the seat backs as he proceeded. Jarvis was cowering in his seat, still gasping for air.
He still had a chance. He would make the pilots fly to Benghazi. Once there he could put together a coalition of colonels to take over the government. It could be done. The professional soldiers had loathed and feared El Hakim and would not be sorry to see him gone. Nor would they spurn the opportunity to rule. Then all of this would not have been in vain.
The radar in the nose of the last Phoenix missile went active when the missile was still fifteen miles from the Il-76 at which it had been fired. This was the aerial tanker which had accompanied the MiGs from Benghazi and whose pilot had decided to return there forthwith when informed that the MiGs’ electronic countermeasures equipment had detected the emissions of an F-14’s radar. The Phoenix’ small radar transmitted its signal and picked up the returning echo, and the computer sent digital signals to the canards, positioning them. This process was repeated several thousand times a second as the missile closed its target.
The missile smashed though the Ilyushin’s fuselage just under the starboard wing root, at the point where the returning echo had been strongest, and was halfway through the port side of the fuselage when the warhead detonated. The shrapnel from the exploding 132-pound warhead severed the main spar of the port wing, among other things, and the wing immediately separated from the aircraft. The large plane began to roll violently as the nose fell through to the vertical. Then the starboard wing tore off under the tremendous stress. Seconds later the tail ripped away. Rolling slowly now and streaming fire, the remainder of the fuselage continued its four-mile plunge toward the sunlit, glistening sea.
Jake Grafton went for the remaining Il-76, now only twentytwo miles away, but low, only 8,000 feet or so. It was turning southward, toward the land. Great, he would be there that much sooner. He lowered the right wing and altered course to intercept.
He had used chaff to help the DECM foil the three missiles hurled after him by the MiG-23 Floggers behind. Not even a near miss. They were hopelessly behind now and would be out of the play if he could drop this Ilyushin on the first pass. Then he would turn north and fight his way toward Greece. He wouldn’t make it, of course; he didn’t have enough fuel. But he could get away from Africa and out over the main shipping lanes before he and Toad punched out. Maybe they could even find a freighter or oil tanker to eject alongside. But that was in the future. First he had to drop this transport. And fast. Only 5,000 pounds of fuel remaining. He eased the throttles back out of burner.
He would come in from the rear stern-quarter and pour shells in at the Vulcan cannon’s maximum rate of fire, over a hundred shells a second. That should do it and then some. Automatically he fingered the switches and checked the display on the Air-Combat Maneuvering panel immediately under the heads-up display. Guns selected!
“More MiGs. Two. They were masked in the transport’s return. Dead ahead. Now turning, one left and one right.” Toad swore.
The symbols were on the scope and the heads-up display. But Jake had no more missiles. The tanker was moving from left to right, and one fighter was turning left away hard, probably intending a 270 degree turn. God, he was turning tightly; he must have the burner plugged in and the nose up, using the vertical plane. The other MiG had turned right and was already head-on to Jake. The ECM was beeping.
Jake altered course to the right to approach him head-on. Down to 1.5 Mach. He looked through the heads-up display. The symbol was on him. There. Coming faster than thought. A flash. Missile!
Chaff. The missile didn’t track. Going under.
Jake put the pipper just short. He was aware of the fireballs from the MiG just as he pulled the trigger and eased the pipper up. A streak like lightning shot forward as the Vulcan cannon wound up to maximum rate-of-fire and the Tomcat vibrated. The MiG exploded. Jake jerked the stick aft as he released the trigger. He felt a thump. Something had hit the F-14.
“Where’s the other guy?” he asked Toad as the Gs tore at him and he scanned the engine instruments and warning light panel. All okay.
“High. Ten o’clock.” Right! Symbol on the heads-up display was there.
Jake kept the stick back and the Tomcat’s nose climbing. He smoothly advanced the throttles and the burners kicked him in the back. There, he saw the high man.
Jake was going up with the burners wide open, closing the gap on the MiG. He rolled, trying to pull his nose toward his opponent. The enemy pilot dumped his nose, twisting away, his burner lit and his energy level still high. Jake neutralized the stick and pulled the throttles aft, out of burner. He still had a speed advantage and was closing, but he was closing too fast to get the nose around. He opened the speed brakes, the big slabs that came out from the top and bottom of the fuselage between the twin vertical tails. The MiG was going out the left side. Boards in, burners lit, roll and pull hard, get that nose around….
“We gotta get this guy quick, CAG,” Toad prompted, straining against the G to get his words out. As if Jake needed a reminder. The fighter pilot’s imperative was never more urgent — go in fast and kill fast. He was running out of gas and there were three more MiGs coming this way supersonic and the Ilyushin was escaping. This MiG pilot would win if he could just stay alive for a few more turns, a few more seconds.
Now, he was behind the MiG, in its stern quadrant. Burners full open. The MiG’s nose was down, below the horizon, his tail white-hot. Oh for a Sidewinder … The MiG rolled hard right with G on. Jake slammed the stick over and followed, narrowing the distance, but the MiG was still above the plane of his gun. There, his left spoiler coming up and a max-rate roll left. Jake slammed the stick back left. Five Gs on, corkscrewing. The Tomcat had a better roll rate than the MiG, but the Mig pilot knew when he was going to roll.
“This guy’s pretty fucking good, CAG,” Toad said. “But we ain’t got time to dance.”
The Flogger’s nose was too high, so now the MiG pilot slammed the stick forward and he snapped below the plane of Jake’s gun. Too late Jake squeezed off a burst. Jake used forward stick to follow and the negative G threw him upward against his harness restraints. He was tempted to roll, but the instant he did the MiG would pull positive Gs and scissor away and the fight would be back to neutral.
He jammed the stick full left and squeezed the trigger on the stick. The Tomcat spun 180 degrees about its longitudinal axis vomiting shells, and as it completed its roll Jake neutralized the stick with the trigger still down. The MiG tried to fly through the river of lead. It exploded.
Stick back to avoid the expanding fireball. Roll toward Ilyushin, six Gs, get the nose up. Ten miles away. 2,500 pounds of fuel remaining. We can still get this guy!
The ECM was chattering. The other MiGs were coming back.
Qazi stood in the cockpit of the Ilyushin behind the pilots. He felt a great calm. They would either make it or they wouldn’t. The pilots were nervous enough for everybody. They talked incessantly and craned their heads, trying to see behind them, and the copilot kept trying to bend the throttles over the forward stop. They were headed southwest, toward Benghazi.
He could hear the chatter of the MiG pilots over the loudspeaker. One lone American F-14. Qazi smiled wryly. It was probably Captain Grafton. I should have killed him and done a better job of destruction of the planes on the flight deck of the
Qazi squatted and looked aft, through the door to the passenger module and beyond. Hard to believe this flying leviathan could be torn to shreds …
He straightened and leaned against the bulkhead, listening. The MiGs had the American fighter on radar and were almost within range. Perhaps, just perhaps …
Jake put the pipper on the Il-76 and pulled the trigger. This would be a stern quartering deflection shot, from the starboard side. The gun spit a few shells, then went dead.
He lifted the nose and flashed across the top of the transport.
“The gun’s jammed,” he told Toad. “Pull your harness as tight as you can stand it.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means we’re going to ram the bastard.”
