to angels two. 2,000 feet. He’s skimming the waves.”
The bomber pilot was taking the massive Tu‑160 down into the worst of the storm bands to hide from the fleet’s radars. It was a reckless, dangerous maneuver. Whoever was at the stick was either a master or a fanatic.
“Copy. Intercepting.”
I inverted the Raptor and pulled into a steep, supersonic dive. Hitting the cloud deck at Mach 1.2 felt like slamming into a brick wall. The G‑suit clamped down on my legs and abdomen like a steel vise, forcing blood up to my brain. Hail hammered the airframe. The noise was deafening — a continuous shriek of wind tearing over the stealth coating.
At 5,000 feet, I pulled the nose up, leveling out in the meat grinder. The radar screen flickered; the absorbent coating on my nose was peeling away, degrading my sensor returns. But at 20
miles, a solid, massive blip appeared. I closed the gap, dropping my speed to match the bomber.
