The Badger’s twin turbojets had been droning for hours, lulling many among the huge plane’s flight crew into a kind of stupor made up as much of boredom as it was of fatigue. There was little enough to look at. Just scattered clouds in a brilliant blue sky. And two American F-14s keeping station on them as they orbited. The Badger’s crew had seen their share of the twin-tailed American fighters before. The Tomcats were always nearby whenever a mission took the converted bomber near a U.S. Navy carrier task force.
None of the signals intelligence crewmen seated at the consoles jamming the Badger’s fuselage was the least bit bored. This was the opportunity of a professional lifetime. They were kept busy intercepting and recording every burst of electronic noise the Americans sent out. Radar emissions. Radio transmissions. Everything. Watching two American aircraft carriers launch a real combat mission was proving most instructive.
Suddenly the senior technician’s fingers stopped drumming the face of his console and he sat bolt upright. “Comrade Major! I’m picking up midcourse guidance signals for American missiles. Phoenix missiles aimed at our fighters!”
The major was an intelligent man and he didn’t waste time going through the chain of command. Instead he leaped for the radio himself.
Borodin heard the distinctive tone of the American radar in his earphones as it swept over his MiG-29 and smiled. His plan was working. He’d deployed two squadrons of MiG-21s out in front of his twenty MiG-29s, hoping that the Americans would waste their long-range missiles on the older and less capable planes. It was hard on the MiG-21 pilots, but what the hell. None of them were Russians.
“Fulcrum Lead, this is Badger Four! Missiles inbound from American fighters!”
Borodin keyed his mike to acknowledge and switched frequencies. “Fishbed Lead, this is Fulcrum Lead. Red Sector!” He gave the code phrase that would alert the MiG-21s to their danger. At the same time, he hit the MiG- 29’s throttle, accelerating to close with the lead group. The other Fulcrums followed him as his airspeed crept closer to six hundred knots.
They would mingle with the survivors of the first group as it came within standard radar missile range of the American escort force.
The North Korean colonel leading the MiG-21 squadrons squinted into the nearly cloudless blue sky, searching desperately for signs of the incoming Phoenixes. With a top speed of nearly 2,400 miles an hour, the American missiles could be expected to reach him in less than ninety seconds from launch.
There. He saw contrails streaking down out of the sky ahead, just as his radar warning receiver burst into a high-pitched
“All aircraft! Take evasive action, now!” The colonel yanked his MiG-21 into a hard, seven-g climb to the left, putting Soviet theory into practice. The theory said a rapid pitch-up maneuver could defeat the Phoenix. The twenty-one other planes under his command followed suit, pulling tightly to the left or right and climbing as they worked to evade the enemy missiles.
Most were successful. The AIM-54C Phoenix was designed primarily to kill lumbering bombers, not agile fighters. Its incredibly powerful motor gave it tremendous speed and range, but the motor burned out within seconds after launch. As a result, the missile often lacked the “oompf” needed to follow a highly maneuverable fighter at long range as it climbed.
Theory only went so far, however, and six pilots weren’t fast enough or lucky enough. They died as missiles slammed home.
“Red Dog Lead, this is Roundup. Splash six bogies.”
Bouchard shook his head angrily. He’d hoped for more kills from the Phoenixes. There were still thirty-six enemy fighters out there and now they were much closer. He’d have to bring the F-18s into play sooner than he’d wanted to.
Esteban called from the backseat. “Corky, the rear group is merging with the lead batch. Range now forty- five miles. One thousand knots closure.” The rival groups of fighters were racing toward each other at incredible speed, covering nearly seventeen nautical miles with every passing minute.
He keyed the mike again, this time calling the Hornet commander ahead of him. “Black Dog Lead, this is Red Dog Lead. Engage the enemy at maximum range.”
He heard twin clicks as the F-18s signaled that they’d heard and understood him. Behind him, Esteban muttered to himself as he selected new targets for the Tomcat’s four AIM-7M Sparrow missiles. This wasn’t going to be as easy as firing Phoenixes. The Sparrow was a semiactive radar homer. In other words, the missile guided on the radar beam sent out by the plane that launched it. And that meant a plane firing Sparrows had to keep its target “painted” with a radar beam until the missiles hit. All of which required flying straight and comparatively level right into the teeth of the enemy. Esteban had always defined that as a real hard way to earn your flight pay.
Borodin pulled his Fulcrum alongside the MiG-21 belonging to the North Korean colonel just long enough to give him a thumbs-up signal. Then he dropped back and to the left as the formation spread out, seeking room for the wild evasive maneuvers they would soon have to make. The last transmission from the Mainstay had shown that they were coming into the launch envelope of the Americans’ Sparrow missiles.
He glanced down quickly at his own radar screen. Nothing. Just a myriad assembly of randomly moving splotches and dots. The American jammer aircraft were really very good. Still, they should soon reach the point at which his Fulcrums’ radars would be strong enough to “burn through” the jamming and lock on to the enemy fighters up ahead. And when that happened, he would have a little present for them — the two AA-7 Apex radar- guided missiles slung under each MiG-29.
“Red Dog Lead, this is Black Dog Lead. We show MiG-29s intermingled with the MiG-21s.” The F-18 squadron CO’s calm voice crackled in Bouchard’s ears. MiG-29s! All right, Corky my boy, he thought, you’re gonna be hassling with the primo of the primo today.
Estenban called from the backseat, “Got ’em. We’ve got lock-ons! Range now thirty miles!”
Yeah. Bouchard thumbed the firing switch twice and felt the F-14 shudder slightly as two Sparrows dropped out from under the wings and ignited. His eyes followed the bright, white smoke and flame trails as they tore toward the still unseen oncoming MiGs. Other missile trails reached out from his Tomcats and from the Hornets. Happy New Year, Uncle Kim.
Borodin saw it, slicing down out of the sky right toward him. A tiny speck growing larger and larger through his MiG-29’s canopy. He tensed his stomach muscles and held his course, watching the missile come for him. There were other trails in the sky, but he didn’t care about those. Under this kind of attack, it was every pilot for himself.
Now! Borodin yanked hard left on his stick and pulled sharply back, throwing his Fulcrum into a tight, climbing high-g turn. He grunted as the g’s hit but kept his head cocked to keep an eye on the American missile through the turn. At the same time he kept his thumb busy on the stick’s decoy dispenser button, popping out bundle after bundle of chaff — clouds of thin strips of metalized Mylar film that would look like an airplane to the enemy radar.
Yes! Borodin saw the missile trail bend away, following one of his chaff clouds. He craned his neck around and saw the Sparrow explode well behind and below his plane. Then he snapped his head back around, searching rapidly for any more missiles targeted on his Fulcrum. There weren’t any.
Voices came over the radio. Desperate voices. “Ten, turn right. Right! You’ve got one after you!”
“I can’t shake it!”
“Turn harder, you fool!”
Borodin looked to his right and saw a MiG-29 diving away, afterburner blazing. A billowing white smoke trail
