The other MiG broke off his attack against Hal and ran.
Jenna, whose higher altitude could be translated into speed, gave chase.
There was another flicker of orange flame, but this time the MiG jinked at the last moment. The contrail shot past with inches to spare.
It seemed as though the panicked pilot had just caught a lucky break, but his turn brought him face-to-face with Troy.
Two fighters closing on each other both face a difficult shot. With an aggregate speed of more than a thousand miles per hour, a second is a long time.
Troy impulsively thumbed the trigger of his M61 Vulcan cannon. Had he had a moment to think, he'd have known that a heat-seeking Sidewinder would have a hard time acquiring the MiG in a head-on dash, but something in his instinct had told him to use his gun.
The MiG raced through the wall of tracers that Troy had put up, and kept coming — on a collision course toward him.
Troy broke left.
He was lucky that the MiG pilot broke right.
He was also lucky that the MiG pilot decided that now was a good time to turn.
Troy never had time to wonder whether the breaking turn was the MiG pilot's attempt to turn and fight or whether it was just an evasive escape maneuver.
It didn't really matter.
The turns bled off a great deal of speed for both aircraft, but it also brought the MiG directly into the circle in Troy's head-up display. The red, green, and blue insignia of the Eritrean Air Force looked like a Christmas tree ornament.
This time, training and instinct converged.
The Sidewinder left the rail on Troy's wingtip.
It is a cliche to say that the speed of the missile made the slow-turning MiG seem as though it were standing still.
There was still smoke and debris in the sky as Troy's momentum brought him hurtling through that place where once there was a MiG.
Chapter 8
Until further notice.
The words stung.
Nothing inflates a fighter pilot's balloon more than his first kill in aerial combat. As Falcon Flight dashed home after their dogfight over the Denakil Depression, Hal Coughlin was breathing a sigh of relief, but for Troy Loensch and Jenna Munrough, the mood was the exhilaration of victory. Two MiGs down.
Nothing deflates a fighter pilot's balloon more than to hear the words grounded until further notice.
If Troy and Jenna had harbored any illusions about a cheers and champagne reception back at Atbara, they were mistaken. General Raymond Harris was livid. He had already caught a hellstorm from the chain of command above him, and he was passing it down.
Eritrea was swift to lodge a protest with the UN. Two of their half dozen MiG-29s were now debris fields. Two of their 'brave aviators' had been 'murdered' by pilots operating under the mandate of a UN resolution.
'Self-defense?' Harris queried angrily when Troy and Jenna explained what had happened, his normally ruddy cheeks redder than usual. 'That's what you're saying?'
'Begging your pardon, sir,' Troy replied. 'But you did authorize us to return fire when attacked… as I recall, sir, you went so far as to encourage us to return fire.'
'I believe that we were discussing Al-Qinamah ground fire when we had that conversation, Captain. The emphasis here is on AI-Qinamah. Our enemies are the Al-Qinamah rebels, not the Eritrean government. The fact that the Eritrean government is sloppy about controlling the rebels inside their porous borders is beside the point. The fact that the Eritrean government is probably complicit in the rebel activity and giving aid and comfort to the rebels is beside the point.'
'Yes, sir,' Troy said.
'Off the record, I don't care if you take out the whole damned Eritrean Air Force,' Harris said. 'But I'm reprimanding Loensch and Munrough because the higher-ups demand it… and for showing bad judgment in not paying attention to what was going on and letting the bastards get the drop on you. Coughlin, you're off the hook this time, but I hope you're learning a lesson here.' 'Yes, sir.'
'It was self-defense, sir,' Jenna interrupted. 'As we explained, those MiGs were going after Captain Coughlin at the time we opened fire, sir.'
'At the time that you opened fire, Captain Munrough,' Harris clarified. 'It seems from what I've seen on the gun camera footage that Captain Loensch attacked a fleeing aircraft.'
'He was coming right at—' Troy said.
'He was running,' Harris replied. 'The gun camera footage shows him coming at you, but he never fired. He could have fired and he didn't. You were shooting at a scared rabbit.'
'Or one with malfunctioning fire control,' Troy suggested. 'I've heard their maintenance is lousy.'
'That's beside the point,' Harris said. 'This whole damned incident came about because you weren't paying attention… none of you… but especially you, Loensch. You were showboating with Munrough, cutting her off and trying to blow up every damned SAM site in that desert and you missed the fact that enemy air was in the area.'
Jenna took the opportunity to give Troy a dirty look.
'That's why I'm reprimanding Munrough and grounding you, Loensch. Your little game with the SAM sites endangered a fellow pilot… your shooting at a fleeing aircraft gets me in hot water with the big bosses, and all of the above show piss-poor judgment. Am I making things perfectly clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Loensch, just so that you don't get too bored on your 'vacation,' I have a team that needs a hand installing some software upgrades in about four dozen targeting systems. I overheard them saying that it would be useful to have a pilot involved in their work. You could report to the major in charge at 0700 tomorrow. You wouldn't mind, would you, Loensch?'
'No, sir.'
'Don't get too smug, Munrough,' Harris added. 'If I could afford to ground both of your sorry asses, I would. But I need at least two aircraft in Falcon Force to carry on with operations tomorrow and the next day…. and the next day… Dis-missed.'
Troy and the others went their separate ways. Once again, as in the Bruins locker room and in OTS, a big screwup had gotten Troy in serious trouble. He guessed that he was lucky that the general didn't put him on KP. Installing software beats peeling potatoes.
When he had finished an early dinner in the mess hall, Troy decided to seek out one of the satellite phones that were made available for the troops to call home. He hadn't talked with Cassie for a while, and to his parents for even longer.
'What time is it there?' Cassie asked after he said hello.
'Quarter after six. What time is it there?'
'Shit, it's after seven already,' Cassie said, sounding distracted. 'I gotta get ready for work.'
'What's up?' Troy asked.
'Not much… just going to work and… hanging out… How about you?'
'Oh, not much… just going to work and hanging out,' Troy said, deciding not to tell her that he had just 'murdered' an Eritrean pilot and had been grounded. 'Same old thing.'
'Have you seen any camels over there?'
'Only from the air… we don't get off base much…. there's a lot of rebel activity not too far away, so we're
