and harsher terms. Finally, after the last one, Bird Dog heard Coyote’s voice. “Weapons free. All Russian targets declared hostile. I repeat, weapons free.”
“Tally ho on the lead MiG,” Bird Dog said promptly. “Your dot, RIO,” he said, giving his backseater permission to fire. It was a privilege he normally would have reserved for himself, but he was trying to make amends. “Shaughnessy, take your shot — AMRAAM now. Maybe we’ll scare the little bastards off.”
“Roger. But I get the feeling they came to play, not to run.” As she spoke, an AMRAAM shot out from under her wings, nosed over a bit, then headed straight for the second MiG in the pack.
At the first missile launch, the MiG flight broke formation, scattering into fighting pairs in the same style that the American used. Bird Dog listened as voices called out targets over the circuit. Sixteen Tomcats against twenty MiGs — well, that was close enough to being fair. The AMRAAM would even up their numbers quickly, and they’d polished off the rest of them at their leisure.
He bore in on it, keeping the MiG targeted, hand poised over the weapons selector switch, watching the AMRAAM close in. The MiG knew it was in trouble, and began jinking around the sky, frantic to evade the missile. Finally, two seconds before the missile intersected the fuselage, the canopy blew off and the Russians’ ejection seats shot out at right angles to the plane. Bird Dog watched them floating down to the ocean, glad in some way that they made it out.
“Good kill,” the E-2 said. “You too, Shaughnessy.” Bird Dog moved his pip to the next target.
“MiGs! They’ve got a lock!” his RIO shouted. Bird Dog saw it immediately. He punched out chaff and flares, initiated jamming, and watched as the missile arced down cleanly from above, seeking out the Tomcat 5,000 feet below it. Bird Dog toggled off an AAMRAM at the aggressor.
Korsov snarled as he saw the missile symbols emerging from the Tomcat symbols. “You think that long-range weapons worry me?” he sneered. “I have a little something for you as well.” He pickeled off his own long-range antiair missile, then turned his attention to the countermeasures and maneuvers he would need to evade the American missiles.
The Russian missile was not new technology. The seeker head was reverse-engineered from the American AMRAAM, the missile slightly longer, while the payload remained about the same. This particular warhead contained a net of expanding steel rods that would snag a Tomcat out of the air like a cat dipping into a fish tank. The missile was a bit slower than the AMRAAM but made up for it in endurance. It possesses a retargeting capability as well.
Because of the extended range and retargeting capability, it also possessed the small IFF receiver in the nose. In theory, it could tell friendly aircraft from enemy ones — in theory, at least. He knew that in every operational test so far, the system has proved less reliable than the rest of the missile. He would bet his life on it, but it did provide an additional measure of safety.
The disadvantage to the long-range Russian missiles was that, since it was slightly heavier, the MiG could carry fewer of them. And, like the Hornet counterpart, the MiG packed less overall firepower than one Tomcat. Still, the MiGs were adept at working as small wolf packs and several smaller aircraft could easily bring down any number of larger ones as long as they worked together.
But working together without a GCI, or ground control interceptor, was a relatively new skill for them. Sure, they’d practiced, drilled, and trained for it, but in actual fact, maintaining coordination was only slightly more difficult than getting the IFF to work.
Still, as Korsov tracked the incoming AMRAAM, he saw his own missile was having the desired effect. The American forces below him were already scattering, breaking apart into pairs, some dodging and twisting now trying to evade the missiles homing in on them, others remaining rock steady and launching their own missiles before executing evasive maneuvers.
“Bolshoi flight, engage at will,” Korsov ordered. “Lenin flight will refuel and rejoin on you shortly.”
The SEALs moved west and south, seeking out the next missile launcher location on their chart. The final installation was downwind slightly from the mishap area, a fact that worried Parto somewhat. But, it seemed to be far enough away that the nerve agent might be disbursed before it reach them — or maybe not. They would watch the birds overhead carefully as they approached, assessing the possibility of danger. At this slightly lower altitude, the vegetation was even thicker, and it was almost impossible to move quickly and silently. But there was no time for caution, no time for a careful, invisible survey of the scene, a deliberate approach to maximize their advantage.
Whoever commanded this detachment ran a tight ship. Or perhaps someone had put out a warning, noting that four other truck installations had failed to answer routine security checks. Whatever the reason, there were four men with weapons at the ready, each one intently scanning the jungle around them, alert and ready to act. The SEALs would have to do this one the hard way.
“On my command,” Parto said, his voice barely audible as he spoke into the whisper-mike. “Guard’s first, then the rest of them. Watch the missile.” A series of clicks acknowledged his command.
The guard nearest to Parto was making the classic error of any watchstander. He was clearly assigned to cover a sector of ninety degrees of the jungle, and he had taken to pacing back and forth along his perimeter, falling into a rhythm as he scanned the jungle for intruders.
Suddenly, the radio slung on one man’s hip blared to life. Parto could make out words, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. It sounded like Russian — he crept closer, hoping to be able to make out the orders.
“—launch now—” was the only phrase he was able to decipher. That alone was enough to make his blood run cold.
They would have to move in, and move in now. If there was a launch order, then there was no time to waste.
Parto waited until the man was as close to him as possible, and whispered, “Now!”
Before he could finish the word, gunfire crackled in the jungle. Parto fired himself, bringing down his man with a short burst of three rounds. The SEALs charged forward, weapons at the ready, to the very edge of the camp.
The Russian team was panicking, but panicking with a purpose. Everyone had a weapon drawn, and they were formed up in three small clusters, their backs to each other as they covered all angles of approach. One brave soldier scrambled to the control panel and was frantically typing, glancing over his shoulder as he did. The missile launcher started to move. It was already completely extended. A second round of gunfire rang out and the three clusters of men dropped. They were firing as they died, the shots going randomly to the jungle. But a random shot could kill you just as easily as a well-aimed one. Leahy hit the ground, sighted in on the man standing at the console, then put one round through his lower back, hoping that it didn’t ricochet up into the missile.
It didn’t. But before he died, the man had evidently completed his task. As Parto’s last shot rang out, the missiles belched fire from its ass. A second later, it rattled off the rails, vaulted through the gap in the canopy overhead, and arrowed out into the blue sky.
Lacar fired at it as it came off the rails, hoping against hope to hit it, knowing that if he did he may have killed them all. But it launched untouched, and for a moment he wondered whether some subconscious instinct of self- preservation had skewed his aim. But sometimes lousy shooting was just lousy shooting.
“They got it off!” Lacar said, as he pointed up at the sky. He followed with a string of curses, as any of them were prone to do when they failed to do the impossible.
“But six others didn’t,” Parto pointed out.
All across the island, missiles were boiling up out of the green hills, gleaming white and shining against the deep blue sky. They were visible for only a few moments before they were out of range. “Could be more,” one said, and Parto wasn’t sure whether he meant that they could have eliminated more, or that there could be more launched. Either way, it didn’t matter. Their window of opportunity was over.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Parto said. “We’ve got things to do.”
