The Mirage is silhouetted against the morning haze, eleven kilometers distant, and I see it is in the vertical scan path of my radar.
I lock it, and the R-77 flashes its “NP” launch cue!
I have what you call “the drop” on him!
“Fox three!”
Quickly, I activate helmet mode and ready an R-73, but it is not needed. The RVV-AE is deadly at such close range, and the Mirage cannot escape despite his frantic maneuvering.
I see the pilot eject, his chute opening.
“Captain Scarlet, Destiny Angel, splash two, repeat, splash two. Request Sandy scramble my coordinates.”
“S.I.G., Destiny Angel.”
The Englishman was still cool, as if nothing had happened.
“Sandy enroute with escort. You are cleared off the range.”
S.I.G.? I must ask my American friends about that, when I return to Sochi. Surely, it is some sort of Western insider’s joke that I know nothing of. The British sense of humour is, frankly… how do you say it? Inscrutable? I do not understand it.
My flight home is uneventful. As I center onto Runway 06 for the landing, I consider the mission, shivering a little. The Commander would have been most cross if my gambit had failed.
One hopes I will not have the duty all over again, for depriving the SAM crew of their kills! And I am sure Vasily will have words for me about my flight as well. No doubt he will call me impetuous again.
In the rush to defeat the Mirages, I have lost touch with Alexei, and of course, he is now maintaining radio silence. I know that a HAWK battery was near, perhaps even his target.
I cannot help but worry.