Arsenal

FOURTEEN

“Damn it!”

Tombstone slammed his hand down on the arm of his battle chair. “How the hell did they get away with that? And where did all those aircraft come from? That’s more than Cuba has in her entire inventory!”

Batman clenched his fists and glared at the large-screen display.

“Libyans. It’s got to be. Five years ago, you and I would never have fallen for that feint.”

“Five years ago, we wouldn’t be on some wishy washy presence mission constrained by political considerations in our own backyard,” Tombstone snapped. “Damn it. Batman, we blew it. Face it.”

Batman shook his head. “Not yet, we didn’t.” He pointed at the flight of Tomcats and Hornets inbound on their objective. “Do the time-distance problem. They’ve got time to dump their ordnance and engage. It ain’t over until it’s over. Admiral.”

The use of his title snapped Tombstone back to reality. He shifted out of his emotional reaction to the sudden appearance to the inbound raid and focused strictly on the tactical scenario. What Batman said was true. And, with their ordnance dumped, he’d match his flight of tomcats up against any raid of MiGs.

That the Cubans had surprised him frustrated him no end.

Perhaps what he’d said in anger was true maybe he was too old to be in command of operational forces. God knows he’d certainly had his taste of combat, in missions ranging from fighting the Soviets during the Cold War in the skies of Norway to his most recent foray against them, repelling a missile launch crew from the Aleutian Islands. Maybe it was time to step down, give the younger men a chance.

Maybe it was “Admiral Wayne. We need to talk now.” Tombstone drew his old friend aside to a quiet corner of TFCC. He steepled his fingers in front of him and gazed at his old wingman, his dark, unreadable eyes now backlit with frustration. “What’s the first principle of command.

Batman?”

“Lead from the front,” Batman said promptly. “Don’t ask your troops to do something that you aren’t willing to do yourself.”

Tombstone nodded. “I’m glad you remember that. Maybe you won’t think I’m completely crazy, then. Listen, it’s your air wing can I borrow a Tomcat?”

Batman’s jaw dropped. “Hell, no, you can’t have an aircraft! How long has it been since you’ve been behind the controls, anyway? Two years?”

Tombstone shook his head. “Not that long.” He managed a grim smile.

“A three-star draws enough water to catch an occasional refresher FAM flight, even in SOUTHCOM.

Two weeks, max.”

“But what the hell for?” Batman’s voice had ratcheted up three notes.

What his old lead was proposing was crazy absolutely insane. Admirals didn’t fly combat flights they stayed in TFCC and kept the big picture, drawing on their experience and training to coordinate the many measures that could and often did go wrong in combat. “You’re of more value right here than you are in the air.”

Tombstone shook his head again. “No. We’ve got two admirals on board as it is. You and I both know that I should never have been ordered out here as task force commander.

You’re more than capable of running your own carrier group, whether or not it includes an Arsenal ship.”

“But what do we gain by putting you in the air?” Batman asked, tacitly acknowledging the truth of Tombstone’s statement. “I’ve got a dozen pilots sitting in ready rooms ready to man up those birds. I hate to say it, old friend, but they’re a helluva lot sharper in the cockpit than you are now.

You could have taken them back when we were both flying regularly, but not now.” Batman shook his head. “No. I can’t see any justification for this. With all due respect. Tombstone, no.”

“Think about this. Batman.” Tombstone pointed back toward the large-screen display, then fished in his pocket and pulled out a laser pointer. He toggled it on and then circled the symbols for the incoming raid aircraft with a red dot. “We’ve got what looks like Cubans inbound, right?

Only you and I both know that they’re probably Libyans.

How the hell our satellite surveillance missed them is something we’ll puzzle out later. But for now, there’s a lot more on the line than merely air battles and losing aircraft.

We’ve got a whole new foray by a foreign nation into our bathtub down here, and however this ends up, it’s not going to be pretty. I’m not having my men and women face it alone not when I can be out there with them. If there’s going to be some shit hitting the fan over this, it’s going to have to go through me to get to them. They’re all good pilots, every last one of them, and they don’t deserve to put up with the political bullshit that’s going to be falling out from this.

That’s why I need to be there. I’m a shit shield, if it comes down to that in the aftermath.”

Tombstone’s face looked hard, weary. He was making sense. Batman had to admit, but not in a way he’d ever heard a three-star make sense before. They both knew that fighting a war and winning it tactically was only half the solution. It was the news reporting and diplomatic interpretation of the battle afterward that really made American foreign policy. But still, was the solution to risk a senior officer on a swan-song combat flight? He didn’t think so.

Tombstone took a step closer to him. “I’m retiring after this tour.

Batman. I’ve got three stars now, three more than I ever planned on.”

His voice took on a wistful note. “All I ever wanted to do was fly.

The promotions, commanding a carrier battle group that was the pinnacle.

There’s just more paperwork, more D.C. tours after this. I’m going to punch out while it’s still fun.”

“But Tombstone, there are other operational commands.

And there’s always JCS.” Batman struggled to find more arguments to present to his old lead.

“Not for me.” Tombstone’s voice and face suddenly lightened, as though some terrible tension had been released inside of him. “This is it-one final mission, putting it on the line one last time and hopefully doing some good for this country. I owe the country that and you owe me an aircraft.”

Batman’s throat seemed to close up slightly. “What’s your mission?”

“bda bomb damage assessment. We need a firsthand look at it, from somebody who’s got enough background to know what they’re seeing. And those missile launchers hell, these pilots are all too young to have seen the real thing. You and I would know what they were.”

“I’ll go with you.” Batman was surprised to find how exciting the prospect was. to be back in the air, to feel the smooth surge of twin engines pounding under his butt, facing off against the adversary in a nimble, deadly fighter he wanted it, too.

“You can’t. Someone has to stay in command here.” What might have been a smile tugged at the corners of Tombstone’s mouth. “And I’m senior, buddy. This is your battle group you stay here and command it like I had to do in the Spratlys. I’ll go out and get the BDA, help us plan our next move.”

“Damn it. Tombstone oh, all right. But you’ll need a backseater.”

Batman’s eyes looked unfocused as he considered the roster of naval flight officers on his staff.

“I’ll go,” a quiet, feminine voice said. Both men turned and stared at the small figure standing a foot away from them.

“Eavesdropping, Commander?” Batman said harshly.

“Not a good way to get off to a good start with your new battle group commander.”

She met his angry gaze levelly. “No, it’s not. Just about as bad a way as letting a three-star admiral fly off this boat without the best damned backseater available going with him. Do you know what happens to this grandiose plan if he gets shot down and killed? All of this self-serving bullshit is for nothing and you’re left facing the long green table.”

“Better to be judged by three than carried by six,” Batman said.

“Better if neither happens. If Tombstone’s taking a Tomcat on a strike or recon mission, I’m going with him.

We’ve flown together before, and I know how he thinks. I might be able to keep him alive when no one else can.” Her voice was firm and insistent.

“Following that logic, I ought to be on his wing,” Batman countered.

“The admiral already shot down that idea,” she pointed out. “And he’s absolutely right your place is here with the battle group. Not for me.

I haven’t relieved Henry yet, so I’ve got no formal role in this battle. My place as prospective executive officer is anywhere I’m needed. And right now, that’s in the backseat of his Tomcat.” She turned to Tombstone and shot him a withering glare. With all due respect Admiral, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard you come up with. Sir.”

“You’re not going,” Tombstone said. “End of discussion.”

“Why?” she shot back. “Because I’m your wife? Damn it, Admiral Tombstone I was a helluva fine RIO before I ever met you, and I’ll be a damned fine one after you retire.

But there’s one thing I won’t be, not at this age a widow.

So if you’ve got good reasons for taking this flight yourself, you can just count me in. You got that? Sir?” She made a visible effort to rein in the temper that went with her fiery red hair.

The two admirals looked at each other, each slightly surprised to find that he’d been outflanked by the diminutive commander. Finally, acceding to the inevitable. Tombstone shrugged. Batman scowled.

“Well?” Tombstone asked.

“Do I get my aircraft?”

Batman nodded. “And my favorite RIO, as well. Take care of her, you old son of a bitch. I’ll kill you myself if she gets hurt.”

Tomboy snorted. “If you’ve both just about run the gamut of your testosterone-laden self-recriminations, could we get on with it? I’ve got a mission to brief.” She turned smartly, then looked back. “I’ll be in the Ready Room when you’re ready to go. Admiral. I suppose you can still find the way by yourself?”

“And I thought the Cubans were getting good at outmaneuvering me,” Tombstone said wonderingly.

“I need to talk to you alone,” Batman said abruptly. He pointedly looked away from Tomboy, who shrugged and left immediately.

“What was that about?” Tombstone asked.

“Just something she doesn’t need to know about-hell, I wouldn’t tell you except that you outrank me and you’re going to be on the front lines out there. It’s about Arsenal.

She’s carrying UAVs unmanned aerial vehicles.”

Tombstone was stunned. “Since when?”

“Since my last tour in D.C. I’ve still got sources there, Stoney. I heard about it from a shipmate who took the time to hunt me down last time I was there. They’re playing this Arsenal program so close to the chest that need-to-know evidently doesn’t even include me. But you can count on itshe’s got them on board.”

UAVs one of the cheapest, most cost-effective assets in development.

Tombstone had seen a few test films, had been impressed by the weaponeering and intelligence potential in them. Yet sadly, the program languished. Despite its tremendous benefits to all the services, there simply wasn’t enough money involved to garner the political support to keep it funded.

At least not most of it. Evidently someone in Washington drew enough water to get them put on board the USS Arsenal.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tombstone said. “Though I don’t know that it’ll make any difference right now.”

Bird Dog was only two hundred feet above the ground, screaming across the landscape at 450 knots. The pucker factor involved in low-level operations was second only to trapping on the carrier at night, and particularly so when dawn had not even started to make its first appearance over in the east. Luckily he knew from studying the maps that there were no obstructions on their ingress route, and as long as he stayed on course and at altitude, he should be over his target without encountering a hard, immovable object. Like a mountain. Or a building. Either one of those was guaranteed to ruin an aviator’s day, along with the more minor hazards, less visible but equally deadly, of electrical lines and television antennas.

“Ten seconds,” Gator said. “On course, on altitude steady, steady.”

The comments were unnecessary but reassuring. Bird Dog glanced down at the target track indicator on his heads-up display, followed the red pip displayed there. He could see himself that he was making a perfect approach on the target. The only problem, as far as he could see, was the inbound raid of MiG-29s. And those wouldn’t be much of a problem as soon as he dumped the ordnance on his wings.

“Five seconds,” Gator announced with all the emotional involvement of a stockbroker reporting an inactive share.

“Four, three, two now, now.”

Bird Dog had already shifted the weapons selector switch to the appropriate station. He toggled it sharply and felt the Tomcat jolt upward as a pair of five-hundred-pound bombs left the wings. His airspeed picked up immediately, as did his altitude. Bird Dog slammed the throttles forward, cut sharply to his right, and kicked in the afterburners. The increase in thrust slammed him back against his seat, and he heard a sharp, involuntary gasp from Gator. Bird dog grunted and tensed his stomach muscles, forcing blood out of his torso and into his head to insure he kept consciousness during the high-G maneuver. It wasn’t his preferred way to leave a target sure, get away smartly, but this insane coupling of maneuvering and speed brought its own dangers. Graying out right now, less than five hundred feet above land, would be fatal. There was no room for error.

Still, there was no other option. With the MiGs inbound in a classical high-low combat formation spread, the Tomcat flight had to gain altitude. And fast. It would be an easier task for its lighter Hornet brethren, but the Tomcats would be the mainstay of any extended ACM.

After the bombing run, heavily laden and traveling close to the ground, the Hornets would be burning fuel at an incredible rate. He figured they had no more than twenty minutes on station in ACM and violent maneuvering before they’d have to vector back to the carrier to tank.

As formidable as the light aircraft were in ACM, easily outclassing the MiG in turning radius and maneuverability, their short legs were too often a fatal weakness.

Bird Dog watched the altimeter spool up past angels two.

He eased out of the turn and felt the aircraft begin to gain altitude even more quickly. Finally, at ten thousand feet, he cut the afterburners and eased back to military power.

His wingman. Short Mahoney, was lagging behind. Bird Dog orbited, waiting for him to catch up.

“Six minutes,” Gator announced in the same tone of voice he’d used to count down the bomb drop. “Within Phoenix range now.”

“Right. If I had any.” He’d selected a weapons load consisting primarily of Sidewinders, since carrying the five-hundred-pound bombs left little additional space on the wing hard points.

“Three minutes to Sparrow range,” Gator added.

“Short, go low. I’ll take high station,” Bird Dog ordered over tactical. He ascended another two thousand feet and watched as his wingman dropped down to angels seven.

The MiGs were visible now in the eastern sky, no longer simply black spots on the horizon but sharp-angled sleek fuselages and wings. And the wings dirty, he could tell even at this distance. What were they carrying? Probably a combination of short-and medium-range weapons, he decided. They’d known they were going to be in a dogfight, and wouldn’t have bothered to carry the Soviet equivalent of a longrange standoff Phoenix. And since they hadn’t had to carry five-hundred-pound bombs into target, they’d have more than enough weapons to spare, he figured. If they could catch the Tomcats, that is.

He watched the heads-up display adjust itself as radar homed in with the AWG-9 radar on the lead target, switching from search to tracking mode. A low growl sounded in his ears as a Sidewinder signaled that it had acquired a heat source sufficiently large to warrant its interest.

Bird Dog took a quick, reflexive check on the position of the sun. It was something you always watched for with a Sidewinder, that you weren’t taking a longrange shot at the sun with the short-range missile. No, it was still below the horizon. With all of his own aircraft safely behind him, he felt confident that anything the Sidewinder had acquired was a bad guy.

“Fox Three,” he said as he toggled the weapons selector switch over to the appropriate station. He slammed his eyes shut for a moment as the aircraft shuddered, trying to save his night vision from being destroyed by the phosphorous white fire of the missile’s ignition system. Even with his eyes closed he could see the red reflecting through his eyelids.

“Missile off the rail,” Gator said. “Looking good, looking good flares. Bird dog. He’s got flares. Your eyes ” The warning came too late. The lead MiG shot off three flares from an undercarriage slot and the white phosphorous orbs shattered the darkness. Bird Dog swore as his pupils contracted down “to pinpoints in reaction to it, effectively destroying his night vision.

The only consolation was that the MiG pilots would have been as blinded by the flares as he was.

Santana was concentrating on the radar picture and barely felt the flares shoot out from the undercarriage. The MiG-29, while a superbly engineered aircraft, had one major fault: It was a one-man operation.

In a high-threat environment with this many adversary aircraft inbound, he would have preferred to have an extra set of eyes in the backseat to keep watch on the other side. It was always a danger in a single-seater aircraft, losing sight of the big picture. He concentrated on the scope, his own source of data now that the Willie Pete shots had ruined his night vision, and vectored in.

Which one of those mongrels had had the audacity to fire on him?

There that was the one. He marked the radar symbol with a target designation. As often as he’d trained for ACM in practice. Colonel Santana had never actually faced hostile air. It was one thing to take on a small private aircraft mano a mano. No challenge, that like shooting ducks in a barrel, as the Americans said. He’d practiced this often enough that he felt comfortable with the tactics and fire doctrine, but there was still something intangibly different about the actual event. In practice, one could always call a time-out, pause and regroup, review one’s mistakes, and, most important, brag about one’s exploits afterward with the victim. Here, it was different.

The sudden, cold realization shook him. The air was no longer a friendly playground, something he’d earned the right to by virtue of his training, intelligence, and experience. It was a killing ground, and losing this battle meant more than having to put up with obnoxious bragging by the other side afterward.

And that aircraft, the one with the brilliant glowing red circle around it, was the one that had had the audacity to shoot at him. He felt a sense of relief, an easing of fear, as the threat to his existence became identifiable, distinct. No longer was it Death flying in the air around him, it was a single aircraft with a single pilot and a RIO behind him, he realized that threatened his existence. The odd conviction that if he could kill that one aircraft he would be safe overtook him. It made no sense, yet there it was.

Around him, he heard the rest of the flight calling out excitedly, each man claiming a particular target as his own.

The designation popped up on his screen as the other pilots did as he did, made the enemy personal and singular instead of massive and unreal.

Before, it had been a matter of tactics. Now, it was personal. And someone would pay for that.

“Asshole’s after us,” Bird Dog snarled. The MiG he’d shot at had turned and was headed directly toward him. With a closure rate of one thousand knots, it would be mere seconds before he would be within knife-fighting range of the other aircraft. Bird Dog had an advantage, though from what he could see, he had at least two thousand feet of altitude on the adversary. Altitude was safety, a fungible commodity in the air that he could trade for speed, for safety, or for any one of a number of critical flying factors.

He watched the MiG approaching, carefully calculating the angle between them. It would be a lead-lag situation in moments, particularly if the other pilot was not smart enough to avoid it. He wondered fleetingly how well the other pilots were trained. Not very, probably not if the Soviets had had a hand in it. If the other pilot misjudged the situation. Bird Dog would be able to climb slightly and drop in behind him, a perfect position for a Sidewinder shot.

The white-hot exhaust from the other aircraft’s engine would render any flare deceptions virtually useless.

“Hang on. Gator, time for some airspace.” Bird Dog slammed into afterburner again, tipped the Tomcat’s nose up, and shot almost vertically into the sky. The maneuver decreased his speed over ground radically, and would, he hoped, confuse the pilot below him.

As the altimeter spooled past fifteen thousand feet, he said, “Come on in, buddy. I’ve shot down MiGs before. You won’t be my first and I doubt you’ll be my last. If you think you’ve got what it takes, come on up and play with the big boys.”

Tombstone ran his hand lightly over the familiar controls of the Tomcat, marveling at how it all flashed back to him every time he took the controls. He could hear Tomboy murmuring to herself behind him, quietly walking through her own preflight checklist. They were sitting on the catapult, already affixed to the shuttle, steam pressure satisfactory, just waiting for the signal.

“All done. Ready to launch, Stoney.” Tomboy’s voice sounded as coldly professional as ever.

“Ready up here have been for hours.” He forced a chuckle. “That’s how it always is, isn’t it? The husband waiting for the wife to get ready?”

“You’re gonna pay for that one, big boy.”.

Tombstone’s retort was forestalled by approaching launch. He wiped his control surfaces, then signaled his readiness to the plane captain. He glanced at the Plexiglas board the man held in the air, instantly absorbing the figures noted there. Finally, he held out a thumbs-up.

The yellow shirt came to attention, snapped off a quick salute, then dropped to one knee and pointed dramatically forward toward the bow of the ship. Tombstone returned the salute, dropping his hand quickly to rest it on the throttles.

Seconds later, the seat slammed him from behind and the ejection harness straps bit into his shoulders. He gulped down a quick breath at the sensation, as familiar as every curve of Tomboy’s body. More so, reallyhe’d spent more time in a Tomcat than in her.

The bow of the ship thrust forward quickly to meet him.

Fourteen seconds later, he felt that sickening drop as the aircraft departed the carrier, that moment of sheer panic every pilot feels as gravity fights to suck the aircraft down into the sea. One of his own personal nightmares was a soft catapult shot where insufficient steam power on the downstroke led to insufficient airspeed. The results were almost always fatal, unless the pilot were quick enough to eject before the Tomcat hit the water. And every time he launched, he was certain it had just happened. His fingers closed around the ejection handle.

As always, however, he felt the Tomcat grab for altitude at the last moment. The engines screamed as they fought to overcome the relentless downward pull. Slowly, too slowly for anyone’s comfort, the aircraft gained altitude.

One last mission, one last combat patrol, one last chance to stare the enemy in the face and find out who was the better pilot. He hoped it would be worth it.

Santana watched as the Tomcat shot up into the air. The American fighter had a higher thrust-to-weight ratio, as well as a higher wing loading factor, giving it greater power than the MiG but decreasing its turn radius. And just as he knew the capabilities of the American fighter, so he was certain that the U.S. pilot knew exactly what his MiG was capable of. Decades of planning and training to fight the Soviet Union had given the Americans an enormous lead in the arcane field of dissimilar fighter tactics.

The Cubans had been similarly diligent, drawing upon the expertise of their Soviet masters for research and advice.

The Tomcat’s ventral side was a cold, gleaming silver in the sparse starlight. Already the sky had started to lighten almost imperceptibly, a foreshadowing of the dawn that would soon break. By that time, when the sun was finally visible, only one of them would still be in the air.

The best tactic for a more maneuverable aircraft such as a MiG versus a behemoth like the Tomcat is to fight an angles war, restricting the plane of combat to the horizontal as much as possible and preventing the larger craft from using its greater thrust-to-weight ratio to attain altitude and therefore, potential airspeed on the smaller one.

Santana assessed the tactical strategic situation. It seemed like the pilot had not started his ascent soon enough, leaving some possibility that the angles fight could be turned to the Cuban’s advantage immediately.

Santana put his MiG Fulcrum into a hard left turn, standing the nimble aircraft on its wing as he ducked underneath the path of the offending Tomcat. He knew what the American intended to gain altitude, roll over, and drop in behind him for a killing shot. By forming a T with the ascending aircraft, he made that probability unlikely.

In a few more seconds, he would see if his plan was working. Then he could judge the geometry of the engagement and quickly correct the agile Fulcrum’s course as necessary. The seconds ticked by inexorably.

“Furball forty miles to the east,” Tomboy said. “Recommend we come left slightly to avoid it. That is, if what you really want to do is get the BDA you said you were after.”

Tombstone clicked his mike twice in response, annoyed by Tomboy’s insight. She knew as well as he did that what he really wanted to do was vector over to the furball, pick off a MiG, and go one-on-one as he had so many times before. Even the absence of a wingman to assist him in a combat spread didn’t bother him. He’d fought solo against MiGs more times than most of these pilots had trapped on a carrier.

Instead, he eased the aircraft to the left, swinging wide of the engagement. Maybe later, after he’d had a chance to see what he’d come to see, and radioed the results back to the carrier. Maybe one last time but duty first. Whatever else he might have felt about flying, his obligation right now was to the carrier. And to Batman. This aircraft had been released to him for one purpose and one purpose only to obtain critical information for the carrier group commander not to allow him to live out some boyish fantasy one last time.

“Feet dry in five mikes.” Tomboy’s voice was still coldly professional, empty of any trace of “I told you so.”

Tombstone spared one last look off to the right, searching the sky for the aircraft that he knew were dancing deadly waltzes with each other at this very minute. Then he refocused his attention on the heads-up display inside. Duty first.

“Oh, you bastard,” Bird Dog muttered. “You slimy little Cuban bastard.” He craned his neck over and stared down, hoping to catch a glimpse of the aircraft darting underneath his flight path. He thought he saw it-the dim sparkle of starlight on hardened painted metal but he couldn’t be certain. For now. Gator and the radar provided a better picture of their relative positions than eyesight.

“Under you,” Gator warned. “Still turning Bird Dog, he’s an angles fighter.”

“Of course he is,” Bird Dog snapped. “So would I be if I were flying a MiG against a Tomcat. Well, we’re going to have to put the kibosh on that little scenario.”

He jerked the Tomcat into a hard right turn, breaking off the ascent.

as he leveled off, he let the tomcat roll 180 degrees until he was standing on his port wing, pointing down toward the ground. The maneuver cost him altitude, which was just what he intended. He waited until he was approximately level with the MiG, then continued to roll, twisting twice more until he was head-on-head with the MiG.

And take that, you motherfucker. Nose-on-nose, you’re mine.

“Watch him,” Gator warned. “With his turning radius, he’ll be out of here in a heartbeat.”

“He turns, and I’ll be on his ass,” Bird Dog answered.

“Which is just where I want to be for a Sidewinder.”

Santana snarled at the radar picture reflected in his heads-up display.

He’d halfway expected it, hoping against crazy hope that his first maneuver in angles fighting would win the battle, but clearly the American was too well trained to fall for it. Still, he had started his ascent too late. Now, nose to nose with a closure speed in excess of Mach 2, the American would undoubtedly expect him to use his greater maneuverability to turn out of the confrontation.

The American had made one mistake maybe he could be enticed into making another. Santana held the MiG on a steady course and bore in, waiting for the right moment.

“Inside minimums!” Gator screamed. “Bird Dog, you can’t shoot now.

It won’t fuse.”

The pilot swore, damning his overconfidence. He’d been so sure the MiG would turn. The MiG had to turn to take advantage of its aerodynamic advantages and maneuverability. It made no sense for the MiG to have continued on. Bird Dog had been waiting for the turn, intent on shooting a Sidewinder up the bastard’s ass. Instead, he was facing the equivalent of two freight trains roaring toward each other on the same piece of track. And now he’d lost his opportunity no way to take a Sidewinder shot now. Well, he’d have to pull out of this engagement, or at least go for the overshoot and come back for another maneuver.

What had made the Cuban undertake this game of chicken? Maybe they weren’t as well trained as doctrine had taught, and didn’t really understand how to use every advantage of the more nimble fighter in a furball. If that were the case, then he could count on the other pilot making another mistake sometime soon. And it would be his last one.

“Now.” Santana had already toggled the weapons selector to gun, and knew that this opportunity was just moments away.

The American would still be expecting him to break, waiting for that moment to shoot a Sidewinder on the oh-so-attractive heat source flaring out of the engines. What he wouldn’t expect was this.

Santana jinked the aircraft up, correcting his angle for approach on the Tomcat from a near miss to guaranteed collision. If the American wanted to play chicken, Santana would find out what he was made of.

Seconds later, he saw it begin. The angle on the Tomcat changed slightly, indicating that the American was attempting to maneuver away from certain midair collision. Santana grinned, jogged the MiG slightly nose up, and shot a brief burst from his 30 mm GSh-301 gun in the port wing root.

The depleted uranium pellets saturated the air directly in front of the Tomcat.

The American had no chance. The Tomcat-streamed right through the barrage, and Santana saw, in the American’s last moments, a delicate tracery of black holes spout up along the starboard wing and fuselage.

Seconds later, the night flared into brilliance as the fuel streaming out of the wing tanks ignited. The light blinded him, just as his flares had earlier. However, a satisfying dull thud followed momentarily by a rocking wash of air over pressure told him the attack had been a success. The Tomcat exploded.

For five seconds. Bird Dog and Gator operated on instinct rather than training. Bird Dog saw the angle change, realized with a sickening rush of fear what the MiG intended, and reached for the ejection handle above his head.

Gaitor beat him to it. The Older, more experienced aviator activated command eject. The canopy shot off, the explosive bolts severing the connection between hardened Plexiglas and steel fuselage. Bird Dog felt one gush of wind, a flash of heat as Gator’s ejection seat shot away from the aircraft at an angle, then the hard, unconsciousness-inducing motion of his own ejection seat parting company with his aircraft.

He was less than fifty feet away from the aircraft, the seat already starting to respond to the inexorable pull of gravity, when he heard the soft crump of the Tomcat’s disintegration.

The fireball reached out for him, its outer edges clawing hungrily for the delicate canopy now unfolding from the ejection seat. If it touched even one of the thin strands, or licked a panel of the unfolding parachute, it wouldn’t matter whether he survived the ejection. The fall alone, five thousand feet to the warm, blood-temperature sea, would kill him.

As his night vision started to return, Santana rolled his aircraft over inverted and looked up at the canopy now pointed down at the sea, searching the sky for parachutes.

There was no chance, really, that the Americans had managed to escape.

Still, he wanted to make sure that the pilot who had dared to challenge him died with his aircraft.

Even though the man had been fatally insolent in targeting his MiG, Santana wished him a good death. One in midair, inside the aircraft, not killed by the uncertain vagaries of ejection or smashed against the hard surface of the ocean below. He wished the man a good death, but a death nonetheless.

“Jesus!” Tombstone slammed his eyelids shut, too late.

‘Tomboy, lost my night vision. What’s around us?”

“I thought you were going to stay clear of the furball,” his RIO snapped back. “One straggler dogfight in the area, and you wander into the middle of it. Didn’t I tell you to” “Where is the MiG now?”

Tombstone demanded. “Give me a vector.”

“He’s breaking off and RTB,” Tomboy reported after a slight pause.

“The Tomcat it exploded midair.”

“Any chutes?” Perhaps his RIO’s night vision had survived the fireball in front of him.

“I think I seeyes, one. No, make that two. I’d call it good chutes, but who can tell from here?”

Tombstone reported the engagement and the presence of two probable parachutes settling into the water below to the carrier. With any luck, Jefferson’s SAR would be on top of the aviators before Cuba could vector in any small boats to pick them up. Had he had the time, he would have stayed overhead himself, circling and providing cover from surface attack with his guns.

But he couldn’t. Not if he intended to accomplish his mission and get the information back to the carrier in time to make a difference in this battle. He hoped the downed aviators would understand. He wasn’t so certain that he would, in the same position.

Jefferson acknowledged Tombstone’s call for SAR, and reported that the Angel helicopter was inbound his location.

Tombstone acknowledged the transmission with a brief click, then turned his attention back to his mission. Moments later, the verdant landscape of Cuba, now a dim watercolor engraved in black, rushed by below his aircraft.

Feet dry.