The ESM screamed again, and he punched out another round of countermeasures, then pulled out of his climb and ejected more flares as a screen when he turned.
“Thor, I got the lower one — stay clear!” Fastball Morrow’s voice said over tactical. “Fox one, Fox one.” The heat seekers streaked across the air, nailing the Forger in the ass. Between ensuring that Beetle’s aircraft was dead and trying to take on Thor, the Forger had lost the big picture, and Fastball was on it before it knew what happened.
“I’ll get the other one,” Thor said, grunting, as he pulled the Hornet in a tight turn. The higher Forger, watching the destruction of his wingman, had decided he didn’t like the odds anymore. He had turned, intending to run back to the pack, when Thor caught him with a Sidewinder.
“Roger, Packer lead, Texaco bears 304, range 20 from your position. Standing by, full-service and all lines open.”
“Isn’t it a good day for flight?” Fastball crowed, snapping out of a fast barrel roll. In the backseat, Rat gritted her teeth. “The weather, the sunshine, and a bunch of stupid Russians — man, you have to love it!”
They were on the fringes of the Tomcat sponge, waiting for the rest of their flight to arrive. From the moment they’d started their pre-flight brief in the ready room, through the walk-around on deck, the launch and climbing to altitude, Fastball’s mood had grated on her nerves.
Just what was there to be so happy about? Outnumbered, bombers in the center of the formation — no, she didn’t really see a reason to be happy. Sure, it was the job, and it was — well, not a good thing, but certainly a gratifying challenge to go into combat. It wasn’t something you were happy about, exactly. High on, maybe, more alive than you were at any other time. Every moment was precious, every sense heightened. Probably the result of adrenaline, she knew, but that didn’t make it any less exhilarating.
But happy? No, she wasn’t happy. The difference between her attitude and Fastball’s was that she now knew she could die. Unconsciously, she ran her left hand down her right sleeve, felt the reassuring shape of her muscles under her fingertips. A few inches either way and her arm would have been blown off. Held as it was, she had been on the verge of bleeding to death in the cockpit before Fastball had gotten them back on the deck. It was only by sheer luck and good surgery that she retained complete use of her arm and was allowed to return to flight status. Sure, Fastball had been there, had seen the damage, had known how close she’d come to dying. Another foot or so and the shrapnel would’ve punched through his guts instead of her arm.
But until it happens to you, until you feel your own skin and flesh tearing, until you work through months of rehab and healing, you never really believe it. It always happens to someone else.
Well, she had been that someone else, and she knew it made a difference.
“Dolphin flight, on me.” Bird Dog’s voice rapped out over their flight circuit. “It’s still one solid cluster fuck, boys and girls. The lightweights will take the right side and we’ll head for the heavies on the left. Come in over the top and call your target on the E-2’s mark. Any questions?”
Of course there weren’t, other than whether the Hornets knew that Bird Dog was calling them lightweights. They had gone over this in the ready room, then again on the flight deck as a pre-flight. The Hawkeye had updated them while they were gathering at the sponge point, and they were about as up-to-date on the disposition of forces as anyone had any right to expect.
Rat stared down at the radar screen until goose bumps shivered on both arms. There was something evil about seeing Russian fighters and bombers in a formation they’d studied as history. This was back to the bad old days, the Cold War, when families were building bomb shelters in their backyards and the world was poised on the brink of nuclear war.
But the Forgers, those were a problem. The Tomcats were slightly heavier but more powerful. She ran through their performance characteristics in her mind again. Insert techno—
“Fastball, close up,” Bird Dog ordered, his voice curt. Obediently, Fastball slipped into position tight on Bird Dog’s right wing.
“What’s the matter, you getting lonesome?” Fastball asked cheerily.
“Do you have to be like this?” she snapped, her nerves finally fraying.
“Like what?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Like you’re having fun! Fastball, get your head in the game. This isn’t Top Gun School or a computer game.”
“I know that,” he said, sounding hurt.
“Yeah, right.”
There was a long silence, and she immediately regretted her words. The fact that Fastball irritated her said more about her attitude than about his. Maybe they shouldn’t have returned her to flight status. Maybe she’d lost her nerve.
“Okay, Rat,” Fastball said, his voice not quite as obnoxious. “Sorry. I just thought — well — I thought it’d cheer you up.”
“Fastball,” she muttered, “just fly the aircraft, okay? When I need an amateur psychologist, I’ll let you know.”
Just then, her ESM gear bleated out a warning. She snapped her gaze back to the radar screen and saw that they were just crossing over and above a Russian flight. This was the single most dangerous part of the transit, when they were directly in front, although above, the Russian fighters. They presented an excellent target aspect, broadside to the radars then flashing their tailpipes.
“Afterburner,” Bird Dog ordered. “Break formation.” This, too, was exactly as planned, providing a more difficult problem for Russian targeting.
The punch of the afterburner shoved Rat back into her seat. For a few seconds, she was too busy trying to breathe and keep her attention on the scope to worry about Fastball and whether or not he thought she’d lost her nerve. Then, as the g-forces eased off, she saw they were across. The plan was to continue ten miles past the formation, then swing back and approach them on an angle. A few more minutes — now.
“Now!” she said, giving Fastball the signal. He had anticipated her command and was already pulling into a tight turn and heading back toward the Russians. Below them, Bird Dog was accelerating, pulling away and increasing the separation between his aircraft and theirs to standard distance.
Immediately, three Forgers rose up to meet them. All around them, as the fighting pairs broke formation and selected targets under the Hawkeye’s direction, the Forgers split up to meet them.
The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Every fighting pair was facing four, if not six, aircraft. And still more were in formation, closing in tight on their Backfires, ready to take out anyone who got too close.
“Keep your distance,” Bird Dog reminded everyone. “Fox three, fox three.” An AMRAAM leaped off his wing, heading for the lead Russian. Bird Dog immediately broke off, accelerated, and ascended. The Russian he had targeted turned back into formation, panicked by the incoming missile and scattering the Backfires like marbles.
One part of Rat’s mind applauded the performance. Another part was panicking. Bird Dog did realize, didn’t he, that he couldn’t shoot his whole load at first encounter? Sure, if you didn’t get by the first missile, then there was no point in worrying about the next one, but you couldn’t expend every countermeasure on the first shot at you. That was a lesson she’d learned early on.
Bird Dog evaded the countermeasures easily, swinging over the top of the second Forger then wheeling back around to take another shot. It was clear he believed there was nothing to worry about, that the Forger in front of him had his complete and total attention. Fastball was supposed to be watching to make sure of it.
