Scott was exhilarated as he saw the SDM connect with the MiG-29, a shower of flame and debris erupting from the hit on the twin-tailed, twin-engined Fulcrum. He caught sight of a parachute opening below and gave a momentary thought of relief that the enemy pilot had escaped the destruction of his aircraft, before turning his head back to the game. 
One of the MiG's appeared to be bugging out, and he toggled the transmit switch on his throttle. "AWACs, this is Romeo. One bandit appears to be RTB and no factor. Looks like one of the enemy pilots ejected too, can we get SAR to the area to pick 'em up, over?"
Turning the Corsair, he slid into a position above and behind the F-5. "Mold, your tail's clear. Glad to be of assistance. That one's free, over".
Banking slightly hard left into a turn to belly-check the plane, he slid the pugnacious little ground-attacker into another slicing turn to bring his nose back in-line with the enemy formation, and fed power to the jet's engines again as the hostiles were back on the nose. Signalling with hand movements and taking a lead position with the Tiger, he cut hard across the tail of one of the bandits, diving in from on-high to maximise his closing rate and store of power. The SDM tone sounded again, and he launched without hesitation. However, this pilot was more alert, and a spread of flares burst from the MiG as it cut away into a powerful break. The harsh buzz of an enemy lockon sounded in his ears, and he mirrored his targets' move against the bandit who'd snuck up on his six. Flares blossomed from the A-7E as he dived and rolled, pulling hard to break the contact, huffing and breathing hard into his mask, the smell of rubber and fear filling his nose and mouth, and the jarring growl of the locked-on missile battering his ears as the horizon danced outside the canopy, spiralling between up and down as he pushed the SLUF through every move he knew. Small particles of dirt and miscellaneous objects became momentarily floating as the G's spun wildly along with his stomach. 
The RWR buzz howled in his ears, and his vision tunnelled into grey as he desperately tried to avoid the MiG gunning for his tail. Vapour streamed from the A-7's wingtips as he sliced through the air in snap-rolling moves, the jets' aluminium skin gleaming under the sunlight. Would the next moment bring the explosive concussion that had him reaching for the handle between his knees? Would he even feel it? Would the lock break, or would one of his new comrades bring down the Fulcrum? His mind whirled with thoughts bubbling under the surface as he pulled yet another break.