Arsenal

THREE

Ambassador Sarah Wexler studied the faces across the table from her. The Cuban delegate to the United Nations had an explosive temper on the best of days, and this was hardly that. For a moment, she thought almost longingly about the cold, taciturn Asiatic delegates she’d so recently faced down in the Spratly Islands. There’d been treachery there, certainly, but at least it had been masked behind the careful facade of diplomacy.

Not so this time. She sighed, inwardly steeling herself for the confrontation.

The Cuban question was never an easy one, and even less so in the last two years. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, she had hoped that the United States could take measures to bring its southern neighbor back into the community of democratic nations, but the decades of distrust had been impossible to overcome. Since then, other nations had courted the tiny island for most-favored-nation status. The latest intelligence reports indicated that military advisors from Libya appeared to have taken up permanent residence in Cuba, no doubt intending to take advantage of the political turmoil orchestrated by a cadre of old Che Guevara supporters.

Behind her, a small bevy of aides and assistants murmured amongst themselves. Finally, the Cuban delegate paused in his tirade. The small conference room sounded deafeningly silent after having been filled with his angry rampage for the last fifteen minutes. How, she wondered, did he manage to speak so continuously without pausing for a breath?

“The United States did not shoot down your aircraft. Did not shoot down any aircraft,” she amended quickly. “As you well know, any aggressive action was taken by your country, not mine.”

“So you say! But when have we ever been able to trust the word of the United States in reference to my country?

Conducting armed military maneuvers off our coast at this very minute a deliberate insult to Cuban sovereignty.”

The Cuban ambassador took a deep breath.

Ambassador Wexler winced as she watched him gather strength for another filibuster. When, oh when, would the nations of the world learn to solve conflicts by talking?

Never, she decided, not if this was Cuba’s definition of a diplomatic discourse. “Ambassador,” she broke in sharply.

“I granted you the courtesy of sitting quietly while you made your position plain for fifteen minutes. I insist that you return the favor.” She glared at him.

The Cuban ambassador seemed to swell up. While he was barely an inch taller than she, it was clear that very few women of any size had rarely had the audacity to challenge him so directly. “I demand to be heard!” He banged his fist on the table.

Ambassador Wexler felt the yellow pine table quiver under her fingers.

“You will have your turn when I am done,” she snapped. She turned to the chairman of the Subcommittee for Caribbean Issues. “Sir, I insist I be allowed to finish my statement.”

The chairman, a rotund, dark black man from the Bahamas, stirred uneasily. His island nation was caught in the difficult position of arbitrating the conflict between its two large neighbors, neither of which the Bahamians wished to offend. He’d dreaded this moment since the day he’d been elected chairman of the subcommittee.

“I think,” he said slowly, his gentle island accent rising questioningly, “that perhaps the United States” “More lies! Always lies!” The Cuban ambassador jabbed an accusing finger at the Bahamian.

“You are bought and paid for, my friend. Do not deny it. Without American aid, your little lumps of volcanic ash would still be hard down under the British crown. Someday you’ll realize that the only reason the United States provides money to you is to use your island as a staging point for aggression against your neighbors.”

The Bahamian chairman stood. “You are so fast with words. But we are not in Cuba, where everyone bows down to your dictator. This is,” and his voice took on a note of pride, “the United Nations. Even a tiny nation such as mine has a voice here.” The chairman turned to Ambassador Wexler. “Your statement, madame,” he said with grave courtesy.

She nodded her thanks, then turned to face the rest of the delegates.

Cuba, Barbados, Puerto Rico, Antigua, and the Virgin Islands the combined landmass of all these nations put together was not even half that of Florida’s. Yet, for all their lack of size, they had an equal voice in these proceedings.

“As you all know, the USS Thomas Jefferson and the USS Arsenal are on routine naval maneuvers south of Florida,” she began. “A number of smaller ships are also operating in the area again on routine operations. A little after three a.m a Cuban MiG-29 shadowing these ships conducted an intercept on an unidentified contact approaching the battle group. Shortly thereafter, the unidentified contact disappeared. Later correlation indicates that it was a civilian aircraft that was apparently en route to Cuba for what has been termed rescue operations.” She spread her hands expressively. “The full data tapes from that battle group are available for any nation that wishes to examine them.” Not that any of you have the equipment to play them back, she added silently.

“Lies! As you all knew it would be,” the Cuban ambassador broke in.

“Their aircraft carrier shot down a group of Cuban tourists touring the island.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?” Ambassador Wexler let the question hang in the air for a moment, saw doubt and fear flicker across the other representatives’ faces. “And what evidence do you have to support this conclusion?”

“You position an armed battle group in our waters and ask my justification?”

“This from the nation that let thousands of refugees die at sea between our two countries?”

He shook his head angrily. “No, Madame Ambassador, this time the United States has gone too far. The attack on a civilian aircraft was your doing.” He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward toward her. “Effective immediately, Cuba is declaring a no-fly zone fifty miles around her coastline. Tell your pilots, Madame, that they violate our sovereign airspace at their own risk. They may find that our MiGs are not quite so easy to shoot down as an unarmed civilian aircraft.”

30 Miles North of Cuba Thor yanked back hard on the yoke, shoving the throttles forward to full afterburners in the same moment. The Hornet responded almost before he’d completed the move, pitching nose up in the sky and standing on her tail. Gravity worked with the force of the afterburners to shove him back in his seat, pinning him against the lumbar support panel with five Gs of force. Thor felt the flesh pull back from his face, try to creep around back to his neck, and smiled.

God, there was nothing like it! Open sky, plenty of fuel, and a Hornet strapped to your as sit didn’t get any better than this.

He shut his eyes for the briefest second, letting the thundering waves of noise wash over him. The afterburners were fully engaged now, adding the peculiar, deep-throated roar of their fire to the normal, solid, reassuring howl of the engines. He enjoyed the brief sensation of danger with his eyes shut, then looked quickly back down at the altimeter.

“Bet that’ll make them sit up and take notice,” he said out loud, noting that his instruments indicated an SOG-speed over ground of zero.

“You check that altitude, boys, and you’ll see what a Hornet can do.

Straight up, no forward movement. Now that’s a fighter.”

Sure enough, the voice of the operations specialist from Jefferson sounded anxious in his left ear. “Hornet Threezero-one, say state?”

The routine inquiry into his fuel status masked the real question: Now, just what the hell are you doing. Hornet 301?

“Eight thousand pounds,” Thor said, forcing the words out of his throat. He grunted and tensed his abdominal muscles, driving blood from his extremities back up into his brain. “I’m fine. Flasher,” he said, using the air intercept controller’s nickname. “Don’t worry about me just puttin’ her through her paces.”

“It’s a post maintenance check flight,” Flasher noted calmly, “not a tryout for the shuttle program, sir.” The enlisted technician’s voice was just barely tart.

Thor toggled his mike and let the OS hear him laughing.

“I know, I know. Someday I’m going to strap a backseat on this baby and let you see what you’ve been missing, Flasher.”

“I’d like that just fine,” the AIC said immediately. “Just fine.” The words were slow, and rich with a southern drawl.

“But you keep this up, sir, somebody’s gonna be noticing.

You know?”

“Okay, okay,” Thor muttered. He shoved the yoke forward slightly, dropping the Hornet’s nose down from straight vertical. “That better?”

“Almost, sir. Now you just look like a helicopter on the scope, instead of a balloon.”

“You find me a balloon with this much armament on it and I’ll ride backseat on you.” He eased the Hornet forward farther, into level flight. “Okay, Flasher, I’m heading back to the pattern. You happy now that you’ve destroyed my fun?”

“Fun’s not over yet, sir.” The operations specialist sounded amused.

“Your tower flower just called down and said you’re short one formation flight this month. He’d like you to get it over with now.”

Thor groaned. “With who?” Flying close formation with another Hornet was a routine qualification for all pilots, but it was not his idea of fun. Traveling a little under Mach 1 that close to another airplane required a pilot’s constant attention, not only on his instruments, but on the eight thousand pounds of flying metal just yards away. No screwing around, no unexpected maneuvers, just a careful ballet between two giant dragonflies.

“Fly in with the Tomcat, sir. Tomcat Two-zero-eight is airborne for formation flight in five mikes. You’ve got time to scamper over and get a drink, then back to Marshall to join on him.”

“Who’s flying her?” Thor demanded. If anything was worse than a formation flight, it was working with a Tomcat.

While the F-14 had an extended range and could carry more armament than a Hornet, it was markedly less nimble. It was, he reflected, not a damn sight much better than driving a surface ship. He shuddered at the thought.

“Staff wienie, sir. Call sign Bird Dog. That okay?”

Thor grinned. “Sure, send the young lad on up. We’ll let him get a look at a real aircraft.”

Thor heard muffled voices just below audibility come out of the headset. Finally, the operations specialist came back on the air.

“Tomcat Two-zero-eight will be on button three for coordination. And, sir, he asked me to tell you that you’d better suck on some fuel before he gets up there. He doesn’t want to be waiting outside the rest room for you every five minutes. He said,” and Thor could hear the smile in the OS’s voice, “that you should’ve gone before you left home.”

Flight Deck, USS Jefferson “You ready?” Bird Dog asked. He twisted in his seat to look back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Commander Charlie “Gator” Cummings, his backseat radar intercept officer.

“Just like old times, huh?”

“I don’t know how the hell I let you talk me into this,” Gator muttered. “It’s not like I have to get five traps a week to stay current.”

“Come on, you know you love it. Besides, no one else wants to fly with me.” Bird Dog’s voice took on a plaintive note. “They think I’m getting rusty.”

“You are. That’s why you’re scheduled for PAM flights every week.”

Gator’s voice was tart. “And I’m not so sure that playing grab-ass with a sponge of MiGs is my definition of a FAM flight.”

“I’m entitled I’m on staff,” Bird Dog responded.

“Jesus, don’t you think I’d fly every second if I could? But somebody’s gotta keep the big picture around here.”

Gator snorted. “You?”

“Yeah, me. What, you think that’s funny? Considering that the Cubans have gone from a couple of lookie-loo surveillance flights every day to full-scale combat patrols, I don’t find anything at all amusing about the situation.”

“Considering I was teaching you to fly not three years ago, I damned sure do. When I first met you, you were as raw and fresh-caught as Skeeter Harmon was a little while ago,” Gator snapped, referring to the young pilot who’d been their wingman cruise before last. Skeeter was currently attending Top Gun school, honing the combat skills he’d learned on their last Med cruise. “Now all at once you’re a military genius?”

Bird Dog sighed and turned back to face forward. He ran through his prelaunch routine automatically, consciously tensing and untensing his muscles, giving his ejection seat harness one last tug to make sure it was secure. Was he that rusty? No, he didn’t think so. And he’d never been as raw as Skeeter the young black pilot might have shot down a missile in flight, but so what? Bird Dog had more time in the cockpit than Skeeter had in the chow line.

Still, the notable lack of enthusiasm among the RIOs on staff had irked him. “Just like riding a bicycle,” he muttered.

“No it’s not,” Gator said sharply. “And if you think it is, you just let me out at the next stop.”

Bird Dog signaled to the yellow shirt on the flight deck and tensed himself for the catapult shot. “It’s damn sure not.

You can’t do this on a bicycle.” He snapped off a salute and waited.

The Tomcat jolted, started rolling forward slowly, and quickly gathered speed. About 150 feet later, it was hurtling down the flight deck at 134 knots. Bird Dog heard Gator’s sharp intake of breath and grinned.

His backseater always had been a nervous Nellie on cat shots, even on routine flights. And if he couldn’t answer a simple question about whether or not he was ready, then he deserved what he got.

Seconds later, the aircraft shot off the pointy end and Bird Dog felt the familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach and his ass floating away from the seat as the Tomcat lost altitude.

The sea rushed up at him, smooth and glassy.

His balls contracted as a small flash of terror shivered through him.

The first few microseconds after launch, this fight for altitude and safety, were every pilot’s worst nightmare. If Jefferson lost steam pressure unexpectedly on the catapult shot, the Tomcat would dribble off into the ocean. A soft cat shot meant dead aircrews. Moments later, he felt the G-forces press him back into his seat as the Tomcat clawed for altitude.

“Good shot,” he announced. “Airborne once more.”

Behind him, he heard Gator groan.

“Button three for coordination with tanker,” Rasher said.

“Roger. Got a visual on him. Making my approach.” Thor eased back on the throttles, slowing the Hornet’s forward speed imperceptibly. Of all the evolutions a carrier pilot had to master, refueling in midair was one of the most dangerous, second in his nightmares only to landing on the carrier deck at night during a storm.

“Hey there, Thor,” the female KA6 tanker pilot’s voice echoed in his ear. “You dirty-winged?”

“Hell, no. This is a PMFC, not CAP. Why, you want me to kill somebody for you, sweetheart?”

“Maybe later, big boy. It’s just that there’s a cluster-fuck of MiGs milling about smartly in the middle of Tanker Alley. Thought we might sneak off somewhere that we could be alone for a while.”

Thor grinned at the lascivious note in the other pilot’s voice. The Marine Corps forced him to be politically correct on the ground. In his estimation, the paranoia that overreacting politicians generated did more to harm the morale of both men and women than it helped. This was more like it-the good-natured banter between two pilots who respected each other. “I’ll follow you anywhere. Striker,” he said, using her call sign instead of her name. “You got some particular dark and secluded corner in mind?”

Striker rapped out a quick series of vectors defining a piece of airspace well away from the MiG herd. She led the way, with Thor darting around her in his faster fighter. Ten minutes later, they were in clear airspace.

“Now, how can I make you happy, Thor?” Striker asked finally.

“Five thousand pounds will do it. Burned up some on afterburner, and I need some legs to play patty-cake with a turkey,” he added, using the common aviator’s nickname for the Tomcat.

“Cozy on up to momma. Marine. I gots what you be needing.”

Thor focused on the drogue extended in front of him from the back of the KA6. The basket bobbed and weaved in the air as it streamed out behind the other aircraft. “Steady, steady,” he muttered, talking himself through the approach.

If the Tomcat pilots thought tanking was tough, let them try it in a Hornet without a RIO to act as safety observer for them.

He watched the drogue grow larger and bled off a few more knots of airspeed. “There,” Thor said, satisfied. He tapped the throttle forward and increased speed just enough to thump gently forward into the drogue, seating his probe firmly inside the refueling apparatus.

“Got it first time.”

“Good seal,” Striker agreed. “Ready to pump.”

“Receiving,” Thor reported. “And Striker, it’s only polite to ask was it good for you, too?” He grinned and waited for the rude reply he knew he deserved, all the while watching the fuel transfer indicators for signs of trouble.

The insistent beeping of his ALR-87 threat warning receiver filled the cockpit. Thor’s head snapped up and he scanned the sky, urgently trying to find the source of the fire control radar illuminating his Hornet.

“Settle down back there,” Striker snapped. “What do you think you’re ” “Emergency breakaway!” Thor throttled the Hornet back, jerking out of the basket. Raw fuel streamed out of the drogue before the tanker’s back-pressure sensors terminated the flow. “Striker, get the hell back to the carrier! We’re being illuminated by ” The two aircraft were separated by barely fifty feet when he saw the missile.

Too low, too slow! I can’t maneuver, I’ve got no airspeed.

There’s no choice. Thor reached for the ejection seat handle.

“Striker, punch out. Now!” As his fingers closed around the yellow and black ejection bar, the tanker disintegrated into a fiery, expanding ball. Metal shrapnel tore into his Hornet as he yanked down on the bar.

A massive force slammed into his ass. Thor blacked out milliseconds later as he cleared the shattered canopy.