once you’ve cleared the island. We should be able to engage the reinforcement squadron before we get within range of the antiair batteries. Stay tight with me.”
Shaughnessy complied, seething.
Five minutes after the MiG was airborne again, she was in the midst of the light fog along the coast at 5,000 feet. Tombstone was counting on the confusion factor, with each pilot focused on only his individual engagement, to allow him to sneak into the pack. While he was behind the fur ball, he gained altitude and circled around like he was a MiG spoiling for a fight.
“Give me the frequency,” Tombstone said. Greene reset the radios and they heard an inquisitive Russian voice coming over it. Tombstone could pick out a few words, but his language skills fell far short of being able to answer.
The coast was only a short distance away. It would be no more than two minutes until they were dry. The voice over the radio grew increasingly insistent, then finally quit speaking altogether.
“Any reaction behind us?” Tombstone asked.
“Nope. I think maybe the controller wanted them to break off and take a look at us, but they’re all a little busy right now. With any luck, he’ll just decide that we’re having radio problems.”
“Great. Okay, first target. My dot,” he said. “Cross your fingers.” He toggled the weapons selector switch to select the radar homing missile, he paused, his finger over the firing button. “Be ready to punch us out if we have to.”
“That’s my job.”
“Tombstone punched the button.
The MiG pulled hard to the left as a missile sprang off the right wing. The sudden loss of weight coupled with the hard backdraft from the missile proved too challenging for the lighter aircraft. Tombstone regained control immediately and brought her back into level flight. “Second target now — your dot, Jeremy.”
“My dot,” Greene acknowledged, then toggled the second missile off.
The white exhaust from each of the two missiles was visible for a few minutes as they arrowed toward the island. The two remaining missile radars were located at the opposite ends of Bermuda.
“We’re targeted,” Greene said, as the ECM system howled. “Missiles.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Tombstone said. “And if the missiles work, no more problem in a few minutes.”
Tombstone put the MiG into a hard climb, kicked in the afterburner, and headed south. “Keep an eye on them.”
“Roger.” Greene turned around in his seat to watch the island behind them. A few moments later, he saw two explosions, followed by fire. “Hard kill, I think.” The radar warning signal fell silent. “And missiles have gone dumb. We did it!”
Tombstone switched to the tactical frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Two HARMs fired, two kills. Request you have the Hawkeye confirm.”
“Roger, Stoney One,” the Hawkeye said. “Confirm two radars off line.”
Howls of anticipation echoed over tactical as the Tomcat pilots turned back into the battle within the renewed deadly intent on the remaining MiGs. With shore-based missiles no longer complicating the picture, the matter of sweeping the sky clean became increasingly less complex.
SIXTEEN
Korsov and his flight were cruising at an altitude of 29,000 feet. He kept a close eye on his fuel indicator. In theory, at this altitude, the incoming aircraft should have more than sufficient fuel to reach Bermuda, with even some to spare should they have to delay their landing.
But he’d never planned to engage in a full-on dog fight and have to fight his way into the landing strip and refueling area. No, between Maskiro and his truck-launched weapons and the Americans’ reluctance to risk casualties, it was supposed to be an unopposed landing. Looking at the radar now and the gaggle of American fighters sweeping north along the west side of the island, he knew that would not be the case.
No matter. The mood among his group of aircraft had been growing all day, all of them hyped on adrenaline and itching for a fight. They were fighter pilots, and the drive to see combat was never far from the surface in each of them. Deeper down was the fear, the knowledge that you might not make it, the memory of having seen so many comrades lost in training, stupid accidents, or in combat. But it always happened to someone else, never to you. You would have been smarter at the last second, have made the right choice, have known immediately what to do instead of wasting precious seconds and altitude realizing you were in deep, deep shit.
The tension in the group had eased during the long transit, but now, with the island a fuzzy blur on their radar and the American fighters heading for them, everyone was on edge, itching for a fight. When the warning bowl of the ESM gear sounded, Korsov almost jumped out of his seat. “Where?” he demanded.
“To the west — Tomcats. It’s the AWG-9 system, no doubt,” his backseater said, his voice rushing over the words, talking too fast. “They’re out of range of the trucks — they’re headed for us.”
“Well, what of it? They want a fight, they’ll get one.” The adrenaline was surging through his system now, blanking out any possibilities that there was anything but one logical conclusion to the pending encounter. “How many?”
“Ten — no, sixteen. Maybe more.”
Did they launch the entire fighter complement off the aircraft carrier? No, they wouldn’t have — not and leave the carrier unprotected. There were still the MiGs already on the island to contend with, although they had remained on the ground since they’d landed. Still, just knowing that they were there would keep the aircraft carrier off balance.
“Roger,” he said. “Lenin flight, remained on course, engage at will. Bolshoi flight, follow me.” With that, leader pulled off half of the squadron and ascended, increasing his radar range as well as gaining valuable altitude. Altitude meant safety.
“Lenin flight — do nothing until you have launch indications,” he ordered. “Same thing, Bolshoi flight — if we can get on deck and under the antiair cover, that’s what we’ll do. And if not, well, we’ll wipe the sky clean, won’t we?” Listening to the cheers rattling over the circuit, he could feel the combat lust that filled each cockpit.
He put Bolshoi flight into a long, slow turn to the south, lining up now on the island. He could see it easily from his canopy, a lush, green expanse, its edges trimmed with white. The beaches, he’d heard, were outstanding. Not that he would have a chance to see them. None at first.
“Half of them are heading for the deck,” the Hawkeye announced. “They probably intended to do a quick refuel while the other half covers them.”
“Be nice if we could keep that from happening,” Bird Dog said. “And I got just the thing that might persuade them.”
Bird Dog listened to the warnings over international air distress and military air distress, ordering the MiGs to turn away from the island. There was no response to the repeated warnings, each one promising dire consequences
