Scott felt a moment of elation as the MiGs began to retreat, after the flight leaders' aircraft scored a pair more kills on the hostiles, further slashing their numbers. As soon as the remainder ran for the hills, the AWACS cut off transmission before giving them the rest of their orders. Frowning, Scott checked the radio, but could find no fault. The frequency wasn't warbling or hissing with static, so jamming didn't seem likely either. Tilting the Corsair into a turn, his peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement and craned his neck, before swearing loudly and jamming the nose of the jet into a steep diving wing-over. 
A sleek, dark fighter screamed through the air, hell-bent on interception with their aircraft.
"What the hell is that?" he wondered out loud, barelling for the deck as his ears rang with the CO's orders: Survive until help arrives. 
"Romeo, Roger!" he replied in a terse, urgent voice as he rocked and rolled, throwing the A-7E through every evasive manoeuvre in his repertoire to try and keep the bandits off of his six, and keeping his head on a swivel trying to keep them spotted as he flew.