James Salter - The Hunters

“Four bogies off at one o’clock, Lead!”

“I have them.”

“They’re crossing to two now. They’re starting in!”

“What?” Cleve said. The ships he was looking at were no more than decimal points.

“Four of them coming down from three o’clock, Cleve!”

Then, “Get ready to break!”

He looked quickly up to his right. There were MIGs, four of them. He had not even seen them, concentrating as he had been on the ones out ahead.

“Take it around to the right, Billy!”

They turned into the attacking ships. The MIGs did not continue in, then, but pulled back up. Cleve watched them flash overhead. He reversed his turn to follow. He watched with chilling recognition as they did something he had never seen before. They split into pairs.

“We’ve got some cool ones this time, Billy.”

“Cleve?”

“Roger.”

“Did you get a good look at them?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The leader has black stripes.”

His heart became audible. Something opened within him, full and frightening. He watched them as they swung apart, trying to pick the one out. Of all the times to have his chance. He came close to laughing, but he was too electrified.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Yes, absolutely. To finally meet him, this far north with this much fuel. He looked at his gauge now: nine hundred pounds. He could almost feel the tanks draining as he flew. It was like blood from his own arteries.

“Let’s keep working south,” he said.

They were not to do it that easily, though. The MIGs started back in, working in coordinated pairs: two first, with two more timing their pass so that they would be coming in behind Cleve as he met the others. It took skill to operate that way. It was difficult, and murderous if expertly done. He waited as long as he could before turning into the nearest ones. He wanted to carry the fight as far south as possible. The MIGs might be low on fuel, too.

“Around to the left,” he said.

The first two were already in close. He strained to watch them over his shoulder, the Gs tugging at his head. They were firing. The cannon tracers were streaming by, just behind and below him, like dashes of molten ore.

They did not follow in the turn, but began climbing right back up, to achieve position and come in again. The two teams of them were going to work like that. As the MIGs went by behind him the first time, he called, “Reverse it!” to Hunter, hoping to get a shot in as they went away from him. He was not able to. He was behind them, but too far back and out of line. He stole a glance over his shoulder. He could not see Hunter.

“You with me, Billy?”

There was no answer.

“Billy!”

“I’m all right.”

Cleve looked back again, on both sides. He still could not see him.

“Break right!” he heard Hunter call.

It was the second pair. Cleve turned into them as hard as he could. He caught sight of Hunter then a little below him, turning too. The MIGs fired and passed behind him. Cleve rolled out of the turn immediately. He was heading west. He turned back toward the south. As he did, he saw the first two coming in again, but not from so good a position this time. They were too far forward. Cleve was going to be able to meet them almost head on. He turned into them and, at the last second, was able to fire as they came. Hunter was firing, too.

They passed the MIGs in a brief instant, and Cleve turned hard after them, without hesitation, caught up in the blood lust, brimming with lunacy. He was fighting for any advantage, and the MIGs were not climbing away. They were turning, too. He was astonished to see it. He recognized the chance.

He was not completely conscious of what he was doing or even planning. A hand that had done this for years was guiding his ship. He was merely riding along, it seemed, striving to see better, to see everything; and he was cutting the MIGs off slightly in the turn, getting inside them. He could distinguish the black markings on the leader. He pulled after him, distended. As he did, still far from being in a position to shoot, he was stricken with a sense of resignation and fear. They went around and around in this silent, unyielding circle. His fuel was getting lower and lower. He glanced quickly at it: seven hundred pounds. They were going down steadily; they had passed through twenty thousand. The airspeed was building. He had lost sight of the other two MIGs, of Hunter, of everything but the winding earth and the lead ship turning with him, motionless as the world spun about them.

They were passing fourteen thousand. They might go all the way, to the deck. Every minute made fuel more critical, and at full throttle in the lower altitudes they were using it prodigiously, It was a devouring circle. He could not break out of it without being in a worse position in a running fight if they followed him, but he did not have fuel enough to continue, either. He needed every remaining pound just to get back.

“You st… have me, Billy?” He spoke with difficulty. The words came out distorted by Gs.

“Roger. You’re clear.”

He could hear Hunter’s breath over the radio, being forced out of him.

They kept turning, fighting for position. He was not gaining now. He was a quarter of the circle behind holding that spot, turning, turning, turning while the MIG held still ahead of him. They were struggling for the slightest change. The airplanes no longer seemed involved. It was a battle of wills, of the strength to hang on, as if by the teeth alone. To let up meant to lose, and it was Cleve’s advantage. He was rigid with the determination to stay there.

Suddenly the MIG rolled over and started down. For an endless part of a second Cleve hesitated, surprised. They were very low. He was not sure he could follow him through and clear the ground. He was almost certain the MIG could not make it. He knew a moment of awful decision, and then rolled and followed. They were going straight down, in a split S, wide open. They burst through the level of clouds. The earth was shooting up at him. The stick seemed rigid. He trimmed and pulled back as hard as he could, popping the speed brakes to help pitch him through. Everything faded into gray and then black. When it began to be gray again, he saw that they had made it. He was right behind Casey, on the deck. The hills and trees were whipping past just beneath them. His ship slammed and jolted crazily against ripples of air.

Casey broke left. French curves of vapor trailed from his wingtips. Cleve was behind him, on the inside, turning as hard as he could. The bright pipper of his sight was creeping up on the MIG, jerkily, but moving slowly up to the tail, the fuselage, the wing root. He squeezed the trigger. The tracers arced out, falling mostly behind. There were a few strikes near the tail. He could hardly hold the wild pipper where it was, but somehow he moved it forward, it seemed only inches more.

They were just above the trees. He could not take his eyes off the MIG to look, but he saw from their corners an avalanche of green and brown flashing fatally by. He fired again. His heart ballooned into his throat. He shouted into the mask, not words, but a senseless cry. Solid strikes along the fuselage. There was a burst of white flame and a sudden flood of smoke. The MIG pulled up sharply, climbing. It was slipping away from him, but as it did, he laced it with hits. Finally, trailing a curtain of fire, it rolled over on one wing and started down.

“There he goes!”

Cleve could not answer.

“Head south,” he finally said. “Do you have the other ones in sight?”

“Not now.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

They turned for home, climbing, too low on fuel to make it, Cleve was certain. The other MIGs had vanished. They were alone in the sky. He checked his fuel: three hundred and fifty pounds.