Final Flight (45 page)

The sun was well above the horizon now, an hour
and ten minutes after launch. High above was
a thin cirrus layer, but it would not soften the strength
of the sun for at least an hour. The air was clear,
visibility perfect, and Jake and Toad sat in
the middle of it under their bubble canopy. The wings were
swept full aft, sixty-eight degrees. The
two men rode on the tip of this flat arrowhead.

Toad was busy with the radar and computer. He gave
Jake a running commentary. “Six targets, two
large and four small.. We can shoot anytime.”
They were well within range of the two Phoenix
missiles slung under the belly, million-dollar
super-missiles with a maximum head-on range of
over a hundred miles. Yet Jake had to be
sure; he would not shoot until fired upon. “I
figure,” Toad said, “that we have no more than
another minute in burner before we have to bug out for
Sigonella on a max-range profile.”
Jake eyed the fuel. Maybe not even that.

Forty miles out Jake pushed the throttles
forward to the stops. His speed crept up to Mach
1.9. He lowered the nose and selected the two
Phoenix missiles on his armament panel.

“The little guys are turning our way. Fighters,
most likely. Nice rate of turn. They’re
accelerating toward us.”

The ECM beeped. Jake eyed it. Ast-band
warning from straight ahead.

MiGo-23’s? If so, they were armed with guns and
shortrange missiles.

He checked the TCS. Toad had it locked on
a fighter; a small dot with lines for wings. A
head-on picture.

“Twenty-six miles. They’re over Mach 1,
forming a line abreast.” The Tomcat was in a slight
descent, passing 32,000 feet, speed Mach
2.1.

The planes were closing at over 2,000 knots,
a mile every two second.

They would come together in less than a minute.

“Where are the big planes?” Jake asked.
“Proceeding east, range fifty-four now.”

“Don’t lose them.”

The tone from the EGM gear rose in pitch. One
or more of the enemy fighters had switched to a higher
pulse repetition frequency, trying to track him.
These guys are gonna shoot!

“Mother of God,” Toad breathed. “Fifteen
miles. Phoenix is fire and forget.” It would go
with an active radar, illuminating its own target
and steering itself to it.

The display in front of Jake had the targets
numbered in the order of priority, one through four.
Even as he glanced at it, Toad shouted,
“Missiles inbound. Two.”

Jake squeezed the trigger on the stick. The first
Phoenix left in a blaze of fire. It would go
after the target with the highest priority.

He punched the chaff button on the right
throttle four times in quick succession with his left
thumb and looked outside. A thin smoke trail
on a downward vector slightly left marked the
Phoenix” path.

The defensive countermeasures system was on
automatic repeat; it should defeat the incoming
missiles. He squeezed off more chaff while
looking outside, trying to catch a glimpse of the
oncoming machines and missiles in this age of
superspeed war in the sky.

“Incoming’s gonna miss us… Phoenix
tracking… Bullseye!”

The large planes were shown on the display as
targets five and six, now separating. Jake
turned fifteen degrees left to intercept.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a planform
view of a sweptwing fighter turning hard,
vapor pouring off the wingtips as the pilot pulled
maximum G. Even as the sight registered on
Jake’s brain, he was by and gone, through the formation and
hurling onward, nose still down a couple of
degrees, Mach 2.2 on the airspeed
indicator.

When the MiGs completed their turn they would fire
more missiles, since it would be impossible
to overtake him in a tail chase.

“Quick, the second Phoenix on that guy ahead
turning south.” There was no time to spare. The nuclear
weapons had to be in one of those two airplanes,
and a missile from the MiGs might come up their
tailpipe any second.

“Locked on,” Toad reported. “You can
shoot!” Jake squeezed off the last Phoenix.
It, too, departed in a blaze of fire and was gone
in a few heartbeats, accelerating to Mach 4 and
climbing as it sought its target forty miles away.

“We’re at bingo fuel,” Toad said.

When the window blew out, Qazi was blinded by the
dirt and trash that filled the air. His seat belt and
handcuffs saved him. Eyes shut, he fought the
hurricane that tried to rip him from the seat and hurl
him bodily through the window.

And then the hurricane subsided, although the noise
level remained unbelievably high. He opened
his eyes and looked around. El Hakim was gone, as
was the guard. Noora was lying on the floor at his
feet, her head at an odd angle and her skirt
up around her waist.

He became aware of a painful ache in his ears.
And the plane was descending, its left wing down
steeply. The wind coming in the empty window socket
was very cold.

His hands were numb and blood oozed around the
handcuffs where they had cut his wrists. He fumbled
with the seat belt and got the buckle unfastened and used
the pistol on the chain of the cuffs that held him to the’
arm of the seat. When he stood he swayed
uncertainly, the pain in his ears still severe. He
stepped carefully over Noora’s naked legs.

Jarvis was still in his seat. Apparently he had had
his seat belt fastened. He looked at Qazi
terror-stricken as the aircraft continued its
downward plunge. The pain in Qazi’s ears was
lessening, but he was beginning to feel light-headed.
How high had the plane been?

El Hakim’s second bodyguard, who had
been in the rear cargo bay with the weapons,
came staggering through the door. Qazi shot him. He
stumbled before he reached the fallen man and had to crawl
toward him. The man was still alive. Qazi shot him
in the head this time and seized the Uzi.

He lay there by the body gasping. His vision was coming
back. And the wing of the plane seemed to be rising.
He could feel the Gs pressing him toward the floor
as the pilots fought to pull out of their uncontrolled
descent.

When the Gs subsided, he pulled himself erect
and went forward toward the cockpit, steadying himself with the
seat backs as he proceeded.

Jarvis was cowering in his seat, still gasping for air.
He still had a chance. He would make the pilots fly
to Benghazi. Once there he could put together a
coalition of colonels to take over the government.
It could be done. The professional soldiers had
loathed and feared El Hakim and would not be sorry
to see him gone. Nor would they spurn the
opportunity to rule. Then all of this would not have been
in vain. The radar in the nose of the last Phoenix
missile went active when the missile was still
fifteen miles from the 11-76 at which it had been
fired. This was the aerial tanker which had accompanied
the MiGs from Benghazi and whose pilot had
decided to return there forthwith when informed that the
MiGs’ electronic countermeasures equipment
had detected the emissions of an F-14’s
radar. The Phoenix’ small radar transmitted
its signal and picked up the returning echo, and the
computer sent digital signals to the canards,
positioning them. This process was repeated several
thousand times a second as the missile closed its
target.

The missile smashed though the Ilyushin’s
fuselage just under the starboard wing root, at the
point where the returning echo had been strongest, and was
halfway through the port side of the fuselage when the
warhead detonated. The shrapnel from the exploding
132-pound warhead severed the main spar of the port
wing, among other things, and the wing immediately separated from
the aircraft. The large plane began to roll
violently as the nose fell through to the vertical.
Then the starboard wing tore off under the tremendous
stress. Seconds later the tail ripped away.
Rolling slowly now and streaming fire, the remainder
of the fuselage continued its four-mile plunge
toward the sunlit, glistening sea.

Jake Grafton went for the remaining 11-76,
now only twenty-two miles away, but
low, only 8,000 feet or so. It was turning
southward, toward the land. Great, he would be there that much
sooner. He lowered the right wing and altered course
to intercept.

He had used chaff to help the DECM foil the
three missiles hurled after him by the MiGo-23
Floggers behind. Not even a near miss. They were
hopelessly behind now and would be out of the play if he could
drop this Ilyushin on the first pass. Then he would
turn north and fight his way toward Greece. He
wouldn’t make it, of course; he didn’t have enough
fuel. But he could get away from Africa and out
over the main shipping lanes before he and Toad
punched out. Maybe they could even find a freighter
or oil tanker to eject alongside. But that was in the
future.

First he had to drop this transport. And fast.
Only 5,000 pounds of fuel remaining. He
eased the throttles back out of burner.

He would come in from the rear stern-quarter and pour
shells in at the Vulcan cannon’s maximum
rate of fire, over a hundred shells a
second.

That should do it and then some. Automatically he
fingered the switches and checked the display on
the AirCombat Maneuvering panel immediately under the
heads-up display. Guns selected!

“More MiGs. Two. They were masked in the
transport’s return. Dead ahead. Now
turning, one left and one right.” Toad swore.

The symbols were on the scope and the heads-up
display. But Jake had no more missiles. The
tanker was moving from left to right, and one fighter was
turning left away hard, probably intending a
270 degree turn. God, he was turning
tightly; he must have the burner plugged in and the nose
up, using the vertical plane. The other MiGo had
turned right and was already head-on to Jake. The ECM
was beeping. Jake altered course to the right
to approach him head-on. Down to 1.5 Mach.

He looked through the heads-up display. The
symbol was on him. There.

Coming faster than thought. A flash. Missile!

Chaff. The missile didn’t track. Going
under. Jake put the pipper just short. He was aware
of the fireballs from the MiGo just as he pulled the
trigger and eased the pipper up. A streak like
lightning shot forward as the Vulcan cannon wound
up to maximum rate-of-fire and the Tomcat
vibrated. The MiGo exploded.
Jakejerked the stick aft as he released the
trigger. He felt a thump. Something had hit the
F-14.

“Where’s the other guy?” he asked Toad as the
Gs tore at him and he scanned the engine
instruments and warning light panel. All okay.

“High. Ten o’clock.” Right! Symbol on the
heads-up display was there.

Jake kept the stick back and the Tomcat’s
nose climbing. He smoothly advance the
throttles and the burners kicked him in the back.
There, he saw the high man.

Jake was going up with the burners wide open,
closing the gap on the MiG. He rolled, trying
to pull his nose toward his opponent. The enemy
pilot dumped his nose, twisting away, his burner
lit and his energy level still high. Jake
neutralized the stick and pulled the throttles
aft, out of burner. He still had a speed
advantage and was closing, but he was closing too
fast to get the nose around. He opened the speed
brakes, the big slabs that came out from the top and
bottom of the fuselage between the twin vertical
tails. The MiGo was going out the left side.
Boards in, burners lit, roll and
pull hard, get that nose around..

“We gotta get this guy quick, CAG,” Toad
prompted, straining against the G to get his words out.
As if Jake needed a reminder. The fighter
pilot’s imperative was never more urgent-go in fast
and kill fast. He was running out of gas and there were
three more MiGs coming this way supersonic and the
Ilyushin was escaping. This MiGo pilot would win
if he could just stay alive for a few more turns, a
few more seconds.

Now, he was behind the MiGo, in its stern
quadrant. Burners full open.

The MiGo’s nose was down, below the horizon, his
tail white-hot. Oh for a Sidewinder… The
MiGo rolled hard right with G on. Jake
slammed the stick over and followed, narrowing the
distance, but the MiGo was still above the plane of his gun.
There, his left spoiler coming up and a max-rate
roll left. Jake slammed the stick back
left. Five Gs on, corkscrewing. The
Tomcat had a better roll rate than the
MiGo, but the Mig pilot knew when he was going
to roll.

“This guy’s pretty fucking good, CAG,”
Toad said. “But we ain’t got time
to dance.”

The Flogger’s nose was too high, so now the
MiGo pilot slammed the stick forward and he
snapped below the plane of Jake’s gun. Too
late Jake squeezed off a burst. Jake used
forward stick to follow and the negative G threw him
upward against his harness restraints. He was tempted
to roll, but the instant he did the MiGo would pull
positive Gs and scissor away and the fight would be
back to neutral.

He jammed the stick full left and squeezed the
trigger on the stick.

The Tomcat spun 180 degrees about its
longitudinal axis vomiting shells, and as it
completed its roll Jake neutralized the stick
with the trigger still down. The MiGo tried to fly through the
river of lead. It exploded.

Stick back to avoid the expanding fireball.
Roll toward Ilyushin, six Gs, get the nose
up. Ten miles away. 2,500 pounds of fuel
remaining.

We can still get this guy! The ECM was chattering.
The other MiGs were coming back.

Qazi stood in the cockpit of the Ilyushin behind the
pilots. He felt a great calm. They
would either make it or they wouldn’t. The pilots were
nervous enough for everybody. They talked inces- I
santly and craned their heads, trying to see behind them,
and the copilot kept trying to bend the throttles over
the forward stop. They were headed southwest, toward
Benghazi.