Top Gun

by T. E. Cruise

  “Pinto flight, Pinto lead,” Beckman radioed. “Strike force is splitting.”

  Andy nodded to himself. The plan was for the entire strike to split right down the middle, with half going after the airfield and half attacking the heliopad complex. Pinto flight was assigned to fly MiGCAP for the strike aimed at taking out the Red chopper base.

  “Pinto flight, be prepared for heavy adversary air,” Beckman called. “AWAC has picked up multiple bogies traveling high at our head-on intercept. It looks like the Attackers want to protect their choppers at all cost.”

  “Looks like we lucked out.” Andy’s wingman, Lieutenant Stan Johnson, chuckled.

  “Roger that,” Andy said. “If the Attackers concentrate their forces here, one of us is bound to come away with a fat tally for the Warlord prize.”

  “Or get our asses whipped,” Beckman added meaningfully. “Stay alert, and don’t get cocky! We may think we’ve learned all of the Attackers’ tricks, but there’s always one more thing to learn.”

  “There go the Warthogs to get the tanks defending the chopper pads!” radioed Beckman’s wingman, Lieutenant Calvin.

  Andy had always thought the turbine-fan-powered A-10 Thunderbolt looked like an airplane that belonged back in World War II. The dark-green, close-support attack craft had an attack bomber’s ungainly silhouette thanks to its straight wings and its engines, like two fat barrels attached to its rear fuselage just forward of its tail section. The A-10 was designed to fight low. Its considerable ability to carry wing-mounted ordnance aside, its main reason for existence was its massive, nose-mounted, 30MM GAU-8/a cannon, the weapon it used to kill tanks. The GAU-A Gatling gun was twenty-one feet long without its huge ammo drum, which carried 1,100 rounds, each the size of a quart bottle and tipped with armor-piercing uranium.

  Now Andy watched as the three A- 10s that had come along to the helipad target dove to turn their awesome firepower against their targets, which were obsolete, retired Army tanks scattered about the desert floor to simulate enemy mechanized armor. The old tanks were arranged to suggest that they were here to provide defense to the helipad about a quarter-mile beyond. Andy saw the Warthogs begin to fire, the smoke and flame spewing from their chin-mounted cannons. Immediately the desert floor was set to boiling by the 30MM fusillade, and the targets were pulverized. The old tanks, their rusting cannons poking up toward the sky like the upraised trunks of angry elephants, were chain-sawed into twisted, flaming chunks of metal set rolling across the sand beneath the impact of the 30MM rounds like tin cans being plunked by rapid, accurate fire from a .22 rifle.

  Their work done, the A-10s climbed back into the sky to give the A-7 Corsairs their chance to go to work. The enemy helipad was a one-hundred-foot-square outline scratched into the desert floor, protected by a larger circle of flashing strobe-light setups meant to simulate AAA fire. The A-7s were all carrying live ordnance: bombs, rockets, and loaded cannon. It would be the Corsairs’ task to first accurately target and take out the AAA emplacements and then bomb the helipad.

  Andy and the rest of Pinto flight were cartwheeling high in the sky, on the lookout for MiGs, when the A-7s began their attack. Andy saw the first rocket salvo being fired, the 100MM Matra rockets sizzling downward like streaks of fire to demolish the helipad’s defensive batteries. It was one hell of a light show: The ground strobes were flashing madly like crazed, monstrous fireflies as the rockets erupted in white smoke and cherry-red flame, sending debris flying. Above it all, the glittering silver A-7s were crisscrossing the sky in tight bat-turns, like enraged hornets darting over their torn open nest.

  Andy was looking forward to seeing the A-7s drop the really big stuff they were carrying beneath their wings when his constantly scanning gaze caught distant movement in the crystal-clear sky. He looked hard and counted five specks arranged in the classic Soviet step formation: three were flying line abreast, while higher up and about a quarter-mile back, two more were bringing up the rear. Andy radioed his alert: “Pinto lead, three. Five bogies approaching at four o’clock!”

  There was a moment’s silence crackling over the airwaves, and then Beckman calmly answered, “Roger, three, I’ve got them.”

  “Yahoo!” Johnson cheered. “Nice call, three! How about it, boss?” he now addressed Beckman. “Since our element spotted them, we get first crack, right?”

  “Roger,” Beckman replied. “Happy hunting, Andy. Your two-ship gets dibs. My element will remain here to shepard the lambs.”

  “Roger,” Andy replied, appreciating Beckman’s strategy as he and Johnson peeled off to do battle with the enemy, now about five miles away. It wouldn’t do for all of Pinto flight to be decoyed away from the strike force, leaving the Mud Movers and Warthogs vulnerable to possible attack from another formation of enemy fighters that might be waiting in the wings.

  Meanwhile, the enemy planes were holding their step formation as the Stiletto two-ship dead-on approached; merge point was now about three miles. Andy was still too far away to make out the Attackers’ individual camo paint schemes, too far away to see if there was a flat-black one mixed in the formation. Oh well, what the hell, Andy thought. A kill was a kill.

  “Man, look at them out there arranged like bowling pins,” Johnson muttered. “Don’t I wish we still had Sparrows now. The two of us could take out all five from here.”

  Andy laughed. “Hey, it isn’t fun if you do it the easy way.” He dialed his radio to the Operations frequency and transmitted: Ops, Pinto element three/four, do you copy?”

  “Roger, Pinto three,” replied one of the controllers who refereed the war games from hundreds of miles away, thanks to his high-tech radar and microwave equipment.

  “Ops,” Andy continued. “Pinto three/four engaging five bogies. Fox Range, sector 5-D, do you copy?”

  “Roger, Pinto three,” Ops said. “Fight’s on. Out.”

  “Out, Ops,” Andy said, dialing back to Pinto flight frequency. Now, thanks to the sensors mounted in the participating aircrafts’ wings, Ops would follow the action, recording it for replaying later during the mass debriefing if events warranted.

  “Pinto three, what say I take the two flying high?” Johnson radioed. “You take the trio flying low.”

  “Why so generous?” Andy kidded his wingman as he ran a quick check on his weapons systems. Everything was in order. His HUD air-to-air combat display was framing in luminous green the five aircraft now rapidly looming in his windscreen.

  “Hey, man, I’ve only got three kills to my credit so far this week,” Johnson explained. “I’ve been hurting since they took away my Sparrows. I know I haven’t got a chance at winning the Warlord trophy, but you do. If I can’t have it, I’d at least like to see somebody from my squadron nab the prize.”

  “Thanks, pal,” Andy said as the Attackers formation broke apart in a five-way defensive split. “Let’s get ’em!”

  Range was now one mile. Andy could easily make out the various paint jobs on the five F-5E’s busy carving up the sky. Robbie’s black bird wasn’t among them, and once again, Andy wasn’t sure how he felt about that: was he more disappointed or relieved?

  But there was no time to think about that now. It was time to go to work.

  Andy saw Johnson’s Stiletto leap forward on a cone of flame as his wingman went to afterburn to make a tight circle through the sky. Johnson put himself behind the rear pair of Attackers that were painted a mottled tan and chocolate to blend into the desert floor when viewed from above. The two stub-winged F-5E’s banked steeply to get away in a classic Attackers gambit that had proved highly effective a few days ago, thanks to the little F-5E’s maneuverability and the visiting players’ inexperience. This time, however, Johnson was ready for the trick. He pulled his Stiletto up and climbed steeply, then rolled inverted, dropping down right smack on the banking Attackers’ tails.

  Andy heard Johnson call, “Fox two,” indicating to Ops that he’d fired a Sidewinder. A few seconds later, Ops overrode all frequencies to an
nounce, “Ivan four, you’ve been burned,” and one of the Attackers Johnson was pursuing dropped away to fly off to the enemy regeneration point.

  Johnson stayed on his remaining bogie’s six, again calling, “Fox two.”

  “Ivan 14,” Ops called. “You’ve been burned.”

  Good for you, Stan, Andy thought. You’ve just added two kills to your tally. But now it was time for Andy to bag his own pigeons.

  The trio of F-5E’s he was after were spread out to try and cage in his Stiletto, but before they could tighten the noose around Andy he used his bird’s superior speed and agility and his own ability to sustain G-punishment to fly out of their trap. The desert horizon in front of his Stiletto tilted madly, and Andy grimaced against the physical stress he was suffering as he skidded into a severely tight bat-turn that put him into position to attack the nearest enemy plane. The Attacker craft was painted green and tan, with a large 67 stenciled on its nose and vertical tail. As Andy came around into position on his target’s six, he executed a low-speed yoyo, popping his speed brakes and going into a shallow dive in order to drop beneath the Attacker craft, taking advantage of the fact that the F-5E pilot had a large blind spot beneath his bird’s long, broad snout.

  Lose sight, lose the fight, Andy thought. Once he was safely tucked beneath the Attacker with a clear shot at the guy’s underbelly, he pulled up, using the Stiletto’s zoom ability to close to point-blank range.

  “Guns, guns!” Andy called over the radio, squeezing the trigger mounted on his control stick, which activated his bird’s cameras. He kept his eye on the small video monitor mounted beneath his HUD display as he kept his target framed in the cross hairs of his camera for the stipulated three seconds, waiting while the equipment installed in his bird for the Red Sky exercise relayed the picture to Operations.

  Ops decreed, “Ivan 67. You’ve been shot down.”

  “Pinto three!” Johnson called. “Twin bogies on your tail. I’m on my way!”

  Andy immediately banked away, jinking his bird to make himself a difficult target. He glanced behind him and saw the two blue and yellow F-5E’s on his six-o’clock dive out of sight. They’re trying to pull their own low-speed yoyo move, Andy realized.

  Andy waited a beat, calculating when the Attacker duo would be beginning their pull-up toward his belly, and then lifted his Stiletto’s nose, going to afterburn in a short climb that culminated in a rolling maneuver that put him on a course head-on at his pursuers.

  The F-5E’s, taken by surprise, executed a two-way defensive split. Andy locked onto the tail of the closest and called, “Fox two!”

  Ops was awarding him the kill as he closed on the last bogie from five o’clock. The Attacker must have noticed Johnson coming in fast from eleven o’clock, because the F-5E went to afterburn, banking starboard, intending to skid out of the way and leave Andy and Johnson staring at each other across empty space.

  As the Attacker turned, Andy cut across the F-5E’s twin glowing tail pipes, executing a bat-turn of his own that kept him locked onto the enemy’s six. He called a Fox two, and knew he had his target dead to rights. Ops agreed, raising his score to ten.

  “Beautiful flying, Andy!” Johnson congratulated him.

  “Thanks,” Andy replied.

  “Roger that,” Captain Beckman cut in.

  “Thanks, sir!” Andy chuckled, glancing toward the strike force, which was now a distant, orbiting cartwheel of glinting specks against the blue: a guy ate up a lot of sky in a dogfight. “I just hope ten kills is enough to win the Warlord trophy.”

  “I think you’ve got bigger worries than that, Andrew.”

  What? Where? Andy thought as Robbie’s voice filled his helmet. Andy stood his bird on its tail and went into a frantic, vertical roll to search the clock for his tormentor.

  Robbie’s laughter echoed in Andy’s ears. “What a lovely pirouette,” Robbie sneered.

  Andy saw the flat-black Attacker craft emblazoned with the red I on its nose and tail dropping down to fly alongside him. Andy thought. How does the fucker do that? One instant he’s not there, and then he is. Does he have the power of invisibility?

  “Sorry I’m late for our appointment, Andrew, but I had pressing business elsewhere ridding the sky of you visiting players. Then I thought it would be prudent to return to base for a refueling.”

  “That’s okay, Robbie,” Andy managed, trying hard to put the grit back into his voice, even though he was feeling anything but confident about the coming, inevitable confrontation. “In case you haven’t noticed, I was sort of busy myself, clearing the sky of unwanted Attackers.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been watching you mop the floor with my guys,” Robbie replied. “It was a very impressive performance, but now are you ready for some real dogfighting? I’ve got a full twenty minutes’ worth of gas to spend here, although I hardly think it’s going to take anywhere near that long to settle this little rematch.”

  Andy checked his own fuel. Yeah, he had plenty of gas left. Lucky me, he thought. I’ve got enough gas, but what about nerve?

  Andy’s spine had turned to jelly. He’d hardly gotten over his last humiliation at Robbie’s hands, and now here it was time to suffer another ass-whipping. I can’t do it, Andy thought. He’s too good. I can’t beat him.

  “Well?” Robbie taunted. “You want to try? Or you just want to give up? It’ll be just be you and me, Andrew.” Robbie paused to ask sharply, “Isn’t that right, Beckman? You and the rest of Pinto flight will stay out of this?”

  “If that’s what Lieutenant Harrison wants?” Beckman hesitated.

  Andy’s finger hesitated before pushing his radio’s transmit button. No way in hell I can beat him.

  “That’s what I want, Pinto lead,” Andy said. “Okay, Robbie. It’s just you and me. Fight’s on!”

  (Two)

  “Fight’s on!” Major Robbie Greene heard Andrew say.

  Greene popped his speed brakes, dropping back behind the Stiletto, which immediately went to afterburn. Fire licked out from the Stiletto’s tail pipe as it shot away. Greene cobbed his own throttles. He was pressed back against his seatback as the dark F-5E hurled forward.

  Let’s make this short and sweet, Greene decided, preparing to call a Sidewinder shot. Greene had been hoping for a better showing from Andrew. He’d been hoping that the kid might at least put up a valiant struggle before losing. He’d been hoping…

  Greene paused, pondering it, concluding that he wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping concerning Andrew. He’d had mixed emotions toward his half brother since their run-in behind the ice-cream parlor a couple of weeks ago. Take that dream he’d had, for instance. In the dream Greene had been involved in an air duel with Andrew just like this one, except with live ammo. In the dream Greene had won the shoot-out, blasting Andrew’s Stiletto out of the sky, but just before the ruined Stiletto fell away Greene had pulled up alongside it to peer into its cockpit. He’d seen himself sitting wounded where Andrew was supposed to be.

  The dream had so unsettled Greene that he’d decided to stay away from Andrew for the rest of the time the kid was at Ryder. Greene wasn’t clear in his own mind why he’d changed his mind early this morning, scribbling that note of challenge and having an aide affix it to Andrew’s helmet.

  Now, as Greene prepared to call his Sidewinder kill on Andrew, he told himself that he’d done the right thing by challenging his half brother to this rematch. Maybe someday they could bury the hatchet. Maybe not. Regardless, it was important that today Greene proved to the kid who was the better fighter jock.

  Andrew’s Stiletto was just a quarter-mile ahead now. It was time to end the rivalry between them once and for all.

  “This is good-bye, Andrew,” Greene radioed. He fixed the fleeing Stiletto in his gunsight and radioed, “Fox two…”

  At that instant the Stiletto went into a steep climb, directly into the sun! Nice move, Greene thought, smiling. Leading a heat-seeker into the sun could blind its infrared tracking system.
Now Ops would not award Greene the kill, because Andrew had managed to wrest for himself the benefit of the doubt.

  “Ivan one,” Ops radioed as expected. “Negative Side-winder shot on Pinto three.”

  “Nice move,” Green radioed to Andrew as the Stiletto executed a vertical reverse, falling over out of its climb. “Nice, but not nice enough. Here I come after you, kid.”

  As Green pulled back on the stick to chase after the Stiletto, he was kind of surprised by Andrew’s lack of aggression. Andrew seemed content to play a defensive game. Where were the kid’s balls? Greene wondered as he once again closed on Andrew’s six. He was about to call another Side-winder shot when the Stiletto in his gunsight abruptly slipped away. Andrew’s bird had dropped its nose and cut its thrust, so that now it hung in the sky like a sea gull balanced in the wind!

  How-did he do that? Greene wondered. Meanwhile, he couldn’t do a thing about it; he had to overshoot. As Greene swiped past, giving up the offensive edge, he saw the Stiletto’s nose came around to point at his tail, and then Andrew’s bird leapt forward in pursuit.

  Greene wondered, Where did Andrew learn that trick? I’ve never seen anything like it. But Greene had a more important puzzle to ponder, like how to get one extremely angry Stiletto off his ass.

  (Three)