The thing had two engines, and they were both on burner. Tony throttled back and saw him pull ahead. “He must have lost me,” Tony thought.
Hitting the cannon select, he started lining up for a shot. The pilot would realize his error any second.
“Saint, there’s one behind.”
“Rog.” The plane’s tail filled his HUD and he fired. There was no flash, but the aircraft suddenly spun wildly to the right. He started to follow it down —
“One’s behind, at your seven, break left!” Tony pushed left on the stick and leveled out, turning hard. Hooter was behind and to his right.
“Can you get a shot?”
“I’m going to guns. Turn harder, he’s lining up!”
Tony was already pulling seven plus g’s. The harder an aircraft turned, the more speed it bled off. He was going to start slowing down, which could make him an easy mark. He put the aircraft in a shallow dive to gain some speed back, cranking the stick even harder. His head was pushed back by forces nine times normal. “Get him, Hooter!”
“Rog.”
Even in the steep diving turn, Tony jinked and slid, trying to spoil the pilot’s aim. He looked over his shoulder and saw the bastard nimbly following his maneuvers. “Anytime, Hooter.”
“Rog.”
Tony continued to jink, watching his altitude decrease. The fight had started at about eight thousand. He was now at sixty-five hundred and had the choice of either diving into the SAM envelope at five thousand or pulling up and losing —
“Shooting.”BLAM! Tony looked back and saw a beautiful explosion. A black shape fell out of it, tumbling. He leveled out and called to John. “Hooter. Take the lead. Head back toward base, and climb to ten thousand.” Executing a gentle turn, he fell in on his wingman’s right. While Hooter did not “lead” their flight, he was capable of taking the lead position, and right now he had the only missile left. This seemed like a good time for him to be in front.
Tony started scanning the sky, looking for any more bandits. They were alone. He thumbed his frequency switch. “Pancake, Showtime, splash two high-performance MiGs. Vector, over.”
“Roger, Showtime steer zero five five, bandits exiting the strike area. Buster, over.”
“Showtime, roger, out.” Hooter’s tailpipe glowed brighter as they increased their throttle again. Tony glanced at his fuel gauge with a little concern. Pancake was pushing them all over the sky, and they did not have an infinite amount of gas.
Tony had been too busy to listen to the radio chatter. All of the squadron’s fighters were on the same frequency, and now he tried to piece together the battle around them.
“Owl, break right!”
“Watch for the Fishbed, he’s at your nine.” He recognized Sanchez’s voice, so he didn’t check his own left.
“Clear to fire.”
“Splash two!”
“Saint, I’m locked. Negative IFF zero six two at ten miles.”
Tony looked at his screen. The contact was northeast, and easy to sort out of the confetti on the screen. The contact was probably climbing up after making its attack. Yep, the altitude was increasing. They were at his five o’clock, almost dead aft.
Hooter’s voice came over the circuit. “Tone.”
There was a flash at the Falcon’s left wingtip as the motor fired. Tony forced himself to cover Hooter’s blind side, watching for threats to the pair while John earned his pay.
They were close enough to the target to see bits of the airframe fly off as the warhead detonated. It was a Fitter, an older attack jet. As it rolled left slowly, there was a flash as the ejection seat fired the pilot out of the crippled aircraft and into the dubious safety of captivity in South Korea.
Tony headed them toward base. They called in and were told to orbit. “Runway is fouled, ETR ten minutes.”
“Rog.” He was glad they had headed back. He looked at his fuel gauge. “Hooter, what’s your fuel?”
“Eight fifty.”
That was much better than his. “Tower, Showtime lead is critical fuel, five fifty pounds, over.
“Roger, Showtime flight is number two for landing. ETR five minutes.”
He wondered who was number one, and what fumes he was burning. All they could do was wait. Pacing was hard in a fighter cockpit, but Tony did his best. He reviewed the scramble, Boomer’s loss, his own narrow escape, Hooter’s marksmanship. The war was not off to a good start.
“Showtime cleared to land, steer one five two. Brake hard on landing, over.”
“Rog.” Tony and Hooter turned toward the base, being very careful to follow the tower’s instructions. They were flying through a narrow “safety lane” where antiaircraft crews were barred from firing. In theory, at least. Outside the lane it was open season.
Tony looked at his gauge. Two hundred pounds.
The runway lights appeared and they lined up for a straight-in approach. As they closed, Tony saw something blocking some of the lights. A dark blot resolved itself into a Falcon-shaped wreck, half-on and half-off the runway.
They immediately flared, hard and early. Tony thought it was one of the best landings he had ever made, actually starting on the underrun area. He chopped throttle, then leaned on the brakes. Hooter was on his right, and he looked over to see him running almost on the grass. Tony steered over, glad for the clearance.
The wreck resolved itself. It looked like the port gear had failed, the aircraft spinning as the wing hit the ground. The canopy was off, indicating that the pilot had ejected rather than stay with a potential fireball.
Suddenly Tony’s attitude shifted. Yesterday this was an accident investigation and a maintenance hassle. Now it was a valuable combat aircraft out of action for several days.
They taxied in quickly. There were piles of debris swept off to the side of the taxiway. Tony had never seen so much activity. Work lights were on in every arch. Another change was that everyone was wearing a sidearm.
Kawamoto was waiting. He pointed to Tony’s empty wing rails and clasped his hands over his head. Tony cut the engine and rolled to a stop. Suddenly he was weak, too tired to even take off his helmet.
The sergeant ran up with the ladder, then climbed up and knocked on the canopy. Tony looked over and pushed the release, feeling as if he were moving a safe.
“HOT SHIT, sir! Here, drink this.” He handed Tony a Styrofoam cup.
Tony gratefully took it and drank. Expecting coffee, he was slightly startled. Chicken soup.
John came running into the shelter waving a tape cassette. “Saint, that was wild! Three morts each! We paid those bastards back, the first installment anyway.”
Tony looked over at him. “What do you mean? You got two, I got one.”
“Negats, my leader. All our initial shots hit. I saw three flashes as we turned off. Your second shot on the fighters hit, too. I climbed after you did and saw it go in.”
Well. Gee. Tony considered. They lost Boomer, but had killed seven between them, assuming Hooter was right. Hooter had excellent eyesight. Chicken soup or victories, Tony’s strength started returning.
“Hooter, you’ve just demonstrated the true value of a wingman.” He climbed out of the cockpit and lowered himself down the ladder. Hooter was studying the seat of his flight suit.
“What are you looking at?”
“Just looking to see how full it is.”
“Funny, very funny. Well, you’re entitled, it wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t smoked that sucker.” They started walking toward the ops building.
“Saint, those were MiG-29 Fulcrums.”
“It’s possible. Russian, two tails, twin engines.”
“Screw that. I saw him, silhouetted. Nothing else but.”