The battle, quite literally, was moving at the speed of sound. Lava turned north to engage his designated hostiles. As he did, his radar lost its lock on the southern package. MIDS would fill the void, populating his tactical display with a god’s-eye view. Still, it was awkward managing a battle when half the fight was behind you. He also wanted to keep an eye on Gooch—he was a good stick, but also a nugget on his first cruise.
As Lava nosed over and built speed downhill, he was struck by a new and unpleasant thought. He decided it was worth a radio call. “Two-one flight, all we have is guns, which means close quarters. Remember, these hostiles are loaded with some kind of radiological agent. Strongly suggest a high angle pass to not get fragged by the glowing vapor.”
“Two-three copies,” Spanx replied. “Also suggest a close watch on the round counter. These targets are low, slow, and small. Might take a few passes to get good hits. If we go Winchester, we fail.”
Winchester referred to running out of ordnance. Four hundred and twelve rounds sounded like a lot, but the Vulcan’s high rate of fire—six thousand rounds per minute—allowed only so many squeezes on the trigger.
Lava noticed that his target was descending. As it passed through two thousand feet, he wondered how low it would go to deliver its payload. Aerial gunnery was always challenging but doing it at extreme low altitude only added to a dizzying array of complications.
At a range of three miles, he switched to Gun Acquisition Mode. A target designator box appeared in his heads-up display. Thankfully, the dawn light was strengthening, and he saw the drone squarely in the middle. As always, one visual was worth a thousand sweeps of the radar. The drone was getting bigger quickly, and a glance at his displays told Lava he had five hundred knots ofovertake. Having flown the speed of heat to reach this point, he slammed the throttles to idle, picked up the nose, and broke into a hard S-turn. Seven Gs left, seven Gs right. His body compressed into the seat and his G suit inflated to keep blood in his brain.
The maneuver bled his airspeed to a manageable rate of closure.
The mismatched airspeeds were going to present a problem. The Shahed was flying at one hundred and sixty knots—a speed at which a Hornet would practically fall out of the sky. Five hundred feet above the drone, Lava rolled inverted for a better look at his target. The Shahed looked small, and he decided it was a variant he hadn’t seen before. Straight wing, V-tail, single pusher prop.
No time to waste.
He rolled into a twenty-degree dive and pointed directly at the drone. His radar computed a lead solution for gunning the slow-moving aircraft. Lava closed in tight and fired. The Vulcan gatling gun rattled the Hornet from nose to tail, and the moment his finger came off the trigger he pulled away hard. He had no desire to get fragged by nuclear vapor.
He rolled right, searched the sky, and to his disappointment saw the drone still flying. “Shit!” he muttered to himself. On second glance, he realized he’d done some damage. The tip of the right wing was broken, and liquid of some kind was streaming from the fuselage. But it was still flying. Still bearing down on its target.
He stomped the rudder pedals, pissed at himself for not making good on the first pass. He went through the whole drill again, staying on the trigger a little longer the second time. The Shahed exploded in a hail of debris.
The radios came alive as he pulled clear.
“Two-two, splash the northernmost bandit. Moving to second target.”
“Two-one, splash-one.”
And so it went. All four Hornets got their first kill and moved on to the second. Then an even better development.
“Two-one, two-two. I’m picking up two more targets northeast. From my position, bearing zero-four-zero, twenty miles.”
Lava checked his tactical display and saw the new targets. They were low and slow, just like the others.
“Nicely done, Id. Glock flight, let’s finish this.”
Lava stroked his burners again to accelerate. His second target was sixteen miles ahead. Just when he was feeling good about the whole scenario, he saw a profoundly disconcerting sight. The coastline was clearly visible ahead.
His jet gave an automated warning for a low fuel state.
“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he replied to the computer-generated voice.
Lava intercepted his second Shahed and took it out easily, refining what he’d learned from his first splash. The others did the same.
With one exception.
Gooch engaged the southernmost Shahed too aggressively. His fangs were out after downing the first drone, and he scored no apparent hits on his initial slashing attack. On the second run his rounds counter showed ninety-eight bullets remaining. Enough for one last shot.
But the coastline was coming on fast, and he rushed. His geometry was poor, the dive angle not steep enough, and he pressed minimum range. He hit the drone squarely, but as it exploded in a cloud of mist, he flew straight through the debris field. He heard fragments strike his jet, and worse yet, saw his windscreen get covered by viscous liquid.
“Two-one, two-four. I splashed the southern target but gotfragged. My jet took some damage, and it’s covered in some kind of fluid.”
Lava said, “Check engines and hydraulics.”
Gooch looked over his instruments and saw no anomalies. Engines were solid, hydraulic pressure good. Then he looked out at his wings and saw damage to the leading edges on both sides. “Instruments are normal, but I see damage to both wings. Jet seems to be flying fine.”
Having downed his second Shahed, Spanky rejoined on Gooch. He performed a battle damage check, flying tight beneath his wingman’s jet to get a better look.
