Flashback...
Flying over water is always pretty boring, especially when there's nothing to see. No ships, no storms, no waves, no enemy fighters...it makes the air-to-air missiles hanging on the wings seem rather pointless, and the air-to-surface ones even more so. And the cannon...well, the likelihood of Muslim air cover was slim, even over what was left of their navy. No dogfighting for this particular flight of fighters. We'll never make ace now, thought the lieutenant in number three. And I wanted to splash some easy kills, too.
The flight of four fighters cruised over the calm Mediterranean at about one and a half times the speed of sound, going on full afterburner to keep the element of surprise. A tanker aircraft was over Malta anyway, with another four fighter-bombers on BARCAP. No Arab was getting through those guys. That was Captain Zapatero's element. In any event, they'd have fuel enough on the way back home. At least they'd only be forced to see ocean until they got to the enemy fleet. They would be the first element to attack the enemy navy, since the first two planes were observation pukes, who didn't even come close enough to let the enemy paint them on radar. Wimps.
The radio-silence order was only in effect until after everyone was Winchester: out of weapons. Then, they'd burn back for more fuel and ammo. Until then, though, the lieutenant was going to be pretty bored. He checked all of his ASMs for the tenth time (not counting the preflight back on Sicilia) and kept his eyes on the HUD to make sure he stayed level at three hundred feet. The Arab navy was so bad its radars probably didn't have a look-level capability, he snorted, much less look-down. They were just over the horizon and no radars had locked on yet. Now, if this was the Italic navy...those guys are murder in exercises.
Another fifteen minutes passed before the feed from the AWACS showed that the enemy ships were nearing range. The lieutenant studied the picture carefully. It looked as though the enemy navy was just steaming along, with an aircraft carrier in the center of the miles-across formation, and a myriad of destroyers and cruisers along with them. They've even got a few battleships from a long, long time ago. What the heck are they going to bombard? Further out, a few surfaced submarines floated next to tenders - They're still using diesel-electric subs, too - while more tenders and supply ships clustered near the center.
The aircraft carrier was not an essential target (What planes do they have, anyway?), nor were the cruisers. Destroyers had surface-to-air missiles on them, copies of the ancient American Standard-2 Block III. Those battleships looked like they could do some damage to the Fleet when it came in in a few days. Submarines could wreak havoc on the supply corridor the Navy was opening up to the landing troops that were coming in a few days. All of those were targets. The most important were the destroyers. He targeted two antiradar missiles each on two of the destroyers, and keyed them to lock onto the band of radar that the Muslim ships would use for their SAMs. Heavier missiles, vastly improved versions of the old American Harpoon, were targeted just below the ships' waterlines. Enough explosive to imitate lighting a match around Four's room at the barracks.
The flight of fighters began to slow down as they neared the enemy fleet, and then began to go lower as they got into range of the radars of the outermost pickets, the destroyers. For a few tense minutes each of the pilots sweated as radar waves passed over them, not getting a lock-on, but coming pretty close...It was nerve-wracking, watching the warning light, praying for it to be spoofed by the incoming planes. Then, something unexpected happened.
Message from the AWACS, breaking radio silence: "Confirmed takeoff of four fighters from carrier."
What? Scanning the radar scope, the pilot saw four blips, marked with "Unknown Type" tags. Apparently they haven't turned on their radar. Oh, well. In the same motion, he armed two heat-seeking air-to-air missiles and searched for one of the Arab aircraft. He found it about a second later, taking the one at the rear of the pack, about six miles away, and squeezed the trigger, calling out, "Fox-two, Fox-two, two on the rear one." Two missiles dropped from the wings on either side of the plane and then ignited, racing off towards the aircraft. The orderly radio silence was now ruined with incoming fire messages from the other fighter-bombers in his element.
"Fox-one, Fox-one, two slammers on the leader."
"Fox-two, Fox-two-"
"Aw, nuts! They're lighting me up!"
"Dump chaff and scramble!"
A monotonous note from the AWACS over Malta: "Three bogies down, one left, destroyers firing SAM."
Two of the Italic fighters launched their ASMs at the targeted destroyers, which didn't have enough time to target the missiles instead of the planes. In the Combat Information Center on the destroyer Djebel ibn-Allah, the captain, grimacing, ordered the SAMs fired at the aircraft in the desperate hope that the missiles would go "dumb" when their controlling aircraft were blown out of the sky. Three managed to evade the SM-2s that rocketed out at him by going into an Immelmann and dumping chaff like crazy. The other fighter, that of Four, corkscrewed and managed to evade one of the four missiles streaking at him, then fired off some flares in an attempt to spoof the enemy. Another of the SAMs went blind, but the others bored in on the heat signature from the still-lit afterburners and went up the tailpipe. The fighter disintegrated over the Djebel ibn-Allah, which was hit almost immediately by the fire-and-forget ASMs he had launched. The two destroyers that had been targeted sank rapidly after being hit. All four ASMs fired hit, which was pretty impressive, and all exploded, which was even better.
One and Two were engaged in a dogfight with the remaining Arab fighter from the carrier, who was proving to be very good, possibly having been the enemy element leader. The enemy's low-tech fighter served him well, because he was slower and therefore more maneuverable. Cannonfire from the enemy's 20-mm cannon was the only real threat. As the destroyers exploded and sank below, the dogfight began to drift higher and higher in attempts to gain altitude and therefore speed.
"Fox-Three, Fox-Three on the...dang, it got spoofed!"
"Cut it, Two."
"Yessir-Holy ****, that guy almost hit me! Fox-Four!"
"Fox-Two, Fox-Two on the bogey."
"He's too close to me!"
AWACS: "You missed, One."
The AAM streaked past the Arab and spooked Two, who went into a dive to try to get away...right into the enemy's gunsights. A couple of taps on the trigger and 20-mm shells lanced out from the old American plane, turning the aft half of Two's aircraft into scrap metal. That was followed up with a missile straight into Two's engines, or what was left of them. One, running low on fuel and ammunition, dumped his missiles off at whatever was the first naval target in sight and then opened the throttle wide. The afterburner blazed back on and the plane leapt away at 1000 kph, increasing speed all the way and heading towards Malta.
Three was the only one left, and the Arab turned towards him. Fortunately, the Italic pilot still had two missiles left. "Fox-One, Fox-One, Slammer on the bogey."
AWACS: "Nope, it's a miss, Three. Be advised, looks like a few of the Arab's Ticonderoga platforms that the US auctioned off twenty years ago are inbound with their radars blasting, over."
The pilot ignored him as the enemy came around for a head-to-head pass. Keeping his last missile in reserve, his fingers tightened on the trigger for his cannon. Playing a deadly game of chicken, the enemy came in closer...initial 20-mm shots going wide at the range at which they were. Three jiggled the stick to keep the other from getting an easy target. One mile off...
The Arab came in faster now, spraying ammunition all over the place. They were getting closer...Fire! The Italic pilot squeezed his cannon trigger, hoping to see a flash of fire gouting from the Arab plane. No such luck: the enemy buzzed by him without getting hit. Son of a... He slowed and turned the plane around, looking at the picture of the enemy on radar. He's got a smaller turning radius than I do. Oh well. Looks like I'll have to school you tonight. The two fighters turned tighter and tighter, losing speed and altitude dangerously. Suddenly, a line of tracers streamed past Three's cockpit. Nuts! Okay, you're good, I'll give you that, but that's not everything. School ain't over yet.
Three's fighter twisted away from the circle and lit afterburner, dangerously close to "bingo" fuel: only enough to get back to the tanker. The Arab, still in his turn, continued once more. Three continued to rocket away, then pulled a wide-radius turn 180 degrees back towards the enemy fighter, then loosed his last missile, opening fire with his guns as he did so. The Arab moved away from the cannon fire, straight into the path of the missile, which detonated as it was right next to the enemy cockpit. The Italic pilot's plane rocketed past the exploding enemy jet, the exultant pilot yelling, "Happy graduation day, sucker!"
Inspiration!!! But I'll wait until I figure out what to say before I ask him 
