Chapter 37: The Last Dance
Taffy watched the ten Z-44Cs with a smile on his face. His finger brushed the trigger with excited anticipation. The tactical display lit up and five of their quarry became highlighted. These were his targets—well, his wingman, Cronin, was supposed to help too.
“Okay, everyone,” Cronin said. “I have our tacticals set up for the plan. Good luck, guys.”
“Thanks, Bugeyes,” Reece said, a hint of a grin in his voice from the use of the call sign.
“Okay, Bugeyes,” Taffy said. “You ready for this, mate?”
“Yes, Deadeye,” Cronin responded dryly.
“Be ready to spoof,” Reece said. “We are almost in their cone.”
The range indicator on Taffy’s display showed that Wolf Squadron rapidly approached the enemy weapons’ range. Unfortunately, the Z-44Cs had a longer range than their own Z-40s.
So the plan was to use countermeasures and good flying to avoid the initial onslaught of enemy missiles. They would then push the enemy into their missile cone and fire off a counterattack. Once they got too close for missiles or ran out of ordnance, it would get close and intimate—the way Taffy liked it.
The seconds ticked off and they were now well into the enemy missile cone—yet nobody fired. Tactical showed that they would enter close-combat range any second now.
“Ten frightened Z-44C Hornets,” Taffy said. “Think it’s time to stir up that nest.”
“Come on, Deadeye,” Cronin said. “Don’t do anything stupid! It’s too far for a hit anyway.”
Taffy ignored him. He thrived on the doubts of others. He pointed the nose of his fighter into the center of the formation. The targeting computer showed the crosshairs of his guns in red—indicating not in range. He would ignore the computer’s doubts as well.
Gently, he ever so slightly tapped the control stick, adjusting his fighter’s trajectory. The targeting crosshairs bounced inside the tight series of red squares, each square an enemy fighter. Patiently, he waited until just the right moment, when he could sense the target in the right position. Any second now… He squeezed the trigger.
A burst of accelerated protons fired out from his cannons. They streaked ahead, leaving their bluish-white tracers in their wake and disappearing into the dark of space. Within a second, a quick flash of light pulsed out from the enemy formation. He looked at the tactical computer and smiled.
“I think I’ve agitated the nest,” Taffy said. “Splash one.”
“Wow, “ Cronin said. “That call sign of yours is well-deserved.”
“Bah! Lucky shot!” Mac said.
“Ahhh, Stogie, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be gettin’ some lucky shots too!”
Mac belched. “Already got me some lucky shots, lad.”
“Clearly,” Taffy said.
A warning alarm sounded in his cockpit.
“They’re lighting candles,” Reece said. “Time to pair off and go private on the link. Good hunting, mates.”
Taffy observed the nine fighters, the long-range tactical showing that they were now breaking formation and forming pairs. The warning alarm changed pitch, and new indicators appeared showing the missiles—eighteen of them.
“How unsporting of them,” Taffy said. “Just when I thought they were going to give us an intimate dance.”
“I’m trying to jam them,” Cronin said.
“Don’t jam them,” Taffy said, as he pushed the throttle all the way, going into full acceleration.
“What are you doing?” Cronin asked.
Taffy watched the missiles close in. He was now well ahead of his mates and should show up as a very appealing target for the missile computers to lock onto.
“If this doesn’t work, Bugeyes,” Taffy said, “jam to your heart’s content.”
“If what doesn’t work?” Cronin said.
The tactical display showed that most of the missiles had altered their trajectories and now honed in on Taffy alone.
Silly computer logic, he thought to himself.
The remainder of them would have to be tackled by the others.
“Taffy, what are you doing?” Reece’s voice came on. “This is not the plan.”
Taffy flipped the latch on his control stick and engaged the button. He could hear the hummingbird boom extend ahead of him.
The onboard warning alarms increased their pitch and the tactical readouts showed less than twenty seconds to missile impact at current acceleration.
“I’m going to try and blow out these candles, mates. If this doesn’t work… Well, I’ll save a spot for you all at the table. Good luck.”
He cut off acceleration and put his hand on the lever for the hummingbird boom’s intensity modifier. The speed was going to be a strain on his Z-40 once he broke the inertia—maybe too much—but it was the chance he had to take.
He timed the move in his mind. His hand would need to move quickly from the modifier lever to the throttle. It would be difficult. Actually, it just wasn’t possible to do it fast enough. The only way to do it was to hit the acceleration at the same time, but both his hands would already be occupied between the control stick and the throttle lever.
The predicament brought back a memory of an old chap he knew: the boy had taken a bad hit in a shag and was forced to use his foot to operate the throttle on his return flight.
Why not? he thought.
He shifted in his seat, lifting his left leg up and positioning the boot right on the tip of the throttle lever. It was extremely uncomfortable, and his leg blocked his vision a bit, but he managed a glimpse of the tactical’s countdown. Five seconds remained. He counted the rest in his head. His heart raced—this would be it.
Taffy pushed the hummingbird boom’s intensity to full, with a slight modification to pitch. At the same time, he kicked the throttle to full acceleration.
A white halo of light flashed around the hummingbird boom. The Z-40’s forward acceleration stopped and it tipped forward over the boom’s axis, resting at a ninety degree down angle. Its engines already at full, it accelerated away just as twelve of the missiles converged on his previous position.
Taffy’s vision was blurred, and his innards felt like they had been pulled out of him. He heard a voice blasting on his conference, but it was faint and he seemed to have lost his hearing. He glanced in a daze at his leg, which now appeared to be bent in the wrong direction—broken and bleeding with bone protruding out of it.
The explosion from the missiles rocked him further, and intense pain shot up his body. He had to squeeze his muscles tight and concentrate to keep himself conscious.
“Wake up, damn it,” he said to himself. “Wake up!”
“Taffy? Taffy, are you okay?” It was Cronin’s voice.
“Yeah… yeah, mate,” he said, his senses coming back. “Perhaps that was not the greatest of ideas.”
“That was amazing!” Cronin said. “There’s only seven left!”
Taffy managed to move his leg down to the floor. The pain, which should have been excruciating, suddenly became dull and relegated to background noise.
Damn right.
He still had some fight left in him.
“Go ahead and jam those,” Taffy said, reorienting his fighter back at the enemy squadron and closing in. “The song’s almost over and it’s time for the last dance.”
The enemy fighters were now in his missile cone, but that was not his preference. A few more seconds and he would be in close-combat range. A pair of the bogeys broke off and vectored toward him. The tactical showed they had some candles left, but they were not lighting them.
Taffy smiled. He switched his conference to a broadcast channel, one the enemy might be able to hear.
“So you want to do the waltz, eh?” he said. “I must warn you: I’m a clumsy dancer and my feet always stomp on my partner’s toes.”
Taffy focused on the crosshairs. The targeting computer still showed it i
n red—to hell with that.
He shot a burst of accelerated protons at his quarry, signaling the beginning of the real dogfight.