“Two-eight miles to the closest bogie,” John-Boy reported. “They’re still maintaining course and speed. Angels eight now.”
“Launch! Launch! Two-one-one has visual on Flanker launch!” Powers was shouting. He sounded on the ragged edge of panic.
“Confirmed! Confirm two missiles launched!” Cavanaugh, his RIO, was calmer. “Two-one-one, two-five miles.”
“Let’s get in there and mix it up, Vipers!” Coyote said. He pushed the throttles up to Zone-Five afterburner and felt the G-forces pressing him back into his seat.
The American planes had been loaded out for long-range interception, with four Phoenix and two Sidewinder missiles apiece. Now that the Phoenixes were gone, they no longer had a long-range attack option to match the Soviet AA-10 Alamo, a radar-guided missile similar in performance to the U.S. Sparrow. That meant that the Americans would have to press to close range if they were to put up any kind of fight at all.
Meanwhile they’d be running the gauntlet.
“Hold launches! Hold launches!” Terekhov shouted into the radio. “Make your missiles count, you stupid peasant!”
He hadn’t realized how much on edge he was until the words were out. The pilot of the lead Su-27 had let loose two long-range radar-guided missiles, probably without even attempting to get a lock on any of the Americans. Even among the carrier-based elite of Soviet Naval Aviation there was a tendency to let sheer volume of fire replace accuracy.
Terekhov wasn’t going to tolerate that today. They would make every shot count.
“Svirepyy aircraft, spread out and prepare to engage,” he ordered, keeping tighter control over his voice this time. “Pick your targets and bring them down For the Rodina!”
He was gratified to hear the answering calls of “The Rodina!” from the rest of his command. With this force, he would sweep the skies clear of the American flyers.
The threat light on his instrument panel blazed, and Powers felt his blood run cold. “They got lock on me!” he shouted. “Coyote! They’re locking on!”
It was as if all his training and practice counted for nothing. All he could do was stare at the threat indicator. He was going to die.
“Missile launch! Missile launch!” Cavanaugh reported from the backseat. “Multiple launches. Looks like there’s one … two … no, four headed our way. Better run for it, kid.”
He heard the words, but they didn’t mean anything. Powers tried to focus on the voice, tried to figure out what the RIO was trying to tell him.
“Come on, kid!” he heard Cavanaugh’s voice, loud and angry, over the ICS, but it sounded distant, remote. “Damn it, Tyrone, do something! Do something!”
Powers shook his head, trying to get a grip on himself. All at once he was able to react again. He pulled back on the stick and rammed the throttles forward. The sudden acceleration was like a giant fist against his chest. “Hit the chaff, Ears,” he gasped, but Cavanaugh was silent now. The RIO had passed out from the G-force.
One sluggish hand groped for the chaff-dispenser switch, found it. The launcher rattled once, twice as the Tomcat continued its high-speed climb. Blood pounded in his ears, and a red haze obscured his vision.
“Hold on, kid,” Coyote grated. “Hold on.”
The panicky voice of the young Tomcat pilot seemed to echo in his ears, but there wasn’t much he could do to help Powers yet. The nearest Russians were still almost twenty miles away, beyond the range of Coyote’s two AIM-9M Sidewinders. His fighter was already pushing the edge of the performance envelope. No amount of prayer, cursing, or wishful thinking would close the range any faster.
“Tyrone’s climbing,” John-Boy reported. “He’s got two missiles on his tail. Whoa! One’s gone! Still got one on his tail … climbing … climbing … Second one just went off! The kid’s clear!”
“Good dodging, Tyrone!” Coyote called on the radio. “Good dodge! Now get the hell out of there!”
There was no answer for several long seconds, then only a dull “Aye, aye” from Powers. Grant bit his lip. The kid was finding out that a real air battle was a lot different from shooting down a helpless Bear.
The question now was whether the strain of learning that lesson would be too much for him.
“Fifteen miles to nearest bogie,” Nichols reported from the backseat. “Still closing.”
“Target! Target!” That sounded like Batman, flying eyeball on the left side. “Where’s the damned tone?” There was a pause. “Tone! I’ve got tone! I’m taking the shot! Fox two! Fox two!”
“Look out, Batman!” Trapper Martin shouted. “You’ve got a bunch of shit coming your way!”
“Got one!” Batman called, ignoring Martin’s warning. Excited, eager, he sounded ready to take on all of Soviet Naval Aviation by himself. “That’s another kill for the Batman!”
Coyote’s HUD display came alive with targeting symbols. “Two-oh-one, in range,” he said. He banked sharply to the left, trying to line up a shot, but with the two forces closing so fast it was hard to get a target lock.
“Two coming at us,” John-Boy warned.
Coyote nodded. Two planes, no more than dots in the distance, were streaking toward the Tomcat, weaving from side to side, too slippery to nail down. “I’m going to take them down the right side,” he said. “CAG, you copy?”
“Copy,” Stramaglia’s voice answered.
The tiny dots swelled suddenly and flashed past the right side of the fighter. In the instant he could see them clearly he identified them as Su-27 Flankers, long, lean birds with a characteristic goose-necked fuselage that made them look like birds of prey stooping in on their victims. Then they were gone.
Coyote heeled the Tomcat over in a tight right hand turn that stood the fighter on its wing. In seconds he had settled in behind the second Flanker. The Russian bucked and jinked, but Grant clung to him doggedly. “Come on, you bastard, hold still,” he grated. “Come on …”
The lock-on tone sounded loud in his ear and Coyote’s finger tightened … wo!” he shouted. “Fox two!”
The Sidewinder streaked from its launch rail, trailing fire and smoke. Moments later it found its target, slamming into the Su-27’s port engine. Flame engulfed the Flanker.
“Two-oh-one, splash one!” Coyote called.
“Just one?” Batman asked. “Hell, boy, I just got my second. Going to guns now! This might be my chance to finally even up with old Tombstone!”
“Keep on ‘em, Batman,” Coyote said, searching for the second Flanker. He was glad to hear that Wayne was still in the fight, still sounding the same. Batman was older and wiser than he’d been back in the Indian Ocean, but down deep he hadn’t changed that much. Dogfighting was like a game to him, a game he played very, very well.
“Two o’clock, Coyote! Look to your two!” Nichols shouted.
That was the second Sukhoi, climbing fast and trying a tight turn to get behind the Tomcat. Coyote answered with the high yo-yo, matching the Flanker’s turn and pulling back sharply on his stick to lose airspeed and keep from overshooting. An instant later the targeting tone sounded again and he fired his second Sidewinder. The missile struck the Soviet plane’s left wing, sending the Flanker spinning out of control. Coyote caught a glimpse of a blossoming parachute. “Splash two,” he announced. “Two-oh-one, splash two. Come on, John-Boy, find me somebody else to play with!”
“Break left! Break left!” Terekhov screamed the order into the radio. Captain Second Rank Stralbo,
