Umsindo ohlukanisiwe

The MiGs didn’t respond. They split, one breaking high and right, the other descending slightly and crossing left, a textbook bracket. Sunlight glinted off the cockpit of the lead Flogger as it rolled inverted, dropping into a dive that would bring it directly into the Tomcat’s rear quarter. “He’s going to saddle up on us,” Biscuit said, a sharp edge bleeding into his voice. “I’m picking up a radar lock—High Lark. Fire control. He’s painting us.” “Kennedy Strike, Devil 201, we are being active