Page 58 of Viking

I dive low, skimming the ocean, vapor trailing off my wingtips. The missile follows, but Ryan streaks past, guns blazing. A burst of cannon fire rips into the Su-57 trailing me, and the Russian jet veers off, smoking but still in the fight.

“You’re clear, Viking,” Ryan says. “But they’re not done.”

Two more enemy jets split off, maneuvering into a deadly pincer. They’re fast. Too fast.

“Bishop, we’re getting boxed in,” I warn.

“Stay unpredictable,” Townsend orders. “Ghost, Spartan, break left and hit them from below. Viking, stay with me. We’re taking the high road.”

I yank the stick, climbing hard, the g-forces pressing me into my seat. One of the Su-57s follows, its sleek form ripping dawn in two. My HUD flashes as it locks on to me again. Another missile. No time to dodge.

“Dumping countermeasures!” I deploy flares and chaff, rolling violently as the missile detonates just behind me, sending a shock wave rattling through my airframe.

“I’ve got him,” Townsend calls. His F-22 slices across my vision, a perfect intercept. “Fox Three.”

The AIM-120 slams into the enemy fighter, tearing it apart midair.

“Splash one,” Townsend confirms.

Another Sukhoi is bearing down on Dalton, forcing him into an erratic defensive spiral. He’s out of position, nowhere to go.

“Ghost, keep moving!” Townsend barks.

Dalton jerks his jet sideways, but the Su-57 fires. A missile screams toward him.

I don’t think. I act.

I dive between them, cutting the missile’s path. Flares eject, white-hot streaks of light, and the missile explodes off my tail. My jet shudders, warning alarms blaring.

“Shit, Viking,” Dalton exhales. “I owe you.”

“Buy me a beer,” I say, wheeling back into position.

Ryan seizes the moment. “Fox Two.” His Sidewinder finds its mark. The Sukhoi explodes, a fireball plummeting toward the sea. “Splash two.”

I push the throttle, climbing after the third Su-57. The pilot’s good—dicey. But the Raptor’s thrust vectoring gives me the edge. I cut angles sharper than he can, forcing him defensive.

“Fox Three,” I call, losing an AMRAAM.

The missile streaks away. The enemy pilot reacts fast—spitting flares, jinking hard. The missile loses track, veering off-course.

Damn.

I press the fight, pushing closer. He breaks right. I follow. He tries to outmaneuver me. I play the game. Make him think he’s won, then reverse hard, pulling into a high yo-yo. The Su-57 overshoots, and I snap onto his tail.

“Fox Three!” I hiss again.

The Sidewinder leaps from the rail, connecting and shredding the jet.

“Splash three.” I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Townsend and Dalton are tangled with the last one.

Dalton’s voice cuts in, urgent. “Bishop, you’ve got one on your six! Break now!”

Townsend rolls hard left, just as Dalton’s AMRAAM streaks through the space where he was. The missile goes straight through the canopy and obliterates the enemy fighter midair.

“Splash four,” Dalton says, voice steady.