Aurélie nodded tersely as Fuka's SLAM-ER struck home, wrecking a ro-ro ferry. Her wingman was competent, at least - something she might not feel about some other components of her squadron, pilots and ground staff alike. There might have to be... words, or more than mere words. But that was a concern for another moment. Right now, she was barreling in low, counting on the Rafale's speed, low observability, and ECM suite - and the distraction of the massive explosion - to give her a window.

"Good hit, Cobalt 2," she said. "Tally two bandits on the deck and climbing."

She adjusted her angle of approach just a tick. The enemy pilots were rushed, clumsy - their alert five birds, if they bothered with such things, but the base caught napping by Cobalt's sudden appearance. And then having a missile impact in their vicinity while they were taking off... that would have rattled better fliers than these. 

"Mirage F1s," Aurélie murmured, feeling the irony of engaging an earlier generation of Dassault fighters. The fliers knew their birds, at least. One of the strengths of the F1 was its power to weight ratio and low drag in interceptor configuration. Lean on the throttle and it would take off like a rocket. 

Unfortunately for them, Aurélie was a student of air combat. And the problem with leaning on the throttle was that putting out a lot of thrust meant putting out a lot of heat, and taking off like a rocket meant you were going straight. That gave her MICA-IRs a nice juicy target, and they were already well within her no-escape zone. The tone rang in her ears.

"Cobalt Two, I'm engaging the leader. Take the wingman. Fox Two!"

The heat seeker streaked off its pylon, rocket motor accelerating it at forces that would snap a human's neck. It covered the distance between the aircraft in seconds.