“All right, weapons free,” Bird Dog said. “We don’t know who the hell is in that boat down there, but evidently the Chinese are as interested in him as we are. They want him, they can’t have him. That’s the rules of the game.”
“Are you going to get us in the game or not?” Gator demanded from the backseat. “Or is this little mutual admiration society taking up too much of your time?”
In answer, Bird Dog slammed the Tomcat into afterburner and went into a steep, tail twisting climb. Gator gasped as the G-forces pounded against him, sucking the blood down from his head and toward his feet. “Dammit, asshole,” he squeezed out, simultaneous grunting in an M-1 maneuver designed to force blood back up to his brain. He could feel the pressure suit activating around his legs and torso, but Gator was never one to leave the question of whether or not he stayed conscious entirely to automation.
“I thought you were in a hurry to get somewhere,” Bird Dog said innocently, but he backed off the throttles and eased off on his rate of ascent. “AMRAAM as soon as we’re ready.”
“About five seconds, I make it,” Gator said, breathing more easily now as the G-forces subsided. “Stand by — now!”
The ATG-71 radar with advanced avionics held solid contact on the incoming bogey. The aircraft shuddered slightly as the AMRAAM dropped off the wing, the advanced avionics automatically retrimming the aircraft.
“Fox One, Fox One,” Bird Dog sang out. Fox One was the call assigned to a medium-range missile, such as an AMRAAM or a Sparrow. “Looking good.”
“Not good enough,” Bird Dog said. He punched the Tomcat into afterburner. “Let’s get up close and personal for some knife fighting.”
Bird Dog wasn’t the only one flying with an inexperienced pilot on his wing, and for the Hornet pilot, the problem was particularly challenging. At least in the Tomcat, the pilot had a RIO sitting right behind him, ready to double-check plans and provide a sanity check if the pilot became overwhelmed. Not so in the Hornet — the pilot took over all the RIO’s duties in addition to his own.
As confident as Thor had sounded over tactical, he had his own private doubts about his wingman. First Lieutenant “Hellman” Franks was on his nugget cruise, still learning that there were old pilots, there were bold pilots, but there were no old, bold pilots.
Not that Thor had anything against showing balls. No, not at all. After all, they were both Marines weren’t they? And Marine fighter pilots at that.
And it wasn’t that Hellman wasn’t a damned fine pilot, either. He was, as Thor had seen all too often on the bombing range and during workups. He’d sailed through basic and pipeline training at the top of his class, achieved near miraculous scores on the bombing range, and was considered by all to be one hot shit pilot. If he lived long enough, he’d be looking at fast promotions in the Corps.
Still, there was an edge to the man that bothered Thor. Sure, you want to get airborne and get the other guy fast and hard, but you want to do it clean. You take chances, but only those you have to. And you remember that you’ve got a multimillion-dollar aircraft strapped to your ass that Uncle Sam would really prefer that you bring back in one piece.
“Okay, Hellman, just like in refresher training,” Thor said over tactical, switching to the private frequency the two of them shared. “You know MiGs, and this is no different than training. Except no mistakes.”
“You ever see me make a mistake, Thor?” a Virginia drawl asked. “Anywhere?”
“You’ve never been in combat before,” Thor said bluntly. “You suck it in, Marine, and do it the way we taught you.”
“Don’t worry about me, old man,” Hellman shot back. “I’ll keep your ass out of trouble.”
Old man — why that little punk better… Thor pushed the thoughts aside, saving sorting that out for another time. Compartmentalization, that was the key to survival in the air. You keep focused on your task, don’t let your wife, your dog, your wingman, your anything, not even your bladder, distract you from what you’ve got to do.
“Take high,” he said abruptly. “Follow my lead. We take the first one with AMRAAM, the second with Sidewinder.”
“Or guns,” Hellman added.
“That bastard better be real dead before we get within gun range,” Thor said. “Now get your ass high.”
Hellman peeled off and put the Hornet in a steep, almost vertical climb. Thor shuddered as he thought of the fuel the light aircraft was sucking down. Another thing you learned early on, flying the Hornet. You had a maneuverability and speed that the Tomcat couldn’t touch, but God were they thirsty aircraft. You saved fuel when you could, knowing that it might be longer than you liked between tanking.
“Tally ho,” Thor said over tactical, acknowledging to the air traffic controller in CDC onboard Jefferson that he had contact on his incoming bogeys. “Hornet One-zero-six engaging lead flight of MiGs.”
Second Lieutenant Tai Huang curled his hand around the stick of his MiG, thankful that the thin cotton glove between his hand and it would absorb the moisture he felt seeping out of his palms. As section leader and lead for the forward-most pair of MiGs in this flight, it was his responsibility to order his disposition of forces, along with the assistance of the air traffic controllers on board the Chinese carrier. It was a new way of working, one that none of the four were completely at ease with yet, even after countless practice sessions before they’d left their homeland. But even after two hundred hours of concentrated airborne coordination, he still felt uncomfortable without a ground control intercept, or GCI, whispering guidance in his right ear over the circuit. Still, if the GCI could learn his job, then Tai could do it as well. No matter that the GCI didn’t have to concentrate on dancing a powerful aircraft through the air, evading missiles, and generally remaining airborne while he thought out the disposition of forces. It would have been impossible with earlier MiGs, but the 33 was so advanced it virtually did his thinking for him. Automatic trim control, heads-up display to prevent him from ever having to look away from the battle in front of him, and a host of electronic and weapons avionics that could virtually fight the battle on their own.
Almost, but not completely. As long as there were men in the cockpits of the enemy, there would be men in the cockpit of a MiG.
Just as now. While the MiG avionics was already suggesting that the section of two aircraft behind him be vectored to meet the oncoming Hornets, Tai knew better. Huan Tan, the lead in the second flight, was an excellent pilot and a particular master of the intricate geometries when a lighter, more maneuverable aircraft such as a MiG took on a monster like a Tomcat. Tai didn’t like admitting it, but it was one of his responsibilities as a section commander.
He himself, on the other hand, excelled in quick reflex actions, the bumblebee dance of equally matched foes in midair, the split-second decisions required when a MiG took on an equally agile Hornet. Yes, the correct thing to do was send Huan Tan after the Tomcats while Tai and his wingman took on the Hornets.
He made his orders clear over the circuits linking the four aircraft, even as he gained altitude and changed course slightly to put himself nose on to the lead Tomcat U.S. Marine or U.S. Navy? Too far away to tell. Not that it mattered anyway. Either way, the Tomcat would die. His wingman, Chan, chattered quietly over tactical to him, keeping him posted on every minute decision he made as he gained altitude and came in to form on Tai. They were fighting in the loose deuce position, the one that had been the favorite of American fighter forces for decades.