He thumbed the selector switch on the stick to choose a Sidewinder. On his HUD the target reticule fixed on the distant bulk of the Bear and flashed red. The hum of a solid lock-on filled his ears.
“Tone … I’ve got good tone.” His thumb jabbed the firing stud. “Fox two! Fox two!”
The AIM-9M ignited and leapt from under the Tomcat’s wing, streaking toward its target. Mouth dry, Powers watched the plume of fire racing across the sky.
The heat-seeker struck the Bear squarely in the outermost engine on the port wing. Powers could see the fireball even from his position, a distant gleam of flame in the sky.
“Yahoo!” he shouted. “That’s a hit!”
He pushed the throttle forward into afterburner, ready to close in and finish the job.
Terekhov’s head came around as the explosion lit up the overcast sky behind the MiG. He hadn’t believed it could happen. But it had … the Americans had fired on the Bear.
His orders covered what he was supposed to do in that case.
“Escort Leader to Escort Two,” he said grimly. “Weapons are free. Fire at discretion.”
They were outnumbered three to one, but the two MiGs of Soviet Naval Aviation would give a good account of themselves regardless of the odds. Senior Lieutenant Nickolaev was one of the squadron’s best pilots, despite his reputation for indulging in the kind of cowboy flying the Americans worshipped.
Terekhov cut in the MiG’s afterburners, feeling the thrust of the powerful Isotov RD-33 turbofans pressing him into his seat. Pulling back on his stick, he aimed for the clouds.
Coyote watched as flame engulfed the wing of the Tu-95, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Sheered off by the blast, the wing fell away, and the aircraft spun off out of control, plummeting for the ocean below. As the Bear plunged, Coyote saw Koslosky’s Tomcat, its wing visibly damaged, obviously in trouble.
It had all happened too fast … so fast that he hadn’t been able to stop it. The horror of what had happened dulled his reactions. Viper Squadron had just fired the shots that could lead to outright war.
Then Nichols was shouting over the ICS. “Better look sharp, Skipper. Watch the MiGs!”
He jerked his attention away from the tableau of falling Bear and struggling fighter to see the lead MiG climbing fast ahead. “Batman! We’ve got a situation here!”
“On our way!”
“Skipper! Skipper! MiG two’s on my six! I can’t get control to dodge him!” That was Koslosky’s voice, sounding panicky.
Coyote banked and turned in time to see the MiG flash past in pursuit of the stricken Tomcat. With a curse Grant tried to bring his plane around, but he seemed to be moving in slow motion compared to the other planes.
The flare he saw under the MiG’s port wing was a missile launch, probably an AA-8 Aphid heat-seeker. “Break left! Kos, break left!”
“Can’t do it, Skipper!” Koslosky replied. Then his voice rose. “Wild Card! Eject! Ej-“
The missile hit the Tomcat before Koslosky could finish. Coyote turned his head as the explosion ripped the plane apart, feeling sick.
“Oh, God,” he heard Nichols say behind him.
“Save it. I want that bastard!” Teeth clenched, Coyote wrenched his stick over and started after the Fulcrum.
“Lead MiG’s climbing fast, Batman. Looks like he wants to loop in and nail Coyote.”
“Not if we get there first, he won’t.” Batman shoved the throttles all the way forward and thumbed his selector switch. Sidewinders were their best bet for these conditions.
Behind him he heard Malibu on the radio channel back to the Jefferson. “Dragon’s Lair, Dragon’s Lair, this is Ajax Two-oh-four. We are engaging. Repeat, we are engaging.”
Once Batman would have felt satisfaction at those words. Now he knew nothing but a cold gnawing in his guts. They had crossed the line.
“Come on, you bastard,” Coyote muttered. “Come on.” The lock-on tone was loud in his ears. “I’ve got tone!” He hit the firing stud. “Fox two! Fox two!”
“He’s jinking!” John-Boy said.
The MiG banked and dropped fast, and the heat-seeker flashed past. “damn!” Coyote felt his fist tightening around the stick. That MiG driver was good … and he himself had been just a little too quick off the mark.
“Easy, Coyote,” Nichols told him. “What’re you always telling us? Fly with your head …”
Grant gave a short nod and forced himself to cool off. There was little room for the aggressive hot-dogging so beloved by Hollywood in a real ACM situation. It was the cool hand, the technician who knew precisely what his aircraft could do and was willing to take it to the edge of the envelope, but never beyond, who scored.
Ahead the MiG started a tight turn to the left, the kind of nimble maneuver the smaller Soviet fighters were particularly good at. Coyote pulled back on the stick, bringing the Tomcat’s nose up into a steep climb to bleed off airspeed and keep from overshooting the target plane. He rolled left, almost standing the F-14 on its wing so he could keep the MiG in sight, then dropped his nose and started diving. The high yo-yo was one of the classic fighter moves, and this time it went off with textbook precision. The Tomcat settled in squarely on the MiG’s six. The reticule centered on the enemy plane. “Tone! I’ve got tone!” He fired his second Sidewinder. “Fox two! Fox two!” It raced toward its target trailing smoke and fire.
“Goddamn them!” CAG Stramaglia exploded. “What the hell is happening up there?”
He had listened to the radio traffic in disbelieving horror as the situation had unfolded. From that first call of “I’m hit!” it had taken almost no time at all for a full-fledged aerial battle to erupt.
“Sir?” A young crewman was looking up from one of the consoles at him. “Sir … it’s the admiral.”
He picked up a handset. “Admiral. Stramaglia here.”
“What’s the situation, CAG?” Tarrant’s voice was level but strained.
“We don’t know what started it, Admiral,” Stramaglia said carefully. “But the Bear and one of our planes are both out of action, and the rest are in a furball.”
“Goddamn,” the admiral said, echoing Stramaglia’s feelings. There was a pause. “All right, CAG. Pull those Tomcats out of there. Fast. There’s going to be hell to pay for this one.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he answered slowly.
He replaced the handset and reached for the radio microphone.
The Russian tried to evade again, but this time the Sidewinder got a piece of him. Coyote watched as the MiG started coming apart. Somehow the pilot had time to eject.
“Splash one!” John-Boy said.
“Good chute! I’ve got a good chute from the Soviet!” Coyote added.
His threat warning buzzed. “The other guy’s coming down on us,” Nichols announced. “He’s at five o’clock!”