"Hold on, Malibu! Just a little more." The pipper crawled across the display. The Q-5s were jinking, swinging back and forth in an attempt to avoid buildings as well as Batman's lock. He could see the ships of the American task force clearly now, less than fifteen miles away. The Korean pilots would be arming their missiles now.
ACQ flashed on his display, and the targeting box over the left-hand Q-5 became a circle. A tone sounded in his headset.
"I got lock! Fox two!"
A second Sidewinder slid clear of the Tomcat's rails and arrowed toward the Fantans. Two of the Q-5s broke then, swinging left and right to avoid the missile. The Sidewinder, locked onto the plane to port, swept off to the left.
Batman stayed with the remaining Q-5, which was maintaining its dead-level course. He switched his missile system back to Search Mode. A warning came up on his HUD. "Damn!" He'd forgotten his combat load included only two Sidewinders, and both were gone now.
"You want to go for Phoenix?" Malibu asked.
His Tomcat was riding now with six of the heavy, long-range killers under his wings. They could destroy MiGs in the sky over P'yongyang a hundred miles away, but he was too close to deal with the Fantan lumbering less than two miles ahead.
"Negative!" he snapped. His left hand rammed the throttle forward as he went to burner. "I'm going' to guns!"
The Q-5 raced across the city's waterfront and thundered out over the bay. Batman followed. He had an instant's glimpse of Chimera less than five hundred feet below… and the sinister gray shape of the Soviet cruiser.
0924 hours
Wonsan waterfront
The Marines and the Russians had stood there for an eternity, it seemed like, neither side willing to move, neither side willing to retreat. Peters had dispatched one of his men with a tense, urgent whisper to back off and radio Lieutenant Adams, who was leading the squad on board Chimera. It might be a while before help came, though. Peters could still hear shooting on board Chimera, occasional ragged bursts of autofire.
One Russian had departed as well, running toward the boarding ladder on the Soviet ship's side. Peters didn't know if he was going to report or to bring help. "Do you speak English?" Peters called. The Russian who seemed to be in charge had shaken his head. "Nyeh panemayu. Gavareeti tee vih parooski?" Impasse.
Very, very slowly, Peters lowered his M-16. It did not look as though the Russians were looking for a confrontation. If they were, they could have fired from ambush and killed every Marine on the dock… could have opened up on the Huey while they were still out over the harbor. But disengaging from this eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation was going to be tricky.
The Russian, eyes narrowed, lowered the muzzle of his AKM in response.
BOOM!
Peters dove forward, landing on the concrete facedown. Every man on the dock, Russian and American, was on the ground at the same moment, scrabbling for cover, certain that a bomb had just gone off.
0924 hours
Tomcat 232
Kolmo Peninsula swelled larger just ahead as the two aircraft flashed low across Wonsan Harbor. Batman had a glimpse of the airport, of a multitude of vehicles, of helicopters on the runways, rotors turning. He crossed the landing beaches and hurtled on over the open ocean. Chosin was ten miles away.
The gunsight reticle on his HUD tracked the Nanchang Q-5, his LCOS showing minimum target lead. At this range, he could actually see the enemy pilot, turning in his cockpit for a view aft at his pursuer. Batman could imagine the man's fear.
Chosin was eight miles away.
0924 hours
Tomcat 205
Tombstone held his F-14 under control as he twisted away from the enemy MiG. Whoever this guy was, he was good!
The Tomcat lashed into a scissors… then another, as Tombstone tried to sucker the Korean into an overshoot which would put him in the American's sight, but the MiG driver was having none of it. He was staying tucked in tight.
"Still with me, Snowball?" Rugged cliffs reached for the F-14 to left and right. They were dropping into a narrow valley.
"Right behind you! Hey, how about shakin' this guy? He's getting' on my nerves!"
"Mine too, partner. Time to get out of Dodge!"
The Tomcat stood on its tail, clawing for altitude. The MiG, anticipating the maneuver, rose with it, cannons thundering.
Hammer blows smashed into the Tomcat's hull, walking up the fuselage between the upright stabilizers. Warning lights flashed across Tombstone's console.
Tombstone twisted away from the deadly fire. This guy was definitely first string on the Korean team. He leveled out at eight thousand feet, turning hard to port.
"Stoney!" Snowball called. "Watch it! He's-"
Then the cockpit exploded in flame and smoke and the F-14 was falling, falling, the wind shrieking through a pair of holes punched through the Plexiglas inches above Tombstone's head. The MiG thundered past yards off Tombstone's left wing.
"Close one, Snowball!" Tombstone yelled. He fought for control, feeling the flaps bite air. The F-14 shuddered as he pulled up the nose. "Are you okay? Snowy? Snowy!"
A small rearview mirror was mounted on his console, positioned so he could see into the backseat. He could not see his RIO, but he could see a ragged tear in the rear part of the canopy where cannon shells had passed through the cockpit. Snowball must be slumped over, out of sight.
There was blood on the canopy, a spray of crimson.
He checked his indicator. The ship's AWG-9 was out… no data on the scope. The missile systems were out… as were electronic countermeasures.
Another shudder wracked the stricken Tomcat, and they began losing altitude.
CHAPTER 31
0924 hours
Tomcat 232
Water raced past hunter and hunted as the Fantan arrowed toward the U.S. fleet, the F-14 closing from behind. Batman's finger squeezed the trigger and his Vulcan cannon howled, hurling a stream of 20-mm slugs into the Nanchang.
The Chinese ground attack fighter, a design similar to the American F-4 Phantom, was ruggedly built. It absorbed round after round after burning round, slowing, but not falling. Bits of debris flaked away from the stabilizer and pinged off Batman's canopy. He moved closer, waiting for the flash of an A-7 launch. Chosin was six miles away, well within range of the Kerry…
He squeezed the trigger again, and smoke began spilling from the Fantan's engine, then a gush of flame. At first Batman thought the Fantan was cutting in its afterburner, but then he realized that fuel was spilling into the tailpipe and igniting.
The Fantan exploded, a savage eruption of burning metal and spinning fragments. The Kerry warheads went off in a succession of blasts, each larger than the one before, until the sky was filled with orange flame. The F-14 roared into the fire…
… and burst through the other side, rocking with the concussion, its wings scored by fragments.
Chosin and her consorts lay less than five miles ahead. The sea around her was thick with AAVs, and Batman could see the foam-lashed shape of an LCAC making its way across the water below, making for the Little Rock. Farther away still, at the very edge of visibility, Batman could see the gray shadow of Jefferson, at the point where sea met sky.
Batman brought the Tomcat around in a shallow turn, passing back across the tip of the Kolmo Peninsula. Wonsan lay spread out before him, a gleaming city of white buildings and towers, of columns of greasy smoke hanging above burning ships, shattered buildings…
"Where are they, Malibu? Where are the other Fantans?"
"One's down, Batman. You killed him. Lost the other no, wait! I can get a feed from one of the Hawkeyes! Bearing… two-eight-five. Batman! He's running!"
"We'll take him with Phoenix! Arming… Hot! Lock 'em!"
"Damn! He's ducked back through the pass. I think he's running for home, dude. Looks like he doesn't like the surfin' around here!"
For a moment, the killer's fury threatened to overwhelm Batman. He could have had a clean sweep, four fo
r four. He could still go to burner, still…
He let out a long breath. "Let him go. Just so he doesn't circle back on us. Give me a vector to Tombstone."
"I'm on it, compadre. Two-five-nine, angels five."
The Tomcat streaked toward the mountains.
0925 hours
MiG 444
Major Pak took a deep breath as he brought his MiG around in a climbing turn, positioning himself high on the wounded American's tail. He recognized that aircraft; he'd glimpsed hull number 205 once before, during the dogfight out over the Sea of Japan. He wasn't sure If American aviators always flew the same aircraft or not, but meeting this one was like meeting an old friend.
The Yankee's cockpit was shattered, and a thin trickle of black smoke was leaking from the left engine. Another burst at close range would send the American plunging into the sea.
Over his headset, Pak could hear the North Korean air assault falling to pieces. Three of the Q-5s had been shot down, and the survivor had broken off and was fleeing west. Eleven MiGs had gone down in the space of eight minutes, and the others were scattered across the sky… or fleeing for a friendly airfield covered by SAMs.
And there were reports of more American aircraft approaching from the east.
There was, Pak knew, no use in attempting to return to P'yongyang himself. The best he could hope for was exile to some isolated post in the Yalu Valley. The worst…
He didn't want to think about it. His leaders did not easily forgive failure.
His death would not atone for this disaster, but he might be able to arrange things so that the defeat was not so shockingly one-sided. Major Pak would shoot down the Tomcat, then turn east. There were American carriers out there, and transports filled with Marines. He would find a target. His MiG carried no bombs, but that hardly mattered. Fifty years before, the detested Japanese had shown how to use the aircraft itself as a bomb. There were infinitely worse ways to die…
With a grimace of determination, Major Pak dropped his MiG once again onto the tail of the damaged American Tomcat.
0925 hours
Tomcat 205
Tombstone pulled the stick left, praying his Tomcat would hold together. He'd seen the Korean MiG approach, seen the number 444 on the hull in front of the cockpit. He pulled into a sweep to get inside the MiG's turn, but indicators lit up, warning of damage to his port engine, forcing him to break and roll clear. The MiG followed.
Launch!
Tombstone saw the flash of the missile. He waited, keeping the flare of its exhaust in sight until the last moment, then popped flares and turned. The missile decoyed toward the flares and Tombstone brought the F-14 around hard for a riposte.
No good. His radar was out, and an indicator showed his weapons systems were inoperable. Damn! He had two Sidewinders still hanging from his wings, but no way to lock on and fire them. All he had left were his guns.
He found himself wondering about his opponent. Most Korean aviators ― at least according to Intelligence ― were mediocre pilots. The PDRK's air defense forces had nothing similar to Top Gun or Red Flag, schools where they could sharpen their dog-fighting skills against live opponents. There were a few, though, who had received special training in the Soviet Union, men who had gone on to train the fighter pilots of other countries: Iraq, Syria, Libya.
It was hard thinking of his opponent as a person… as someone who might have trained in Moscow or worked for a time in Damascus. Tombstone had an eerie sense of identity with Batman, knowing exactly the shock he'd felt after his first kill.
But it was also part of the job, a job which was quite literally kill or be killed. The Korean pilot was doing his level best to kill him.
They were at five thousand feet now, a mile above the patchwork of grays and browns, roads and factories and buildings northwest of Wonsan. The two aircraft were traveling at over six hundred knots. The F-14's wings were folded back, but the damage to the aircraft was bad enough that Tombstone was considering overriding the control. If the wing pivots froze, he didn't want to try to maintain lift with the wings back when his airspeed started falling.
But not yet. He kept jinking his F-14, trying to avoid a missile lock by the other pilot, but the MiG kept closing in, apparently trying for another pass with his guns. He was less than a mile away now, and still closing.
A maxim he'd picked up at Top Gun came to him. When you can't out-fly the other guy, you have to out-think him. This guy had anticipated every scissors, every yo-yo, every maneuver designed to reverse their positions. But perhaps there was something else Tombstone could try.
He pulled the Tomcat into a shallow turn to port, banking the aircraft more and more as he tried to turn inside the MiG's turning radius. The MiG followed. Tombstone tightened up on the turn, wings still folded, luring the MiG closer.
F-14 Tomcats had one particular weakness in air combat, a subtle weakness which could nonetheless give the enemy a powerful advantage during a dogfight. Unless the pilot hit the override, the aircraft's computer controlled the angle on the wings automatically, folding them back at high speed, opening them wide for better lift at low speed. An enemy pilot who knew what he was looking at could glance at a Tomcat's wings and make a very good guess at just how much energy the F-14 had at the moment, information which let him adjust his own speed to avoid overshooting the target.
Tombstone's speed was down to three hundred knots now, and his wings were starting to come forward. He slapped the override, keeping the wings tucked back. It was like avoiding a "goose mode" when making the break toward a carrier trap. He was losing altitude now as he lost speed and lift, but he kept the wings tucked in.
"C'mon," he told the Korean pilot. "C'mon, you bastard!"
0925 hours
MiG 444
Pak was still turning inside the Tomcat's circle. The American fighter's wings were still folded. Pak's Spin Scan radar was too primitive to provide him with speed data on the target, but the fact that the F-14's wings were still folded told Pak that the Yankee was maintaining the turn at better than three hundred knots. Pak's own airspeed was falling below two hundred eighty knots as he tightened his turn. The Yankee was going to slip away!
He kicked his throttle forward for a sudden burst of speed.
0925 hours
Tomcat 205
He kept his eyes on the MiG floating off his portside tail, still staying inside the F-14's turn. When the MiG accelerated with a rush, Tombstone knew he'd won.
The MiG passed the Tomcat barely thirty yards to port at the same instant that Tombstone opened his wings and popped the air brakes. For an instant, Tombstone looked into the other man's face…
Then he pulled the F-14 hard to the left, sliding in behind the MiG so close that the Tomcat bucked and rumbled in the other plane's jet wash. Tombstone knew he would have only a second before the other pilot went into a break. He let the gun reticle drift across the MiG's hull, squeezing the trigger as the target filled his sights.
Cannon fire hammered into the MiG from less than fifty yards away, gouging chunks of hull metal. Tracers seemed to sink into the MiG, walking up the fuselage.
The MiG was already burning, already starting to come apart as the deadly rain of high-speed cannon fire found the cockpit. The wings seemed to crumple in toward the hull, and then the entire plane was engulfed by flames. Tombstone's Tomcat bumped and shook as it rode through the fireball.
He watched the wreckage trail fire all the way to the ground.
0925 hours
Wonsan dock
Slowly, Sergeant Peters rose to his feet. There was absolute silence on the dock as U.S. Marines and Russians, in twos and threes, began getting up, looking at one another sheepishly. The thunder had receded. Long seconds passed before they realized that the near-miss blast had not been a bomb at all, but a Tomcat cutting in its afterburners less than five hundred feet overhead.
The nearest Russian marine stood slowly less than ten feet away. The front of his white trousers was
wet. As he moved, Peters realized his own camo fatigue pants were wet too. The Russian looked at himself, then at Peters. Another long moment passed, and the Russian began to laugh.
The Marine joined in.
Within the next few minutes, a dialogue of sorts was worked out. After a hurried consultation, it was discovered that Private Greeley had brought along a strictly unauthorized item of equipment, a much-worn copy of Playboy tucked into his rucksack. The Russians obviously were interested in a trade; Greeley was convinced to part with his contraband in exchange for a Russian Naval cap… and the sergeant's promise to see him hauled before the skipper at mast for carrying contraband if he didn't go along with this new and promising turn in intercultural relations.
The Russians offered the Americans vodka and bread; the Marines offered them MREs. Meals, Ready to Eat ― plastic packages of dehydrated food ― were widely regarded by Marines as neither ready to eat nor meals, a poor substitute indeed for the canned C-rations they replaced. There was a spirited discussion over whether that particular gift would make the Russians mad. Peters broke the impasse by walking over to the Russian Marine and opening one of his MRE pouches.
The Russian looked puzzled as he sampled it. "Shtoh eta?"
Peters didn't understand the words, but the question in the tone and in the man's face was clear enough. He smiled. "Apricots."
"Ah-bree-kods…?"
"Try 'em," Peters said, grinning. "You'll love 'em!"
At least the Soviet Marine wasn't a tank driver. Peters didn't think the apricot curse applied to ships.
0930 hours
Tomcat 205
"Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five," Tombstone said. He was holding the Tomcat level at four thousand feet, flying slowly east across the coast north of Wonsan. "Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five. Come in, please."
He was just beginning to wonder if his radio was out too when he heard the crisp, all-business voice of Commander Barnes. "Two-oh-five, this is Homeplate. Be advised you have friendlies entering your area. Watch you don't score an own goal."
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