The second Forger proved to have a steadier hand. It stood its ground as the missile approached, waiting until the last second then braking hard down in a nearly vertical descent. The missile almost had it, but then was unable to follow. Trying to turn, it lost itself in a compact burst of flares and detonated harmlessly. The Forger lost its tactical awareness, however, and as it turned back to face Bird Dog, it exposed itself vertically to a heat seeker. Fastball, never one to miss an opportunity, snapped, “Bird Dog, break right!” and, at the same second, toggled off a heat seeker. The Tomcat below maneuvered almost instantly, but had Bird Dog been a hair slower or taken time to question Fastball’s command, it would have been a toss-up as to whether the missile took out the Forger or Fastball’s lead.
“Nice shot, Fastball,” Bird Dog said coolly over tactical. Rat cringed. By refusing to admit that he had been in danger, Bird Dog merely compounded the problems with Fastball. And once the two pilots had determined to out- cool each other, there was little a RIO could do to stop them.
The third Forger had not escaped their attention, either. Realizing that both of its companions had been lost, it fell back slightly, and waited for a second Forger to form on him. Then, moving a loose pattern that suggested a lot of experience, the two moved in.
“And here come the big dogs,” Fastball shouted, evidently realizing the same thing. “Bring them on!”
The preferred tactic would be to take on one, then the other, but the Russians were not giving them that choice. The Forgers split apart almost immediately, each one gunning for an individual target.
“Fox one!” Fastball shouted, shooting an AMRAAM. Even as he did so, the ECM blared its warning.
“He’s got us, Fastball,” Rat shouted, her fingers flying over the controls as she pumped out chaff and flares. Not too much, not too little — just right. Her radarscope exploded with a buzz of static as the chaff spread.
The Forger was on them almost instantly, nimbly evading the chaff. He came in again, blasting off another missile then cutting away and circling back up under, like a shark after a swimmer. Rat saw tracers just off their right side, and realized that the Forger was hoping to trap them between the missile, the chaff, and its guns.
Fastball saw it coming, too. He tipped the Tomcat nose down, letting her drop like a rock, and then pulled back hard, kicking into afterburner in a display of raw power that the Forger could never match. In seconds, he was back at altitude, high in behind the Forger. The missile veered off, losing its lock and streaking off toward open sky.
The Forger, not to be outdone, seemed to leap through the air as it followed Fastball up. It couldn’t manage the sheer power of the Tomcat in a climb, but it could cut well inside what its pilot thought was Fastball’s turn. The Forger cut across the arc, intending to intercept them and drop into position behind, firing off the heat seeker to increase the distraction factor.
Fastball swore, and reversed his turn. He pulled up again, flashing the undercarriage of the jet at the Forger, then dove over to drop back in position. The Forger, not realizing what was coming, had once again turned in the vertical, intending to intercept, and had failed to allow for the change in altitude. Once he realized his error, the pilot began maneuvering radically across the sky, cutting a series of hard turns designed to exceed the Tomcat’s envelope. But once again, Fastball saw it coming. He kicked afterburners back in and simply powered his way through a gut-wrenching ascending turn, coming back down behind the Forger again.
The ECM warning went off again, and Rat twisted in her harness, looking for the threat. Meanwhile, Fastball bore down on the helpless Forger, almost psychically guessing which way the other aircraft would turn. Finally, the Forger tried to run one too many times. Tracers streaked across it and seemed to disappear, harmlessly passing through its skin.
Rat knew that was impossible. Everything she knew about the Forger said that its underbelly had additional armor plating on it, enabling it to more effectively and safely support ground operations, but the rest of the fuselage was lightly armored in order not to weigh the aircraft down too much. Consequently, the rounds would do maximum damage.
Evidence to support her conclusion was not long in coming. The Forger twisted in the air, trying to evade the Tomcat. But just as it leveled out, it spun violently to the right, rolling so hard it was almost a blur.
Fastball pulled away hard, clearing the area. As he did, the Forger’s wing snapped off, flying off at an acute angle to the fuselage. Other pieces of gear broke loose, peppering the sky with bits of metal, oil, and debris.
A few seconds later, the inevitable happened. Fuel hit hot metal, flashed past its ignition point, and the Forger exploded.
“Where’s Bird Dog?” Fastball asked, trying to control his voice but clearly breathing hard. Maybe she overestimated his cool, Rat thought, because he sure didn’t sound like a guy who was really enjoying himself.
“Three clock, and low,” she said instantly. One part of her mind was always fixed on lead, tracking his position and maintaining a running picture of where he was relative to Fastball. Not always a RIO’s job, but that was the way it worked when she flew with Fastball.
“Okay.” Fastball dropped the nose of the Tomcat down, then rolled over, searching the sky below them.
“There, just to the right,” Rat said.
“Bird Dog, you okay?” Fastball asked.
It was Bird Dog’s RIO who answered, saying, “Yes, we’re fine, just about — there.” A fireball in front of Bird Dog punctuated the RIO’s self-satisfied pronouncement. “That’s two.”
Immediately, Bird Dog’s Tomcat broke off and began ascending, coming up to meet them. As Bird Dog flashed past them, Fastball fell into position on his wing, following his lead. There was no need for conversation. Both pilots knew exactly what they were doing — picking out the next target.
This time, the Russians were taking fewer chances. Five Forgers broke off to meet them, settling into one group of three and a traditional fighting pair, a configuration that had Rat worried. Funny how your mind got used to seeing just pairs. Now, with one trio joining on them, it was too easy to lose track of one of the players. Not to mention the second pair.
“I’ll take the three,” Bird Dog said. But even as he spoke, the lower pair broke off and gave chase. Bird Dog had no choice but to react. “Stay loose, Fastball,” Bird Dog snapped, a trace of worry in his voice. “I’ll be right back.”
“Not a problem, Dog,” Fastball said. But even as he spoke, Rat could see that there was indeed a problem.
Fastball shoved the Tomcat into afterburner, shoving Rat back hard in her seat. “Ah,” she grunted.
“Altitude,” Fastball said, grunting as well. “Altitude. That’s first.”
“They’re tracking us,” Rat warned. One Forger was directly behind them, falling behind slightly but in perfect position. His playmates were on either side, offset by five thousand yards so that the formation of Tomcat and three-point Forgers looked like a trefoil.
“Sun,” Fastball said, not deigning to explain any further. Not that it was necessary — Rat knew where he was heading. He turned hard and pointed the nose directly into the sun. It glared off the canopy, blinding her. Rat jammed her head down hard against the plastic to block out the light. Fastball probably had his eyes shut by now — the way he was today, she doubted he even needed his eyes in order to fly and fight the aircraft.
“They’ve got a lock,” Rat warned, her fingers tweaking the picture into focus as the gear began its warning time. “Chaff — no flares, not at this angle.”
“Roger. Hold on.” Coming from Fastball, that could mean practically anything. Rat braced herself.
Fastball began a series of violent maneuvers, skipping across the sky like a pebble. The orderly formation of Forgers behind them broke apart slightly as they tried to anticipate his next move, each waiting for the perfect shot. But by forcing them to maneuver, he fouled their fields of fire. And there was one other problem — although she suspected the Forgers hadn’t notice it yet, the Tomcat had slowed its violent maneuvers, and the net effect had been to decrease the distance between the Forgers and the Tomcat to within minimums. They were too close now to fire their missiles.
That didn’t mean they were defenseless. All at once, the air around them was lousy with tracers. For a moment, Rat quailed. Then, seconds before he did it, Rat knew what Fastball intended. She started to object, to warn him not to, that it was too dangerous, but it wouldn’t have done any good.
Just at the point the Forgers began to realize they had a problem, Fastball manually swept the wings forward, deploying his speed brakes and landing gear. The Tomcat reacted as though it had hit a solid object. Its speed slowed abruptly, peeling off knots so quickly that it was inside the stall envelope almost immediately. But as the Tomcat slowed, the Forgers shot past her. Forcing out another two seconds of maneuverability before the Tomcat became aerodynamically unstable, Fastball sprayed the three with gunfire, reversing their situation.
