As the chaff was shot off, he broke into a hard turn and headed directly for the missile. At its Mach 5 speeds, it was unwieldy, and would be unable to follow drastic last-minute maneuvers. As a last resort, he could always dive for the deck, although it was an option he’d prefer to avoid in this sea state. The AWG-9 was notoriously erratic on tracking targets below fifty feet. If he broke radar lock with the Tomcat before the missile acquired him, on its own independent homing radar, the missile would not pose a threat to him.
A scream echoed over the tactical circuit, abruptly cut short in midcrescendo.
“I see it!” his RIO exclaimed.
“Got it,” he muttered, and concentrated on the missile’s course. Wait for it, wait for it, he kept repeating to himself. The tiny speck in the air grew larger at an incredible rate. At the last moment, he dove for the deck, pouring on all the speed he could muster.
The Phoenix snapped by him, barely visible at close range for a few moments before dwindling again from sight. It would lack sufficient fuel to regain a lock on him, he knew.
Even if it were no longer a threat, it had achieved its tactical purpose — forcing him onto the defensive and throwing off his own engagement plan. Not a fatal position to be in. There was plenty of airspace, and far more Chinese fighters than American ones in the air.
“Missile lock broken!” Gator snapped. “He slid off the scope like greased lightning. Sparrow armed.”
“Okay, okay — now! Fox two, Fox two!” Bird Dog said. The lighter Sparrow shot off the rails.
“Oh, shit. Got a lock on us, Bird Dog!” The warning tone of an enemy missile lock warbled in his headset.
“Get some airspace!” Batman ordered. “He can’t see me as well as he can you. I’m going to move in closer. Join back up on me as soon as you shake the missile!”
Mein Low watched the missile follow the American, grim exultation filling him. It was time for a combat kill, his first against the Western forces. The sacrifices his countrymen had made serving as operational test targets for the F-10 would be vindicated.
Suddenly, the missile lock tone wavered, then fell off into silence. Anger shot through him. Why now?
“Lock lost,” his backseater announced. “Probably from the climb. It can’t follow quickly enough, or perhaps the seeker head failed.”
“My weapons do not fail!” he snapped.
“Jamming,” the backseater added. “Probable EA-6B Prowlers. Recommend we go to heatseekers.”
Mein Low snarled his concurrence. If the American pilot wanted a knife fight, that’s what he’d get. Four Flanker pilots had died trying to evade the F-10, and Mein Low had learned how to best use his fighter up close and personal. Close-in, dirty fighting — nothing beat the F-10.
“Lost it! Bird Dog, I don’t think those Chinese missiles liked that high rate of climb maneuver.”
“Get the word out,” Bird Dog said. They’d lost some speed from the climb, but the Chinese fighter was below and in front of him now.
He watched Batman’s dance through the sky and waited for an opening to join it without spoiling Batman’s targeting. His lead had already expended two Sparrows on the other aircraft, but was still out of range for the deadly heatseeking Sidewinder. The enemy fighter was as hard to hold radar contact on as the JAST bird was.
“We’re moving in closer. Sidewinder next,” he said, thumbing the weapons selection toggle to the appropriate position. If he could get within range, the heatseeking Sidewinder wouldn’t care about radar cross sections. The ass-end of the Chinese fighter was spewing out hot exhaust that would pull the missile into it.
Bird Dog tapped his fingers on the control stick, waiting for the growl that would tell him the missile had acquired the target. If Batman would just clear the field of fire, the geometry would be perfect.
“Behind us!” his backseater screamed.
“I know, I know!” Mein Low snapped. He’d temporarily shaken the Tomcat that had been dogging him for the last five minutes. Two Flankers were diving in to deal with the first fighter.
He snapped the F-10 into a tight turn and headed back the way they’d come. It was imperative that he prevent the second Tomcat from getting a clean shot at his tailpipe. By turning, he’d put the two aircraft nose to nose and increased the closure rate to almost Mach 2. The Tomcat might be faster, but the Flanker was more maneuverable. In a close-quarters, one-on-one dogfight, he’d have the advantage.
“The wingman — where is he?” he asked, remembering the predilection for the fighters to operate in groups of two. The “Loose Deuce” formation, he thought, his mind stumbling over the uncomfortable words. American fighters normally fought as pairs, one aircraft above the other poised to maneuver into killing position while the lead aircraft fought in close.
“Two Flankers have him covered,” the backseater muttered. “He won’t be back.”
“Good.” One Tomcat alone would be easy prey. Easier, anyway. The numbers were in the Chinese’s favor, at least until the Americans could get the rest of their aircraft off the deck.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Bird Dog muttered. The radar contact was approaching at five hundred knots, slightly slower than a Tomcat’s max speed at this altitude. “You might want a nice look at my ass, you pervert, but I’m onto you!” He pulled the Tomcat into a tight bank, cutting across the path of the Flanker.
“Jesus, Bird Dog!” Gator yelled. “You want to give him a great beam shot or what?” As if in response, the high-pitched warble of the missile lock tone wailed in their headsets.
“Worked once, will work again. Chaff!” Bird Dog ordered. He put the Tomcat in a steep, circling climb, pulling in behind the Flanker again.
“It’s still got us! Chaff away again!” Gator shouted.
“Hang on! We’re going to show this fellow what a real fighter can do!”
“Go, go, go,” Mein Low chanted, watching the missile pip approach the American fighter. The Tomcat was above and behind him again, rapidly approaching perfect firing position for the Sidewinder. He banked hard to the right and nosed up into a steep climb, putting his aircraft between the sun and the American.
“Missile!” his backseater screamed.
“Sidewinder,” he grunted against the G-forces pounding him into the seat. “Flares, chaff, more flares!” The gentle thumps were barely perceptible over the screaming engines and the high-G-force vibrations.
A wash of turbulence shook the jet, and a few sharp metallic noises bit through the roar of the engines. “It went for it,” his backseater announced, relief evident in his voice.
“Now for him,” he replied, dropping the jet’s nose down. The Tomcat was now below him, afterburners screaming across the infrared spectrum. He toggled off a heatseeker, then climbed again.
“It went for the flare, Bird Dog,” Gator said. “One Sidewinder left. Missile lock!”
“You’d figure. Let’s see if their missiles are any smarter than ours. Flares!”
Gator popped two flares. Bird Dog wrapped the Tomcat into a ball, turning more sharply than he’d ever tried before, standing the jet on its tail.