With Hostile Intent

by Robert Gandt

  “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 h
appening. 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.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Blue on Blue

  Al-Hillah, Iraq

  0845, Friday, 30 May

  Maxwell was deep inside Iraq, heading north.

  He checked his fuel state. Six point one. Six thousand one hundred pounds of JP-5. The furball with the MiG had consumed all his reserves. He would be fuel critical by the time he got to the KC-10 tanker. Running out of gas over a country you had just bombed was a lousy idea.

  But first he had to collect his wingman. “Chevy Six, say your posit and state.”

  “Your twelve o’clock, fifteen miles, Chevy Five,” answered B.J Johnson. “I’m eight-point-zero. You want me to anchor here and join on you?”

  Maxwell studied his situational display. He saw the blip of B.J.’s Hornet to the south of his position, with the rest of the strike group. She had more gas than he did, but she wasn’t fat either. “We won’t waste fuel joining up. Egress south, B.J. See you at the tanker.”

  “Roger that. By the way, I confirm your MiG kill. Congratulations.”

  “You too. YoYo for now.”

  “YoYo” was tactical brevity for “You’re on your own.”

  Maxwell had to grin as he remembered how he had worried about his wingman. A nugget — a female nugget — on her first combat sortie. From this day on, B.J. Johnson would be considered the equal of any pilot in the squadron.

  Maxwell was still more than twenty miles northwest of Latifiyah. He could see columns of black smoke billowing skyward from the ruined complex. One of the buildings was still blazing fiercely. Probably one of the propellant storage facilities, Maxwell guessed.

  He gave the complex a wide berth.

  In his situational display, he saw that all the Reagan group strikers were southward bound. No targets on his radar, no data-linked targets from the AWACS.

  It meant that he was the last Hornet out of the target area.

  But then he looked again. Wait a second. There was something else. Another blip was showing up on the display. He wasn’t alone.

  <>

  DeLancey made one last sweep along the northern arc of the target area. If any MiGs were still alive and flying out here, he wanted them.

  He’d already had a sweet day. The big number five! A number six would be even sweeter.

  Too bad about Undra, he reflected. It was his own fault. If the dumb shit had stayed in position, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten whacked by the MiG.

  With his radar DeLancey was sorting out the Hornets as they egressed the target area. His own second section, Craze and Hozer, had been the first out of the target area. They were almost to the tanker at the southern Iraq border. Not far behind were Flash and Leroi, who had each collected a MiG before making their egress.

  By listening to the tactical frequency, DeLancey knew that Maxwell and his female wingman had also somehow gotten MiGs. Now she was on her way south, on her own.

  Maxwell was the last one in the target area.

  DeLancey had the symbol of Maxwell’s Hornet in his situational display. He was almost straight ahead, ten miles. He was slow, probably to conserve fuel.

  DeLancey switched off his radar transponder — the device that identified him on the AWACS radar screen. He steered the nose of his Hornet toward the symbol for Maxwell’s fighter. He had a thirty-knot speed advantage.

  Peering through his HUD, DeLancey picked up the grayish profile of Maxwell’s Hornet.

  “Chevy One, this is Sea Lord,” came the voice of the woman AWACS controller. “Do you read Sea Lord?”

  DeLancey did not answer.

  “Chevy One, we’re not getting a transponder squawk. If you read, squawk Mode two.”

  DeLancey ignored the call. He left his transponder switched off.

  He saw Maxwell’s Hornet make a thirty-degree turn to the right. Maxwell knew he was back there, and he was getting a visual ID.

  “Chevy One, is that you at my five o’clock?” he heard Maxwell call.

  DeLancey kept his silence. On his stores display, he selected SIDEWINDER. He heard the low growl of the seeker unit as it acquired its target.

  <>

  Maxwell was getting an uneasy feeling.

  The guy behind him was definitely a Hornet. But why wasn’t he talking or squawking a code? Perhaps he had combat damage and had lost his radios. If so, he would need help getting home.

  Maxwell slowed his jet down and started a right turn. The radioless Hornet could join up, and Maxwell would escort him back to the ship on his wing.

  But the Hornet wasn’t making any attempt to join up. Instead he was bore-sighting Maxwell with the nose of his fighter.

  As if he were tracking him.

  A warning signal went off in Maxwell’s brain. He looked again at the Hornet behind him. The range was close for a missile shot, but within limits. With his left hand he reached over and touched the hard rectangular lump of the audio cassette in his breast pocket.

  Like the last pieces of a puzzle, it was coming together. The pilot in the Hornet behind him was the same one who killed Spam Parker by talking her into the ramp. The same one who claimed a MiG in Desert Storm that someone else shot down.

  He knows that you know.

  Maxwell slammed his jet into a hard turn.

  A second later he saw it. A flash on the Hornet’s right wingtip. The missile was off the rail. Behind it trailed a telltale wisp of gray smoke. It looked like a stubby pencil, flying a pursuit curve toward him.

  Turning hard inside the curving path of the missile, Maxwell hit the flare dispenser. Flares were decoys. They were supposed to fool the Sidewinder missile’s heat-seeking head.

  The missile wasn’t fooled. It was boring straight toward Maxwell’s jet.

  Maxwell felt sweat pouring down from his helmet into his eyes. His only hope was to outturn the missile at the last s
econd.

  He forced himself to wait. It was his only chance. Wait. Wait until the missile was almost —

  Now. He hauled back hard on the stick and shoved the throttles into full afterburner, using the extra thrust of the afterburners to tighten the Hornet’s turn.

  He winced as the Sidewinder passed behind the Hornet’s tail.

  There was no explosion.

  The hard turn in afterburner had been too much for its finned control system. The missile hadn’t come close enough to Maxwell’s Hornet to detonate the proximity fuse.

  DeLancey’s Hornet was in a steep bank, going for Maxwell’s tail. With his speed advantage, DeLancey was almost in gun range.

  Maxwell knew he had to keep DeLancey outside his turn radius. Keep him from drawing a lead with his 20 mm. Vulcan Gatling cannon.

  He knew the odds were against him. Killer DeLancey was the toughest air-to-air opponent in the fleet. And the most successful.

  He saw DeLancey’s jet slide to the outside of the sharp turn and pitch up into a high yo-yo. He was conserving his airspeed, trying to set up for a shot with the cannon.

  Maxwell reversed his turn. He rolled back into DeLancey’s jet.

  The distance between them had narrowed. Because of DeLancey’s greater speed, and because Maxwell’s turn had been tighter, the two Hornets were nearly parallel.

  They turned into each other, passing nearly nose-to-nose.

  As Maxwell turned hard again back toward DeLancey, he heard the robotic voice of Bitchin’ Betty, the F/A-18’s aural warning system: “Bingo. Bingo.”

  He was almost out of fuel.

  But he couldn’t exit the fight. The two jets were in a classic scissors duel. Neither could quit without exposing his tail to a shot from the other. It was a fight to the finish.

  By the third reversal, neither had gained any advantage. Each pilot was flying his Hornet to its maximum. Maxwell knew that DeLancey would stay in the fight until they ran out of fuel. Or until one of them was dead.

  Another reversal, another head-on pass.

  Maxwell realized it couldn’t last much longer. DeLancey would know that he was low on fuel. All he had to do was wait for Maxwell to flame out.