And then it was over.
The cockpit went silent. The night became black. Hack heard his breath loud in his ears, saw that he was level at fifteen thousand feet.
Carefully, almost slowly, he got his bearings and did his instrument checks, pointing the nose of the Eagle southward.
“Piranha One, this is Two,” said Johnny. “I’m lost airman.”
“Yeah, okay, okay, okay.” The words slurred out of Hack’s mouth; he couldn’t stop them or change them into anything coherent. But that was all right— his head was clear, and he calmly found his wingmate only two miles to the northeast, though considerably higher than him. Johnny began turning. Hack continued his climb, heart steady and almost slow.
“I think I nailed one of those MiGs,” he told his wingman.
“I think you nailed two.”
“Yeah?” Hack started to ask whether he’d seen the explosions when he got a new contact on his radar. They were running south at four thousand feet, about two miles west of where the MiG had snuck in and almost unzipped him.
“We have a fresh contact, Piranha Two,” he said, changing course to catch it.
CHAPTER 50
The MiG-21 changed course twice as Doberman pitched downward, adjusting to his zigs with ominous zags of its own. Knowing he couldn’t lose the MiG’s Jay Bird radar until he was under 3,000 feet, Doberman poured on the gas, hurtling downward so fast he worried about tearing the plane’s wings off.
The MiG-21 was a rugged and quick interceptor, well-suited to aerial combat. It was fast, maneuverable, and small. While its avionics systems were not comparable to frontline fighters like the F-15 or even the F-16, it outclassed the A-10A as a dogfighter by miles. It was capable of carrying beyond-visual-range weapons and could even be fitted with infrared night vision equipment, advantages Doberman couldn’t hope to counter in a dogfight. His best bet was scrambling around in the ground clutter until the Iraqi lost interest or the Eagles chased him off.
As Doberman’s altitude dipped below 2,500 feet, he pulled the Hog into a tight turn north, slashing around in a twisting roll that pulled nearly five g’s, in theory high above the plane’s rated capacity. He began pushing the stick to level off before realizing the horizon bar showed him heading straight downward. The wings started yawing on him and he had a fight now; he was behind the plane, temporarily out of control, reacting to it instead of having it react to him. He got angry— he screamed at the plane to cut the bullshit. As gravity tore at his face and chest, he managed to steady the wings and back off on his speed, pulling out in something approaching a controlled glide. He leveled off at three hundred feet, a lot lower than he wanted to be. The MiG was still up there somewhere, but he didn’t have any indication of it on his gear. The sky above and ahead was a uniform gray. He twisted his neck back and forth, trying to make sure his six was clear as he got his nose pointed directly south.
Doberman felt a cold stream of sweat running down the side of his flight suit as he stared through his front windscreen. He put his hand on the throttle, pegging his speed at three hundred and fifty knots. He didn’t like not knowing where the enemy was. He tried hailing the AWACS but didn’t get a response.
The MiG might have passed by him already. In that case it would be turning around somewhere ahead.
Or not. He was still deep inside Iraq. He started working out his position with the help of his paper map when he saw a stubby building break the undulating ground ahead; he saw a long, straight line and realized he was heading over Fort Apache’s landing strip. His brain seemed to contract— he hadn’t realized he’d come this far east, let alone back this far north.
Doberman nudged his nose up, working to give himself a little more breathing room while staying in the ground clutter.
A sand dune moved to the right.
No, a plane.
He jumped back in his seat, his mind computing the scenario as his eyes and ears threw the flight data at it.
MiG, closing for a front-quarter cannon attack. Kill him head-on.
No, it wanted him to break; he’d close on Doberman and use his heat-seekers.
RWR. He was spiked.
No, nothing. But obviously it saw him. It was coming for him.
Turning was suicidal. But if Doberman didn’t break, the MiG would go around, use his superior speed to catch him.
Nail him as he came through. Snapshot by yanking into him.
A millisecond of opportunity.
Then what? Where would he be?
The MiG would come at him from the offset, angling, cheating so he could cut into a tight merge, slide into his victim’s tail no matter what he did.
The Hog could out-turn the MiG. The Iraqi wouldn’t expect that— the Fishbed could knife around anything else in the sky. If Doberman could brave the front-quarter attack, he could turn inside him, twist back down and away.
Even better— let him get on his back, but with his nose out, then turn inside quickly at the first moment, have him go past. A tangled rope.
Nail him with the Sidewinders on the Hog’s right wing.
Show the son of a bitch not to mess with Hogs.
Turn the damn things on. The seeker heads have to do some calisthenics to warm up— or rather cool down, so the head can pick up the SOB’s heat.
Where is my goddamn radar and the RWR and the AWACS and those stinking Eagles?
Hell, ask for AMRAAMs while you’re at it.
Doberman snorted, laughing at himself. He pushed the nose of his plane toward the approaching hulk, heart pounding, ready to take his shot.
Then he realized it wasn’t a MiG.
He nudged his stick back; he was coming at the tail end of a helicopter, closing so fast the helo seemed to be standing still.
An American bird, running dark— one of the Spec Ops AH-6s. He glanced at his kneepad for their radio frequency.
The RWR screamed that the MiG was closing from above for the kill.
CHAPTER 51
Sitting in the backseat of the helicopter, Rosen had a difficult time puzzling out the situation from what the others were saying. There were apparently two different sets of Iraqi planes nearby, possibly coming for them. One of the groups included at least two MiG-29s; these were being engaged by F-15s.
The other plane, probably a MiG-21, was somewhere right behind them. They’d be sitting ducks if the Iraqi interceptor found them.
There was also an A-10A around somewhere— Devil One, Captain Glenon. The Hog had descended rapidly to their north; it wasn’t clear whether it was trying to hide in the ground effects that confused radar or if it had been hit.
For years, Rosen had listened to accounts of dogfights that seemed like clear-cut maneuvers— two fighters approached each other, one saw the other first, missiles were launched, bad guys smashed. But the reality of an honest-to-God furball defied description. It was like running through a swirling pile of leaves with your eyes closed, trying to grab a dollar bill. Even the best sensors could only show you two dimensions of reality.
“MiG closing off our port side,” snapped the pilot. “Eight o’clock. He’s at five thousand feet, diving on us. If he hasn’t spotted us already he will in a second.”