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Little fuckers, I swore to myself. If I’ve got any extra bombs, I’ll be back for<br />
you.<br />
The SAM . . . where was the damn thing . . .<br />
Of course, you rarely saw them anyway, and you almost never saw the second<br />
or third one. Situational awareness, that elusive sense of what’s happening around<br />
you, was easily overloaded. In combat, time really can slow down at critical<br />
moments. That, combined with training and experience, at least gave you a fighting<br />
chance.<br />
I was still staring directly down at the city. Like someone had hung me in a chair<br />
facedown on the horizon. Pulling back hard on the stick and fanning the boards<br />
again, I dropped through 8,000 feet with vapor streaming from the wingtips.<br />
Snapping the jet left and right, I strained to see the threats.<br />
The first SAM had disappeared. At this range, I had less than ten seconds before<br />
it hit me. I began to count.<br />
Two . . .<br />
The second missile had pitched up, too, following the first one with the same<br />
arcing flight path. My breathing quickened, and I rolled the <strong>Viper</strong> slightly right<br />
toward the SAMs and pulled hard. Six times the force of gravity, about 1,200<br />
pounds, slammed me back into the seat.<br />
Three . . .<br />
Ignoring the sweat on my face, I snapped the fighter upright, shoved the throttle<br />
into afterburner, and pulled straight for the sky. Though I couldn’t see the missiles,<br />
I knew the effect this had. Each time my jet moved, the tracking radar on the<br />
ground had to detect it, measure it, and transmit that movement to the SAM.<br />
Microchips interpreted my position, moved the fins, and the missile changed course<br />
to keep up with me. All in fractions of seconds. But each movement cost the<br />
missile incremental time, distance, and energy. Each movement could also save my<br />
life.<br />
Four . . .<br />
Grunting against the tremendous force of gravity and 500 knots of pure jet<br />
power, I let the nose come up through the horizon, then rolled again. This time,<br />
away, so my butt was pointed at the missile’s general area. Holding the pull a<br />
moment longer, I then shoved forward—or bunted—the fighter again and tugged<br />
the throttle out of afterburner. This time, I floated weightless against the seat straps.<br />
Inverted now, ass to the missile, and hanging in space, I hoped my maneuvers<br />
confused the tracking radar as much as they hurt me.<br />
Six . . .
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