One stinking Sidewinder and the MiG would be dead meat. He’d suck him close, turn inside, goose the SOB
before he knew what had hit him.
But he didn’t have a Sidewinder. All he could do was wait for Zen and Breanna and Fentress and who-all to wax the Iraqi. And they sure as hell were taking their time about it.
He jammed his rudder and threw his weight into the stick, pushing the plane to pivot as he ran down into a rift between two large hills; a hang-glider couldn’t have turned harder or sharper.
“Yeah, no shit,” he acknowledged as Zen warned that missiles were in the air. “You going to take this sucker out or am I going to have to pull out my pistol and do it myself?”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2134
ZEN WATCHED THE BRONCO TUCK AWAY FROM THE LAST
heat-seeker. Much as he hated to admit it, Mack was a seriously good pilot—he deked the missile down into the hillside without even the help of a flare. Good and lucky—a tremendous combination.
“The MiG’s going to slow down now and go to his cannon. Back off your speed!” Zen told Fentress.
“I have him,” said Fentress, pressing the trigger to fire.
“Back off!”
Fentress let go of the trigger and slid his thrust down, but it was too late—the Flighthawk shot over the MiG, which threw up its nose to slow in a modified cobra maneuver. It was a fancier move than Zen had pulled with the Phantom drone in their training exercise, but with the same intent and effect: Fentress lost his shot and was now the target.
“Let him come after you instead of the Bronco,” said Zen. “Good.”
“I wish I did it on purpose,” said Fentress as the MiG
began firing at him.
AS THE MIG’S BULLETS STARTED SAILING OVER HIS WINGS, Fentress slammed his nose up as if he were going to do his own cobra, then juiced his throttle instead, turning a tumblesault in the sky. The g forces would have wiped out a pilot, but the only thing Fentress felt was a small bubble of sweat diving around the back of his neck. The MiG sailed by as Fentress pushed the robot toward its tail.
“He’s still going for the Bronco,” said Zen. “He’s suicidal.”
“Yeah,” said Fentress.
RAZOR’S EDGE
403
Mack’s plane ducked and the MiG sailed off to the left, then turned to come back.
Fentress knew he could try a front-quarter attack.
Low probability. Get him from the side as he came in.
Even harder.
The Bronco popped up near the ridge ahead. The MiG
dove down, guns blazing. Fentress pressed his trigger, even though he had absolutely no shot, hoping he might distract the MiG.
It didn’t work.
Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 2134
BREANNA DROPPED QUICKSILVER STRAIGHT DOWN AS
Chris worked the flares and ECMs, desperately trying to avoid the heat-seeking missiles launched by the MiG.
They rolled through an invert, feinted right, jagged left, powered back in the direction they’d gone.
The Iraqi had fired two heat-seekers at them; one had a defective seeker and dove directly into the earth a few seconds after launch. The other came at Quicksilver’s nose, lost it momentarily, then sniffed one of the engines.
As it changed course for the third or fourth time to follow Breanna’s jinks, it sensed one of the flares and started after it. A half second later it realized this was a decoy and went back for its original target. But the hesitation had cost it; sensing that its target was accelerating out of range, it self-detonated. Shrapnel nicked the top of the Megafortress’s fuselage, but there was simply too much plane there for the small shards of metal to do real damage; Quicksilver shrugged the pain away like a whale ignoring a tiny fishhook.
In the meantime, Quicksilver’s radar-homing missile 404
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
shot toward the Iranian MiG at about 600 miles an hour.
The MiG pilot threw his plane into evasive maneuvers, rolling and plunging away behind a hail of flares and tinsel. The missile followed gamely; while it wasn’t nearly as maneuverable as an air-to-air missile, it had extremely long legs—the Iraqi’s RWR continued to warn that it was gunning for him, even after he went to the afterburner and galloped back toward his base. As far as he knew, the Americans had launched a superweapon at him, one that refused to be fooled by anything he did.
“We’re clear,” said Chris finally. “MiG is out of the picture. Tacit’s still following him,” he added, a chuckle in his voice. “We may nail him yet. Good shot, Torbin.”
“Thanks,” said their newest crewman. “Uh, that standard operating procedure, firing ground missiles at airplanes?”
“It is now,” said Ferris.
“We aim to be creative,” said Breanna. “Welcome to the team.”
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2135
A STREAM OF TRACERS SHOT OVER MACK’S CANOPY AS HE
plunked his nose down again. He cut his throttle and coasted half a second, making sure the Iraqi would over-shoot. Then he gunned it and whipped back onto the other side of the mountain.
Mack laughed as he caught sight of the MiG flying parallel to him. Idiot! One stinking Sidewinder and it’d be fried Iraqi for dinner.
He could do this all day, all day.
RAZOR’S EDGE
405
Mack’s laughter turned to a roar as the MiG turned ahead of him, completely out of the game.
At least for the next fifteen seconds.
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2136
ZEN WATCHED FENTRESS AS THE MIG CUT IN FRONT OF
the Bronco’s path. The kid’s hands were steady, even if his voice was jumpy and high-pitched.
But he was nearly out of bullets. And the MiG pilot now had an angle on the Bronco, realizing that his best bet was to fire from the edge of his range rather than closing in where the Bronco could easily throw him off by turning or changing speed.
Mack was doing a hell of a job, but sooner or later he was going to get nailed. His plane was too overmatched.
Fentress had enough bullets for maybe one more try.
Zen knew he could nail it. But by the time he grabbed control it would be too late.
Helpless. Like when he lost his legs.
His legs—he remembered the dream or hallucination or whatever it was, the fleeting memory of feelings that had just rummaged through his brain.
This had nothing to do with that.
He looked at his pupil.
“Get him on this pass, Curly. Nail the motherfucker and let’s go have a beer,” said Zen.
ZEN’S VOICE DROVE THE FRUSTRATION AWAY. FENTRESS
drew a breath, then blew it out his mouth with a long, slow whistle. He’d ride the Flighthawk into the damn MiG if he had to.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
That wasn’t a horrible idea. He had a straight intercept plotted. If his bullets didn’t nail the MiG, he would.
Not a conventional solution, but better than letting the Bronco get waxed.
The OV-10 flailed to the right and the MiG snapped back to follow. Fentress’s targeting bar flashed red.
Too soon to fire, he told himself, counting.
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2137
MACK POUNDED THE PEDAL, TRYING TO THROW ALL HIS
weight into his foot, and pushed the Bronco back the other way. He could feel the plane stutter, though whether it was because he’d been hit or because it was getting tired of the acrobatics he couldn’t tell. The right engine freaked and now he had trouble holding the plane in the air.