Evidence to support her conclusion was not long in coming. The Forger twisted in the air, trying to evade the Tomcat. But just as it leveled out, it spun violently to the right, rolling so hard it was almost a blur.
Fastball pulled away hard, clearing the area. As he did, the Forger’s wing snapped off, flying off at an acute angle to the fuselage. Other pieces of gear broke loose, peppering the sky with bits of metal, oil, and debris.
A few seconds later, the inevitable happened. Fuel hit hot metal, flashed past its ignition point, and the Forger exploded.
“Where’s Bird Dog?” Fastball asked, trying to control his voice but clearly breathing hard. Maybe she overestimated his cool, Rat thought, because he sure didn’t sound like a guy who was really enjoying himself.
“Three clock, and low,” she said instantly. One part of her mind was always fixed on lead, tracking his position and maintaining a running picture of where he was relative to Fastball. Not always a RIO’s job, but that was the way it worked when she flew with Fastball.
“Okay.” Fastball dropped the nose of the Tomcat down, then rolled over, searching the sky below them.
“There, just to the right,” Rat said.
“Bird Dog, you okay?” Fastball asked.
It was Bird Dog’s RIO who answered, saying, “Yes, we’re fine, just about — there.” A fireball in front of Bird Dog punctuated the RIO’s self-satisfied pronouncement. “That’s two.”
Immediately, Bird Dog’s Tomcat broke off and began ascending, coming up to meet them. As Bird Dog flashed past them, Fastball fell into position on his wing, following his lead. There was no need for conversation. Both pilots knew exactly what they were doing — picking out the next target.
This time, the Russians were taking fewer chances. Five Forgers broke off to meet them, settling into one group of three and a traditional fighting pair, a configuration that had Rat worried. Funny how your mind got used to seeing just pairs. Now, with one trio joining on them, it was too easy to lose track of one of the players. Not to mention the second pair.
“I’ll take the three,” Bird Dog said. But even as he spoke, the lower pair broke off and gave chase. Bird Dog had no choice but to react. “Stay loose, Fastball,” Bird Dog snapped, a trace of worry in his voice. “I’ll be right back.”
“Not a problem, Dog,” Fastball said. But even as he spoke, Rat could see that there was indeed a problem.
Fastball shoved the Tomcat into afterburner, shoving Rat back hard in her seat. “Ah,” she grunted.
“Altitude,” Fastball said, grunting as well. “Altitude. That’s first.”
“They’re tracking us,” Rat warned. One Forger was directly behind them, falling behind slightly but in perfect position. His playmates were on either side, offset by five thousand yards so that the formation of Tomcat and three-point Forgers looked like a trefoil.
“Sun,” Fastball said, not deigning to explain any further. Not that it was necessary — Rat knew where he was heading. He turned hard and pointed the nose directly into the sun. It glared off the canopy, blinding her. Rat jammed her head down hard against the plastic to block out the light. Fastball probably had his eyes shut by now — the way he was today, she doubted he even needed his eyes in order to fly and fight the aircraft.
“They’ve got a lock,” Rat warned, her fingers tweaking the picture into focus as the gear began its warning time. “Chaff — no flares, not at this angle.”
“Roger. Hold on.” Coming from Fastball, that could mean practically anything. Rat braced herself.
Fastball began a series of violent maneuvers, skipping across the sky like a pebble. The orderly formation of Forgers behind them broke apart slightly as they tried to anticipate his next move, each waiting for the perfect shot. But by forcing them to maneuver, he fouled their fields of fire. And there was one other problem — although she suspected the Forgers hadn’t notice it yet, the Tomcat had slowed its violent maneuvers, and the net effect had been to decrease the distance between the Forgers and the Tomcat to within minimums. They were too close now to fire their missiles.
That didn’t mean they were defenseless. All at once, the air around them was lousy with tracers. For a moment, Rat quailed. Then, seconds before he did it, Rat knew what Fastball intended. She started to object, to warn him not to, that it was too dangerous, but it wouldn’t have done any good.
Just at the point the Forgers began to realize they had a problem, Fastball manually swept the wings forward, deploying his speed brakes and landing gear. The Tomcat reacted as though it had hit a solid object. Its speed slowed abruptly, peeling off knots so quickly that it was inside the stall envelope almost immediately. But as the Tomcat slowed, the Forgers shot past her. Forcing out another two seconds of maneuverability before the Tomcat became aerodynamically unstable, Fastball sprayed the three with gunfire, reversing their situation.
Smoke enveloped two Forgers immediately. The third was apparently untouched. It broke away from the others, afterburner glaring, then, from a safe distance, turned back in on them. Rat could almost sense the other pilot’s fury and determination.
Meanwhile, Fastball was having to cope with the aftereffects of his daring maneuver. The Tomcat was no longer flying. It hung in the air for a second, then, as gravity began to assert its pull, the angle of attack deteriorated. Gravity won, as it always did, and the Tomcat began dropping like a stone, tail first.
Not good. Very not good. Rat wanted to scream, but it would have done no good.
Fastball swept back the control surfaces and punched the afterburner. The thrust was sufficient to rotate the Tomcat in the air, so instead of falling tail first, it was nose down to the ocean. The airframe picked up speed quickly, regaining lift as air flowed over the wings. Within moments, Fastball had built up sufficient airspeed to regain control of the Tomcat.
Too late! The other Forger was now on them, popping off missiles like fireworks. Poor fire control, one part of Rat’s mind noted coolly. Just as bad as the last Forger. Spend everything now, and nothing left for later if you need it.
“Fastball, break right,” Bird Dog’s voice shouted. “I’m on him — break right, dammit!”
Fastball reacted as instinctively and quickly as Bird Dog had earlier, turning so hard that he shed precious airspeed. But stalls can be recovered from. Missile hits can’t.
“Fox one,” Bird Dog shouted. Rat twisted in her seat, staring back at their tail. She saw Bird Dog’s missile coming in at right angles to them, but for a moment she thought it was headed straight for them. But no, Bird Dog had judged the angle quite accurately. The missile was not aimed at the Forger, it was aimed at where the Forger would be in three seconds, which was where Fastball was now. As the aircraft continued on their courses, it worked out just as Bird Dog had planned. The missile pierced the Forger’s flank, and for a moment Rat thought she saw it sticking out from the side. A microsecond later, the warhead detonated, destroying the Forger.
“Nice shot, Bird Dog,” Fastball said, too, too cool.
“Not bad,” Bird Dog acknowledged offhandedly. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”
“Not a problem,” Fastball said. “We managed.”
Rat wanted to scream.
Just then, the Hawkeye came over tactical. “Dolphin lead, assist Packer lead, bearing zero three zero, range ten.”
“Thor? Where’s his wingman?” Bird Dog asked.