At the third frantic beep, I hauled back on the yoke and pulled us out of the descent, simultaneously rolling to my right to bleed off additional airspeed. It's always a trade-off, this altitude versus airspeed game, and I was betting that I knew my Tomcat performance characteristics a hell of a lot better than he did. When I finished the roll, I was at seventeen thousand feet, accelerating and ascending into nose-on battle with the little bastard.
Thirty seconds later, we screamed past him so close that I heard Sheila gasp. Yeah, a little bit too close ? more so than had been briefed, that was for sure. The rules of engagement said that we were to maintain a one- thousand-foot altitude separation at all times. But as much as they run on about the damn MiG's maneuverability, I figured it was at least more his hit than mine. Besides, we hadn't been that close ? but RIOs are like that, always getting excited about stuff.
'Maintain your separation,' I heard a voice say over tactical. I groaned, recognizing it immediately. Not the Russian GCI, or the air traffic controller. No, this was somebody I had to listen to ? the admiral.
'Aye, aye, Admiral,' I responded immediately. 'He got me a bit on that one.'
A moment of silence on the net, then, 'Right.' Even over the circuit, I could hear the admiral's tone of voice well enough to know that he wasn't buying it.
'Let's just try that again, shall we,' I said out loud.
'You heard the admiral,' Sheila answered.
'I'm not talking about that,' I snapped. 'The rolling scissors ? you know that's what is going to get him in the end.'
She sighed. I let it pass.
We pulled back into a steep descent, and this time I kicked in the afterburners to give us an extra boost of power.
The MiG overshot us, and had to turn back into our plane of attack.
By the time he was back in position, following me up, I was passing twenty-four thousand feet again.
'He's got you,' Sheila snapped. 'Jesus, can't you let me get in position for just a second to get off a missile?'
'Always so eager,' I murmured. 'Just wait for it, baby.' I could get away with that kind of comment in the air, although not on the ground. I might even have to pay for this one later, but I was enjoying myself just too much to care.
I waited for twenty-nine thousand feet again, then edged over into another descent. This time, I rolled it, and in afterburner that generated some significant G forces for my backseater. She yelped in protest at the lack of warning, then shut up and started her M1, the forced breathing exercises that keep you from graying out. Harassing her about panting in the backseat is always good for a few laughs. At least on my part. Too bad she's so quick with the elbows-to-the-ribs routine ? my last bruise was just starting to fade.
Again we descended, this time passing much closer to the MiG, who had not rolled out quickly enough. I waved as we went by, straining to move my hand under the mounting G forces. Just as we passed, I saw him roll out of his climb and stay inverted to keep an eye on me as I descended. Then he pitched nose-down into a descent himself, almost immediately in firing position on my tail. Again, the sharp warning of the ALR-67 threat receiver was my cue. I banked back out of the descent, swinging out in a tight arc to drop in behind the MiG.
'Nice, nice,' Sheila said. 'I've got him ? got a lock!'
'Sidewinder,' I agreed, toggling the weapon selection switch on my stick to the appropriate location. We were close, almost close enough to go for the gun. For just a moment I was tempted.
'Get it off now,' Sheila said. 'Quick, so I can take a second shot if we need to. Hurry before he-'
The MiG shuddered, twitching a little as though the pilot were going to pull out of his descent. He held it for a couple seconds longer than I thought he would, but I didn't mind. I pickled off one Sidewinder, then another, letting the heat-seeking missiles get a good look at the hot exhaust flaring out of his tailpipes. At this range, it was a nobrainer.
'Skeeter, you have to-'
The MiG broke off suddenly, pulling up sharply and almost stalling, then accelerating away in level flight. I swore, jerked back on the yoke, and rolled out as well. But sixty thousand pounds of Tomcat, even with five hundred and sixty-five square feet of wing area, is not near as maneuverable as a MiG-3 1. He had time to cut a hole in the sky and come back around to be directly overhead before I saw level flight.
'The little bastard ? let's see if he can keep up with this!' I swung the Tomcat around and went back into a steep, bone-rattling climb.
'No point in it now,' Sheila said, disgust heavy in her voice. 'Do you realize what you just did? Skeeter, you idiot ? why don't you ever listen to me?'
'What the hell do you mean?'
Admiral Magruder's voice over tactical answered the question for me.
'Tomcat 101, RTB.'
'Return to base? What the hell for?' I asked, tactfully keeping my finger off the Transmit button.
Sheila answered immediately, 'Don't you listen to the briefs? We had a seven thousand altitude restriction, you idiot. He suckered you, big time. And you followed him right down, right to the edge of the envelope.
He had time to pull out before he broke seven thousand feet ? you didn't.
Six thousand nine hundred and forty-five feet ? you lose.' 'No fair!' I said. 'We got off two Sidewinders before we reached-'
'You broke the altitude restriction ? you were dead before the missiles left your wing,' Sheila said wearily. 'Quit arguing and answer the admiral, Skeeter.' I paused a second, collecting my thoughts. The admiral's voice came over tactical again. 'Tomcat 101 ? acknowledge last transmission.
RTB-now!'
Finally, I toggled the mike. 'RTB-roger, wilco.' I didn't bother to ask why. The admiral knew ? and now, so did I.
We were only twenty minutes out from the base, but it seemed to take forever to get back there. The air was cold and clear, perfect flying weather, but somehow I was enjoying it a hell of a lot less than normal.
It was the same Tomcat curled around me, a metal shell that felt like my second home. The reassuring thrum of the turbofan engines, the familiar heads-up display that almost felt like a part of me ? none of that had changed. It was still the most powerful fighter ever built, a hell of a lot better than the MiG-31. The aircraft hadn't failed ? I had.
There was no use trying to blame it on Sheila, or bemoaning the fact that the MiG pilot had a guy on the ground feeding him information and keeping him from breaking through the artificial barriers set up for our engagement. The GCI concept is wrong, way wrong. Fighter pilots have to be free to operate in wolf packs, choosing their own targets and defining their own engagements. The time lag between aircraft and the guy on the ground is just too great to make for effective combat. Then how come I'd lost this engagement?
It wasn't real. If it had been real, that MiG would have been dead.
But real didn't matter ? not now. We'd set out to prove a particular point and I'd screwed it up by not paying attention to my altitude. Sure, Sheila might have been a little bit louder in warning me, or even the admiral could have spoken up ? no, no use trying to find somewhere else to fit the blame. Flying the aircraft was my responsibility, and mine alone.
Sheila had her hands full with the radar and targeting at that point, and even though she'd started to warn me about the altitude, it wasn't her fault.
Out to the north, I could see a thin, oddly colored line on the horizon. At this altitude, I had an excellent view of the coastline, the array of military bases and commercial points along it. The supertankers, massive and imposing close up, were smaller than matchsticks.
And there was the Jefferson, way off, barely visible to the naked eye although we were holding her position solid in the link. I let my hands rest easily on the control and steered out toward her. The sea round her was a dark, angry gray, forbidding and menacing. Ice was already fouling the water around the shoreline, creeping out gradually as the calm seas did nothing to prevent its formation. In closer to land than Jefferson I could see two other surface ships, probably the icebreakers we'd been briefed on earlier. It would be their job to insure that Jefferson had clean water around her and didn't get mired in the ice. An aircraft carrier is tough, but the hull simply isn't built to withstand the massive pressure that an ice float can bring to bear on man-made metal.
The dark line on the horizon was growing thicker now, and I saw an odd shot of white spark through it. I
