Vashin found his voice. “You fools,” he rasped, “I’ll have you…” The words froze in his mouth when he saw the tumbling wreckage of one of his escorts. A fighter he didn’t recognize flashed by, going straight up. For the first time in his life, he knew true fear.
Still going straight up at.92 Mach, Pontowski twisted in his seat, searching for the two Flankers he knew had to be there. He saw a bright flash that probably had come from Blue Flight. Theirs or ours? Then he was back in it, fighting for situational awareness. Much to his surprise, another F-16 was at his seven o’clock and 500 feet away. It was Emil in a fighting wing formation. Where were the other Flankers? The Tupolev? He checked his fuel gauge as he ruddered his aircraft over and headed straight down, Emil still covering his six o’clock. Instinctively, he found another Flanker. But an F-16 cut in front of him and fired an AIM-9. Pontowski crossed less than a hundred feet behind the F-16, shaking violently when he hit the other’s jet wake. A nearby flash almost blinded him. But this time he was sure it was the Flanker.
He pulled up, yelling over the radio, “BINGO! BINGO! BINGO!” They had to disengage or they would all flame out for fuel starvation before landing safely.
But Waldo was on top of it. “Blue Three. Disengage to the west. Now. Blue Two and Four, I have you in sight, your six is clear, head for homeplate.”
Pontowski saw a Viper nose over and go past a Flanker going in the opposite direction. Then it hit him, the Flanker was also disengaging. The fight was over. “Red Flight,” he transmitted, “disengage and RTB.” He listened and his spirits soared as his flight checked in. Everyone was accounted for! “I repeat,” he radioed, “return to base.” He scanned the sky. He rolled for a belly check and saw the Tupolev in the distance, 10,000 feet below him and crossing from his right to left.
“Damn!” he raged. The airliner was too far away to chase down with the fuel he had remaining. They had come all this way for nothing and shot down three good pilots who were only doing their job. He hit the auto-acquisition switch on his throttle, bringing his radar to life. He had a lock-on in less than a second. The airliner was seven miles away, closer than he thought, and on the hot side of the intercept. The decision was there, made for him. He nosed over and shoved the throttle forward into mil power. He hit the option-select button on his right multifunctional display and called up an AMRAAM missile.
Emil’s voice came over the radio. “I’m still with you.” Then, “Bandits at three o’clock.”
Pontowski’s head jerked to the right. Two small dots were turning into them, the second a mile behind the first. They were the two Flankers that had remained behind to escort the Tupolev.
“I’m engaged,” Emil transmitted, turning into the new threat, meeting the Flankers head on. Pontowski turned to follow, his turn to offer mutual support. He zoomed for separation, hoping one, or maybe both, of the Flankers would come after him. But the Flankers didn’t take the bait and by climbing, Pontowski had effectively left Emil out in front and all alone. “Goddamn it!” he raged. He watched as Emil and the lead Flanker closed and simultaneously launched missiles at each other. Now it was a race to see who had the fastest missile as both fighters jinked wildly, trying to avoid the oncoming missile. Emil’s missile flashed by the Flanker, missing completely. At the same instant, the proximity fuse in the Flanker’s missile detonated, sending a shower of shrapnel into Emil’s aircraft.
Pontowski felt sick as Emil’s jet disappeared in the missile’s fireball. Then, the F-16 was there, still flying but trailing a plume of fire. “Eject!” Pontowski yelled over the radio. He watched in horror as Emil and the Flanker collided head-on.
“Oh, shit,” Pontowski moaned to himself. A cold anger claimed him as he looked for the second Flanker. But it was far below him, headed straight down in afterburner, running from the fight. He turned on his radar, searching for the Tupolev.
“There!” the Tupolev pilot shouted, pointing at his ten o’clock position. Vashin’s eyes followed the pilot’s finger and he saw Pontowski’s F-16 as it surged into view, dropping on them like a bird of prey. “Do something!” he yelled. The captain jerked at the controls and turned into the fighter.
It was the only thing he could do.
Pontowski saw the nose of the Tupolev turn into him and he gave the pilot high marks for trying. Without emotion, he hit the pickle button, sending a fire signal to an AMRAAM missile. The slammer came off the rail and picked the first target its radar head detected. The missile headed straight for the Tupolev. Pontowski mashed the pickle button a second time and sent another missile on its way.
Vashin saw the two smoke trails etching the sky as the missiles came directly at him. An image of the archangel Michael launching thunderbolts flashed in his mind’s eye. Then he shouted at the pilots, his voice cracking with anger. He wanted to kill them because they were so helpless. It came to him in a flash. “Geraldine!” he shouted. “You cunt!”
His fury grew into a satanic rage, consuming him with hate, as the first missile closed. “It’s not my time!”
But it was.
Pontowski climbed at mil power and headed to the west. He was alone in the sky and desperately low on fuel. He hit the navigation button on the multifunctional display and called up the nearest friendly airfield where an F-16 could land. Rzeszów flashed on the screen, 450 nautical miles away. He leveled off at 40,000 feet, read the distance to go, and checked the fuel gauge again: 3,200 pounds of fuel remaining. He wasn’t going to make it. Maybe, and with a lot of luck, he could make it to Poland.
He unclipped his oxygen mask and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. The aftershock hit him and he ached with weariness, sick of it all. “You did good,” he murmured, recalling Emil’s face.
“He’s just standing there,” Brian whispered. “Like he’s got all the time in the world.”
“He’s testing us to see if we’ll shoot at him,” Zeth said. “By now, he probably figures we don’t have a gun.”
“The fucker’s wrong,” Brian growled, raising the Glock Sanford had given him.
Matt saw a shadow move on the opposite bank. “Look,” he whispered. It was Sanford. They watched as the Secret Service agent raised his automatic in a two-handed stance to shoot the man in the back. But nothing happened. Sanford disappeared into the shadows.
“His gun must’ve jammed,” Zeth whispered.
“I’m coming across,” the man shouted. He started to walk across the bridge which was now out of the water.
A shadow materialized on the far side of the bridge, gliding up behind the man. “Chuck,” Zeth whispered.
Sanford was behind him and threw a carotid hold around the man’s neck, cutting off the blood supply to the man’s brain. Normally, he would have been unconscious in five to ten seconds. But Sanford slipped on the wet boards and the men crashed to the deck. Brian stood up to get a clear shot but the men were on each other, gouging and tearing at the other’s eyes and throat.
Matt jumped into the driver’s seat of the truck and switched on the headlights to give Brian more light. He started the engine. Brian tried to get off a clean shot but Sanford was in the way. The man kicked at Sanford’s knee and the agent went down. Brian fired and missed. The man kicked Sanford in the head and knelt down behind him, pulling him up by his shirt as a shield. A knife flicked open in his hand. He held the blade to Sanford’s neck.