all.
The Intruder rocked violently, and Willis had to pull the nose up slightly to steady it.
'What the hell was that?' Sunshine asked, her face still buried in her scope.
'Fulcrum on our tail,' Willis said, glancing back over his shoulder.
'Someone just took it out with a heat-seeker up the ass.'
'Rog. Thirty seconds!'
Eight hundred feet.
'On manual.' The target, according to the Marine air controller who'd fed the data to Red Hammer, was moving… and surrounded by numerous other targets. Willis wasn't going to trust the computer on this one. At his side, Sunshine was flipping rapidly back and forth between search radar and FLIR mode; if his own system crashed or if he became disoriented, she would be able to keep him on track.
Seven hundred feet…
The radar homer sliced past to the right, seduced by Tombstone's chaff and Tomboy's vigorous ECM jamming. Now tracer rounds slashed past their canopy, high and leading the Tomcat by a good hundred yards. Tombstone hit the F-14's air brakes and pulled the nose up sharply. Floating at the ragged edge of a stall, the Tomcat slewed to the right just as the Fulcrum, surprised by Tombstone's maneuver, flashed past, so close that Tombstone could read the regimental markings on the other plane's fuselage.
'Guns!' he snapped, and the HUD shifted to gun mode just as the MiG started a hard, climbing turn to port. The maneuver spoiled Tombstone's shot.
He was now in what was called a lag pursuit, behind his opponent but with his nose aiming to the rear of the other aircraft instead of leading it. As the MiG continued his left-hand turn, Tombstone decided to counter with a low yo-yo, going briefly to afterburners and diving to the left, picking up speed as he cut beneath the Fulcrum's track, then pulling up hard, coming out of his dive just after the MiG passed overhead. He kept his eyes on the other plane as it passed overhead; a sharp opponent would ease his turn, then plunge on the other plane from above ? the preferred counter to a low yo-yo ? but it looked like the MiG's pilot had lost sight of the Tomcat. Yes! He was holding his turn, angling back toward the Intruders. Tombstone brought the Tomcat up, using gravity to kill his speed, sliding neatly onto the MiG's tail at point-blank range, less than four hundred feet behind him.
Tombstone squeezed the trigger and the Tomcat's M61 cannon thundered, yellow tracers floating across the gap between MiG and F-14. For a moment, the MiG absorbed those globes of light, holding course, lining up with an Intruder just ahead and below… and then Tombstone saw bits of metal flaking off and a shimmering haze spilling from the Fulcrum.
Then they were past, the MiG sliding off to the left.
'He's smoking,' Tomboy told him as he brought the F-14's nose up. 'He's going down. He's ejected!'
'Tomcat Two-oh-oh, this is Shotgun One-one. Nice shooting, Stoney!'
'Coyote! It's about time you got here!'
'Thought you would hog all the fun for yourself, did you?' Batman's voice chimed in.
'Just like these superCAG types,' a woman's voice added. 'Always grabbing the glory for himself!'
'Roger that, Brewer. Heads up! Bandits at two o'clock high!'
'tombstone!' Coyote called. 'Watch it! You've got two coming around on your six!'
'Never mind us,' Tombstone replied. 'Just help me keep those MiGs off the Intruders!'
'There! Target acquired,' Sunshine said. 'Come left two degrees. Range one mile.'
Another seven seconds. Excitement pounded in his breast, and he could hear the mingled rasps of both his and Sunshine's breathing over the ICS.
Damn, they were using the O. His own pucker factor was damned high, fifty psi at least; he figured the lip- lock he had on his seat right now would keep him anchored against a minus-five G outside loop. Sunshine sounded as cool and as hard as the ice clinging to the hillsides flashing past either side of the hurtling A-6. On his VDI, his bomb-release marker slid rapidly down his course line.
Five hundred feet…
Leninskiy Nesokrushimyy Pravda was well clear of the submarine docking area outside of the cavern, slipping easily through oily water into the main Polyamyy channel.
'Helm,' Chelyag said. 'Come left five degrees. Make revolutions for ten knots.'
'Comrade Captain!' the radar officer called from his console. 'Enemy aircraft, approaching from the north!'
So much for Karelin's promises. 'Maintain course,' he said, keeping his voice as calm as ice. 'Weapons officer, stand by to fire missile number one.'
'Missile one ready, Comrade Captain.'
'Fire number one!'
Willis could see the target now, a Typhoon ballistic-missile sub just sliding clear of the moles sheltering a Russian submarine base. It had turned its huge, blunt nose toward the north, toward him, giving him a narrower target than he'd hoped for.
But the thing was still over five hundred feet long, a target almost indecently difficult to miss.
Triple-A filled the sky, rocking the Intruder violently. Something struck the plane's nose, but he held the stick steady. A little bit more…
The release pipper hit the bottom of the screen, and Willis squeezed the pickle. Five-hundred-pound bombs bump-bump-bumped clear of the Intruder's belly, spilling into the air in a deadly rain.
Rivera had a perfect view of the attack, the huge Ballistic-missile sub turning ponderously into the Polyamyy channel, the Intruder sweeping down from the north through a sky suddenly crowded with antiaircraft and missile fire.
Bombs cascaded from the A-6's belly. One… two… three struck the water close alongside of the Typhoon's nose, raising towering gouts of water that cascaded back across the submarine's deck in a white avalanche. Then a five-hundred-pound bomb struck the Typhoon's sail squarely where its rounded foot met the forward deck. The detonation erupted in an orange fireball that preceded the sound of the explosion by several seconds… then another bomb struck, and another, opening a gash in the Typhoon's flank next to the sail and peeling back the outer hull like a flat slab of clay. More detonations in the water… and another on target, this one far aft, close by the wing-like thrust of the huge fin. Thunder echoed back from the far hills.
A final, cataclysmic blast, this one from the open hatch just in front of the torn-open sail. White flame gouted straight up into the air as though bursting from the throat of an exploding volcano.
Secondaries! Rivera thought. Something had touched off the missile's solid-fuel core- Oh, Blessed Virgin Mary, the missile must have already been fired when the first bomb hit, rupturing the ICBM's hull, or maybe a five- hundred-pounder had dropped right down the open hatch.
The explosion engulfed half of the Typhoon, rupturing its double hull, flinging burning debris hundreds of feet into the air. The shock wave raced out across the water and surged against the base of the cliff. The sound struck
