Top Gun (51 page)

The newsreel footage ended. Now the giant screen displayed a series of maps of the various Ryder ranges marked to show the
areas of enemy-force concentrations.

“Intelligence reports that Palahorra has been anticipating today’s military action,” the operations commander continued. “Red
defenses will be on full alert, with greatest concentrations of enemy ground forces as depicted on these maps. Red air will
enjoy superiority over Fox Range sector 3, the location of Fidel Airfield and Nikita Helipad. Blue Air will stage several
air strikes at major Red targets simultaneously with our main strike against the airfield and helipad facility in order to
divert enemy defenses. For further info on secondary likely active SAM and AAA sites and specific mission responsibilities,
refer to the intelligence summaries you’ll receive during your individual flight briefings, but here’s the general rundown
for the day’s strikes: Mission Package 5-A: Eagle Range sector 2, SAM site and truck convoy. Mission Package 5-B: Lion Range
sector 4, AAA site and Karl Marx Railroad Yard. Mission Package 5-C: Miami Range sector I, SAM site and Lenin Fuel Depot.
Mission Package 5-D: Conway Range sector 9, SAM/AAA sites and Tolstoy Industrial Complex. Mission Package 5-E: Dragon Range
sector 3, tank convoy. Mission Package 5-F…”

Andy tensed. 5-F included his squadron flight.

“… Mission Package 5-F: Fox Range sector 3. SAM/AAA sites, tank defenses, Fidel Airfield and Nikita Helipad Complex. Mission
Package F-G…”

Yes!
Andy exulted. His Stiletto flight would be flying MiGCap straight into the heart of the enemy, which meant that he’d have
ample opportunity to raise his kill score.

And maybe have his long-awaited run-in with a certain flat-black F-5E, for one final chance to prove who was the fiercest
tiger in the sky.

Up on the stage, the operations commander was reading off the mission packages for the Airborn Warning, RESCAP and aerial
refueling personnel. Andy tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t keep himself from daydreaming about the possible coming battle
between himself and Robbie Greene. Finally, the ops commander turned the lectern over to a succession of support staff—weather,
intelligence and weapons officers—who lectured on their specific areas of expertise. The first couple of rows of fighter jocks
in the auditorium perked up when it was the weapons officer’s turn to speak.

“Supply still reports negative supply of Sparrow air-to-air missiles,” the weapons officer announced. “Accordingly, we will
again be flying without them.”

There were assorted groans from some of the fighter pilots, but Andy just grinned. A lot of the high kill scores racked up
during the beginning part of the week had resulted from overuse of the Sparrow. A Blue pilot flying an advanced F-15 Eagle,
F-4 Phantom, or F-66 Stiletto could get a radar lock on an Attacker and call a “Fox One” simulated Sparrow shot to score an
easy kill before he’d even seen the enemy, but the pilot who depended on long-range Sparrows to score wasn’t getting much
practice in ACM, which was the whole point of Red Sky. On Wednesday, Operations had countered certain pilots’ over-reliance
on Sparrows by decreeing that Blue Airfield ordnance supply had run out of the long-range hummers. Now it appeared that the
shortage would persist through this last day. Andy was glad of that because it increased his chances of winning the Warlord
trophy. Throughout this exercise, he’d prided himself on not calling Sparrow shots. He’d
wanted
the Attackers to get into the fight, to give him a real run for his money, so that he could learn as much as he could. All
seven of his kills had been made at relatively close range with Sidewinder heat-seekers, or eyeball-to-eye-ball with guns.

On the downside. Andy’s decision to pick knife fights with the Attackers had caused him to be shot down a number of times,
which had handicapped him in his pursuit of the Warlord trophy. When the radio call came that you’d been shot down, you had
to take yourself out of the battle by flying to a specified regeneration point before you could resume participation in the
exercise. This made being shot down a real bummer, one you wanted to avoid almost as much as you would in a real war, because
in addition to the heckling you had to take during each evening’s debriefing, the flight to and from the regeneration point
cost you time that might have been spent in combat, which lessened your own opportunity to score more kills, further lengthening
the odds against you winning the Warlord trophy.

On the other hand, the repeated dogfights into which Andy had thrust himself had made him a lot better pilot then he’d been
two weeks ago, when Robbie had waxed him. That was why Andy was so eager to get another shot at his half brother. He was reasonably
confident that this time, if luck was with him, he could take the bastard.

The mass briefing broke up at 0800 hours, and the personnel filed out of the auditorium and down the corridor to the classrooms
used for the individual flight briefings. During the next hour Andy found out that his flight of four Stilettos had been assigned
the call sign “Pinto” and would be commanded by Captain Marty Beckman. Beckman was a compact, swarthy man who talked fast
and flew faster. On the ground he was a bundle of nerves, but in the air during ACM he was as cold-bloodedly patient as a
spider waiting for a fly to hit its web. Beckman went over the specifics of Pinto flight’s mission, which was to fly MiGCAP
for the A-7 Corsair Mud Movers and A-10 Warthogs that would be attacking the enemy’s airfield and helipad.

At 0900 hours, Andy and his fellow pilots moved on to the visiting players’ personal equipment room, where he stowed his personal
belongings in a locker and shrugged on his flight gear. It was when he was grabbing his helmet that he noticed the folded
sheet of paper taped to the visor. He removed the handwritten note and read:

Andrew

Here it is, last day. Final-exam time. I hear you think you’ve learned a thing or two, but blood will tell, half brother.
I’ll be waiting for you above Nikita Helipad. I know you’ve been assigned that sector to patrol today. Have you got the balls
to confront me? Or has the best man already won? I still say you’re only half the pilot I am, and you know why.

R.

“Damn you, Robbie,” Andy murmured as he crumpled the note.

“Problem, Harrison?” Beckman asked, turning around.

“No, sir.” Andy said evenly, stuffing the note into his pocket. “No problem at all.”

It was 0930 hours when the shuttle bus deposited Andy and his flight mates at their parked aircraft glittering in the desert
sun. The concrete ramp was bustling with maintenance carts and planes taxiing into takeoff position, but Andy knew it would
be a few minutes at least before his flight would be going anywhere. A whole lot of planes had to get into the air at the
start of each morning’s Red Sky exercise, which made for one hell of a traffic jam out on Ryder’s spaghetti tangle of runways.

Andy looked around for Gail, and saw her directing her crew over on the ramp sidelines. She was dressed in baggy overalls
and had her hair tucked up beneath a cap, but Andy, looking at her, saw in his mind’s eye her nude, supple form tucked beneath
him while making love.

They’d spent their every spare moment together these past four weeks, and now Andy couldn’t remember what his life had been
like before he’d met Gail. He sure didn’t want to think about what his life was going to be like without her, but that time
was fast approaching. The Red Sky closing ceremonies, including the awarding of the Warlord trophy, were scheduled for Sunday.
On Monday, Andy’s squadron would be starting back to Howard AFB in Panama.

“Hi, there.” Gail grinned as Andy came over to her. “You all psyched for the big day?”

“I was.” He took the note out of his pocket and handed it to her.

Gail read it quickly. “You know this is just bluster.”

“I doubt it.” Andy tried to tamp down the despair he was feeling. “Robbie won’t lose today. He’ll
never
lose, because he’s always going to hold all of the cards.”

“You’re wrong!” Gail argued. “You can’t let yourself think that way!”

“Don’t you see?” Andy muttered. “I was right. Robbie has purposely stayed away from me all this week. He
wanted
to let me build myself up, all the better so he could knock me down!”

“So what?” Gail demanded. “Assuming all that’s true, what difference does it make?”

“Come on!” Andy said impatiently. “Don’t you see he’s been playing a game of cat and mouse with me just the way he did in
the air that first time? It says right there in his note that he knew all along I was going to be assigned to this mission
package today.”

Gail put her hands on her hips and stepped in close to Andy, jutting up her chin to stick her face into his, like a drill
sergeant instead of an AGS sarge. “Of course he knew your assignment. As CO of the Attackers, Robbie participates in personnel
scenario assignments. But I still want to know what damn difference it makes. You can’t let Robbie Greene playing his mind-fuck
games rob you of your confidence. If you let that happen, then Robbie won’t have beaten you in the sky today. You’ll have
beaten
yourself!
.”

Andy studied her. “You really think I can do it? That I can beat Robbie?”

“It’s not going to happen just because I believe in you,” Gail told him, smiling now. “You need to believe in yourself, and
the way to start is to forget that he’s your half brother Robbie. Just see him as Major Greene, just another Attacker pilot.”

Andy looked toward the ramp where the other pilots had climbed into their fighters and lowered their canopies. Only Andy’s
jet remained empty, its canopy upraised as if summoning him.

“Get going.” Gail smiled. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Andy blurted, “I love you! I mean, I realize we’ve only known each other a short time, but—”

Gail, her green eyes shining, put her fingers to his lips, reiterating, “Get going. And know that wherever you go, however
long it takes, I’ll be here when you get back.”

A half hour later, the 5-F mission-package strike force was at twenty-five thousand feet, two minutes from their target. Andy
Harrison’s ghost-gray Stiletto was part of the four-ship, MiGCAP Pinto flight cruising at high altitude on the lookout for
enemy fighters.

Andy could see the entire mission-package armada of airplanes spread out around him. Up ahead were the F-4 Phantom Wild Weasels
flying advance guard to pinpoint SAM sites with their radar. Directly beneath Pinto flight, outlined against the dark-brown
desert terrain, were three chevrons of silver A-7 Corsairs loaded down with live ordnance. Flying closest to the ground, at
about 15,000 feet, were a layer of six olive-drab, A-10 Thunderbolt Warthogs, the tank killers.

The brief flight from Ryder to Fox Range had passed quickly. Now Andy’s helmet came alive with radio transmissions as the
strike force crossed into the target sector.

“Pinto flight, Pinto lead!” flight leader Captain Beckman radioed. “Heads up! We’ve got SAM activity!”

Up ahead, Andy saw the smoky white trails of the simulated SAMs scratching their way into the azure sky, and then the lit-up,
bright-orange tail pipes of the F-4 Wild Weasel SAM killers as they dipped toward their burrowed prey in order to make sure
that SAM’s first shot became his last. Andy anxiously looked around for more SAMs that might have been playing possum when
the F-4s flew by in order to get a shot at the main strike force. Smoky SAM was more than just a Red Sky visual effect. If
the Air Force crews manning the phony SAM sites could lock their video camera’s cross hairs on your bird for ten seconds,
Operations back at Ryder would override all radio transmissions in order to call you out. Then, just as if you’d been shot
down in a dogfight, you’d have to leave the exercise in order to tag the regeneration point.

“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,
30
MM
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 30
MM
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 30
MM
rounds like tin cans being plunked by rapid, accurate fire from a .22 rifle.