“We’re targeted,” Greene said, as the ECM system howled. “Missiles.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Tombstone said. “And if the missiles work, no more problem in a few minutes.”
Tombstone put the MiG into a hard climb, kicked in the afterburner, and headed south. “Keep an eye on them.”
“Roger.” Greene turned around in his seat to watch the island behind them. A few moments later, he saw two explosions, followed by fire. “Hard kill, I think.” The radar warning signal fell silent. “And missiles have gone dumb. We did it!”
Tombstone switched to the tactical frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Two HARMs fired, two kills. Request you have the Hawkeye confirm.”
“Roger, Stoney One,” the Hawkeye said. “Confirm two radars off line.”
Howls of anticipation echoed over tactical as the Tomcat pilots turned back into the battle within the renewed deadly intent on the remaining MiGs. With shore-based missiles no longer complicating the picture, the matter of sweeping the sky clean became increasingly less complex.
SIXTEEN
Korsov and his flight were cruising at an altitude of 29,000 feet. He kept a close eye on his fuel indicator. In theory, at this altitude, the incoming aircraft should have more than sufficient fuel to reach Bermuda, with even some to spare should they have to delay their landing.
But he’d never planned to engage in a full-on dog fight and have to fight his way into the landing strip and refueling area. No, between Maskiro and his truck-launched weapons and the Americans’ reluctance to risk casualties, it was supposed to be an unopposed landing. Looking at the radar now and the gaggle of American fighters sweeping north along the west side of the island, he knew that would not be the case.
No matter. The mood among his group of aircraft had been growing all day, all of them hyped on adrenaline and itching for a fight. They were fighter pilots, and the drive to see combat was never far from the surface in each of them. Deeper down was the fear, the knowledge that you might not make it, the memory of having seen so many comrades lost in training, stupid accidents, or in combat. But it always happened to someone else, never to you. You would have been smarter at the last second, have made the right choice, have known immediately what to do instead of wasting precious seconds and altitude realizing you were in deep, deep shit.
The tension in the group had eased during the long transit, but now, with the island a fuzzy blur on their radar and the American fighters heading for them, everyone was on edge, itching for a fight. When the warning bowl of the ESM gear sounded, Korsov almost jumped out of his seat. “Where?” he demanded.
“To the west — Tomcats. It’s the AWG-9 system, no doubt,” his backseater said, his voice rushing over the words, talking too fast. “They’re out of range of the trucks — they’re headed for us.”
“Well, what of it? They want a fight, they’ll get one.” The adrenaline was surging through his system now, blanking out any possibilities that there was anything but one logical conclusion to the pending encounter. “How many?”
“Ten — no, sixteen. Maybe more.”
Did they launch the entire fighter complement off the aircraft carrier? No, they wouldn’t have — not and leave the carrier unprotected. There were still the MiGs already on the island to contend with, although they had remained on the ground since they’d landed. Still, just knowing that they were there would keep the aircraft carrier off balance.
“Roger,” he said. “Lenin flight, remained on course, engage at will. Bolshoi flight, follow me.” With that, leader pulled off half of the squadron and ascended, increasing his radar range as well as gaining valuable altitude. Altitude meant safety.
“Lenin flight — do nothing until you have launch indications,” he ordered. “Same thing, Bolshoi flight — if we can get on deck and under the antiair cover, that’s what we’ll do. And if not, well, we’ll wipe the sky clean, won’t we?” Listening to the cheers rattling over the circuit, he could feel the combat lust that filled each cockpit.
He put Bolshoi flight into a long, slow turn to the south, lining up now on the island. He could see it easily from his canopy, a lush, green expanse, its edges trimmed with white. The beaches, he’d heard, were outstanding. Not that he would have a chance to see them. None at first.
But perhaps later. Yes, definitely later. A walk along the beach, barefoot, the sun bleaching my hair, with a piña colada in my hand and a woman — no, two women — with me. They will be — exotic.
And the only thing standing between me and my beach is a few Tomcats.
“Half of them are heading for the deck,” the Hawkeye announced. “They probably intended to do a quick refuel while the other half covers them.”
“Be nice if we could keep that from happening,” Bird Dog said. “And I got just the thing that might persuade them.”
Bird Dog listened to the warnings over international air distress and military air distress, ordering the MiGs to turn away from the island. There was no response to the repeated warnings, each one promising dire consequences and harsher terms. Finally, after the last one, Bird Dog heard Coyote’s voice. “Weapons free. All Russian targets declared hostile. I repeat, weapons free.”
“Tally ho on the lead MiG,” Bird Dog said promptly. “Your dot, RIO,” he said, giving his backseater permission to fire. It was a privilege he normally would have reserved for himself, but he was trying to make amends. “Shaughnessy, take your shot — AMRAAM now. Maybe we’ll scare the little bastards off.”
“Roger. But I get the feeling they came to play, not to run.” As she spoke, an AMRAAM shot out from under her wings, nosed over a bit, then headed straight for the second MiG in the pack.
At the first missile launch, the MiG flight broke formation, scattering into fighting pairs in the same style that the American used. Bird Dog listened as voices called out targets over the circuit. Sixteen Tomcats against twenty MiGs — well, that was close enough to being fair. The AMRAAM would even up their numbers quickly, and they’d polished off the rest of them at their leisure.
He bore in on it, keeping the MiG targeted, hand poised over the weapons selector switch, watching the AMRAAM close in. The MiG knew it was in trouble, and began jinking around the sky, frantic to evade the missile. Finally, two seconds before the missile intersected the fuselage, the canopy blew off and the Russians’ ejection seats shot out at right angles to the plane. Bird Dog watched them floating down to the ocean, glad in some way that they made it out.
“Good kill,” the E-2 said. “You too, Shaughnessy.” Bird Dog moved his pip to the next target.
“MiGs! They’ve got a lock!” his RIO shouted. Bird Dog saw it immediately. He punched out chaff and flares, initiated jamming, and watched as the missile arced down cleanly from above, seeking out the Tomcat 5,000 feet below it. Bird Dog toggled off an AAMRAM at the aggressor.
Korsov snarled as he saw the missile symbols emerging from the Tomcat symbols. “You think that long-range weapons worry me?” he sneered. “I have a little something for you as well.” He pickeled off his own long-range antiair missile, then turned his attention to the countermeasures and maneuvers he would need to evade the American missiles.
The Russian missile was not new technology. The seeker head was reverse-engineered from the American AMRAAM, the missile slightly longer, while the payload remained about the same. This particular warhead contained a net of expanding steel rods that would snag a Tomcat out of the air like a cat dipping into a fish tank. The missile was a bit slower than the AMRAAM but made up for it in endurance. It possesses a retargeting capability as well.