We are skimming the ground now. Houses and power-lines and roads fly past. I can almost reach out and touch the treetops.
My collision alarm blares fitfully as I fight the turbulence bouncing me about, and I wistfully think of the American F-16 with its terrain-following radar. The Turks have this, may they rot. My variometer needle is bouncing like an angry child having temper-tantrum, first a 10 m/s descent, then an updraft. I’m at 75 meters, and 950 km/h speed at nearly full military power.
I stifle a giggle. I see Vasily in my right mirror, trying vainly to keep tight formation so that the Turkish EWR or HI-PAR radars will only get one blip and not two if they see us. He has the worse ride.
The Russian cruiser has more death to deal this day. Another SS-N-12 is flying to its target, and though Muin-I-Zaffer releases three Standards in quick succession, she cannot escape any more than the F-5s or her consort.