again. Firing two missiles against a long-range target like this was standard doctrine, to increase the chance of a hit. An alert and skillful enemy pilot might dodge the first incoming missile, but he might not even see the second one.
Ahead, the missiles arced up, climbing to thinner air where they could fly at almost four times the speed of sound. When their motors burned out, they vanished into the darkness, coasting through the rest of their trajectory. They would dive on their targets from above, at blinding speed.
Tad clicked his mike again. “Go to cruise.” He throttled back, not only to save fuel but also to slow his rate of closure with the enemy aircraft. The otherwise excellent Sparrow had one major flaw — the attacker had to keep his radar pointed squarely at his target, “illuminating” it for the missiles in flight. Sparrows needed to “see” those reflected radar beams to home in on their target. Even at this range, missile flight time was only a minute, but that was an eternity under combat conditions. And for that relative eternity, the four Polish F-15s had to fly a relatively straight and level course. Only the absence of EurCon fighter escorts allowed them to attack this; way.
The radar display was getting mushy again. The Tornados were using jammers and bundles of chaff as they maneuvered, trying to break the radar lock. Tad’s own target acquisition box flickered, then disappeared. He swore, then swallowed his string of curses a half second later when his target vanished, too. Unguided but still ballistic, his missile must have gotten close enough for its proximity fuse to detonate before the Tornado could change course. A wave of satisfaction washed over him, and again he forced himself to concentrate on the job at hand. He had his first kill, against an old enemy.
They were close to the frantically maneuvering EurCon jets now, only a dozen kilometers away. The Tornados, flying in pairs, reacted differently to the attack. One pair turned away, trying to outrun the ambush. Four more were turning toward their attackers — attempting to increase the closure rate and break past the Poles before they could fire again. This was going to get down and dirty real fast.
Tad was already selecting his Sidewinder missiles when two more radar contacts disappeared. Yes! At this range, loss of detection meant almost a sure kill. Three German strike planes down and only four more to go. He grinned under his oxygen mask. They were cleaning up!
Wojcik continued to scan the sky around him, but he could see neither his friends nor his enemies. Still, his radar showed German aircraft in front of him. That was good enough.
“Break into pairs, turning left.” He banked the fighter left and pushed down on the stick. They would have to dive under the clouds before his Sidewinders could lock…
A line of fire passed his right side. Shit. He slammed the stick to starboard, straining against his harness, craning his neck around to see aft. Nothing. “Fighters aft! Break right!”
In that same instant, another missile sliced through the darkness, off to the left this time. This one exploded. Tad caught one brief glimpse of an F-15 in flames and tumbling out of control toward the ground. The second missile had hit his wingman. “Blue Two! Eject!”
Only static answered him as the burning Eagle fell. Oh, Christ. Wojcik swallowed convulsively, fighting down the burning taste of vomit creeping up his throat. Milan Rozek was gone.
He continued his own tight, diving turn, now seeing the clouds as cover instead of a barrier. One hand chopped his throttles still further, instinctively reducing the F-15’s infrared signature. Then he stabbed the chaff and flare release, spewing decoys out behind him in case there were other missiles closing in.
Urgent calls from Blue Three and Four indicated that they didn’t hold any other contacts, but were also maneuvering frantically while searching for the enemy planes that had sneaked up behind them.
His Eagle continued to corkscrew down, the clouds a dark gray mass below him. Tad’s mind worked fast, trying to get the measure of his unseen opponents. He hadn’t heard a peep out of his own radar warning gear. They must have been using an infrared scanner then, after being cued by Blue flight’s own radar emissions. A totally passive attack. Understanding dawned. The MiG-29 mounted such a device. And the Germans had Fulcrums — two full squadrons they’d inherited during the reunification.
It was wildly, almost insanely, ironic. Here he was, serving in a former Warsaw Pact air force and flying an American-made fighter in battle against a former NATO ally flying Soviet-made Fulcrums. He controlled a sudden, maddening urge to laugh and concentrated on staying alive.
His threat receiver was still blank, so the Germans weren’t using their radars yet.
The clouds engulfed him, and Tad let his fighter descend another five hundred meters before leveling out. Inside the mass, he was screened from infrared detection. They’d have to turn on their radars if they wanted to find him.
His plane raced northeast through almost total darkness, toward the origin point for the missiles that had narrowly missed him and killed Rozek. The F-15 rattled and shook, buffeted by turbulence inside the storm clouds.
There. Two blips appeared on his radar screen, out in front and turning toward him. Neither showed friendly IFF and both were inside Sparrow range. Even as he locked up, his threat receiver came on, showing a Slot Back radar on a bearing that matched with the bogeys. They
Tad’s finger squeezed the trigger on his stick. His third Sparrow dropped off his starboard wing and ignited. It vanished, leaving a glowing trail through the clouds.
He advanced the throttle, closing on the German MiG coming at him head-on, and selected Sidewinder. As his missile streaked out of the clouds, the enemy plane suddenly turned hard and climbed. Perfect.
Wojcik pulled back on his stick, climbing himself. Suddenly the F-15 broke out into clear air. A growling tone in his headphones indicated that the missile he’d selected could see its prey. The Fulcrum, trying desperately to evade the Sparrow he’d fired, was using full power — maybe even its after-burners.
Tad pulled the trigger again.
The heat-seeker leapt off its rail, racing toward the enemy fighter now just two miles ahead of him. A cueing box appeared on his HUD, centered on the fleeing MiG. The Sidewinder’s bright exhaust merged with the box and then vanished in a bright orange fireball. A hit! Glowing shards and pieces of debris cartwheeled out of the explosion, already spinning downward.
Wojcik circled, checking for the second German Fulcrum without success. It was gone — nowhere in sight and nowhere on radar. So were the four surviving Tornados. Worse, Blue Three and Four were also missing. And his increasingly frantic radio calls to them went unanswered.
Alone in a black sky, over a battlefield, Tadeusz Wojcik decided it was time to head for home. What had started out as a turkey shoot had all too quickly turned into a fight for his own personal survival. He didn’t like being ambushed. It was time for a change in tactics. Even his own two kills couldn’t balance the guilt he felt for losing his inexperienced wingman.
Huddled for their second emergency session in two days, the men and women who served on America’s National Security Council still looked stunned to Ross Huntington. He shared their dismay. Despite all of EurCon’s threats and menacing troop movements, none of them had really expected an armed invasion of Hungary.
General Reid Galloway put down the phone he’d been using and looked straight at the President. “That was Tom Foss, sir. Our liaison with the Polish Air Force. He confirms those early reports. Polish aircraft flying from Czech and Slovak bases
“My God.” Harris Thurman turned pale. “Do we have airmen stationed at those bases?”
“No, Mr. Secretary.” Galloway shrugged. “But we do have training groups at some of the Polish airfields being used as staging and repair areas for the squadrons they’re sending south.”
Openly appalled, the Secretary of State faced the President. “We have to get our air force people out of there! Right away!”
“Why?” the President asked quietly. Of all those in the room, he seemed the least surprised by recent events.
Thurman stared back at him, trying to calm down. “Isn’t it obvious? If they stay, the French and Germans can accuse us of playing a part in this war.”
“A war they started,” Huntington felt compelled to point out. The pompous Secretary of State never failed to irritate him.
The other man ignored him, focusing instead on the man he wanted to sway. “Mr. President, there is only one prudent course. We must immediately and publicly withdraw all U.S. military personnel from Poland and the Czech
