He began to maneuver his aircraft radically, jinking up, down, left, right, in no particular pattern.  It was only a game, but there was no sense in giving Ivan an easy time.  If this had been for real, his Hogs would be blazing in behind a swarm of antiradar missiles and would be accompanied by Wild Weasel aircraft trying to scramble and kill Soviet missile control systems.  Things were moving very fast now.  A screening destroyer loomed in his path, and he nudged his rudder to pass clear of her by a quarter mile.  Two miles to the Kirov—eighteen seconds.

The HUD system painted an intensified image.  The Kirov's pyramidal mast-stack-radar structure was filling his windshield.  He could see blinking signal lights all around the battle cruiser.  Richardson gave more right rudder.  They were supposed to pass within three hundred yards of the ship, no more, no less.  His Hog would blaze past the bow, the others past the stern and either beam.  He didn't want to cut it too close.  The major checked to be certain that his bomb and cannon controls were locked in the safe position.  No sense getting carried away.  About now in a real attack he'd trigger his cannon and a stream of solid slugs would lance the light armor of the Kirov's forward missile magazines, exploding the SAM and cruise missiles in a huge fireball and slicing through the superstructure as if it were thin as newsprint.

At five hundred yards, the captain reached down to arm the flare pod, attached next to the LANTIRN.

Now! He flipped the switch, which deployed half a dozen high-intensity magnesium parachute flares.  All four Linebacker aircraft acted within seconds.  Suddenly the Kirov was inside a box of blue-white magnesium light.  Richardson pulled back on his stick, banking into a climbing turn past the battle cruiser.  The brilliant light dazzled him, but he could see the graceful lines of the Soviet warship as she was turning hard on the choppy seas, her men running along the deck like ants.

If we were serious. you'd all be dead now—get the message?

Richardson thumbed his radio switch.  "Linebacker Lead to Sentry-Delta," he said in the clear.  "Robin Hood, repeat, Robin Hood.  Linebacker flight, this is lead, form up on me.  Let's go home!"

"Linebacker flight, this is Sentry-Delta.  Outstanding!" the controller responded.  "Be advised that Kiev has a pair of Forgers in the air, thirty miles east, heading your way.  They'll have to hustle to catch up.  Will advise.  Out."

Richardson did some fast arithmetic in his head.  They probably could not catch up, and even if they did, twelve Phantoms from the 107th Fighter Interceptor Group were ready for it.

"Hot damn, lead!"  Linebacker 4, the crop duster, moved gingerly into his slot.  "Did you see those turkeys pointing up at us?  God damn, did we rattle their cage!"

"Heads up for Forgers," Richardson cautioned, grinning ear to ear inside his oxygen mask.  Second-line flyers, hell!