The Russians had fired on the helicopter at relatively low altitude, about 5,000 feet. They'd climbed through 8,000 feet and were still rising. The Flighthawk, by contrast, was at 25,000 feet. The altitude difference represented a serious advantage in speed and flight energy — and Zen intended to use every ounce of that advantage.
He tipped his nose down, studying the sitrep for a second as he lined Hawk One up for a double attack. With Hawk One touching Mach 1, the MiGs climbed up over the border. Zen twisted his wings, then pulled sharply on his stick, picking the nose of the plane up before slapping over and plunging straight downward. The loop slowed the Flighthawk's forward progress just enough to put it directly above the MiG's path. The Russian's nose appeared in the right corner of the view screen, a bright green wedge slicing through the night's fabric. The targeting piper flashed yellow, indicating that he didn't have a shot yet, but he fired anyway, trusting that the MiG's momentum would bring it into the hail of bullets. He slammed his controls, trying to hold the Flighthawk in position to continue firing as the MiG passed, but he had too much speed for that, and had to back off as the small plane threatened to flip backward into a tumble.
Losing track of his target, Zen dropped his right wing and came around, pulling his nose toward the path of the second fighter. The Flighthawk took ten g's in the turn — more than enough to knock a pilot unconscious had he been in the plane. But aboard the Megafortress, Zen was pulling quiet turns more than forty miles away; he flicked his wrist and put his nose on the rear quarter of the MiG.
This one was a turkey shoot.
The MiG driver had an edge — ironically, his much slower speed would have sent the Flighthawk past him if he'd turned abruptly. But the MiG jock, perhaps because he didn't know exactly where the Flighthawk was, or maybe because he panicked, didn't turn at all. Instead he tried putting the pedal to the metal and speeding away, lighting his afterburner in a desperate attempt to pick up speed.
That only made it easier for Zen. The red flare of the engine moved into the sweet spot of the targeting queue, and he sent a long stream of bullets directly into the MiG's tailpipe. The thick slugs tore through the titanium innards, unwinding the turbine spool with a flash of fire. There was no time for the pilot to eject; the plane disintegrated into a black mass of hurtling metal.
The other MiG, meanwhile, had tacked to the north, still in Romanian territory, damaged by Zen's first pass. Checking the position on the sitrep, Zen brought the Flighthawk back in its direction. He slammed the throttle slide to full military power, plotting an angle that would cut off the MiG's escape.
The small aircraft's original advantages in speed and flight energy had now been used. If the dogfight devolved into a straight-out foot race, the Flighthawk would be at a disadvantage because of the MiG's more powerful engines. Though the smaller plane could accelerate from a dead stop a bit faster because of its weight, once the MiG's two Klimov engines spooled up, their combined 36,000 pounds of thrust at military power would simply overwhelm the Flighthawk.
The MiG pilot apparently realized this, because he had the lead out. But Zen knew that he couldn't stay on his present course, since it was taking him northwest, the exact opposite of where he wanted to go. So he backed off and waited.
He wanted the enemy plane. The desire boiled inside him, pushing everything else away.
It took precisely forty-five seconds for the MiG pilot to decide he was clear and begin his turn to the east. He was ten miles deep in Romanian territory; Hawk One was about six miles south of the point where the computer calculated it would cross.
Doable, but tight.
Zen leaned on the throttle, pushing Hawk One straight up the border toward the MiG. Then he jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which had been patrolling along the route the helicopters were taking. He slid it farther north, positioning it to catch the MiG if it suddenly doubled back.
Back in Hawk One, Zen saw the approaching Russian plane as a black smudge near the top of the screen. He jabbed his finger against the slide at the back of his stick, trying to will more speed out of the little jet.
He wanted him. Revenge, anger — he felt something desperate rise inside him, something reckless and voracious. He was going to kill this son of a bitch, and nothing was going to stop him.
The targeting piper turned yellow.
Upstairs on the flight deck, Dog watched the MiG and Flighthawks maneuvering on the radar screen. He was stewing, angry at the way Zen had cursed at him, and even angrier that his orders had led to the loss of the Romanian helicopter. Back at Dreamland, he'd wondered what happened to "heroes" at their next battle. Now he knew.
"Colonel, the trucks are nearing the border," said Spiff. "There's a Moldovan patrol about a mile north of them."
"Make sure our guys know that."
"Yes, sir."
"Rager, where are those other two MiGs?" Dog asked the airborne radar specialist.
"Halfway home by now, sir. Probably on their way to get their laundry cleaned."
"How close to the ground troops is that MiG going to be if he gets over the border?"
"A couple of miles. If the ground troops call for support, he'll be close enough to give it."
The MiG kept sliding toward the right of the screen, edging closer to Moldovan territory as it approached Hawk One. Zen leaned with it, willing the plane into the triangular piper at the center of his screen.
The gunsight began blinking red. He pushed the trigger, sending a stream of 20mm bullets over the MiG's left wing. The MiG immediately nosed down and then cut back hard in the direction he'd come from. Surprised and out of position because he'd been worried about the border, Zen had trouble staying with the Russian.
The MiG turned south, breaking clean from the Flight-hawk's pursuit. Zen knew he'd hit it earlier, but it showed no sign of damage.
I'm nailing that son of a bitch, he thought, throwing the Flighthawk into a hard turn.
The MiG's tail came up in his screen, too far to shoot — but Zen's adrenaline and anger took over, and he pressed the trigger anyway. The slugs trailed down harmlessly toward the earth.
The MiG driver once more leaned on his throttle and slowly began pulling away. He was still going south; Zen started to tack in that direction, thinking he might be able to cut him off a second time.
The Flighthawk computer warned him that he was running low on fuel, but Zen didn't care. He was going to get the son of a bitch.
Then the computer gave him another warning: His path south was taking him out of control range.
"Bennett, this is Flighthawk leader. I need you to come south."
"What's your status, Flighthawk?" asked Dog. "I'm on the MiG's tail. I almost have him. Come south." "Negative. We have the trucks approaching the border. We need you to provide cover." "I'm on his tail."
"Come back north, Flighthawk. The MiG is no longer a player."
"What the hell sense is coming north?" asked Zen. "I can't go across the border if the trucks get in trouble." There was a pause. A warning flashed on Zen's screen:
DISCONNECT IN TEN SECONDS, NINE…
"Come north, Hawk leader," said Dog.
"Colonel—"
"That is a direct order."
It was all Zen could do to keep from slapping the control stick as he complied.
"Target the MiG," Dog told Sullivan. "Targeted. Locked."
Dog looked at the sitrep. He needed Zen to move off before he fired.
The Flighthawk lurched to the right. "Take him down."
"Fire Fox One!" said Sullivan. The radar missile dropped off the rail. It accelerated with a burst of speed.
"MiG is turning back east," said Sullivan. "Missile is tracking."
Dog brought the ground radar plot on his control board. He had the same situation on the ground as he had in the air — if the Moldovans attacked, he'd be unable to do anything until they came over the line.
"Splash MiG!" shouted Sullivan.
"Close the bay doors," said Dog.
"Colonel, looks like the Moldovan ground forces are going to miss our guys," reported Spiff. "The trucks just got on the highway, heading east. Eight, nine troop trucks. Ten, twelve. Whole force looks like they've caught the wrong scent."
Thank God, thought Dog.