and clumsy it’s like trying to beat you up the ladder to the flight deck. Just stay loose, watch what they’re doing, and you can turn inside every time.” As Bird Dog watched, Shaughnessy’s tail number entered the green blur around the island, dancing through a storm of enemy missiles.
“If she can do it, so can I,” one voice said.
“Me, too.” Without exception, they were all in.
Bird Dog could see Shaughnessy below him, maybe 10,000 feet below him, a silver spec trailing con trails as it streaked across the whitecapped ocean. She was alone, violating the first commandment of fighter combat — never leave your wingman. Nevertheless, she had, and Bird Dog was seriously pissed.
But not pissed enough to abandon her.
Time seemed to slow down, even as his mind raced. The missiles rising up from the ridge running down the center of the island were creeping up to the sky, moving so slowly that he could see every detail of their shape. It seems like he had forever to evade them, but he knew that overconfidence killed at least as many pilots as enemy fire.
With the Tomcat moving at almost Mach 1 and a missile closing at slightly less than that, reaction time was measured in seconds. And there was no telling how many warheads they had on each missile. No, it was like a picket fence that stood between him and Shaughnessy, even assuming that the seeker head on the missiles had a lock on her.
Behind him, the rest of the flight was thinking exactly the same thing. But picket fence or no, they would have to wind their way through it. Because, just in front of Shaughnessy, and already curving back around to catch her, was a pack of MiGs. One had curved off from the course the others were on as though curious, taking a look back along their six to see the lone Tomcat trapped below a layer of missiles. Bird Dog could imagine the pilots evaluating her predicament like a pack of wolves stalking a young elk separated from the pack. However good a pilot she might be, Shaughnessy couldn’t stand up to an entire flight of MiGs.
The other possibility was that she could run the missile picket fence herself and rejoin the rest in the Tomcat flight. But in the long run, that would leave them in no better position than they were in right now. There would still be a flight of MiGs to be destroyed and there’d still be the missile trucks next time they tried.
No, better to finish this once and for all. If Shaughnessy could find her way through a cloud of launching missiles, Bird Dog could, too.
“Home Plate, Bird Dog. We’re going in.” A flurry of clicks on tactical from the other aircraft acknowledged his order.
“Alpha flight, this is alpha leader. You heard what the lady said — they’re slow and dumb. Keep your airspeed down to have time to react, but not so slow that they have time to catch you. Just be slightly faster, and a hell of a lot smarter. It should take you about ten seconds to transit the danger zone, and I want every last one of you pumping countermeasures as we go through it. All right, follow me.”
Bird Dog nosed the Tomcat down and decreased his airspeed slightly. Four hundred knots — yes, that should do it. “Keep your eyes glued to your radar screen,” Bird Dog ordered. “Call out the closest threat so I can get a visual on it.”
“They’ve got some sort of coating on, Bird Dog,” his RIO answered. “Not the greatest radar contacts in the world. Some of them are fading in and out.”
“Jamming of some sort?”
“I don’t think so,” the RIO answered, but his voice was doubtful. “Maybe. It’s more likely that they’ve got some sort of stealth coation on them. I’m getting a scatter effect, sort of — keeps them from having a solid return.”
“First one coming up in about five seconds,” Bird Dog said. “Like I said, stick to the radar — I’ll handle visuals, unless you tell me the radar is totally useless.”
“Roger. Recommend you descend four hundred feet, come right hard. That should put us underneath it. Even if it locks, is going to have a tough time making a hundred eighty degree turn.”
“Concur.” Although his HUD display provided him enough information to make the same call himself, Bird Dog didn’t even bother with it. His eyes were his combat information system; they told him the angle of approach and the relative speeds more accurately than any set of sterile numbers ever could.
Bird Dog snapped the Tomcat down and hard to the right. “Take it easy,” his RIO said. “Or, at least warn me.”
“Next target,” Bird Dog said.
“Come left, ease back a bit, then back hard right and continue descending,” the RIO said promptly.
So far, the plan seemed to be working out really well. He could hear over tactical that some of the pilots were cutting it a bit too close, mainly by the anguish howling from their RIOs. Still, there were no explosions.
It was almost like playing a video game. After he evaded the first few, it took on a feeling of unreality. Were those really live missiles or just pixels on a screen? One part of his mind knew better than that, and he tried to pay attention to that, tried not to relax.
“Bird Dog, they’re on her!” his RIO shouted. Shaughnessy and a flight of MiGs were below him and slightly aft, and Bird Dog had lost a visual on them. He jerked his gaze back to his HUD. His RIO was right.
“We’re taking too long,” Bird Dog snapped. “We’ve got to get down there.”
“If you go any faster, you’re going to screw it up,” his RIO said, his voice now seriously concerned. “I’m doing the best that I can.”
“I’m not,” Bird Dog said grimly. He jammed the throttle forward. “Coming right for two hundred feet, another right turn, then down five hundred feet. Double check me.”
So this is how it would work best. He would do what his gut told him was right, counting on the RIO to catch it if he made a mistake.
The feeling of being in a video game disappeared abruptly. Everything was moving much faster, so fast that there wasn’t even time to think. It was all reflexes and nerves. He doubted that most of the squadron could keep up, but he was counting on their own good sense and their RIOs to know what their limitations were. But it was his wingman down there and he was going to get there in time, or die trying.
“She’s got three MiGs on her, Bird Dog. One’s got a lock. She’s trying to shake him — there, it took the chaff. But the other two are trying to box her in.”
Bird Dog stared straight ahead, not even daring to blink. At this speed, the few microseconds it took to shut his eyes and open them might get them killed.
“No!” the RIO shouted. “Hard right — now!”
Bird Dog hesitated for a split second, and almost made a fatal mistake. He was near the bottom of the missile field now, and the MiGs were rising to greet him. If he continued the maneuver he’d planned, he’d fall right into a perfect firing position on them. The RIO’s plan was risky, but it might just work.
Time stopped again. The Tomcat seemed to respond so slowly that he wondered if he’d lost control surfaces. But the instrument panel was solid green lights, and he could feel the thrum of the aircraft biting into the air at a different angle.
As he came around, his wings swept back at maximum angle, he saw the missile. It was inching toward them, gleaming white, wobbling ever so slightly in the air as it rammed through his jet wash. It seemed to be staring at him, watching, determined to take him out. He knew where it would hit, too, felt it as a crawling sensation on his skin as though he were melded with the fuselage. Just after the cockpit, on the left side. It would destroy the wing first, plunging the Tomcat into a terminal barrel role, then continue on into the fuselage itself, detonating just after penetration. The fireball and the destruction would be instantaneous.
“No!” Bird Dog howled. He jammed the Tomcat down into a vertical dive, not sure if there were more missiles in front of him, but not caring. If he didn’t get out of this one’s way within the next few seconds, it was all over.
“Pull up!” the RIO shouted. “You’re past it! Pull up, Bird Dog.”
“Bird Dog, I can’t shake this one,” Shaughnessy said, her voice shaky for the first time since he’d known her. “I tried everything, but it’s like it’s reading my mind. Every turn I try—”
“Break hard to the right,” Bird Dog ordered, now diving straight for her. “Now, Shaughnessy — now! Break!”
Shaughnessy obeyed instantly. Her Tomcat rolled over, dived toward the ocean in a hard right turn and the
