But he knew it was the best Glushko was likely to offer. Best to continue the fight with whatever the air wing commander would leave him rather than risk an unequivocal recall order. “Acknowledged, Cossack,” he said. As he switched frequencies he allowed himself a grim smile. His own enthusiasm for continuing the battle would fit in nicely with Glushko’s private agenda. Leaving Terekhov with reduced numbers to finish the dogfight was the best way to get rid of a troublesome subordinate.
He switched frequencies and passed the word to the other planes, encouraging his MiG pilots to redouble their attack and cover the withdrawal. Then Terekhov checked his instruments and scanned the horizon, seeking out a foe of his own.
The American pilot with the charmed life was making an impossibly tight turn off to the left, trying to launch another attack on Terekhov. That one, at least, wasn’t shy about joining battle, even though he had no missiles showing below his wings and must be running low on cannon rounds by now. It was almost a shame to think of shooting the man down. He was a warrior, a modern knight, like one of the Order of the Round Table that had followed King Vladimir.
Terekhov pushed the thought from his mind. There was no room for mercy today.
In a sudden decision Terekhov jerked his stick hard over and swung the MiG around in pursuit of the American. His enemy weaved from side to side, like a fish on the hook, but Terekhov clung to his prey with grim determination.
Then the reticule centered on the Tomcat and flashed red. The tone sounded in his ear as the heat-seeker locked on.
“Now I have you,” Terekhov said aloud, finger tightening on the trigger. This time his prey would not escape him.
Batman knew something was wrong even before Malibu’s shout came over the ICS. “Incoming! One missile … two! They’re coming right up the tail pipe!”
“Hold tight, buddy!” Batman shouted, ramming the throttles forward and pulling back on his stick. “Nap time!”
Acceleration pressed against his chest, and a red haze obscured the HUD in front of him. Batman could hardly move against the powerful G-force, but somehow his hand groped its way to the flare-dispenser panel.
With a grunt, he cut the throttles back and released three flares in quick succession, rolling left at the same time. For an instant the Tomcat hung inverted at the top of its climb, with the cold gray waters of the Atlantic spread out far below.
The two missiles went off in rapid succession behind and below the F14, decoyed by the hot-burning flares. “Not this time, you bastard,” Batman said, letting gravity help the fighter complete its loop and advancing the throttles back to the zone-five afterburner setting. The Tomcat’s engines growled at the punishment, but responded.
“Ho, Malibu,” he said, still gasping from the effects of the hard climb. “Let’s go, man! Reveille! The taxpayers ain’t paying for you to sleep through the battle!”
Even though they were outnumbered, the Americans had to keep the initiative, and that meant attacking whenever they could. That would break the rhythm of the battle, throw the Russians off their stride. Once they could control the tempo of the fighting, the battle would be over.
Wayne’s Tomcat stooped down into the aerial battlefield once more, seeking out a new victim.
“Some of the Russkies are breaking off! Some of them are running, fer Chrissakes!”
Terry Powers didn’t know who had called out the news, but he could see the Russian planes breaking away on his radar screen. The sight of those blips turning away helped steady his shattered nerves, and he slowly became aware of Cavanaugh’s voice raging at him over the ICS. His hand was locked in a painfully tight grip around the joystick, but as he forced himself to relax it started to shake uncontrollably.
“Come on, you bastard! Get in the game! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Snap out of it, kid, and get in there before any more of my buddies buy it!”
In his daze he had been flying blind, running without even realizing it, and the Tomcat had left the fight a long way behind. Shaking his head from side to side to try to clear it, Powers gritted his teeth and banked left.
He had allowed himself to give in to panic, and that was something he could never atone for. But Cavanaugh was right. They had to get back into the battle. Even if he had to die today, Powers would die fighting. The alternative — living with the knowledge of having turned his back on the others when they needed him — was unthinkable.
“All right, all right, Ears,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’m taking us back in! Now shut up and find us a target!”
He pushed the throttle all the way forward, and his hand only shook a little bit.
“Two bogies, three o’clock! Watch ‘em, Coyote, they’re closing fast.”
Grant glanced to the right at John-Boy’s warning and saw the two MiGs streaking toward them, flying wing- to-wing. He stiffened as the threat receiver shrilled a warning.
“They’re locking on!” John-Boy called unnecessarily.
“Tell me something I don’t know!” Coyote shot back, jerking the stick hard to the right to turn into the two attackers.
The enemy planes crossed behind the Tomcat at a sharp angle, the radar lock momentarily broken. Coyote looked back again over his left shoulder in time to see the lead MiG starting to match his right bank. The second Russian aircraft was slipping to the outside of the turn, reacting slowly to the change or more concerned with guarding his wingman’s tail than he was with maintaining the tight formation.
The tone sounded a second time as the lead MiG lined up again, and this time Coyote swung sharply back to the left. His finger tightened on the trigger on his joystick as the Tomcat’s nose swept past the trailing MiG, but there was no apparent effect. Guns were chancy at best except at very close range, despite their popularity with Hollywood filmmakers. But with both his Sidewinders expended the M-61A1 20-mm cannon was the only firepower he had to work with.
“Goddamn!” Lieutenant Commander Sheridan swore. “They got Loon and the Saint! No chutes. I don’t see any chutes …”
Another Tomcat gone. Lieutenant Adam Baird, “Loon,” had been planning to marry his girl after this cruise was over. Now he never would. Coyote hadn’t seen much of Whitman, who’d only come aboard with Magruder’s flight. Was it only three days ago? It seemed like an eternity.
He couldn’t let himself think about it. Instead he cut back across the two MiGs again in another right-hand turn. The trailing plane was trying to cut back toward him now, its role reversed by the new situation. Coyote squeezed the trigger again in a series of short, fast bursts as he lined up. In a defensive situation like this there wasn’t time to wait for a sure target. All a flyer could do was take his best shot and trust to luck.
And this time luck was with him. As he flashed past the MiG Coyote saw the port-side wing coming apart, ripped loose by his cannon fire. Over his shoulder he saw the canopy pop and the Russian pilot hurtle clear of the disintegrating aircraft. His chute opened a moment later.
This far from the Russian fleet, though, there wasn’t much chance the man would live long enough to be picked up alive.
“Beautiful!” John-Boy exalted from the backseat. Then, serious again, the RIO went on. “Watch your six, Coyote. His buddy’s coming in mad!”
He glanced at the radar display and cut back on his throttle just as the threat indicator shrieked its warning once more. The MiG shot past to the left of the Tomcat, and for an instant Coyote considered pursuing. But right now he couldn’t afford to keep up this running battle. By his best count there were still at least ten MiGs in the air,
