With Hostile Intent

Chapter Twenty-Three Bandits

At her console in the AWACS, Tracey Barnett uttered a silent prayer: Please, God, don’t let me screw up.

On her tac display she could see the Air Force F-15s, flying high fighter sweep, preceding the low-flying F-15Es to their target at Al-Taji. To the southeast, she saw the cluster of blips that represented the strikers from the Reagan. They were commencing their ingress to their target at Latifiyah. Almost to their targets were the Brits, streaking low over the desert in their Tornado strike fighters.

“Sea Lord, this is Gipper Zero-One,” called the leader of the Reagan strike group. “Any activity on the Purple Net?”

Tracey recognized the voice of Red Boyce, the strike leader. Air wing commanders didn’t usually lead strike groups. But she knew Boyce. He was the kind of commander who led from the front.

“Negative, Gipper. Picture clear.”

Purple Net was the AWACS data link with all the other information-gathering sources. Boyce was wondering the same thing they were: Where were the MiGs?

On her tactical display in the great lumbering AWACS, Tracey could see the Iraqi radar sites lighting up like tiny pen lights. Iraq had awakened to the fact that they were under attack.

“Burner Two, Burner Three active,” she called, “East Reno, ten miles.” Burner Two and Three were SA-2 and SA-3 surface-to-air missiles.

Butch Kissick, the ACE, appeared behind her. “Where the hell are the HARM shooters?”

“There.” She pointed to the phalanx of blips — F/A-18s — sprawled across her screen. “They’re thirty seconds out.”

“Too damn close,” said Kissick. “The F-15s and the Tornadoes are almost in the TA.”

Tracey nodded. It was close. If the HARMs didn’t snuff out the air defense radars, the SAMs would make dog meat of the strike jets. She repeated the silent prayer.

Thirty seconds later, she heard the report: “Magnum! Magnum!”

The radar-killing HARMs were in the air. One after the other came the reports, “Magnum! Magnum!”

Fascinated, Tracey watched the attack unfold on her display. She saw several of the Iraqi radars shutting down. They had picked up on the bad news that they were targeted, and they were hoping to elude the incoming barrage of HARMs.

Too late, bubbas, thought Tracey. The HARM had a memory like a killer elephant. Once it found a radiating source, it locked the target’s position into its guidance system.

The Brits were the first on target. She saw the blips of the Tornado strike jets streaking across the Shayka Mazhar air base, southeast of Baghdad. They were dropping APAM anti-personnel and armor munitions intended to crater the runway and make it unusable for the squadrons of MiG-29s and MiG-25s based there. Tracey always shuddered when she thought about how the APAM worked. The stuff would shred every object on the field — man or MiG — that stood taller than waist-high.

Tracey heard the Tornado lead: “Sledgehammer is off target, one-hundred over one-hundred.”

“Hammer copies,” answered Butch Kissick. “You are green south, green south.”

Kissick glanced over at Tracey and winked. It was good news. The Tornado leader was reporting that they’d put a hundred percent of their munitions on target — with no losses.

So far, so good, thought Tracey. It meant that no MiGs would be taking off from Shayka Mazhar today. But something told her this couldn’t last. They still had Al-Asad and, most of all, Al-Taqqadum to worry about. Where were the MiGs?

Jabbar had to laugh.

From the cockpit of his MiG-29, parked under its camouflage netting, he could see the Krait missile. Saddam’s priceless death weapon looked like a section of drainage pipe, resting on its loading cradle out in the middle of the tarmac. It was exposed to attack from the air.

That was precisely what Jabbar expected to happen.

When he received the report that Shayka Mazhar air base was under attack, he knew they had only minutes left. Al-Taqqadum would not be spared. Standing beside his fighter, he had summoned the commander of the ordnance crew: “Remove the Krait missile from my aircraft.”

The commander, a round-faced captain, stared disbelievingly. “Sir, I do not have that authority.”

“You do now. I just gave it to you.”

“But Colonel, what will I do with the weapon?”

“I suggest you shove it up Saddam’s ass.”

“But Colonel —”

“Move, you idiot!” For emphasis, Jabbar produced his Makarov automatic pistol. He pointed it in the officer’s face. “Unload the missile.”

Possessed with a new understanding, the ordnance officer leaped to his task. Within five minutes, he and his loading crew had detached the Krait missile from the fighter.

Jabbar ordered his seven best pilots to man the remaining MiG-29s. He himself would fly the specially prepared MiG that, until minutes ago, had been designated to conduct the doomsday mission against the American aircraft carrier.

Fuck doomsday missions, thought Jabbar. And fuck the maniac who dreamed up an attack that would ensure the total destruction of Iraq. In a single act Jabbar had spared his country an unspeakable horror.

Sitting in his cockpit, Colonel Jabbar felt a sense of calm satisfaction. His old red helmet — the same one he had worn for ten years — rested on his cockpit rail, ready to don. He was prepared do what he did best: fight the enemy in the sky.

With eight jets. It was futile, of course. This fine February day would surely be the last for him and his gallant young pilots. But if they kept their composure and pounced when the enemy was least ready —

Jabbar saw a car driving across the ramp. It was a black Fiat.

The Fiat was followed by a truck with two dozen Republican Guard in the back. In the car Jabbar could see at least four Bazrum agents.

They stopped to inspect the unloaded Krait missile. Jabbar saw the agents looking around. One of them pointed at his MiG parked under the camouflage net.

Jabbar knew it was time. He called down to his crew chief. “Hurry, Suliman! Remove the camouflage net! We’re starting engines.”

Puffy black mushrooms were erupting two thousand feet below them. Fifty-seven millimeter, Maxwell guessed. Or maybe eighty-eight. The AA was coming from somewhere near the Latifiyah complex. None of the bursts was yet above twenty thousand.

Maxwell wished for a moment that he could roll in on the gun positions. It would be nice to treat the inhabitants to a shower of high explosive. But not this trip. Today they had more important business.

No SAMs were in the air, at least not yet, and that suited Maxwell just fine. If the HARMs had done their job, the SAM sites were now a smoldering ruin.

Both Chevy flights — DeLancey’s division of four Hornets and Maxwell’s flight of four — were approaching the initial points. Strangely, the chatter had subsided on the tactical frequency. Maxwell could see that the lead division was in a shallow dive, and though he couldn’t see the actual weapons he knew that the laser-guided GBU-24 bombs would be dropping from the fighters toward their destinations.

That was the beauty of smart bombs, he thought. Not just that you could thread them through an opening no larger than a ventilator shaft. You did it while remaining outside the killing range of the anti-aircraft guns. For a strike fighter pilot, it was life insurance.

On his FLIR display Maxwell picked up his assigned target — a row of low buildings on the inner periphery of the Latifiyah complex. They housed a missile assembly line — for another minute or two, anyway.

In the adjoining row of structures, he saw a building erupt in a geyser of debris, and he could imagine hearing the explosion — Kaploom.

A second later — Kaploom — the adjoining building.

One after the other — Kaploom Kaploom Kaploom — Chevy One flight’s bombs were exploding on their targets. One building after the other was vanishing in a dirty brown puff.

As Chevy One’s bombs rained down on their targets, Chevy Five flight, Maxwell’s next flight of four Hornets, approached the initial point.

Maxwell shoved the nose of his Hornet over in a shallow dive. He took a glance to either side. They were out there in combat spread — B.J on the left, Craze and Hozer on the right. Each was busy acquiring his own target with the jet’s laser designator.

For an instant Maxwell worried about his wingman. If a nugget’s nerve was to fail, this was the moment. He pushed the mike switch for the back radio, the frequency shared only by his flight. “Are we having fun yet, Chevy Six?”

A sassy voice answered, “No sweat, boss. Just a walk in the park.”

Maxwell smiled inside his oxygen mask. So much for his wingman’s nerve. B.J. Johnson was cool.

In his HUD, Maxwell slewed the laser designator over the target… fine-tuned it… sweetening the designation just a little left… up just a smidgen… there… right over the transom of the front door…. Release!

Now the hard part. Waiting, letting the laser designator illuminate the target while the GBU-24 plunged like a hawk to its quarry.

Twenty-five seconds to impact.

Ten seconds.

Maxwell knew that if he did his job right, the brown, nondescript building in his HUD— he’d been told it was a missile propellant lab — would be converted to a smoking crater.

Five seconds.

Zero seconds. The GBU should be —

Kaploom.

Maxwell felt like cheering. Not quite a bulls-eye, he calculated. More like three or four feet. Close enough for government work. No more propellant lab. No more building.

He saw the other Hornets’ bombs arriving. Kaploom. Kaploom. Kaploom. The geysers erupted in rapid succession. More brown puffs, more vanished buildings.

“Chevy Five off target,” Maxwell called.

“Chevy Six off.”

“Chevy Seven off.”

“Chevy Eight.”

Maxwell pulled up hard, rolling the Hornet into a right bank. All his jets were off target, weapons delivered. Grunting against the Gs, he peered down at the target area. Smoke was billowing from the ruined complex. The Latifiyah assembly plant had just been transformed to a complex of landfills.

It was the best possible result, Maxwell thought. They’d nailed the target and, best of all, they came through unscathed. All they had to do was rejoin and egress. It was time to get out of town.

On the tactical frequency, he heard DeLancey calling AWACS. “Sea Lord, Chevy one. Picture?” He wanted to know if they had intruders.

“Picture clear,” came the voice of Tracey Barnett. “No, wait! Pop up target — East Boston — five miles.”

Maxwell instinctively swung his head to peer over each shoulder, scanning the horizon. Pop up target! It had to be the MiGs. The bastards hadn’t bothered trying to deflect the bombing attack. Instead, they stayed low and waited until the Hornets were coming off the target.

When they were most vulnerable.

The tactical frequency filled with excited chatter.

“Chevy One, bandits two o’clock low!”

“Snap Vector, Chevy One, tactical, one-five-zero, ten miles.”

“Chevy Three, Hound dog at three o’clock, engaging.”

“One copies, three, cleared to strip.”

“Bandits, Bandits! Eight o’clock, three miles!”

Maxwell peered in each direction, trying to pick up the bandits. Where the hell were they? DeLancey’s flight was engaged. Had to be Fulcrums, Maxwell figured, probably up from the Al-Taqqadum air base, less than fifty miles away.

It was classic, Maxwell thought. Just when you started thinking your enemy was on the ropes, he surprised you with a shot to the groin.

The MiGs were all around them.

B.J.’s voice crackled over the radio. “Brick, Break right! Bandit, your right four o’clock low.”

Maxwell jammed the stick to the right and pulled. Straining against the sudden G load, he peered over his right shoulder. Where was —

He saw it. A Fulcrum, low and fast. It looked like a double-finned shark, coming after him.

But the guy was too eager, Maxwell noted. His convergence angle was too acute. Maxwell pulled hard into the attacker and kept turning. He could see that the MiG was going to overshoot, go wide behind him. He would set up the kill for B.J.

“Stay in your turn, Brick,” called B.J. “I’ll have a shot in ten seconds.”

Maxwell pulled harder. You’d better have a shot, he thought. They were both going to be toast in about fifteen seconds. The MiG jockey had buddies out there.

Maxwell was losing sight of the MiG as the Russian-built fighter overshot the turn and disappeared behind him. This was the hard part. His instincts told him to reverse the turn, pull up in a vertical, execute a pirouette and come back down on the MiG. But this wasn’t a one vee one. He had a wingman.

It was B.J.’s job to cover his tail. Stay in your turn. I’ll have a shot in ten seconds. Could she do it? He would soon find out.

Maxwell stayed in the turn.

Bandits high at nine o’clock. DeLancey had both MiGs in sight, but he didn’t call them out. If he called a break turn now, Undra would turn into them and then both would get away.

DeLancey started a turn to the left, keeping his nose down. The lead Fulcrum looked like he was blowing through. The guy was fast, probably trying to get the hell out of town before he got whacked. But the second Fulcrum was out of position, high and wide. He didn’t yet see the Hornets below him.

The second Fulcrum was a sitting duck.

DeLancey selected an AIM-120 radar-guided missile and turned his Hornet hard into the second MiG. As he pulled his nose around for a firing solution, he thought for a second about his own useless wingman. Undra was still back there somewhere. It occurred to DeLancey that Undra could be in trouble. What if the lead MiG didn’t just blow through and decided instead to take a shot at Undra?

DeLancey considered for a second. Perhaps he should delay his turn while he talked Undra back down to the formation. The two Hornets would again have mutual support.

But that would take precious seconds. Time was critical. If he waited for Undra to rejoin, he would lose the MiG.

His fifth kill.

Screw that, thought Killer DeLancey. Undra Cheever was on his own.

Speed is life.

It was the fighter pilot’s mantra, and it was flashing through the mind of Colonel Tariq Jabbar as he led his MiG-29s in a supersonic charge at the enemy Hornets.

He had almost been too late. He was still starting the second engine when the Bazrum staff car came skidding up to the revetment. Jabbar had shoved the number one throttle all the way to the stop and came blasting out of the revetment in a storm of sand and thunder.

Too late, the driver of the oncoming black Fiat saw the big fighter coming at him. He swerved, rocking up on two wheels, just as the MiG slammed into the car.

Jabbar felt a lurch. The left wing rose up, then came back down. Jabbar guessed that the main landing gear had run over the Fiat. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the automobile was flattened as if it had gone through a crusher.

It occurred to him that he had probably done some damage to his aircraft. He wondered briefly whether the jet was still flyable. It didn’t matter, he decided. He would take off anyway.

Russian airplanes were tough. Tougher than Italian cars.

In pairs his fighters roared down the runway at Al-Taqqadum — just in time to nearly collide with the wave of incoming British Tornado jets. As the MiGs lifted from the runway, the Tornadoes sizzled across the field, spewing their loads of anti-personnel bombs.

The last pair of MiGs didn’t make it. Caught on their take off roll by the deadly shredder bombs, both MiGs burst into flame and fireballed off the end of the runway.

Now they were six.

They stayed low, gathering speed as they hurtled toward Latifiyah. Jabbar’s plan was simple: Keep up the speed and rip through the flight of enemy Hornets, picking off as many as they could. Attack from one side, blow through and exit on the other side. Speed is life.

Soon he saw them, dead ahead, just coming off their bombing targets at Latifiyah. Two Hornets, one low, the other pulling up. Beyond them, two more. And beyond them, still more. Jabbar had plenty of targets from which to choose.

Jabbar selected the high one in the lead section. He was obviously a wingman, but with his nose pointed up, he was blind to his leader, who was accelerating out ahead.

Convenient, thought Jabbar. He banked hard to the right, opening up a lag between him and the Hornet. Then he cranked back hard to the left and pulled up nearly vertical.

There! — an easy low-deflection shot at the Hornet’s tailpipes.

Jabbar waited, gaining a positive lock with the Archer missile’s heat-seeking warhead. He had a good tone, well within range, less than a thousand meters.

He squeezed the trigger.

Whoom! The Archer leaped off its rail. Behind the missile Jabbar could see the thin gray trail of smoke. He watched the Archer quickly overtake the climbing Hornet.

Undra Cheever looked wildly around him. He had to fight hard to suppress the panic that was swelling up in him.

He couldn’t see anyone. Not the skipper, whom he was supposed to be following, and not the goddamn MiGs that were all over them like a cheap suit. Where were the MiGs everyone was jabbering about?

His overriding thought after pulling off the target was simple: Get out of Dodge. Get the nose up, get away from those motherless anti-aircraft gunners down there who might get lucky and whack you with an eighty-eight millimeter.

He had lost sight of his leader. Where was Killer?

“Chevy One,” Undra called, “Chevy Two is blind on you.”

“Your twelve o’clock low, engaged,” DeLancey answered. “Get your nose down.”

Engaged? Shit, that meant Killer was already in a furball with a MiG, trying to score another kill. Killer didn’t give a fat rat’s ass about his own wingman.

Undra pushed over, rolling up on his side to scan the terrain ahead. He picked up Killer’s Hornet low, in a left turn.

Then he glimpsed something over his left shoulder. What was that? He saw a glint of sunlight, a trail of gray smoke.

Suddenly he knew what he was seeing. Oh, shit, here comes a…

In the next instant, he sensed the flash of the missile’s warhead. Then the explosion. It was the last thing Undra Cheever felt.

“Fox Two!” called B.J.

About time, thought Maxwell, still in a hard left turn. The MiG was still behind him somewhere. The radio call from his wingman meant that she had just taken a Sidewinder shot.

Maxwell kept turning. Any second he ought to be hearing —

“Splash One!” B.J.’s voice had a throaty, triumphant ring.

Maxwell saw it over his right shoulder. The MiG-29 was falling like a shotgunned dove. B.J.’s Hornet was still locked onto his tail, prepared to launch another Sidewinder.

Seconds later, the MiG’s canopy separated. Maxwell saw a flash, and the tiny insect-like pilot’s ejection seat popped up and behind the stricken jet. The parachute canopy blossomed and floated toward the desert.

Maxwell couldn’t help thinking about the Iraqi pilot. He wondered how the guy would feel when he found out he had made history. He was the first jet fighter pilot to be shot down by a woman.

He and B.J were nearly abeam now, the same altitude. Maxwell realized the fight wasn’t over.

He saw two specks. MiGs. They were coming at them from three o’clock.

“Chevy Six, Break right, bandits three o’clock level!”

The fight was on again.

Maxwell barely had time to roll into the oncoming MiGs. Too late for a head-on shot. They merged.

Whoom! They passed nose-to-nose with over a thousand miles per hour closure speed. The lead MiG swept past so close Maxwell could see the pilot’s head in the cockpit.

He was wearing a red helmet.

Coming off the target at Latifiyah, Flash Gordon could see his wingman, Leroi Jones, a quarter mile abeam. Gordon and Jones were the second pair of Hornets in Killer DeLancey’s four-plane division.

Through all the garble on the tac frequency, he was getting the picture. Pop up targets! But how many?

He glanced at his situational display, then peered outside at the hazy desert sky. Killer and Undra were out there somewhere, already engaged. It was the job of the second section — Flash and Leroi — to cover them.

Then he heard Leroi’s voice on the tac radio. “Bandits eight o’clock converging. I don’t think they see us.”

He looked. He saw only empty sky. “No joy, visual, press!” I don’t see them but I have you in sight. You have the lead.

“Roger, Leroi has the lead. Hard left, Flash! Bandits low, nine o’clock. I’m pulling nose on to them.”

Damn! Flash still couldn’t see them. He followed Leroi’s left turn and pulled hard.

“Keep your turn in,” Leroi said. “We’re gonna have a shot.”

A shot at what? Flash still saw nothing but sand and sky.

There. Low and nearly invisible in their desert-colored paint schemes. He had a good visual ID. They were definitely Fulcrums moving fast on a nearly parallel track.

“Tally two, visual,” Flash said.

“I got the leader,” answered Leroi.

“Okay, Flash has the trailer.”

He was getting a lock with the APG-73 radar, which confirmed that the target was a MiG-29. At this speed the range was at the extreme end for a Sidewinder shot. An AIM-7 Sparrow would be a good choice, Flash thought. An AIM-120 AMRAAM active radar-guided missile would be even better.

Flash’s thumb selected AMRAAM on the side of the Hornet’s stick grip. He pushed the castle switch forward, commanding the radar to bore-sight search. Instantly it locked onto the MiG. Peering through the HUD, he confirmed that he had the trailer MiG boxed inside the in-range circle. At the top of the acquisition box in the display, he was getting a flashing cue: SHOOT.

Flash squeezed the trigger.

Whoom! The AMRAAM roared away from the Hornet, trailing fire and gray smoke.

“Chevy Seven, Fox Three,” he called, signaling an AMRAAM shot.

Three seconds later, he heard Leroi Jones. “Chevy Eight, Fox Three.” In his peripheral vision, Flash saw Leroi’s missile arcing through the sky toward the lead MiG.

Both MiGs abruptly broke to the right. Flash turned with his target, keeping his MiG locked up and in sight. He knew that the Fulcrum pilots were getting an urgent radar warning signal. By now they knew missiles were in the air.

From the trailer MiG spewed a trail of silver radar-defeating chaff.

Too late. The missile slammed into the Fulcrum just aft of the canopy. Still in its hard right evasive turn, the MiG broke apart. An instant later, the jet’s center fuel tank erupted in a billowing orange fireball.

“Splash One!” called Flash Gordon, watching the burning hulk of the MiG fall like a comet.

The lead MiG’s turn was nearly abrupt enough to elude Leroi’s missile. But as the missile overshot the tail of the fighter, the proximity fuse detonated the warhead. Pieces of the jet’s big vertical fins broke away, followed by sections from its destroyed tail surfaces.

The MiG went into a sickening skid, then began a roll to the left. Flash saw the canopy separate from the jet, The rocket-propelled ejection hurtled the pilot clear of the destroyed fighter.

“Splash One!” called Leroi Jones.

Over his shoulder, Flash kept the tiny figure of the MiG pilot in view as he fell toward the desert. After what seemed like minutes — it was actually less than five seconds — he saw a round beige-colored parachute canopy pop open like a parasol.

Flash raised his hand in a salute.

Things were going badly, Jabbar thought. At least four of his MiGs were down. They’d killed only one Hornet — the one he had taken on his first pass through the attacking force.

Now this. He was in a turning fight.

He couldn’t believe his own stupidity. Or arrogance. He had violated the tactical doctrine he tried to impress on his young pilots: Fly through the enemy. Shoot and exit.

You didn’t engage an F/A-18 in a classic dogfight. The big MiG-29 was a powerful, brutish fighter, but its greatest assets were its speed and its vertical capability. In an old-fashioned turning, gyrating dogfight, it was outclassed by the more agile F/A-18.

When he passed the lead Hornet, he knew he should have continued straight ahead. His great speed advantage would have taken him out of range before the Hornets could reverse and target him.

But as the two fighters merged, something happened. During the second when they passed canopy to canopy, he and the Hornet pilot had locked gazes.

It was as though a silent challenge had been issued. Some primal voice inside Jabbar had commanded him: Stay and fight.

And so he had.

Jabbar pulled the MiG-29’s nose up in a vertical climb. He rolled the jet ninety degrees on its axis to look for his enemy. If the Hornet was still in a tight turn down below, he would swoop down and —

Jabbar saw the Hornet. He wasn’t down below. He was three hundred meters away, in his own vertical climb. Jabbar could see the pilot in the cockpit staring at him.

The red helmet. Maxwell wondered what it meant. Some kind of personal statement? Iraqi fighter pilots weren’t reputed to be flashy or demonstrative. Nor were they known to be aggressive. The Iraqis liked to hit and run. They never took on a coalition fighter in a one-vee-one.

Until today, thought Maxwell. Who was this guy? Maybe he was a Russian, or some ex-Eastern Bloc fighter pilot. He was flying the Fulcrum like he had seen lots of combat.

“You with me, Chevy Six?”

“Chevy six tally one, visual, free,” answered B.J. “You defensive?”

“Engaged, neutral. Watch for spitters.”

It was B.J.’s job to prevent another MiG from sneaking into the fight and taking a shot at him.

“You’re covered, Chevy Five.” Brick’s Hornet and the MiG were too close to allow B.J a safe shot. She arced around outside the fight looking for a shot. And for other MiGs

Maxwell knew that his vertical climb would top out before the Fulcrum. The Fulcrum had more initial energy. It could keep going up like a rocket, waiting for the Hornet to start back down, then take a shot.

Maxwell’s airspeed was decreasing rapidly. He eased the Hornet’s nose over, delicately working the rudders, watching the angle of attack. If he lost control here, let the jet depart and go into a spin or a falling leaf, he was dead meat. The MiG would have an easy shot.

He already had an AIM-9 Sidewinder selected. In his earphones he was getting the low growl from the missile’s seeker unit. The MiG was within forty-five degrees of the Hornet’s boresight centerline, well within the AIM-9 seeker cone. But the range was close, perhaps too close.

It might be his only shot.

He squeezed the trigger.

Whoom! The Sidewinder leaped off the left pylon and streaked toward the climbing MiG.

Watching the missile fly to its target, Maxwell felt the Hornet trying to drop from under him. He was nearly out of airspeed, hanging in the air on the thrust of the Hornet’s engines.

He saw the missile pass several hundred feet behind the tail of the MiG. And keep going.

A clean miss.

The range was too close. The Sidewinder needed three seconds to arm. There hadn’t been enough time or space.

But the MiG pilot had seen the shot. His nose was coming down. Maxwell knew he would not get another easy shot.

Both fighters plunged downward, each gaining precious maneuvering energy. Bottoming out, they passed nose-to-nose again.

Maxwell pulled hard on the stick, hauling the nose of the Hornet back upward. He grunted against the seven Gs, looking over his shoulder to keep sight of the MiG. He remembered the old dictum: Lose sight, lose the fight.

He saw the MiG’s nose crank around in a rolling scissors. This guy was no amateur, Maxwell realized. He was flying the hell out of the Fulcrum. In another turn he would have his nose on Maxwell’s Hornet.

Maxwell countered. He turned into the MiG, matching the scissors. Again they passed, spiraling upward. Maxwell glimpsed again the red helmet. Once more he wondered, Who is this guy?

Approaching the apogee of the vertical scissors, Maxwell balanced the Hornet on the thrust of its engines. He was indicating barely more than a hundred knots — a speed at which most other fighters would tumble out of the sky.

Carefully working the rudder pedals, Maxwell slewed the Hornet around its axis. Out the side of his canopy he could see the MiG.

The MiG was slow, almost out of flying speed. His nose was coming down.

It was the moment Maxwell was waiting for.

Jabbar understood what was happening. Grudgingly, he could almost admire the skill of the Hornet pilot. He was using his fighter to its maximum advantage. The American knew how to make the Hornet stand on its tail, pirouette and change direction. Jabbar knew that the F/A-18, from such a perch, could strike like a cobra.

As it was doing now.

The long tapered nose of the Hornet was coming down, toward him. Jabbar countered, rolling into the Hornet.

He knew he was too late. The Hornet had managed to open a space between them. Now the F/A-18’s nose was pointing behind Jabbar’s MiG.

But the range was close. Too close, Jabbar hoped, just as it had been before. The Hornet’s first missile had flown past him without detonating.

Jabbar turned hard, peering over his shoulder. He could see the Hornet behind him. Very close. Jabbar was sure there would not be a missile at this range —

He saw a flash in the nose of the Hornet. For an instant he was confused. What can that be…?

Then he saw the tracers arcing over his right wing. He felt a stab of fear.

Guns. The world’s oldest and most primitive air-to-air weapon. He remembered that the F/A-18 possessed a rapid-fire twenty millimeter cannon.

Over his shoulder he could see the Hornet. In the nose of the fighter, the muzzle of the air-to-air cannon was blinking like a strobe light.

He felt the impact — Ratatatatatatat — like hammer blows resonating through the airframe of his MiG. The big Russian fighter was tough. It could take hits. But not like this.

He saw a line of cannon holes stitched across his right wing. Ratatatatatatat. It felt like a buzz snaw was cutting through the MiG.

The right wing separated. The MiG-29 snapped to the right, rolling over and over. Its nose dropped and the big fighter plunged toward the earth.

Jabbar felt himself flung against the side of the cockpit. His head smashed into the canopy.

Nearly senseless, he tried to reach the ejection lanyard. He couldn’t move his hand. His arms were pinned by the jet’s whirling force.

Jabbar struggled to reach the lanyard. His hand wouldn’t move. Through the canopy he saw the brown Iraqi desert whirling toward him.