“I see them,” Mav said.
He turned the aircraft toward Alaska, the Bering Sea glittering below like cracked glass. Somewhere in the neural link, he felt the phantom weight of the missiles gone, the lightness of a hunter returning to its den.
Mav slid onto his six o’clock, matched speed, and let the targeting reticule kiss the back of the Su-57’s cockpit. “Last chance,” he whispered over the open channel. “Go home.” pc mav
Mav smiled grimly. The PC-MAV wasn’t a fly. It was a spider.
“Rules of engagement?” he asked.
Then the lead bogie banked hard. Straight toward an American radar station on Little Diomede Island.
Two micro-missiles streaked from the PC-MAV’s internal bays. One clipped the Russian’s left engine. The other shredded his vertical stabilizer. The fighter tumbled end over end, pilot ejecting just before impact. “I see them,” Mav said
The Russian banked west and punched his afterburners. Retreat.