Dog’s Tomcat carried the heavier and longer-range Phoenixes, as well as an array of shorter-range missiles.
“Bogey to the north, Bird Dog,” Gator said. “No, wait! I lost him! This little bastard pops in and out on my screen like a-hey, wait a minute! You think this has anything to do with those ghosts we’ve been seeing?”
“Do I give a shit? Get me a goddamn target! You can’t hold that one, pick another!”
“Getting contacts from the JAST bird now,” Gator muttered as the targeting pip appeared on his HUD. “Damned tough to hold, though.”
“Take a shot, Bird Dog,” Batman ordered over the circuit.
“Fox one!” Bird Dog thumbed the switch and felt the aircraft jolt up as the massive missile shot off the rails. Even if it missed, it lightened the Tomcat, extending his time on station by decreasing his fuel consumption. He held the Tomcat straight on in level flight, feeding targeting information to the missile.
“Closure rate, one thousand knots,” his RIO said. Already, Gator had ceased to exist as a separate presence, becoming instead a part of Bird Dog and his aircraft, a voice feeding him information.
Aside from situations allowing the use of long-range missiles such as the Phoenix, aerial combat was a battle for position and altitude. Aircraft danced through the air, darting around each other and maneuvering for position. Above and behind — the ultimate goal for position on an enemy.
Bird Dog nosed the F14 up, sacrificing a little airspeed for altitude. With the enemy strike force approaching, he had little time to spare. Altitude was something you could never have too much of.
“Missile inbound,” the officer in the backseat howled. “Phoenix!”
“I’ve got it,” Mein Low swore. He cut the aircraft into a sharp turn, heading nose-on to the missile to reduce their radar cross section. The F10’s avionics examined the radar signal and radiated countermeasures intended to defeat detection and targeting.
Mein Low scanned the sky, knowing the missile was too far away to see but trying anyway. Over his tactical circuit, he could hear aircraft in the strike calling out targets, dividing up the launching American fighters between themselves.
No matter. He was flight leader, and the first aircraft they saw would be his — As well as the first kill.
The long-range Phoenix missiles were not the ones that worried him most. They required guidance from the AWG-9 Tomcat radar for most of their flight, switching to individual guidance only as they neared their targets. Intelligence had told him that they often suffered fusing problems, failing to ignite, and that none had ever been used successfully in engagements. It was not enough to make him overconfident, though. Even a Phoenix that failed to detonate could do a massive amount of damage if it struck his aircraft.
The weakness in the system was the AWG-9 radar, and the need for the Tomcat to maintain a radar lock on him.
“Chaff,” he ordered, and felt the gentle thumps of the canisters of highly reflective metal strips being ejected from the aircraft. With any luck, that would confuse the radar picture, and perhaps mislead the Tomcat into keeping the missile locked on the chaff rather than his aircraft.
As the chaff was shot off, he broke into a hard turn and headed directly for the missile. At its Mach 5 speeds, it was unwieldy, and would be unable to follow drastic last-minute maneuvers. As a last resort, he could always dive for the deck, although it was an option he’d prefer to avoid in this sea state. The AWG-9 was notoriously erratic on tracking targets below fifty feet. If he broke radar lock with the Tomcat before the missile acquired him, on its own independent homing radar, the missile would not pose a threat to him.
A scream echoed over the tactical circuit, abruptly cut short in midcrescendo.
“I see it!” his RIO exclaimed.
“Got it,” he muttered, and concentrated on the missile’s course. Wait for it, wait for it, he kept repeating to himself. The tiny speck in the air grew larger at an incredible rate. At the last moment, he dove for the deck, pouring on all the speed he could muster.
The Phoenix snapped by him, barely visible at close range for a few moments before dwindling again from sight. It would lack sufficient fuel to regain a lock on him, he knew.
Even if it were no longer a threat, it had achieved its tactical purpose — forcing him onto the defensive and throwing off his own engagement plan. Not a fatal position to be in. There was plenty of airspace, and far more Chinese fighters than American ones in the air.
“Missile lock broken!” Gator snapped. “He slid off the scope like greased lightning. Sparrow armed.”
“Okay, okay — now! Fox two, Fox two!” Bird Dog said. The lighter Sparrow shot off the rails.
“Oh, shit. Got a lock on us, Bird Dog!” The warning tone of an enemy missile lock warbled in his headset.
“Get some airspace!” Batman ordered. “He can’t see me as well as he can you. I’m going to move in closer. Join back up on me as soon as you shake the missile!”
Mein Low watched the missile follow the American, grim exultation filling him. It was time for a combat kill, his first against the Western forces. The sacrifices his countrymen had made serving as operational test targets for the F-10 would be vindicated.
Suddenly, the missile lock tone wavered, then fell off into silence. Anger shot through him. Why now?
“Lock lost,” his backseater announced. “Probably from the climb. It can’t follow quickly enough, or perhaps the seeker head failed.”
“My weapons do not fail!” he snapped.
“Jamming,” the backseater added. “Probable EA-6B Prowlers. Recommend we go to heatseekers.”
Mein Low snarled his concurrence. If the American pilot wanted a knife fight, that’s what he’d get. Four Flanker pilots had died trying to evade the F-10, and Mein Low had learned how to best use his fighter up close and personal. Close-in, dirty fighting — nothing beat the F-10.
“Lost it! Bird Dog, I don’t think those Chinese missiles liked that high rate of climb maneuver.”
“Get the word out,” Bird Dog said. They’d lost some speed from the climb, but the Chinese fighter was below and in front of him now.
He watched Batman’s dance through the sky and waited for an opening to join it without spoiling Batman’s targeting. His lead had already expended two Sparrows on the other aircraft, but was still out of range for the deadly heatseeking Sidewinder. The enemy fighter was as hard to hold radar contact on as the JAST bird was.
“We’re moving in closer. Sidewinder next,” he said, thumbing the weapons selection toggle to the appropriate position. If he could get within range, the heatseeking Sidewinder wouldn’t care about radar cross sections. The ass-end of the Chinese fighter was spewing out hot exhaust that would pull the missile into it.
Bird Dog tapped his fingers on the control stick, waiting for the growl that would tell him the missile had acquired the target. If Batman would just clear the field of fire, the geometry would be perfect.
“Behind us!” his backseater screamed.
“I know, I know!” Mein Low snapped. He’d temporarily shaken the Tomcat that had been dogging him for the last five minutes. Two Flankers were diving in to deal with the first fighter.
He snapped the F-10 into a tight turn and headed back the way they’d come. It was imperative that he prevent the second Tomcat from getting a clean shot at his tailpipe. By turning, he’d put the two aircraft nose to nose and increased the closure rate to almost Mach 2. The Tomcat might be faster, but the Flanker was more maneuverable. In a close-quarters, one-on-one dogfight, he’d have the advantage.
“The wingman — where is he?” he asked, remembering the predilection for the fighters to operate in groups of two. The “Loose Deuce” formation, he thought, his mind stumbling over the uncomfortable words. American fighters normally fought as pairs, one aircraft above the other poised to maneuver into killing position while the lead aircraft fought in close.
