by Ben Bova
Sarko looked at him in surprise.
“Relax,” Major Colt said. “We’re not even carrying any missiles. Our official job is just to patrol the area and inspect any planes we can’t identify. Inspect.” He snorted.
“Then you’re not supposed to shoot down the other plane.”
“We’re supposed to defend ourselves if we’re attacked,” Colt explained. “So we have a gun up in the nose. One gun. Fires 6,000 rounds of 20-millimeter shells a minute. That’s enough; we won’t need any missiles.”
“But if they don’t attack us . . .”
“If they squirt that laser at us, it’s an attack. And then we’ll defend ourselves.”
“But the laser won’t hurt us!” Sarko said.
Colt’s teeth flashed in a grin. “You know it won’t hurt us, and I think it won’t hurt us. But when they fire it, they’re attacking us. And my orders give me a clear field to pump 6,000 rounds at ’em.”
Chapter fifteen
Sarko sank back in his seat.
“Cobra Four, this is station One-Oh-One. Do you read me?” Sarko heard the message crackle in his earphones.
“Got you, One-Oh-One,” Colt said.
“We have a bogy at 75,000 feet. Moving southeast at about Mach 2. Shall we vector you in?”
“Yes,” Colt answered eagerly. “Talk me in toward him.”
He nosed the Cobra into the direction that the ground radar station gave him, and soon Sarko saw a little white blotch show up on the radar screen in front of him.
Closer and closer the radar pip came, in from the edge of the screen toward the middle.
Major Colt had the Cobra on a long, flat dive, throttled down to just about Mach 2.
“I see him!” he called out. “Visual contact.”
Sarko looked at his TV screen and saw a tiny speck set against the sky. As they raced toward it, the speck grew and took shape: delta wings, four engines, and a big pod under the belly where the giant laser was housed.
Automatically, both men reached up and pulled their special glare blinders down across their faces. Colt touched a button, and the slits in the metal windshield shut tight. The TV screens were their only contact with the outside now.
Sarko checked the special instruments that had been packed into the side of his cockpit; they would measure the enemy laser’s power.
“They’re coming at us dead-on,” Colt muttered grimly. “Just like they did for the other three planes.”
It seemed to Sarko as if they would have to crash. The two planes leaped at each other.
The special instruments beside him suddenly clicked.
“They fired the laser!” he shouted, looking down at the dials. “It hit us full blast!”
Just then Colt flipped the Cobra into a sharp right bank and turn. The enemy plane was a momentary blur, dangerously close to them, and then it was out of sight.
“Okay, they attacked us,” Colt said. “Now it’s our turn.”
He pulled the Cobra up, gained altitude, then circled to get behind the enemy bomber.
“But they didn’t damage us. Their laser is useless now. It’s finished as a weapon,” Sarko insisted.
Colt merely shook his head, like a man trying to get rid of an annoying insect.
Still holding the throttle down to the same speed as the enemy’s, Colt edged up behind the bomber.
“No guns on him,” he muttered. “Guess the laser equipment took up all the weight they could carry.”
“They’re defenseless.”
“So were our guys . . . against their laser.”
“But you can’t just shoot them down in cold blood!”
“Can’t I? Just watch.”
Colt’s thumb flicked the firing button, and Sarko felt the thunder and vibration of the gun.
“Just clearing the gun, making sure it’s ready,” the Major said softly. “Now . . . a little closer.” The bomber tried to twist and dodge, but Colt stayed right behind it and slightly to one side. He pulled the Cobra up so close that the bomber filled their TV screens, huge and black in front of them. Colt’s thumb hovered over the firing button. “Don’t do it, Frank!” Sarko begged. “Don’t become just as bad as they are.”
The Major glanced at Sarko. With a laugh, he flicked his hand from the red button to the main throttle.
Instead of firing, Colt gunned the Cobra’s engines. The plane zoomed past the surprised bomber and leaped high above the enemy.
Plastered into his seat, Sarko gasped, “What’re you doing?”
“You don’t want to kill ’em,” Colt said. “But we’ve still got to show ’em we’re better.”
He made a wide swing around, then aimed the Cobra straight at the enemy bomber. They dived past the other plane, swung up again, and did a barrel roll completely around the bomber. Sarko felt his stomach trying to turn itself inside out.
Then Colt pulled up even with the enemy plane, waggled his wings, and did another roll, a full circle all around the bomber.
Sarko broke into a huge grin, despite his stomach. “I get it . . . you’re flying rings around them!”
Colt nodded.
They pulled up even with the bomber again, close enough for the side-looking TV cameras to see right into the enemy’s cockpit. The copilot seemed to be yelling wildly into his radio mouthpiece; they could see his hands waving madly.
Colt raced ahead of the bomber, flew around it, over it, under it, sat off alongside one wing tip, then zipped over and parked near the other wing tip.
Finally the bomber turned and started back in the direction it had come from.
“They’re going home,” Sarko said.
Colt nodded. “And they won’t be back again . . . not for a while, anyway. I think they got the message.”
“You could have killed them, but you didn’t.”
“This was more fun. I’d just like to see the look on their generals’ faces when they tell ’em what the Cobra can do.”
“And tell them that the laser trick won’t work anymore.”
“You satisfied now? No blood spilled. Okay?”
“It was great, Frank. Simply great.”
The Major laughed. “It was a lot better than shooting at ’em.”
“Yes,” Sarko agreed. “A lot better.”
Colt nosed the Cobra into a long, graceful, sweeping turn and the two friends started for home.
