Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 15

Bird Dog plugged and sucked on the tanker uneventfully. The sight of fuel gauges indicating a full load gave him a definite sense of comfort. At loitering speed, that bought them at least four hours in which to decide what to do. By that time, hopefully the carrier would have gotten the terrorist situation under control. Absent any other good plan, Bird Dog headed for the starboard marshall stack, entering it at the standard altitude and commencing to orbit.

“That submarine would explain a good deal about the carrier’s cooperation with those terrorists,” Gator said. “Having a cruise missile sitting on your ass is no joke.”

“We were loaded up for antiair,” Bird Dog swore. “A couple of Rockeyes on the wings would have been a hell of a lot more help a little while ago.”

“Well, why don’t we go back and get some?” Gator asked. “After all, we don’t seem to have any weapons at all right now.”

“Trap on the carrier?”

“You have somewhere else in mind? There aren’t a whole hell of a lot of choices out here, Bird Dog,” Gator said sarcastically. “Besides, you have any better ideas?”

Bird Dog shook his head. He might not have a good idea, but he could see a hell of a lot that could go wrong with this one. Who knew how much control the carrier had over its own flight operations, with the terrorists on board? Additionally, what were the odds that they could land, get rearmed, and launch again without someone objecting?

“I guess it’s worth asking about,” he said finally. “Who do we have comms with?”

“just the air boss. From what he says, he hasn’t heard from the bridge, Combat, or TFCC in twenty minutes. I think that’s probably a good indicator of their tactical status.”

“If they don’t have control of the bridge, how are they gonna get us the right winds to land?”

“What, a little wind bothering you now? We can land in just about anything except a tailwind, you know. Still, well, let’s give them a call and see what they think of the idea. We’ll worry about the details later.”

Bird Dog picked up the radio to contact the air boss. As crazy as it sounded, if the Tomcat could do something about the submarine on the carrier’s tail, it might improve the situation.

The air boss shifted uneasily in his seat and glared down at the deck. With the carrier heading west, the anemometer indicated a tailwind of thirty knots across the deck. Even if he had an aircraft ready to launch, there was no way they were getting off the deck. Not with that wind.

And where would they go, anyway? The nearest air base was well out of tactical range, unless the carrier launched tankers to support a divert. No, he decided, better keep the aircraft on deck.

“Sir. A strange request from Tomcat Two-oh-one,” the operations specialist said. He pointed toward the air boss’s communication panel. “Button three, boss.”

The air boss picked up the receiver, acknowledged the call-up, and listened quietly for a few moments. A slow smile spread across his face. After a few short comments, he hung up the receiver and turned to his tower crew. He surveyed them quickly, finally fixing his eyes on Petty Officer First Class Berkshire. The operations specialist sported an Enlisted Surface Warfare insignia on his neatly pressed dungaree shirt.

“Berkshire! Get over here,” the air boss said. “Time for you to lay some of that black shoe magic on me. Here’s what I want to do …”

Thirty minutes later, the enlisted men and women had rigged up a sound-powered phone circuit between the tower and after-steering, the auxiliary compartment in the aft end of the ship that housed the rudder mechanism and alternative steering capabilities.

“With the bridge and Combat out of control, I reckon that makes me about the senior officer around,” the air boss said. He straightened and took a deep breath. “But this is a hell of a lot different from flying an F-14. People, you got any good ideas, I wanna hear them immediately. Don’t make me look stupid on this.”

Berkshire, now seated in the miniboss’s chair, swallowed nervously. “Boss, I had to stand some conning officer watches to get my pin, but that’s been a couple of years.”

The air boss turned and glared at him. “Are you saying you don’t remember?”

“No, it’s just that … I …”

The technician’s voice trailed off.

Berkshire started to wilt under the air boss’s glare. His hand reached up involuntarily and touched the ESWS insignia ironed on his shirt. It did mean something, didn’t it? His mind flashed back to the endless hours of study, the grueling written exam, and the six-hour oral examination he had to pass to win his water wings.

Yes, it did, he decided, feeling his confidence return. He’d survived hours of questioning by the captain, the executive officer, and the senior enlisted men aboard. They wouldn’t have qualified him if they didn’t believe in him, didn’t trust him to know his stuff. And now was the time to prove it.

“Yes, boss, I know what to do,” he said confidently. “The first thing you want to do is shift the steering to after-steering. We’ve already done that. Now you’ll want to test your rudder. I’ll relay your orders for you to after-steering — put ‘em in the right language, and make sure we’re not doing anything, uh-uh-“

“Stupid?” the air boss queried. He nodded sharply. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do, Berkshire. Keep me from doing anything stupid. And don’t you forget it.”

“Right, then. The first thing you’ll want to do, boss, is order five degrees right rudder. I’ll pass that on to them, and you watch the repeater to make sure we change course. Then, we’ll go back the other way. That way, we know we can maneuver. Make sure the linkages are all set correctly.”

“Make it so,” the air boss answered, turning to his right so that he watched the forward part of the ship.

“There’s only one thing that worries me a little, boss,” Berkshire continued. “Usually, you want to do a visual check on both sides of the ship to make sure there’s no traffic around you before you turn. We don’t have a clear look at the right side of the ship, so we’re going to be working on faith. Not a bad bet in this neck of the ocean, since there’s not likely to be any traffic around, but it’s something to be aware of.”

“Turn this puppy right five degrees,” the air boss responded. “I’ll take full responsibility for any mishaps.”

Berkshire nodded. “Right five degrees rudder,” he translated for the after-steering crew.

Both men watched the repeater twitch, then move slowly to the right, indicating the ship was responding to rudder control from after-steering. They repeated the maneuver, using increasing degrees of left and right rudder, until finally Berkshire was satisfied that they had control of the ship.

“Now find me some wind,” the air boss ordered. “You know what we need.”

“The easiest way to do that is to just start a turn and watch the relative wind indicator until you get what you want,” Berkshire responded. “I can do the calculations manually, but-“

“Do it the fastest way,” the air boss answered. He glanced up at the sky, as though looking for Tomcat 201. “Let’s get those boys down on deck, rearmed, and back in the air.”

“Will you look at that?” Gator said.

Bird Dog nodded and adjusted his own flight pattern to compensate for the carrier’s movement. “Trying to get her nose into the wind, is she?”

“Looks like it to me. Bird Dog, since we’re the only damned aircraft in this pattern, how about we settle in two miles astern? Save us some time when we want to start making our approach.”

“Good idea.” Bird Dog relayed their plan to the air boss, then moved the Tomcat back aft of the carrier. With no other aircraft in the pattern, he started executing a lazy figure eight instead of the standard oval orbit track.

The call came ten minutes later. “Tomcat Two-oh-one, you’re cleared for final,” Bird Dog heard the air boss say.

“Ready, partner?” he asked Gator.

“As ready as we’ll ever be. Remember, we’re going to be getting on board without an LSO. You keep a close watch on that meatball.”

“And you speak up if you see anything going wrong,” Bird Dog responded. “Unless there’s anything else, let’s get it done. We’ve got ordies with armament waiting for us on the deck.”

Bird Dog headed the Tomcat away from the carrier, taking it out to the five-mile point. He slowly decreased his altitude, finally settling in right on glide path two miles behind the ship. He headed for the boat, keeping a careful eye on the stern, making minute course and altitude corrections that his gut told him were right.

Finally, at the half-mile point, he got a clear visual on the meatball.

“Oh, shit,” he swore. “Gator, the meatball is down.”

“What? You mean-“

“The last idiot out of the LSO platform turned it off. I’m not getting any indications at all.”

Gator was silent for a moment. “How do you feel about making an IFR approach?” he asked finally.

“I don’t see that I’ve got much option, do I? At least I got some practice recently, over that damned island. Hell, landing on the carrier, at least I can see it.”

“Okay, let’s go for it. They got power on the arresting cables?”

“Yes, the air boss said they were already set for us. I gave him my final weight just a second ago.”

“Let’s do it.”

Tombstone observed the large blue tactical screen in the front of TFCC out of the corner of his eye. He tried to avoid giving Rogov any indication that he was watching closely the events transpiring there. He wished he knew what the hell was going on. He’d seen from the course repeaters that the carrier had changed course, and that the wind over the deck was now acceptable for most landings and takeoffs. Recalling the lessons he’d learned while in the pipeline for commander of the carrier group, he decided that the bridge — or whoever was in control of the ship — must have shifted steering back to after-steering. The bridge itself was clearly under the terrorists control, which he knew not only from what he’d overheard over the radio, but by the rule-of-thumb approach he saw the carrier taking toward good wind.

The symbols on the screen were virtually motionless, the carrier moving so slowly that her track was barely perceptible. Only one other symbol moved — that of a friendly aircraft. He watched it break out of the marshall pattern and head for a holding pattern aft of the ship. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of its next movement — it turned south, slowly approaching the carrier. Surely they couldn’t be — how could they — no, it had to be. Whatever was going on on the rest of the ship, it was clear that somebody had decided to continue flight operations even under the hostage situation.

Tombstone felt a moment of grim pride. It was one of the strengths of naval leadership, the ability to take charge of any disastrous scenario and try to wring tactical advantage from it. He wondered who had the balls to make this call, and resolved that, no matter how it turned out, that man — or woman — was getting a commendation.

Some tiny movement of Tombstone’s eyes must have betrayed him. Rogov turned and stared at the tactical screen. “What is this?” he snapped, finally noticing the small symbol moving toward the aft end of the carrier.

He turned back to Tombstone, outraged. “How did you-“

“I didn’t do anything,” Tombstone responded coldly. “Regardless of how your organization works, my men are trained to take charge. That’s what’s wrong with your whole scenario, Comrade,” he said, giving the last word a heavy inflection. “You may kill me, you may kill everyone in TFCC, but the remaining men and officers will take charge and carry out the mission of this ship.”

Rogov whirled to the three remaining Spetsnaz. “Get up on the deck,” he ordered, pointing at the door. “As soon as that aircraft’s on deck, kill the flight crew and disable the aircraft. Go on, you heard me.”

“But, Colonel-” one of the commandos started to say.

Rogov cut him off. “I will maintain control here.” He raised his weapon, displaying it for the other three. “Regardless of the admiral’s brave words, his crew here will not attempt anything foolish with their admiral’s life at stake. Now go.”

The three commandos left the small compartment at a run, quickly heading for the flight deck.

They burst out onto the tarmac, orienting themselves toward the rear of the carrier. Tomcat 201 was a small speck, quickly growing larger.

“Who the hell is fouling the flight deck?” the air boss shouted. Berkshire peered over the edge of the tower and examined the figures below.

“I don’t know, boss, but I don’t think they’re ours. Our plane captains normally don’t carry machine guns on the flight deck.”

“That bird’s only one mile out. If those fellows start shooting-” He left the sentence unfinished.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Berkshire. “Boss,” he started hesitantly, then raised his voice. “This is out of my area, but doesn’t the Tomcat have a gun on the front, sort of like a cannon?”

“Yes, it does. But what-ah.” The air boss picked up the microphone to the flight deck circuit. “All hands clear the deck. That’s an order. Now!” He turned to Berkshire. “With any luck, they won’t understand English, or they won’t think it applies to them. Either way, we’ll give that Tomcat a clear field of fire. Now, let me see if I can explain this to the pilot without having him think I’ve gone insane.”

“He wants us to do what?” Gator asked. “A strafing run?”

“That’s what the man said,” Bird Dog responded. “Look, I can see them now. Right next to the island.”

“Bird Dog, you hit one full fuel tank and we’re talking a major conflagration on the flight deck. Then where do we land? Have you thought of that?”

“Then I’ll just have to be sure not to miss,” Bird Dog replied with a good deal more confidence than he actually felt. “I remind you, Gator, you’re talking to the man who can pitch a thousand-pound bomb in an ice storm without a visual. Now just let me show you what I can do with a cannon.”

The commandos crossed over the yellow lines that marked the border of the operating area of the flight deck. They darted aft, staying on the starboard side of the ship, just to the right of the landing aircraft’s projected flight. With less than a minute remaining until the aircraft crossed in front of them, they reached the number three arresting wire, raised their Kalishnikovs, and pegged the Tomcat in their sights.

“The cockpit and the fuel tanks,” the commando ordered. “if the pilot survives, we will teach him a lesson later. For now, we must ensure that the aircraft is completely disabled. Disobedience deserves a harsh lesson.”

On either side of him, his companions nodded. With a target this big, there wasn’t much chance they would miss.

“A few more seconds,” the commando shouted. Thirty knots of wind across the bow blurred his words. “If we can hit him before he’s on deck, we’ll prevent any serious damage to the carrier. But wait until he’s in range.”

“Those little bastards,” Bird Dog muttered. “Gator, something just occurred to me — if I fire at them head-on, I’m risking nailing another bird with a ricochet or a bullet.”

“Well, there just might be a way to avoid that.”

“How?”

“Bird Dog, what are you going to-” The rest of the RIO’s comments were cut off by a sudden hard turn. The G-forces slammed him into the side of his seat, and his vision grayed. He grunted, trying to force the blood back up to his brain and prevent a gray-out.

Bird Dog kicked in the afterburners, pulling the slow-moving Tomcat into a sharp left-hand turn. He dropped the nose slightly, a dangerous maneuver at that low an altitude, but critical to avoiding stall speed. As soon as he felt the Tomcat pick up airspeed, he returned to level flight.

Seconds after that maneuver, he pulled the Tomcat’s nose up sharply, praying that their airspeed was sufficient to sustain flight. Over, over, climbing into a steep Immelmann, Bird Dog drove the F-14 into the air. Finally, as the aircraft reached the apex of its turn, it was almost out of airspeed. It hung motionless for a second at three thousand feet, then nosed over, inverted, back down toward the water. Bird Dog brought every sense to bear on the shuddering aircraft, carefully gauging the exact moment at which he could start pulling out of the steep dive. He didn’t have enough airspeed yet to remain airborne in level flight, but pulling up too soon would just induce a deadly stall. Finally, at the last possible moment, he pulled the aircraft up, barely avoiding the icy sea below.

Fifteen hundred feet away from the carrier, the aircraft decided to remain airborne. The afterburners quickly picked the speed up to well over 160 knots, increasing it steadily as the plane approached the aircraft carrier.

Three hundred feet away from the flight deck, Bird Dog toggled the weapon switch to guns. He waited one more second, then depressed the fire switch, applying small amounts of rudder to sweep the pattern of gunfire back and forth across the aft end of the flight deck.

Bright sparks of light flashed against the black tarmac, evidence of both ricochets and the tracer rounds embedded in every fifth round. He quickly got his range, bracketing the Spetsnaz, then, in one final sweep, nailing them dead-on. The three figures crumpled slowly as he screamed across the flight deck.

How could it be? the commando thought, consciousness fading fast as the blood drained out of his body and onto the icy tarmac. He moved his head slightly, and could see one pool already congealing into thin crimson ice. The aircraft had fired on its own flight deck — it wasn’t possible, it wasn’t — he closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain moved through him. It quickly increased in tempo until his world was no more than a red haze gnawing away at every nerve ending in his body. He tried to scream, found his vocal chords wouldn’t respond, then tried to move a hand up to his face. Nothing seemed to work, not even his fingers. The most he could do was open his eyes and stare in the direction that he was facing. The pain grew to incredible proportions, even worse because of his inability to give voice to it. When he saw the black shape moving along the horizon, he could have cried with relief. Soon the pain would end.

The Tomcat was coming back for another strafing run.

“That finishes that.” Bird Dog tried to feel the same sense of victory he’d felt on the bombing run over the island, but it was slow in coming. It was one thing, he thought, to scream in above the landscape and drop ordnance on anonymous opponents on the deck. You didn’t look at them, didn’t see their faces turn pale and eyes grow wide as you approached. It was sanitary, somehow.

But this had been different. Even at 250 knots, he’d had a few seconds to look at the faces of his opponents. No matter that their Kalishnikovs were turning to bracket him, and that if they’d had their way he’d have been a small greasy spot on the surface of the ocean. No, it was still different, he decided. Watching their faces, seeing them crumple in response to his gunfire, and coming back over for a second pass on the motionless figures made it personal.

“The submarine?” Gator prompted.

Bird Dog cast an uneasy look in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, yeah, the submarine.” He banked the Tomcat to the right, coming back around toward the stern of the boat. From fifteen thousand feet of altitude, the Oscar was still visible, her conning tower just breaking the surface of the ocean. The 540-foot-long submarine looked small next to the carrier, but Bird Dog knew that it was among the largest submarines in the world. Certainly the largest, most potent antiship boat. Looking at her now, even from five hundred feet up, he could well believe that one torpedo from her tubes could crack the keel of the carrier, rendering his airport permanently inoperative. “Let’s go get those Rockeyes.”

Forty-five minutes later, rearmed with Rockeyes, Tomcat 201 was airborne again. Bird Dog pulled out from the cat shot and arrowed straight out toward the submarine.

“You’re too close,” Gator warned. “Move out to at least a mile and a half.”

“I’m going, I’m going. I just wanted to get a look at her first. Those guys on the deck back there …” He let his voice trail off.

“Ugly, wasn’t it? Just as nasty as what we’d look like right now if they’d had their way about it. Same thing with the submarine.”

“I know. But that’s one good thing about flying backseat, Gator — the only thing. You don’t have as good a view of it.”

“Save the soul-searching for later, buster,” the RIO snapped. “We’ve got our range now, now, now. Get that bastard off the wing.”

Bird Dog toggled the weapons selector switch to select the Rockeye stations. Waiting until his targeting gear beeped a solid, reassuring tone at him, he fired. The Tomcat lurched as the heavy missile streaked off the wings. Bird Dog waited two seconds, targeted the second missile, then fired again.

“Jesus, look at those bastards,” he breathed. Although he’d fired several practice Rockeyes before, they hadn’t been the true heavyweights of an actual missile.

The bright burn from their rockets seared his eyes, and he looked away for a moment. When he glanced back, the missiles were still in sight, something that wouldn’t have happened if they’d been antiair missiles. The huge antiship and — submarine Rockeyes moved much more slowly through the air. Almost too slow, it seemed, to stay airborne. Compared to the quick flash of a Sparrow or Sidewinder, they looked like dirigibles.

Ten seconds later, the first missile struck. It impacted the water just forward of the submarine, just missing its intended target.

The explosive force of the warhead lofted the bow of the submarine up, and the forward part of the hull broke the surface of the water. The second missile arced down, spilling bomblets in its wake. Two seconds later, it hit the exposed hull of the submarine dead-on. Water geysered up and out, reaching a height of almost seventy-five feet and spewing water droplets over a two-hundred-yard radius. A buffet of displaced air caught the Tomcat, rocking her gently, and Bird Dog banked hard to the right to avoid the airborne blast of seawater. “Time for some BDA,” Gator suggested. Bird Dog nodded, somehow relieved that this kill was not as up close and personal as the last. He put the Tomcat into a gentle orbit a thousand feet above the surface of the ocean, and waited. The forward portion of the hull was completely gone. The aft part stayed afloat for a few minutes, even bobbing up to the surface for a moment as the men inside it evidently blew all their air tanks. A hatch on the back popped open, and three figures struggled out, turning to haul a large package out with them. A life raft, Bird Dog surmised, although whether or not they would have time to open it and still survive the air temperature clad only in their thin submariner overalls was open for debate. Evidently the impact from the Rockeye had cracked the hull in too many critical spots. Bird Dog saw huge gouts of air bubbles stream out of the hull, and the stern half sank appreciably in the water. Thirty seconds later, it was completely awash. The three men who’d exited the submarine still struggled with the life boat package, their movements now noticeably slower and lethargic. The poor bastards, he thought, still trying to stay focused on what the Oscar had intended to do to Jefferson. At least they’ll go fast — and they’re not trapped inside the hull, waiting for the water to leak into their compartment. I’d rather freeze than drown any day, he concluded.

Four minutes after the first Rockeye had hit near the submarine, it was all over. The men were floating on the surface of the water, their abandoned life raft, only partially inflated, bobbing gently among them. The remaining portions of the submarine’s hull slipped quietly beneath the sea, although air bubbles and occasional gouts of water still rippled up.

The two aviators, as though by silent agreement, watched the submarine die before turning to consider their own situation. Finally, when there had been no air bubbles for several minutes, Bird Dog said, “Let’s call Mother and let her know.”

“Okay. I’ll do the honors.”

Bird Dog heard Gator’s voice going out over Tactical, advising the air boss — temporary commander of the carrier battle group — of what had occurred. He listened to the brief conversation, patiently orbiting in a standard marshall pattern, albeit at a lower altitude than he normally would have done had there been other aircraft in the pattern. Finally, he heard the air boss say, “Bring her on home, gentlemen. We’ve still got a few problems, but I think we’d best get you on deck.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bird Dog said wearily. “And this time, boss, we’re getting out of the cockpit right away.”

“We’ve lost communications with our submarine,” Rogov said heavily. He glared at Tombstone Magruder. “I warned you what the consequences would be if you interfered.” He raised his 9mm slowly, and held it against the side of Tombstone’s neck.

“No!” Tomboy shouted. She started to stand up.

Rogov turned to face her, training the weapon on her. “Even better. You first.”

A movement in the corner of the room caught Tombstone’s eye, momentarily distracting him from the life-and-death scenario being played out in front of him. He glanced up, saw a black form move through an escape shuttle located behind the JOTS terminal, and a hand with a dully gleaming black shape pointed at Rogov. There was a short, quiet bark, too soft to seem like gunfire.

The bullet caught Rogov in the throat, slamming him across the small compartment and into the far bulkhead. Before he fell, his head rolled back, ending up resting along his spine, held to his body by only a few thin strips of skin and sinew. From chest to chin, his throat was almost completely gone.

The gruesome, decapitated corpse slid slowly down the wall, catching for a moment on a yellow emergency lighting battle lantern before hitting the deck. Blood poured out of the shattered neck at a tremendous rate, stopping only when his heart gave up the struggle to keep it circulating through the body.

The black-clad figure climbed the rest of the way through the escape hatch, and then stood and stretched. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” Sikes said simply, looking back and forth between the two. “It was a chance, with him so close to you, but I couldn’t wait. You know that.”

Tombstone nodded. “Another few seconds and it would’ve been one of us. You did all right, Sikes.”

The SEAL nodded at Tomboy. “Good thing you spoke up. It distracted him just long enough for me to get a shot off. If you hadn’t — well, better lucky than good.”

“Tombstone turned to Tomboy. “TAO — get someone in here to clean up this mess,” he said, surprised at how steady and calm his voice sounded even to himself.

Tomboy nodded. “Aye, aye, Admiral,” she said. “But there’s something else I need to do first.” She crossed three steps over to Tombstone, carefully stepping over the mutilated body on the floor, and let her arms snake around him. Tombstone resisted for just a second, then pulled her toward him as though he’d never let her go.