As Music listened to his pilot bitch, he tried to keep track of the fireballs. But with Bird Dog wheeling around in the sky, staying clear of the missile engagements while still ready to pounce in the second, it was difficult to stay oriented. Sometimes he thought he counted ten, other times thirteen. There was no way to tell for sure. Maybe the computer was right — maybe a few fireballs were hidden behind the others. But somehow, he didn’t think so.
“Fastball, you watching this?” Bird Dog said over tactical. “You stay in place, buddy. None of that bullshit from before.”
“Roger, Lead,” Bird Dog heard Rat acknowledge, and knew she got his message. Fastball might be a hothead, but Rat seemed to have some degree of control over him. She was simply reminding him of that fact.
“That Rat, she’s something else,” Bird Dog said admiringly. “If it were me, I’d never climb back in the cockpit with that cowboy. She’s got all the right stuff. She even saved Fastball’s ass last cruise — you remember, when she punched them out when they were in that flame-out on final?”
“Yes, Bird Dog.” So that was the ideal, was it? To be bloodthirsty? And even Rat was managing to show all the right stuff, was she? Even a woman. Music felt his own personal failings more strongly than he ever had before. And the worst of it was, there was no one he could talk to about it.
“I don’t know why you’re so pleasant to them,” Fastball snapped. “The way everybody acts, you’d think Bird Dog was some sort of god.”
Rat bit back the comments she longed to make. Sure, Bird Dog was… well, Bird Dog. Abrasive, arrogant and sometimes downright infuriating. But outside of the admiral, through a weird combination of events, Bird Dog probably had more combat time than any other pilot on the ship, including the CAG. Okay, so he punched out more times than anyone had a right to expect in a career, but he brought his RIO back safe and sound. And that’s not something you could say about every pilot, now, was it?
Stupid idea. But in that last furious conversation in the ready room, when they’d almost come to blows, she thought she had straightened him out. There would be no more of this pilot attitude, no more ignoring her and never giving her the dot. They would fight the aircraft as equals, and he would listen to her opinion. Even on matters involving flying, although she acknowledged she would have to defer to him on those.
“Music, picture,” the E-2 said. “You copied my last?”
“Roger. Give me a target, hot guy,” she heard Bird Dog answer for his RIO. A vector to a target followed, and then the E-2 Hawkeye coordinating the air battle jumped in on the circuit.
“Tomcat two zero niner, come right to course 000 to rejoin your lead. Acknowledge.”
“What?!” Fastball started swearing.
“You heard the man, Fastball,” Rat said crisply. “Now move your ass. Let’s get going.”
“But the fight’s back here,” Fastball whined. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair, I’m going to—”
Rat cut him off. “You’re going to do exactly as you were told,” she said crisply. “Because if you don’t, you will be explaining to the CAG and the admiral why you’re back on board without your canopy or your RIO. I told you, I’ve had it with your attitude. A professional follows orders, Fastball — follows orders, whether they involve the opportunity for personal glory or not. So you may not like getting broken off to fly CAP for the destroyer, but the fact is that she puts her ass on the line to keep your airfield float. The least you can do is return the favor. Now, if I don’t see this aircraft turning in approximately five seconds, I’m out of here.”
“Okay, okay. But I’m going to have a talk about this with the CAG when we get back on board,” he muttered. He yanked the Tomcat into a violent turn, slamming Rat into the side of her ejection seat, and building up Gs to the point of forcing her into an M1 maneuver to counteract the effects.
“Raiders, picture. Bogies now FEZ, follow indicated vectors and take targets at will. Good hunting. See you back on the boat.” With that, the Hawkeye slipped back into a monitor mode as the individual flights of aircraft broke out to seek out their targets.
Thor had been following his target on his HUD since the initial call, and was already mentally fighting the battle. He would come in high, with Archer taking the low slot, and let Archer draw a bogie off to the south. As soon as the MiG turned, Thor would drop in behind into the killing position. He clicked on his mike. “You ready, Archer?”
“As ready as ever, boss,” the other Marine’s voice came back. “Inbound now!”
Archer slammed his wing over, rolled out of position, and bore down on their designated target. Thor kicked in his afterburners, gained altitude, and headed in the same direction although slightly offset, hoping he could circle back slightly and be in the perfect position.
He looked down and saw that Archer was already in afterburner, and called out a warning. “Watch your fuel consumption, Wayne. We don’t have time to tank.”
A single click on the mike acknowledged his transmission. As he watched, Archer cut back out of afterburner.
But the Fencer had figured out what was happening, and was kicking butt and heading for the sky. The bogie pilot clearly understood the need to gain altitude to avoid being trapped in a pincer maneuver, and Thor swore quietly. He had hoped it would work first time out, but evidently that was not to be.
“Take low, Archer. Watch my six — I’m going to try to shoo him back down toward you.”
“Roger, sir. Take him out as soon as you can. Don’t worry about me.”
Thor laughed out loud. “Oh, don’t worry about that — you’ll get your chance.” Thor kicked in the afterburner for a moment as well, getting a head start on his climb. It was important not to let the Fencer gain too much altitude on him. While the aircraft were relatively equally matched in terms of endurance and performance, there was no time for a long drawn-out game as each one sought the advantage. No, this needed to be fast and brutal. There were simply too many Chinese to waste time.
As the Fencer headed for altitude, Thor backed off slightly and let him get ahead, then converted his upward motion into a sharp, gut-wrenching turn. Then he continued to ascend, staying on the outside of the Fencer’s path and waiting for the breakaway. “Go north of us, Archer,” Thor called out, already figuring out the geometries in his mind. “Cut him off if he tries to break out of this.”
The old laws of gravity applied to fighters just as surely as they did to the apple that fell on Sir Isaac Newton’s head. What goes up, must come down, and an aircraft was no exception to the inevitable rule. Oh, sure, she might go up faster than usual, but coming down was going to be a bitch.
“Thor, I got a Fitter on my ass — he’s got me locked.” Archer’s voice was a little higher than normal, betraying worries. “I’m heading back toward you. Pull him off if you can!”
“Roger — I’ll keep an eye on his buddy as well.” Thor broadened the arc of his turn slightly, gained a visual on Archer, and saw the Fitter on his tail. As they closed range on him, he was immediately faced with a decision: wait for his designated contact to come back down within range or turn away from this engagement and chase the Fitter on Archer’s tale.
There was a good chance that Archer could handle the other aircraft himself; it was simply a matter of driving him into the vertical game, then waiting for him to make a mistake. But if Thor broke off from his current target, there was every chance the Fencer would slide back in behind the MiG and reverse exactly the scenario Thor had had in mind for him.
