldiers had loathed and feared El Hakim and would not be sorry to see him gone. Nor would they spurn the opportunity to rule. Then all of this would not have been in vain.
The radar in the nose of the last Phoenix missile went active when the missile was still fifteen miles from the Il-76 at which it had been fired. This was the aerial tanker which had accompanied the MiGs from Benghazi and whose pilot had decided to return there forthwith when informed that the MiGs’ electronic countermeasures equipment had detected the emissions of an F-14’s radar. The Phoenix’ small radar transmitted its signal and picked up the returning echo, and the computer sent digital signals to the canards, positioning them. This process was repeated several thousand times a second as the missile closed its target.
The missile smashed though the Ilyushin’s fuselage just under the starboard wing root, at the point where the returning echo had been strongest, and was halfway through the port side of the fuselage when the warhead detonated. The shrapnel from the exploding 132-pound warhead severed the main spar of the port wing, among other things, and the wing immediately separated from the aircraft. The large plane began to roll violently as the nose fell through to the vertical. Then the starboard wing tore off under the tremendous stress. Seconds later the tail ripped away. Rolling slowly now and streaming fire, the remainder of the fuselage continued its four-mile plunge toward the sunlit, glistening sea.
Jake Grafton went for the remaining Il-76, now only twentytwo miles away, but low, only 8,000 feet or so. It was turning southward, toward the land. Great, he would be there that much sooner. He lowered the right wing and altered course to intercept.
He had used chaff to help the DECM foil the three missiles hurled after him by the MiG-23 Floggers behind. Not even a near miss. They were hopelessly behind now and would be out of the play if he could drop this Ilyushin on the first pass. Then he would turn north and fight his way toward Greece. He wouldn’t make it, of course; he didn’t have enough fuel. But he could get away from Africa and out over the main shipping lanes before he and Toad punched out. Maybe they could even find a freighter or oil tanker to eject alongside. But that was in the future. First he had to drop this transport. And fast. Only 5,000 pounds of fuel remaining. He eased the throttles back out of burner.
He would come in from the rear stern-quarter and pour shells in at the Vulcan cannon’s maximum rate of fire, over a hundred shells a second. That should do it and then some. Automatically he fingered the switches and checked the display on the Air-Combat Maneuvering panel immediately under the heads-up display. Guns selected!
“More MiGs. Two. They were masked in the transport’s return. Dead ahead. Now turning, one left and one right.” Toad swore.
The symbols were on the scope and the heads-up display. But Jake had no more missiles. The tanker was moving from left to right, and one fighter was turning left away hard, probably intending a 270 degree turn. God, he was turning tightly; he must have the burner plugged in and the nose up, using the vertical plane. The other MiG had turned right and was already head-on to Jake. The ECM was beeping.
Jake altered course to the right to approach him head-on. Down to 1.5 Mach. He looked through the heads-up display. The symbol was on him. There. Coming faster than thought. A flash. Missile!
Chaff. The missile didn’t track. Going under.
Jake put the pipper just short. He was aware of the fireballs from the MiG just as he pulled the trigger and eased the pipper up. A streak like lightning shot forward as the Vulcan cannon wound up to maximum rate-of-fire and the Tomcat vibrated. The MiG exploded. Jake jerked the stick aft as he released the trigger. He felt a thump. Something had hit the F-14.
“Where’s the other guy?” he asked Toad as the Gs tore at him and he scanned the engine instruments and warning light panel. All okay.