“Roger that, Harbinger,” The reply came in an instant, sarcasm immediately replaced with professionalism once more. “Crew is ready and awaiting your arrival.” A bright star suddenly lit up in the night sky ahead of them as the Extender turned on its navigation and operating lights, guiding the fighter in to a rendezvous.
The refuelling took a good deal longer than it normally should have, most of that extra time taken up by Thorne fighting with his damaged aircraft while attempting to link up with the Extender’s refuelling boom. Task finally completed, the pair formed up for a long and leisurely cruise back to base, on their wide detour around Ireland to avoid any further potential threats. It wasn’t long however before that potential threat became a realised one. As they closed on the south coast of Ireland, Thorne’s search radar detected a single, high-level contact approaching from the north-east at high speed.
“Looks like we’ve got some more ‘fun’ coming our way, Alec,” he advised, locking the aircraft into his targeting systems while it was still more than 200 kilometres away. He then radioed the crew of the KC-10A to also advise them of the newly-detected bogie. “Phoenix-Two, we’ve got our last Flanker heading in at high speed from the north-east, range one-one-zero nautical miles… recommend you head further west and descend to low level. Turning in to intercept now… we’ll see if we can keep him off your tail…”
“Understood, Harbinger… will comply… thanks for the warning.” There was no sarcasm this time, and within seconds the tanker had began to turn sharply away from the Lightning’s port wing, seeking safety in distance and a lower altitude. Thorne turned the F-35E in the opposite direction, putting them on a collision course with the remaining Sukhoi.
“One way or the other, this is the last of them, isn’t it, Max…?” Trumbull observed with a seriousness borne of tension and fear.
“Sure is,” Thorne agreed slowly, his own nerves starting to show in his voice as the aircraft continued to shudder noticeably in flight. The jet still flew well enough, but the continual vibration was beginning to sap at both men’s mental and physical strength. There was also the danger that constant stress placed upon the airframe itself might cause some other unknown weak point to fail, although Thorne decided it probably best not to mention that fear to Trumbull at that moment. “Not much chance of sneaking up on them this time, either,” he grimaced. “It’ll probably come down to technology in the end…”
“What do you mean?”
“We know the New Eagles bought these bloody Flankers from the Chechen Mafia, but we’ve no idea what ordnance they got with them. If they’ve got eighties-vintage AA-10 medium range missiles, then we’ve got an advantage… they’re less capable than our AMRAAMs,” he explained, using Cold War NATO codenames out of habit rather than the correct Russian designations. “If they’re got the newer AA-12s on the other hand, then we’re up against it… the ‘Adders’ are pretty-much the equal to ours, and pack a longer range… the military community even nicknamed them the ‘AMRAAMSKI’ in recognition of their similarity to the AIM-120.”
“I don’t think I’d like a career with the air forces of the future,” Trumbull growled softly, his tone vaguely bitter. “Life or death seems to revolve more around who pushes the first button than any real ability as a pilot.”
“Actually, I kind of agree with you,” Thorne replied grimly after a moment’s consideration and a slight nod. “Personally, I’d rather sort this out with guns in an all-in ‘furball’ any day.” His grimace became a thin, wry smile. “Don’t think our ‘mate’ here would agree, though.”
Flying higher and faster in Hawk-3, Schwarz loosed two of his missiles at a range of 100 kilometres, providing his opponent plenty of time to prepare countermeasures. The early launch however also put extra pressure on his enemy, and Schwarz in any case still held another pair of R-27 missiles in reserve beneath the Flanker’s fuselage, a medium-range weapon also known by the NATO codename AA-10 ‘Alamo’.
Trumbull had learned enough about flying the F-35E to pick up the approaching missiles on radar, and he was more than a little concerned as Thorne continued to do nothing other than close the distance between the two aircraft at full throttle.
“Those two new contacts are guided missiles, aren’t they…?” He asked tentatively.
“Radar-guided, far as I can tell…” Thorne confirmed, voice deadpan.
“Oh good… just… just checking…” Trumbull nodded nervously, trying to force a smile beneath his oxygen mask but not really managing.
“I can’t counter-launch yet, Alec,” Thorne explained with a thin smile. “Their missiles have better range… I need to be closer to have a chance of hitting them.” A tense silence followed as time ticked by, and with one last range check on his HDMS readouts, Thorne finally released both of Hindsight’s remaining AIM-120s at a range of seventy kilometres. They hissed away from his weapons bays like tiny meteors, and the engagement suddenly became a waiting game once more.
“We’ve got about forty seconds or so,” Thorne continued tensely, his teeth clamped together as he watched carefully for the telltale flare of the enemy missiles’ exhausts. “If he’s fired AA-10s at us, he’ll need to maintain radar lock for them to hit us…”
“But he’ll have to turn away at some point to try and avoid our missiles!” Trumbull suddenly saw the method in Thorne’s actions.
“Exactly,” the Australian confirmed, nodding. “Basically, we’re playing a bloody great game of ‘chicken’…” He managed a vaguely evil smile. “Of course, the problem for him is; from about ten miles out, our missiles can track all by themselves.”
“And if he’s fired those ‘new’ missiles at us…?”
“Then we’re probably screwed,” Thorne replied cheerfully.
“Incoming missiles just went active… they’re AMRAAMs… AMRAAMs!” Weapons Officer Hauser called out his final warning at a range of just fifteen kilometres. As the combined approach speed of missiles and aircraft was better than hypersonic, there was no time for discussion or any further comment at all… there was barely time for anything other than reflex and instinct. Schwarz hauled back on the stick and began to turn, pumping chaff into the sky behind the Flanker in an attempt to blur his radar return.
The Sukhoi was travelling faster than sound, and it was loath to change direction as a result, making it necessary to dump speed dramatically before the air rushing past around them would allow the jet to make any radical manoeuvres. The Su-30MK, although state-of-the-art by the Russian standards of its time, was nevertheless a generation behind the avionics of the F-35E, as were the aircraft’s defensive countermeasures. The pre-cut clouds of aluminium filling the air behind the turning aircraft didn’t fool the pair of AMRAAMs for a second, and the first ploughed into the climbing Sukhoi’s belly amidships after flicking upward from its original course at the last moment. The second missile detonated amid the expanding fireball and wreckage a moment later.
The pair of R-27 ‘Alamo’ missiles targeted on the Lightning lost lock the moment their mother aircraft turned away and then rather inconveniently exploded. Thorne and Trumbull could actually see the flare of their exhausts in the dark sky ahead by that stage as they suddenly fell from their guided flight plan and nosed downward, still in formation. Both passed just a thousand metres below the jet as they continued on below and behind, both men in the F-35E releasing sighs of relief.