by Dale Brown
The stream of fire missed, but he hadn’t counted on knocking her down. What he did want was what happened: the MiG pilot, seeing tracers blaze by his windscreen, rolled out of the way. By the time he recovered, Turk had the Phantom’s afterburners screaming. The F-4 jumped through the sound barrier, surging northward and moving as fast as she had gone in years.
VAHID’S INSTINCTS TOOK OVER AS THE TRACERS FLEW past. He ducked and rolled, spinning away from his enemy. Even though he calculated that he was too close for a successful missile shot from the Phantom, he let off flares, then jerked the MiG hard to the west. Right side up, he expected to see the F-4 pulling in front of him, caught outside of the tight turn as it moved in for the kill.
He couldn’t spot it. He practically spun his head off his neck, making sure the Phantom wasn’t on his six somewhere he couldn’t see. What the hell?
The other plane was way out in front, moving north at a high rate of speed. Vahid armed his air-to-air R-27s, got a strong tone in his helmet indicating he was locked, and fired both. Only after the second missile was away did he radio the controller to tell him what was going on.
TURK EXPECTED THE MIG WOULD FIRE ITS RADAR MISSILES almost immediately. Under most circumstances in a modern American plane, that wouldn’t be a problem: the weapons would be easily fended off by the ECMs.
In the Phantom, things were a little different. He had to rely on his guile.
He pushed lower to the ground, still picking up speed. The plane was equipped with a radar warning receiver, which ordinarily would tell the crew when it was being tracked by a radar. But the receiver hadn’t worked earlier, when the MiG was coming up from behind, and it remained clean now, either malfunctioning or not activated correctly.
Turk assumed there was a problem with the RWR and decided to ignore it. He saw the encounter in his head, playing it over as if it were one of the scrimmages he routinely did with his UAVs. He saw the Iranian pilot recover, then launch the first missile. He’d look back at the radar, check for another strong lock, then fire again.
Or maybe he would wait and see what the first missile did. But that wasn’t going to work now.
He counted to three, then pushed the stick hard and rolled into an invert, turning at the same time to beam the Doppler radar in the MiG and confuse the missile. He drove the Phantom lower, pushing so close to the ground that the scraggly brush threatened to reach up and grab the plane as it passed. A small city lay ahead; Turk went even lower, coming in over the rooftops. He kept counting to himself, knowing that the missile was behind him somewhere, and hoping it would run out of fuel.
The R-27 had a semiactive radar; it rode to its target on a beam provided by the MiG’s radar. Turk’s maneuvers had confused the radar momentarily, and his very low altitude made it hard for the enemy radar to sort him out of the ground clutter.
He saw a canyon coming up and decided to turn with it, hoping the close sides would shield him from the guiding radar. But the Phantom was now moving well over the speed of sound, and she wasn’t about to turn easily or quickly. Worse, he felt a punch in his stomach as he tried to turn—the g forces were quick to build up. He had to ease back, and gave up his plan. Instead he stayed as low as he could over the open terrain, running toward the buildings ahead.
Sweat poured from every pore of his body, including the sides of his eyes; he could barely keep his hand on the stick.
Seconds passed, then a full minute. He let off on the gas and banked, more gently this time, aiming north.
Something shot in front of him, maybe a mile away. It was one of the missiles.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Then he felt the tail of the Phantom lifting out of his hand, pitching his nose sideways.
The other missile had exploded behind him.
19
CIA campus, Virginia
BREANNA WATCHED AS THE SIGNAL INDICATING TURK’S position jerked back northward.
“What the hell is he doing?” Reid asked.
“I don’t know. Assuming he’s in a plane, they may be ducking a missile.” They could only guess what was going on; there’d been no word from Turk, or Stoner for that matter. It was clear from the intercepted Iranian radio transmissions that the Iranians had not captured them. The Iranian air force was scrambling after a Phantom that had left Manzariyeh without authorization; Breanna guessed that must be Turk, trying to fly to safety.
“Try to contact Stoner again,” Reid told the communications aide. “Get him.”
“Sir, I just tried. There’s been no answer.”
“Try again.”
“He’s heading north,” said Breanna. “I bet he’s going to Baku.”
“Can he make it?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at the screen. The maneuvers indicated he was under attack. Off the top of her head she wasn’t sure what the Phantom’s range might be, and there was no way of knowing how much fuel it had. “We need to talk to the Azerbaijan air force,” she told Reid. “He’s going north—he’ll be heading toward their air space.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. They have MiGs—can we scramble them?”
“I don’t know if that will be doable, Breanna.”
“Try.”
20
Iran
VAHID CURSED HIMSELF. HE’D FIRED TOO SOON, SURE that the F-4 pilot wasn’t much of a flier. Now he saw that was a mistake; the man was smarter than he’d thought, and at least knew the basics of dodging radar missiles.
No matter. He’d drive up close and put a heat-seeker in his fantail.
Once he found him. The radar was having trouble locating the Phantom in the ground clutter.
Maybe he crashed after all.
No. There he was—twenty kilometers away. Running north toward the Caspian.
Vahid juiced his throttle, opening the gates on the afterburners. The sudden burst of speed slammed him back into his seat.
He’d close on the F-4, get tight, then fire. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
STONER SAT IN THE REAR SEAT OF THE AIRCRAFT, watching with detachment as the plane bucked and turned, jerking sharply in the sky.
They weren’t particularly high. He could see the ground clearly out the side of the windscreen.
If we crash, he thought, Turk Mako will die, and my mission will be accomplished.
TURK STRUGGLED WITH THE CONTROLS, TRYING TO muscle the Phantom back level after the shock of the missile explosion behind them. If he’d been higher, he could have simply sorted things out in a long, sweeping dive, but he was far too low for that. He pulled the stick, straining as the plane skidded in the air. His airspeed had bled off precipitously; the Phantom was very close to a stall.
Get me out of here, Old Girl, he thought. Let’s dance.
He pressed again on the throttle and jerked the stick back. He was dangerously close to one of the Phantom’s peculiarities—the aircraft had a tendency to fall into a spin when the stick was muscled too hard at a high angle of attack. But the F-4 wasn’t ready to call it a day; she managed to keep herself in the air and moving forward despite the pilot’s nightmares. There was damage to the tail—he could feel the rudder lagging—but the old iron hung together.
The plane began gaining altitude. There was no question now of doing anything fancy; he would have to get away, straight line, balls out.
Water, then find the coast.
One thing he had going for him—the MiG pilot probably thought he’d splashed him with the missiles.
There were mountains ahead. Turk nudged the F-4 skyward, aiming to skim over them so close he’d chip paint.
VAHID’S RADAR FOUND THE PHANTOM AHEAD TO THE east, roughly a hundred kilometers from the Caspian if it kept on its present heading. He was over the Elburz Mountains and using them to good effect, tucking well below the peaks and h
oping the irregular topography would make it hard to track him.
He was right, but Vahid realized he didn’t have to stick too closely to his prey. It seemed obvious that the pilot was going north to the Caspian. He would simply beat him there.
Other fighters were scrambling now. The radio was alive with traffic and orders: shoot the enemy down.
Vahid blocked everything out, concentrating on his plane and the pursuit. The Phantom was fast, but his MiG was faster. He was also higher. He titled his nose back and climbed some more, planning how he would take the Phantom in their final encounter.
THE MOUNTAINS SEEMED ENDLESS. TURK HAD BACKED off the throttle, worried about his fuel supply, but he was still moving at over 650 knots, yet there seemed no end to the damn things. They were green, greener than anything he’d seen in Iran. The sun glowed overhead, the sky clear. He imagined there were vacationers somewhere below, enjoying the day and the sea.
Wherever the hell it was.
Hang in there, Turk told himself. Just hang in there.
He examined the dials in the cockpit. He still had a decent amount of fuel. The damage to the tail was light, if the controls were to be believed: the plane seemed ever so slightly slow as it responded to the rudder, but not so much that it wouldn’t go where he wanted.
Come on, come on. Let’s get there.
Nothing but green and brown below.
Damn!
And then there was sea, a green-blue sheet spread in front of him.
Free, he was free.
Except: there was the damn MiG, three o’clock in his windscreen, heading due west but pushing onto his wing in what Turk recognized was the start of a sweep that would end with the Phantom in the fat heart of his targeting pipper.
VAHID FELT A RUSH OF GRAVITY AS HE PULLED THE MIG hard to complete the sweeping intercept. The Phantom, riding straight and true, rose into his screen as he put his nose down. He had the MiG dead on its enemy’s tail. He had his gun selected; he was close to the other plane and wanted the satisfaction of perforating it.
The distinctive tail of the American built plane seemed to droop; Vahid edged his finger onto the trigger as it filled out his target.
Even as he fired, the other plane disappeared. Vahid started to pull up, then realized what the other pilot was doing.
It was almost too late.
Using its control surfaces like speed brakes while it throttled back, the F-4 had dropped below and behind the MiG in an instant. The hunter was now the hunted—Vahid tweaked left and right as a stream of tracers exploded over his right wing. He began a turn, then changed course, hoping to catch the Phantom overshooting him. But whoever was flying the F-4 was very, very good—he not only didn’t bite on the fake turn, but managed to stay behind him long enough to put a few bullets across his right wing. Vahid rolled, trying to loop away, but that was nearly fatal—the F-4 danced downward, drilling two or three more bullets into his left wing and fuselage before passing by.
You underestimated him, One Eye would have said. I didn’t teach you that.
Vahid pulled up, selecting his IR missiles. But the panel indicated they wouldn’t arm. Some of the bullets that struck the plane earlier had disabled the controls or the missiles, or both.
So it was down to guns, one on one.
Vahid leveled off, looking for his opponent.
TURK FELT HIS THROAT CLOSE WITH THE SHARP TURN. His head pressed in and his heart clutched. It was as if a huge hand had grabbed hold of him and squeezed with all its might.
Don’t do that again. You’ll pass out and crash.
He’d gotten bullets into the other plane. Enough to splash the damn thing, he was sure.
Had he? Where was it?
Head clearing, Turk began a climb. After only a few seconds a tiny shadow passed to his right—cannon fire from the MiG.
He steepened the climb and rolled, surprised to find the MiG practically alongside him.
Within seconds Turk realized they had managed to put themselves into a classically difficult position. They were two fighters locked in a deadly embrace. Neither could afford to accelerate or drop away; doing so would allow the other to slide behind him.
How long could they keep this up? Turk nudged his rudder gently, edging the plane right in hopes that he might be able to let the MiG spurt ahead. But the MiG pilot was too sharp for that—he came with him, rolling his wing around about a quarter turn just as Turk did.
Turk thought of various ways to break off. The best seemed to be to mash the gas, turn tight and get his nose facing the other plane. The MiG would have to turn outside to keep from being thrown in front; Turk would be risking a quick missile shot but he was confident he could get his own shot in first.
The trouble was, he doubted he could stand the roller-coaster force needed to pull that maneuver. Nor could he afford to stay in the climb much longer; the thin oxygen would kill him.
The man flying the other plane had good instincts. Maybe he could use those against him.
Both planes were flying almost straight up, canopy-to-canopy, turning a tight, ascending scissors pattern in the sky. Neither could afford to stray.
Turk had an idea. As he turned his wing to start a twist, he pushed the Phantom closer to the MiG. In an instant, he jerked the nose forward and at the same time fired the gun.
His idea was that it would look to the other pilot as if the Phantom was trying to crash into him. Whether it did or not was impossible to tell, but the maneuver had the desired effect: the MiG spun off to the right.
Turk’s own instincts were to follow. Everything he knew told him that he had the other plane where he wanted him. And certainly he would have if he’d had a flight suit and oxygen.
But he told himself his job now wasn’t to shoot down the MiG. It was to get himself and Stoner home. And so instead he pushed the Phantom back around to the north and accelerated again, sure he was home free.
He’d barely caught his breath when a fresh set of tracers exploded ahead of his right wing. The Iranian didn’t want to quit.
21
CIA campus, Virginia
REID RAISED HIS HAND AND GAVE BREANNA A THUMBS-UP, indicating that the American military consul in Baku had convinced the Azerbaijan air force to scramble its forces. The SEAL command had already released the MC-130 in Baku; it was preparing to take off and fly over the Caspian.
She told herself that Turk was going to make it. Against all odds, he was going to make it. She hadn’t sent him to his death.
22
Over the Caspian Sea
TURK FELT THE PLANE SHUDDER SEVERELY AS HE JINKED left and right, barely ducking the fire from the MiG. Between the old metal and whatever damage the Iranian had done to him earlier, the plane was starting to strain.
The MiG and the F-4 were still locked in a death dance, neither able to get an advantage. The MiG slid behind him, but Turk managed to push the Phantom just enough to stay away from his bullets.
Their speed dropped, moving through 220 knots. While the MiG was a nimbler airframe, Turk thought he must have done some damage to it, at least enough to keep it from trying anything too fancy. But its pilot was tenacious, clinging tightly.
Even if the MiG didn’t nail him, the more maneuvers he did, the better the odds that he’d run out of fuel before reaching a safe airport. And parachuting wasn’t an option. He needed to get away quickly.
Turk racked his brain for a way to get the MiG off his back. The only thing he could think of was a low altitude spin and a crash—not a particularly pleasant solution, even if the plane could take the g’s.
Unless it didn’t actually happen.
As another burst of rounds flashed over the canopy, Turk jerked the Phantom’s stick, trying to make the plane look as if it had been hit. He backed off as his plane began to yaw, then pushed in on his left, tipping his wing down
and holding his breath.
By now the MiG had stopped firing. He was still back there somewhere, though.
When the blue sea filled his windscreen, Turk held the Phantom’s nose down for a three count. Then he pulled up on the stick, muscling it back as hard as he could while giving the plane throttle.
His head floated in the sudden rush of blood. The Phantom didn’t like the maneuver either, threatening to fall backward in the sky. The control surfaces, confused by the contradictory forces working on them, bit furiously at the air, trying to follow the pilot’s crazed instructions. The engines, suddenly goosed with fuel, roared desperately, pushing to hold the plane in the air despite the heavy hand of gravity.
And there was the MiG, right in front of him.
Turk fired, lying on the trigger even as he fought to get the Phantom stable. He got off a burst and a half, then the goosed engines pushed the Phantom ahead, whipping over the MiG close enough to scorch the paint.
He’d put a dozen bullets into the MiG’s airframe, and this time there was no way they wouldn’t have an effect: Turk saw a bolt of flame in the cockpit mirror.
If he’d been more confident of his fuel, he might have turned around to watch his enemy burn.
VAHID FELT THE BLOOD DRAINING FROM HIS HEAD AS the MiG began to disintegrate around him. Victory had been snatched from his hand in an instant. Not just victory—the tables had been completely turned, the pilot in front suddenly behind, the predator now the victim.
He needed to pull the ejection handle. He needed to get out of the plane.
Why? He’d been defeated. He was not the best, and would never be. He couldn’t stand the humiliation.
Could he go home to his father, the war hero, and look him in the eye?