Zeth stared at Matt, her eyes wide. “I need to think about it,” she shouted.
It was time to descend. “Emil,” Pontowski said, “tell Kiev Control we have a problem with our landing gear and want to check it out during descent.” He listened on the UHF radio as Emil made the radio call. After a brief exchange in Russian, Emil’s voice came over the Have Quick radio. “We’re cleared to descend at our discretion and maneuver to check our landing gear.”
Pontowski held them at altitude for a few more minutes to keep them high and conserve fuel. The lower they went, the greater their fuel consumption. “Throttles idle, airspeed two-ten,” he ordered. It was a maximum range descent where they traded altitude for miles at the lowest possible fuel consumption.
They leveled off at 300 feet, well below radar coverage. For a moment, Pontowski was tempted to bring his own radar to life for one sweep to find the airliner. But if the TU-204 was equipped with radar-warning gear, that would set off all sorts of alarms. “Let’s do this one visual if we can,” he transmitted. “Go tactical.” Each formation spread out into a big box, roughly 3,000 to 5,000 feet on a side.
“Okay, troops,” Waldo said, “heads up. A TU-204 looks like a Boeing 757. Except it’s got winglets.”
The pilots strained as they searched the sky.
Zeth checked her watch. “Chuck should have made it across by now.”
“Hey!” the man yelled. “Time’s up. Give me the boy and you okay.”
Matt stood up. But Brian tackled him just as a shot rang out, splitting the air above their heads. “No fuckin’ way, Maggot. I don’t know why he wants you, but he’s gonna kill us all.” They rolled back under the truck.
“Give me the boy,” the man yelled.
“How do we know you won’t shoot us?” Zeth yelled.
They heard the car start. The headlights came on and the car slowly moved onto the bridge and stopped, blocking it. The man got out, standing in an inch of water that was still flowing over the top of the wooden planks.
“The water’s going down,” Zeth whispered, shielding her eyes from the lights. They watched as the man walked in front of the car and held the rifle above his head. He threw it into the water.
“He’s out of ammo,” Brian said.
“I’ll bet he’s still got a weapon,” Zeth added.
“Now it’s okay, yes?” the man shouted.
The teenagers looked at each other, not sure what to do.
Blue Two redeemed himself for the switchology error on the range when he called “Tallyho! Two o’clock high. Eight miles.” Seven sets of eyes focused on that part of the sky, first one click echoed in Pontowski’s headset, then six more. They had all found the target except him. His vision wasn’t what it used to be. Then he saw it. The airliner was a speck in the sky. He was padlocked, afraid to take his eyes off it and lose contact. “Waldo, take spacing, two miles in trail.” Waldo acknowledged and flew a weave as his flight fell into trail.
The information Riley had given him was accurate. They were at the airliner’s four o’clock and closing to its deep six o’clock. He estimated they were 35,000 feet below it with a good look-up angle for an AMRAAM missile. The slammer would do the job nicely and his fangs were out. It was not the glamorous image of chivalrous knights of the air, but the work of assassins. Yet, he had no compunctions about shooting down the airliner and killing innocent people to nail Vashin. How many more innocent Poles would he save? Faces flashed in his mind and he was back in the pub with Ewa and her mother. He forced himself to concentrate. He and Waldo had done what they came for.
“Emil, take the shot. Use the slammer.”
“My pleasure,” the Polish pilot answered.
“I’ll talk you through it,” Pontowski replied.
Red Three saw the threat first. “Bandits! In trail on the Tupolev. I count six.”
Pontowski strained to make them out. Then he saw the six small specks flying a V formation with the airliner. “Escorts,” he radioed. “I can’t make out what they are.”
“Press,” Waldo said, warning him they were rapidly running out of fuel and time.
Pontowski checked his fuel. They had less than a minute’s playtime to engage the fighters and shoot down the Tupolev if they were to make it back. His orders came fast. “Waldo, lean right. Red Flight, check left thirty degrees.” Waldo’s flight turned away to the right while Pontowski’s turned to the left. Now they had the fighters bracketed as they closed. “Select heaters,” Pontowski radioed, telling the pilots to use AIM-9s for the engagement. “Master Arm on.” His voice was amazingly calm, which wouldn’t last for long. The fighters were almost directly overhead. “PULL! he shouted, shoving his throttle into afterburner. The four Vipers headed straight up for the fighters.
Fifteen seconds later, Waldo keyed his radio, his voice much calmer, “Blue Flight, pull.”
Pontowski sorted the targets as they climbed, assigning each member of his flight a target. “They don’t see us,” he radioed. “Hold your shot until you’re in range.” A low growl filled his headset. The seeker head of his missile was locked on and tracking. “Su-27s, Flankers,” he radioed, finally identifying the bandits escorting the Tupolev. But he was wrong, the six aircraft were Su-35s, a much improved version of the Su-27.
“Damn!” Pontowski shouted. A missile was streaking toward the Flankers, its smoke trail etching the sky. Emil had buck fever and had fired too soon. The missile went ballistic.
The unbelievably fast AIM-9 shot straight up, passing harmlessly between the Flankers, leaving a smoke trail that led directly to Pontowski’s flight of four Vipers. One of the Flankers rolled for a belly check and saw the fighters climbing toward him. The Flanker buried its nose and headed down. Immediately, three others followed, leaving two behind to protect the Tupolev. Two Flankers headed straight for Pontowski’s Red Flight while the other two fighters headed for Waldo’s Blue Flight which was lower and farther away.
“He’s good,” Waldo said, warning Pontowksi. He personally doubted if he could have reacted that fast and sorted out the attack, pairing two against Pontowski’s flight while peeling off two to engage Blue Flight. Neither Waldo nor Pontowski feared the Su-35, but they had good reason to fear the man leading them.
“PRESS!” Pontowski shouted. What happened next took less than twenty seconds and with twelve fighters in less than five miles of airspace, it was a true furball as the two groups of fighters merged, the Flankers going straight down, the Vipers straight up. The only mutual support that existed was knowing there were friends in the area. But it was every man for himself.
The TU-204 rocked violently, throwing Vashin to the floor. He picked himself up and fell again, rolling forward as the big airliner dove for the ground. He was furious and struggled to his feet, half stumbling, half skidding toward the flight deck. He burst through the door. Warning bells and the shouting pilots deafened him. “What are you bastards doing?” he shouted, adding to the confusion.
“We’re being attacked!” the captain yelled.
“Where are they?” Vashin shouted back.
The captain pulled back on the control column and the big plane leveled off. “We can’t see them,” the first officer answered.
Vashin’s mouth contorted in fury, his paranoia in full flow, fully believing his own pilots were trying to kill him.
Pontowski jerked the nose of his Viper on to the lead Flanker and pointed straight at him. He had every intention of shooting him in the face. The Flanker’s nose jerked once as the pilot fought for separation. Instantaneously, Pontowski’s nose was back on him. His right forefinger was depressing the trigger as they came together in the merge. The 20mm cannon fired as Pontowski rolled ninety degrees and brought the Flanker onboard canopy-to-canopy. The Flanker’s cannon was also firing but the golden BB, the lucky round, came from the Viper. The Flanker exploded as Pontowski flashed by with less than fifty feet of separation.