14
Five thousand feet and eight seconds above the pair of Su-25 Frogfeets, Lieutenant William “Poet” Blake flipped on his missile targeting computer.
Billy could easily imagine the high squeal that would sound in the Russians’ cockpits.
“Hi, boys. You wanna just head your sorry asses back home or do you wanna play?”
The lead bird rolled in a sharp twist and tried to bring its guns to bear.
It fired too soon.
Billy was able to peel aside without a hit. As he did, he launched a pair of 70mm Hydra missiles at each aircraft.
Number Two was too slow and lost a wing.
The pilot ejected even as his aircraft went into a tumbling fall.
But the lead bird had kicked a load of chaff to fool the missiles and was still after him.
Billy banked over ninety degrees, cutting a hard turn to the righ
