But as the two fighters merged, something happened. During the second when they passed canopy to canopy, he and the Hornet pilot had locked gazes.
It was as though a silent challenge had been issued. Some primal voice inside Jabbar had commanded him: Stay and fight.
And so he had.
Jabbar pulled the MiG-29’s nose up in a vertical climb. He rolled the jet ninety degrees on its axis to look for his enemy. If the Hornet was still in a tight turn down below, he would swoop down and —
Jabbar saw the Hornet. He wasn’t down below. He was three hundred meters away, in his own vertical climb. Jabbar could see the pilot in the cockpit staring at him.
The red helmet. Maxwell wondered what it meant. Some kind of personal statement? Iraqi fighter pilots weren’t reputed to be flashy or demonstrative. Nor were they known to be aggressive. The Iraqis liked to hit and run. They never took on a coalition fighter in a one-vee-one.
Until today, thought Maxwell. Who was this guy? Maybe he was a Russian, or some ex-Eastern Bloc fighter pilot. He was flying the Fulcrum like he had seen lots of combat.
“You with me, Chevy Six?”
“Chevy six tally one, visual, free,” answered B.J. “You defensive?”
“Engaged, neutral. Watch for spitters.”
It was B.J.’s job to prevent another MiG from sneaking into the fight and taking a shot at him.
“You’re covered, Chevy Five.” Brick’s Hornet and the MiG were too close to allow B.J a safe shot. She arced around outside the fight looking for a shot. And for other MiGs
Maxwell knew that his vertical climb would top out before the Fulcrum. The Fulcrum had more initial energy. It could keep going up like a rocket, waiting for the Hornet to start back down, then take a shot.
Maxwell’s airspeed was decreasing rapidly. He eased the Hornet’s nose over, delicately working the rudders, watching the angle of attack. If he lost control here, let the jet depart and go into a spin or a falling leaf, he was dead meat. The MiG would have an easy shot.
He already had an AIM-9 Sidewinder selected. In his earphones he was getting the low growl from the missile’s seeker unit. The MiG was within forty-five degrees of the Hornet’s boresight centerline, well within the AIM-9 seeker cone. But the range was close, perhaps too close.
It might be his only shot.
He squeezed the trigger.
Whoom! The Sidewinder leaped off the left pylon and streaked toward the climbing MiG.
Watching the missile fly to its target, Maxwell felt the Hornet trying to drop from under him. He was nearly out of airspeed, hanging in the air on the thrust of the Hornet’s engines.
He saw the missile pass several hundred feet behind the tail of the MiG. And keep going.
A clean miss.
The range was too close. The Sidewinder needed three seconds to arm. There hadn’t been enough time or space.
But the MiG pilot had seen the shot. His nose was coming down. Maxwell knew he would not get another easy shot.
Both fighters plunged downward, each gaining precious maneuvering energy. Bottoming out, they passed nose-to-nose again.
Maxwell pulled hard on the stick, hauling the nose of the Hornet back upward. He grunted against the seven Gs, looking over his shoulder to keep sight of the MiG. He remembered the old dictum: Lose sight, lose the fight.
He saw the MiG’s nose crank around in a rolling scissors. This guy was no amateur, Maxwell realized. He was flying the hell out of the Fulcrum. In another turn he would have his nose on Maxwell’s Hornet.
Maxwell countered. He turned into the MiG, matching the scissors. Again they passed, spiraling upward. Maxwell glimpsed again the red helmet. Once more he wondered, Who is this guy?
Approaching the apogee of the vertical scissors, Maxwell balanced the Hornet on the thrust of its engines. He was indicating barely more than a hundred knots — a speed at which most other fighters would tumble out of the sky.
Carefully working the rudder pedals, Maxwell slewed the Hornet around its axis. Out the side of his canopy he could see the MiG.
The MiG was slow, almost out of flying speed. His nose was coming down.
It was the moment Maxwell was waiting for.
Jabbar understood what was happening. Grudgingly, he could almost admire the skill of the Hornet pilot. He was using his fighter to its maximum advantage. The American knew how to make the Hornet stand on its tail, pirouette and change direction. Jabbar knew that the F/A-18, from such a perch, could strike like a cobra.
As it was doing now.
The long tapered nose of the Hornet was coming down, toward him. Jabbar countered, rolling into the Hornet.
He knew he was too late. The Hornet had managed to open a space between them. Now the F/A-18’s nose was pointing behind Jabbar’s MiG.
But the range was close. Too close, Jabbar hoped, just as it had been before. The Hornet’s first missile had flown past him without detonating.
Jabbar turned hard, peering over his shoulder. He could see the Hornet behind him. Very close. Jabbar was sure there would not be a missile at this range —
He saw a flash in the nose of the Hornet. For an instant he was confused. What can that be…?
Then he saw the tracers arcing over his right wing. He felt a stab of fear.
Guns. The world’s oldest and most primitive air-to-air weapon. He remembered that the F/A-18 possessed a rapid-fire twenty millimeter cannon.
Over his shoulder he could see the Hornet. In the nose of the fighter, the muzzle of the air-to-air cannon was blinking like a strobe light.
He felt the impact — Ratatatatatatat — like hammer blows resonating through the airframe of his MiG. The big Russian fighter was tough. It could take hits. But not like this.
He saw a line of cannon holes stitched across his right wing. Ratatatatatatat. It felt like a buzz snaw was cutting through the MiG.
The right wing separated. The MiG-29 snapped to the right, rolling over and over. Its nose dropped and the big fighter plunged toward the earth.
Jabbar felt himself flung against the side of the cockpit. His head smashed into the canopy.
Nearly senseless, he tried to reach the ejection lanyard. He couldn’t move his hand. His arms were pinned by the jet’s whirling force.
Jabbar struggled to reach the lanyard. His hand wouldn’t move. Through the canopy he saw the brown Iraqi desert whirling toward him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blue on Blue
Maxwell was deep inside Iraq, heading north.
He checked his fuel state. Six point one. Six thousand one hundred pounds of JP-5. The furball with the MiG had consumed all his reserves. He would be fuel critical by the time he got to the KC-10 tanker. Running out of gas over a country you had just bombed was a lousy idea.
But first he had to collect his wingman. “Chevy Six, say your posit and state.”
“Your twelve o’clock, fifteen miles, Chevy Five,” answered B.J Johnson. “I’m eight-point-zero. You want me to anchor here and join on you?”
Maxwell studied his situational display. He saw the blip of B.J.’s Hornet to the south of his position, with the rest of the strike group. She had more gas than he did, but she wasn’t fat either. “We won’t waste fuel joining up. Egress south, B.J. See you at the tanker.”
“Roger that. By the way, I confirm your MiG kill. Congratulations.”
“You too. YoYo for now.”
“YoYo” was tactical brevity for “You’re on your own.”