Retribution

The MiGs had pulled to seventy-five miles from the Megafortress. Englehardt realized that they probably intended on firing medium-range radar missiles as soon as possible — in roughly two minutes, he calculated.

Huge amounts of time, if he kept his head. He’d be by the SA-2s by then and could cut back east as he planned.

God, did this never end? It was twenty, thirty times worse than a simulation. His brain felt as if it were frying.

“Stay on course,” he said aloud, though he was actually speaking to himself.

“You want me to target those MiGs with the Anacondas?” asked Sullivan.

“I have a feeling we’re going to need them when we get toward the coast,” Englehardt said. “Better warn the Cheli and Danny Freah that we’re attracting a lot of attention. They may get the same treatment.”

“Mobile missile site up! Akash missiles,” said Sullivan.

Unlike the SA-2, the Akash was a modern missile system guided by a difficult-to-defeat multifunctional radar. Developed as both a ground and air-launched missile, it could strike targets at two meters and 18,000 meters, and everything in between. But because its range was limited to about thirty kilometers, or roughly nineteen miles, Englehardt knew he could get away from it simply by turning to the west.

But that would bring him closer to the MiG-21s.

Which would be easier to deal with, the planes or the missiles?

The MiGs, he decided, starting the turn.

“Mike, what are we doing?” asked Sullivan.

“We’re going to avoid the Akash battery.”

“They haven’t launched.”

“Neither have the MiGs.”

“Sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with some of these bastards,” said Sullivan. “And we’re getting farther from where we want to go. We have to get out over the water.”

“I am dealing with them,” snapped Englehardt.

He pulled back on the stick, aiming to take the Megafortress high enough so he wouldn’t have to worry about any more Akash sites.

“Starship — Flighthawk leader. Set up an intercept on those MiGs,” said Englehardt. He was angry now; he felt his ears getting hot.

“I still have to tank Hawk One,” said Starship. “They’ll be in range to launch before I can get to them.”

“Do it now, then tank.”

* * *

Starship curled Hawk One away from the Megafortress, then unhooked Hawk Two from the refueling probe, its tanks about seven-eighths full. The EB-52’s maneuvers to avoid the radar were becoming so severe that he couldn’t have continued with the refuel anyway.

He slotted the two ships into a loose trail as he sized up his opponents. If the MiGs kept coming for the Megafortress once they fired their missiles, he’d be in a good position to take on Bandits Three and Four, the northernmost planes. He plotted the intercept for the computer, telling it to take Hawk Two while he rode Hawk One onto the lead plane of the element, Bandit Three.

He’d just started his turn to get the Flighthawk on its intercept when the Indians began launching their missiles, medium-range R-27s, known to NATO as AA-10 Alamos. Each plane fired two, then immediately turned away. Starship broke off the attack; there was no sense chasing the planes now.

“We have two Mirage 2000s coming up from the southeast,” said Rager, identifying a pair of advanced fighter-bombers he’d just spotted on the radar scope.

“I have them,” said Starship, changing course.

* * *

Of the eight missiles launched at the Megafortress, two took immediate nosedives, either because they were defective or because they had been launched incorrectly. The Megafortress’s electronic countermeasures soon confused three more; they, too, disappeared from radar.

The last three climbed with the Megafortress, moving nearly three times as fast as she could. As they went to terminal guidance, closing in on their target, Englehardt called for chaff and began jinking through the sky, pulling a series of hard turns that left the missiles sucking air. When the last one blew itself up in confusion, he turned back westward.

All right, he told himself. Let’s get the hell out of here.

“Flighthawk leader, what’s your status?”

“Zero-two minutes from an intercept on those Mirages,” said Starship. “I’m going to be cutting it close on Hawk One fuelwise.”

“We’re going to fly to the coast. Should be plenty of chance for you to tank.”

“Yeah, roger that.”

Englehardt ground his teeth together. They had more than a thousand miles to go before they cleared the Indian defenses; he had only six Anacondas left, and his own fuel supply was beginning to dwindle.

Time to get home. No more dancing, just go.

* * *

The lead Mirage picked up Hawk Two on its radar when the two aircraft were about five miles apart. The pilot’s reaction was to pull back on his stick, attempting to outclimb Hawk Two.

That might have worked had Starship been flying the earlier model U/MF. The Mirage had an extremely powerful engine — it could outclimb an F-15—and would have been able to get over the robot plane before Starship was in a position to fire. But the improved Flighthawk could best the Mirage’s 285 meter per second climb by about fifteen meters; he had no trouble staying with his enemy. Instead, his main concern was to fly himself out of a firing solution as the Mirage began twisting left in the climb. He couldn’t get his nose down quickly enough as the Mirage slid left, swooping eastward. Starship tucked his right wing and managed a quick shot as the Mirage turned sharply across his flight path. While the Indian’s maneuver seemed counterintuitive, it put him so close to Hawk Two that Starship couldn’t turn quickly enough to stay on his tail. It was the first time he had ever been outturned while flying a U/MF.

Not counting the simulated battles he’d flown against Zen.

So what did Zen say the solution was?

Don’t follow. That’s what I want — I’ve cut my speed and all I have to do is wait for your engine outlets to show up in my screen. It’s a sucker move, totally a psychout, to throw you in front of me.

Starship pushed the Flighthawk the other way, figuring that once the Mirage caught on, it would think it had an easy shot from behind. But that was his own sucker move — he slammed into a dive and then looped over, throwing the enemy plane in front of him as it started to pursue.

Sure enough, a thick delta wing materialized in front of him. Now the Mirage’s maneuvers cost it dearly — the hard turns had robbed it of flight energy, and even its powerful engine couldn’t get it out of the gun sight quickly enough.

Starship got a long burst in, more than five seconds, long enough to see the bullets tear a jagged line in the wing. As he broke off, the Indian pilot pulled the ejection handles and was shot skyward. His plane spun furiously, a dart aimed at the ground.

Hawk One, meanwhile, was pursuing the other Mirage as it climbed through 40,000 feet, twisting and turning as it went. Starship took over from the computer, knowing that the Indian was close to his top altitude. The Indian rolled out and then managed to put his nose practically straight downward. The maneuver was executed so quickly and perfectly that after a few seconds Starship realized he wouldn’t be able to keep up. Instead, he broke off, banking northward, trying to get his bearings.

And to check his fuel. He was at bingo; he had to go back to the Megafortress.

Until now the Indian had outflown both the computer and Starship; he should have called it a day. But instead