Chain of Command

5

I was working on the popcorn popper when the messenger stopped by to drop off the daily flight schedule. Normally, the next day's schedule is out early in the afternoon, at least during peacetime operations. However, with the world going to shit pretty damn quick, Strike Ops was taking a little bit longer to massage the matrix of aircraft, weapons, and people into a strike package.

Skeeter, that dumb shit, was Squadron Duty Officer. Actually, the popcorn machine didn't need all that much work on it ― the junior officer in the squadron is responsible for its care and well-being ― but I'd caught wind of a little something in the air and was using the popcorn popper as my excuse for hanging out in the ready room looking busy.

The skipper was in the ready room too, and it was a pure sheer delight to watch her chew a piece of Skeeter's ass into small, bloody strips. Commander Flynn ― the Mrs. Admiral Magruder ― is not usually one to rag on you just out of sheer meanness. With that red hair and those green eyes, you'd expect an explosive temper, but she wasn't like that at all. She was one of the first chicks to fly this big bad aircraft, and she'd paid her dues on more combat missions than I had under my belt. Somewhere along the line, she picked up this ice-nasty freezer voice that's a helluva lot worse than the screaming meemies would ever be. In the last month, I'd been on the receiving end of it twice, and didn't like it either time.

But not after the E-2 got shot down. I guess she figured I felt bad enough on my own.

Anyway, the right respectful young Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon was getting a royal, public ass-chewing. That was kind of odd for her too, because she'd usually call you into her stateroom when she was really pissed. But Skeeter had fucked up big time and publicly, so the pound of flesh got extracted the same way.

"See, it's just a buildup of old butter around the whatchamacallit," I said to the ensign who was watching me play with the popcorn machine. "It happens when you don't take good care of it." I shot him a hard glare, and was mildly satisfied with the way he flinched. Of course, the fact that the skipper was having at Skeeter in the background made it all that more effective.

"I cleaned it yesterday," my particular victim muttered surlily.

"Not well enough."

"But sir, it won't-"

I straightened up and put my hands on my hips and stared at him. "You telling me how to clean a popcorn machine, mister? Because if you are, I'd like to share one small fact with you. I've got more time cleaning this popcorn machine ― the particular damn machine, which never during my eight months as SLJO, Shitty Little Jobs Officer, ever, ever fucked up in this particular manner. So when I talk to you about popcorn-machine maintenance, you may damn well assume that I know what I'm talking about. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." The surliness was gone, replaced by the bored, long-suffering tone that junior officers master far too early. Hell, I never sounded like that.

I paused for a moment, and let him think I was staring at him while I listened to the skipper run on up the scale. She was on a roll now, and it behooved me to pay attention to my betters. I could learn as much about chewing ass from Tomboy as this ensign could learn from me about cleaning popcorn machines.

"And the next time you are so inclined to refuse to sign a bird out for flight because it is dirty," she continued, reaching minus two hundred Kelvin easy, "please take it upon yourself to come see me. Or the Maintenance Officer. Or the Executive Officer. Any one of us will be able to adequately explain to you alternate methods of resolving the difficulty. Other than threatening to throw the plane captain overboard."

"I wouldn't have done it," I heard Skeeter mutter. I shook my head. At that point, the fastest way out of this for my errant wingman was to shut up and take it. Skipper had him dead to rights, and he ought to have known that.

Not that it wasn't actually kind of funny. The plane captain really had thought Skeeter was going to throw him overboard. Hence the complaint, hence the ass-chewing. I could have told him. But he didn't bother to ask, no more than this young asshole had bothered to ask me about popcorn machines.

"You do not-"

A shower of sparks arced out from the popcorn machine, splattered harmlessly against the deck with an ominous crackling sound. The ensign to my right yelped. The singeing, acrid smell of a short circuit quickly filled the ready room.

The skipper was at my side in an instant. I gestured futilely at the popcorn machine, now sitting quiet and peaceful, and said, "Guess I'd better have the electricians check it out again, huh, Skipper?" I tried for a concerned, diligent look.

It didn't work.

I'm not a MiG, mister," she snapped. She turned back to glare at Skeeter. She seemed like she was about to say something else, then simply settled for a final snarl before storming out of the ready room.

I heard a deep shuddering sigh behind me, and turned around to see my wingman slumping down in the Squadron Duty Officer chair. "Man, don't she have some bite," he said wonderingly.

"Sir, what's wrong with the popcorn machine?" the ensign asked, evidently with his priorities in order. "And what was that about her being a MiG?"

"Nothing. You clean those damn wires better, we wouldn't get the short circuits," I told him. The ensign nodded uncertainly, and a new, grave appreciation for the scope of his duties was evident on his face. He did a quick exit stage left, saying something about hunting down an electrician's mate to look at the power cord.

After he left, I turned back to Skeeter. "You could've even asked me ― I would have told you you were about to be a dumb-ass."

"Like that would have made any difference. You're always telling me that."

Damn if we didn't have a lot of surly junior officers in this squadron. I was getting right put out about it, particularly seeing as I just saved his skinny young ass from permanent damage.

"And what was that crack about a MiG?" Skeeter continued. "Young dildo head may buy your explanation, but I don't. What did she mean?"

I sighed, and shook my head. "What the captain meant," I said, enunciating carefully for the edification of my wingman, "is that her preference would be that the only thing I shook off your ass was MiGs ― not her."

I looked at the bafflement on Skeeter's face, followed by grudging, dawning respect. I basked in it for a moment. About time he got his priorities in order.

"You engineered that?" he asked. He pointed at the popcorn machine.

"Come here ― I know you don't think there's anything I can teach you about flying, but there are certain things you don't know about a popcorn machine. Like how to make it spark on demand."

I was just delving into some of the intricacies of popcorn machine performance with Skeeter when the flight plan arrived. I snatched the first copy out of the messenger's hands and scanned over it eagerly.

There was something wrong with it. The neat, long line of aircraft, missions, weapons loads, and aircrew was missing one thing ― my name.

"They screwed up." I held the offending document out to Skeeter and pointed at the line of missions assigned to our squadron. "Big time. Boy, are they going to be embarrassed when they see this."

Skeeter took the flight schedule and studied it carefully for a moment. When he looked back up at me, his face was glum. "I don't think it's a mistake, Bird Dog. We're just not on the flight schedule."

"Well, of course you might not be. You're junior, after all."

Skeeter shook his head. "They took you off, buddy. Remember?"

I snatched it back from him, anger ringing in my ears now. I knew why it was ― there was plenty of ways to ground an aviator without actually grounding him. I didn't think the admiral had really meant I couldn't fly. But somebody figured it was my fault that the E-2 was in the drink and those men were killed, and they were cutting me out of the pack. No chance to explain, no questions other than the routine ― I'm just off the flight schedule.

"They're not gonna get away with this," I said.

"I think they just did."

"Yeah, well I'm not gonna sit still for it."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go see Admiral Wayne ― that's what I'm gonna do." I grabbed at the flight schedule, but Skeeter danced away and held it out of my reach. "C'mon, give it to me."

He dodged down a row of chairs and interposed a tall, high-backed chair between us. "I don't think so. Didn't you hear what the skipper was just on about? Good judgment, chain of command ― all that shit."

I made a grab for the schedule, and faked an end run around the chair. But Skeeter wasn't buying it. "That's only for when you're doing stupid shit, like you were," I said. "Besides, the admiral says he has an open-door policy. And this is big, Skeeter ― a helluva lot bigger than a dirty aircraft."

I had him in the corner now, with just the morning briefing crews in between me and him. I double-faked, and this time he tumbled. I snagged him around the waist, lifted him half off the ground, and pried the flight schedule out of his skinny little fingers.

"Bird Dog, you can't."

"I sure as hell can," I said, pushing away the nagging suspicion that he might be right. "You don't know what they're doing to me, Skeeter ― this is just the first step. Pretty soon, I'll be out of qual periodicity, and then I won't be flying shit during this. We're gonna be flying over Vietnam dropping ordinance on targets and I'm not gonna play? They're fucking out of their minds."

"Where's Gator?" Skeeter said, changing tacks. "At least ask him before you go charging off and doing something stupid."

I snorted. "I don't have to ask any fucking RIO what I can and can't do while I'm on the ground. Or on the ship ― whatever. It's not him they're grounding ― it's me."

"Don't do it, asshole." Skeeter's voice followed me as I slammed out of the ready room and headed down the 03 corridor toward the admiral's cabin.

I knew where the skipper had learned it. It wasn't from PXO or PCO school, or anything like that. After five minutes of standing in front of Admiral Wayne, I knew where she'd got it. That cold, hard tone that could freeze you down to your testicles. She'd learned it from him.

My explanation sputtered out about halfway through, and I gradually realized just how damned stupid it was for me to be standing in front of the guy with the stars griping about the flight schedule. There were only about a million people I should have talked to before.

And if I thought I was in trouble now, just wait till the captain found out.

"What CAG says, goes." The admiral's voice damned near froze my testicles off. "You're out of order, mister."

It was suddenly becoming quite evident to me what a very, very bad idea this had been. If I just walked out right now, pretended that I was drunk, or fell down in a frothing fit on the deck, I might have a chance. Other than that… "Admiral, you've got to let me go."

"I don't."

"But sir, you have to. It's personal with me, Admiral ― don't you understand that? Those bastards shot down my E-2. There's nobody on this bird farm that's got more right to go after 'em than I do."

And just where the hell was all this coming from? I'd been absolutely certain I was about to turn and walk out of the admiral's cabin and report to my own skipper to get my ass chewed for screwing up. Instead, my mouth seemed to be running off ahead of me, off on some strange mission of its own that it hadn't bothered to talk to my brain about.

The admiral was standing now, coming around from behind his desk to go nose-to-nose with me. He wouldn't hit me, would he? And what would I do if he did?

No, he wouldn't. Would he?

"I understand how you feel, son," the admiral said. His voice wasn't a whole lot warmer, but it sure was softer. "I'd feel the same way, in your shoes. It's got to be personal ― otherwise you're not worth anything as a fighter pilot. You think I don't know that?"

"Admiral, I-" I stopped mid-sentence, absolutely horrified and disgusted at the quaver that was in my voice. Damn ― now I had no chance at all. The admiral wasn't gonna ever let me fly again, not when I couldn't even keep my own mouth under control. I should have taken the advice I gave Skeeter ― just shut up and let it wash over you.

"I've lost pigeons before too," the admiral said. Something went funny in his eyes and he looked like he didn't even see me anymore. "More than my share. It happens in combat, Bird Dog. We expect it to happen ― why the hell do you think we send fighters out with them anyway?"

"I was supposed to bring them back," I said, my voice not much louder than his now. "When we get back to the States, I'll have to go see their families. Talk to them. Look at their wives, their kids, and tell them I was the one who didn't bring their guy back, Me."

"Not you." The admiral's hand was on my shoulder now, the fingers digging into the muscle. He started shaking me. I felt something wet slide down my face. "Not you, damn it. It was them ― the Vietnamese. They're the ones who shot that E-2 down, not you. Don't you understand that?"

"I was there. I was supposed to stop them." Fucking-A shit ― I tried to turn away from the admiral, get my hands up to my face and wipe away the goddamn wimp-ass tears. "I only had one thing to do on that mission, Admiral ― to keep me and my Tomcat between them and the E-2. I got in over my head, trying to keep an eye on Skeeter and ― hell, it wasn't his fault. I shut him up early on. Maybe he oughta be lead instead of me."

We stood frozen like that for a minute, the admiral's hands hard on my shoulders, so close he could have reached up and choked the shit out of me if he'd wanted to. Which he probably did. And I wouldn't have blamed him a bit.

"So it's like that, is it?" His hands fell off my shoulders, and I almost staggered at the unexpected freedom. "It's like that." He turned away from me and walked back down to sit behind his desk. His hand went to his flight jacket pocket automatically, and I recognized the gesture ― an ex-smoker searching for a package of butts by reflex. Hey, he might be the admiral, but the no-smoking policy on a ship was damned clear. Not that I'd turn him in.

I took a deep breath that rattled around inside me before it settled into my lungs. The admiral tossed me a box of tissues, and I took one without commenting. About time ― why couldn't that have happened ten minutes earlier?

"Back in the saddle then." The admiral's voice had a note of finality to it.

I looked up startled.

"I've seen this before ― you don't know what's happening, but you're about to lose it over this. The only way I know to cure it is to put you back out there, let you fly right on the pointy end of the spear and kick some Vietnamese ass. It won't bring the E-2 crew back, but maybe it'll help you live with it." He looked up at me now, his eyes cold and distant. "And that's what you have to learn, you know. To live with it. Otherwise, you'll clutch up every time you try to get back on the carrier at night, make a difficult tanking flog in bad weather, anything that requires you to be right, absolutely and one-hundred-percent right, or you kill people."

He was going to let me go. I don't know why it took so long to sink in, but finally it did. The relief that coursed through me was almost overwhelming, running up my spine and floating around every muscle in my face. I started to grin, then realized what he really meant.

It was time to set things right, time to get vengeance. I either did it right this time, or I was washed up forever as a fighter pilot.

Deep in my heart, I knew he was right. I had to get back out there ― and now ― or forget about ever flying another combat mission.

"Thank you, Admiral." Not elegant, but it was all I could manage.

He nodded, as if he was distracted by something else. "Go see your skipper. She's going to have a few words for you, I imagine."

If I didn't know better, I could have sworn he was looking amused. Me, I already had the cold sweats, thinking about what Commander Flynn was gonna do to me when she found out about this little stunt.

"Tomboy's a good skipper ― she'll understand why I'm doing this." Damn admiral was reading my mind, I was convinced. His next words proved it.

"But you're right, she's going to make you pay for this." He sighed, then was back in the room all the way, back from whatever distant place he'd been at when he'd arrived at this decision. "Now get the fuck out of here, Bird Dog. Why is it that you're always in the middle of everything?"

I backed out of the room, moving so fast I damn near ran into the Chief of Staff glowering at the door. I murmured a quick apology, felt his equally icy glare try to nail me to the wall, and then just hauled ass out of there before the admiral had a chance to change his mind.

Like I said, I knew where the skipper learned it from. Talking to her was going to be a piece of cake after this.

As soon as we stepped out the door from the island onto the flight deck, the noise hit us like a tsunami. All those aircraft turning, jockeying back and forth into position whether under their own power or under tow by yellow gear. Not to mention the noise of the ship moving through the ocean at a good thirty knots, generating wind across the decks. "Where is she?" Gator hollered.

Like I should know. I'd just signed the aircraft out, not gotten a parking-lot diagram.

I turned 360, surveying the aircraft in various stages of launch preparation. The weapons were already on the wings, the silver and dark gray ― not the blue practice bombs we flew with too often.

The helos were already turning, getting ready to launch for Flight Quarters SAR. Four thousand yards behind us, the tiny little profile of a frigate dogged our wake, standing by as plane guard in case something went wrong. Surface Navy translation ― in case they had to pull an aviator out of the drink.

Finally, I spotted our aircraft. She was forward, almost to the waist catapult, her brown-shirted plane captain making a close examination of the weapons slung under her wings. A full load out ― two Phoenix, two Sparrows, and two Sidewinders. Personally, I like going with more Sidewinders. And forget the Phoenix ― they're the long-range anti-air missiles, and you usually use those up early to put the other guy on the defensive. Nice concept and planning, but too many of 'em end up with mechanical problems. Besides, I like knife fighting better. The Phoenix requires that you maintain a radar lock on the enemy contact all the way into the last moments, and that just puts too damn many limitations on a pilot. Like I said ― I like a good knife fight. And that meant the radar-guided Sparrows or the heatseeking Sidewinders.

But since we were lead aircraft on this mission, the strike guys had decided to sling us off with the long-range Phoenix so we wouldn't be shooting through the pack if the bad guys showed up. They weigh a helluva lot more than Sidewinders and Sparrows too. And their large bulk interferes with the aerodynamics of your aircraft. Guess that's why they put 'em on the wings of the best pilot around.

"There." I pointed out our aircraft to Gator, and then grabbed Skeeter and shoved him toward the one up near the forward cat. The little shit was flying wing on me again, again the brilliant decision of somebody in Strike. I guess I didn't mind ― but at least they could have made him carry the Phoenix instead of me.

Gator and I went through the preflight checklist carefully, with the plane captain dancing attendance on us as we checked out his bird. Either they hate it when you do this, or they love it. Either they're looking for a chance to show off how well they've taken care of the aircraft, or they're afraid you're gonna find something they screwed up.

Either way, it's my ass that's getting strapped into the four-point ejection harness and taking their little darling up to fight the bad boys. I always do a good preflight ― and Gator feels the same way.

Finally, when we were all the way done, I was satisfied. I saw Skeeter and his backseater starting to mount up, having finished a little faster than we did. For just a second, I hoped the dumb shit hadn't overlooked something that would get his ass shot out of the air.

We climbed up the aircraft and settled into our ejection seats. The plane captain followed us up, double-checked the fixtures, and helped us get settled in. At the last moment, he removed the safeties, the cotter pins, that kept the ejection seat from firing. I counted the strands in his hand carefully, then nodded. "Good hunting, sir," he said. He climbed back down the aircraft and I slid the canopy shut.

A moment later, he appeared off the right side of the aircraft, holding up six red streamers for my inspection. I counted them, then asked Gator to confirm it. They were the streamers that safed the weapons on my wings. I'd be one hell of a constipated Tomcat if he didn't clear those off before I tried to take a shot at a MiG.

Our plane captain turned us over to a yellow shirt, and I followed her directions up to the cat. We settled in, and they pinned the front gear ― those funny little sounds and movements of the aircraft that you get used to. At the yellow shirt's direction, I cycled the flight service, waggling everything that could waggle at him to show him I had a full range of motion on all my control services.

Finally, we were ready. At his direction, I jammed the throttles forward to full military power. He took one step back and rendered a sharp salute. I returned it. The aircraft was mine now, not his. Mine and the catapult officer's.

Two seconds later, it was all mine. There was a small little jolt, the sudden movement of the aircraft, then the gut-wrenching juggernaut down the catapult to the end of the carrier. It came up fast, too fast ― just like it always did.

And thank God. One of my own personal nightmares is a soft cat, a launch where something goes wrong with the steam-driven piston that tosses us off the pointy end of the boat. The result is you don't obtain sufficient airspeed to remain airborne, and you dribble off the end of the aircraft carrier like a wet dream. They don't find much of you often ― if you're lucky, you punch out in those three seconds that it takes to reach the pointy end.

I heard Gator grunt behind me. He always does that ― even after this long.

Then there was the sudden, mushy sinking feeling as we departed the ship. The Tomcat was still screaming at full military power, fighting for altitude and safety. We dipped down below the front of the carrier slightly, and I held my breath as I urged her up.

I love this aircraft. She only made me suffer for a microsecond, then took command of the airspace around her and started gaining altitude at a healthy pace.

I heard the net chatter as Skeeter launched, but was still too busy paying attention to my own altitude, rate of climb, and turn to watch him. I took a straight vector out to about five miles and waited for him to catch up.

Behind us, the carrier was banging an aircraft off the catapults every twenty seconds. Forward cat, waist cat, forward cat, starboard, in a continuous rotation designed to place the maximum amount of metal in the air in the minimum amount of time.

Skeeter was on me like stink on shit, then took his normal glued-to-your-wing position to my right. The rest of the flight was up now too, forming into their combat pairs.

"Viper Flight, Viper Leader," I said into the mike. "You guys ready?"

One by one, they sounded off. A good flight launch, no equipment casualties or other problems to interfere with a full formation.

"Okay, you all know what we're going to do. Let's go do it."

We settled into a loose formation, cruising at seventeen thousand feet, and headed for the coast of Vietnam.

The plan was pretty simple, the way it had been laid out. Some of those weaponeers on board the ship knew what the hell they were doing. Two EA-6B aircraft were going in with us, fully armed with HARM missiles. A couple of us were going to sneak in, buzz around slowly pretending we were E-2s, and wait for the SAM site to light up. As soon as it did, the aardvarks were going to let off with the HARMs to take out the SAM's antenna.

As soon as that happened, we were going to reduce one obnoxious, very, very nasty SAM site to a nice, clean, sterile, smoking black hole in the ground.

Ten minutes off the coast, it lit us up. Gator called Out the warning from the backseat, and I knew every other RIO in the flight was seeing the same threat indications. The EA-6Bs didn't wait to be told ― the HARMs were off their wings and headed for their targets so fast the guys must have been riding the button the entire time.

"Viper Flight, Home Plate. We have launch indications probable MiGs." The OS sounded almost excited about it, something unusual for the air-intercept controllers on Jefferson.

"Roger." I just acknowledged the report ― when I needed to know more, I'd ask.

"Great ― just what we needed." Gator was carping again.

"You think I carry these Sidewinders out here for my health?" I demanded. "Not hardly ― we ain't going home with any weapons on the wings, Gator."

"Fine with me."

As I got to thinking about it, I realized that Gator was probably as pissed at the Vietnamese as I was. More so, probably. He's four years senior to me, and had been stuck flying with me ever since my first cruise. He claims he spends most of his time trying to keep me out of trouble. But he and I both know that he's just a passenger, a guy in the back, a scope dope.

Well, not exactly. Gator's pulled my ass out of the fire in the air more than once.

I felt a bit chagrined when I thought about it. He was bound to be just as pissed as I was about losing the E-2C, but he'd never let on. You wouldn't see Gator charging into the admiral's office demanding to lead the flight back. You certainly would not. I made a mental note to skip some of the aerobatics on the way back, just because I knew how much he hated them.

They were on us almost immediately. I saw the first one pop up out of the trees at a ninety-degree angle to the ground, full afterburners spitting fire out his ass as he achieved a rate of climb that my Tomcat would never be able to match. The MiG-29s were faster, and more maneuverable, but the Tomcat had sheer power they couldn't even begin to match.

And more weapons.

"Get that shit off your wings," Skeeter suggested. "The bird will fly better without 'em."

"You think I don't know that?" I demanded. "Just reminding you," my wingman said casually.

Someday, someday, I'm gonna kill that little shit. It pisses me off the most when he's right. The moment to catch those MiGs was when they were fully committed to gaining altitude and thus less maneuverable.

"Fox one, Fox one." I pickled off the first Phoenix and held my Tomcat head-on to the ascending MiG.

My bird jolted to the left as I dropped the Phoenix off the right wing, and I fought her back into level flight. The massive missile seemed to move slowly at first, then quickly picked up speed. One thing I can say for it ― it's a powerful warhead, and if you do hit something, you're gonna kill it.

Skeeter had taken high station on me, eight thousand feet above and behind me. This loose-deuce fighting formation has worked for two generations of Navy pilots, and it's still the best approach in tactical aviation. It's particularly effective against a smaller, more agile aircraft like a MiG. There are basically two types of air-combat fighting styles. Both of them are driven by the performance characteristics of your aircraft and the nerve of the pilot. You take a big aircraft, something like the Tomcat, and you've got all the power in the world. Those engines will pump out a helluva lot of lift, and you can gain altitude over the long run faster than any MiG around.

The MiG, on the other hand, is an angles fighter. He likes to creep inside your turns, pivot around, and drop into position for the perfect tail shot. That's why the two-man Navy formation is so effective ― even as nimble as a MiG is, he can't keep up with two of us.

"Shit shit shit shit shit," I heard the refrain from the backseat.

"What the hell is the shit?" I asked.

"Bird Dog, we're about to get-" Gator never got a chance to finish the sentence. The canopy of treetops below us exploded with what seemed like a thousand sleek aircraft, all arrowing up like they'd been shot out of the same quiver. They were all MiGs, all carrying a full combat load, and all plainly intending to jump into our part of the sky, gain some altitude, and then beat the shit out of us.

"Fuck this." I broke radar lock with the Phoenix, saw it waver off course and fall away harmlessly. I took a shot in the general direction of the aircraft ascending from the trees, just to get their attention, then made my own dash for some altitude.

There were fourteen of us ― seven pairs ― and only twenty-four of them. Not a fair fight ― but then, whoever said they had to fight fair?

"Viper Flight, engage at will. Watch the blue-on-blues, guys ― pick your target."

"This one," Gator said, targeting one of the blips with his radar designator from the backseat. I nodded my agreement.

"Fox two," I said after the steady growl of the missile told me it had a solid radar lock on the nearest MiG.

The Sparrow is a fire-and-forget weapon. Unlike the Phoenix, it graciously lets me go kill other bastards while it seeks out the one I picked out for it. Assuming the Phoenix didn't get anything, I had enough missiles for four kills. Maybe five, if I could catch two MiGs in the same fireball.

"We're about to get in serious trouble," Gator warned. "Bird Dog, those lead three are at altitude. They're maneuvering, coming back down in on us. We got to get the hell outta here."

"Skeeter, you got them?" I queried.

"Fox three, Fox three," I heard my wingman say. Seconds later, a bright fireball obliterated my vision.

"Jesus, that was close!" I snapped. "Skeeter, don't you-?"

"Fox two," Skeeter interrupted, indicating he'd just toggled off a Sparrow. "Come on, baby," I heard him add softly, coaxing the missile along to its intended target.

My Sparrow finally found its target, and I saw the treetop canopy blazing in bright fire. My MiG had tried to go low, tried to break the radar lock by confusing the Sparrow's cute little sensor with the clutter from the treetops. Sometimes it works. This time it didn't.

"Break left, break left," Gator ordered, his voice a pitch higher. "Incoming! It's gonna be close!"

I threw the Tomcat into a hard left-hand turn, stamping down on the pedals and slamming the throttles home into full afterburner. She turned so tight I felt like I was in a dodge-'em car instead of an eighty-million-dollar aircraft.

Behind me, I heard Gator grunting. The G forces that build up in a tight turn are incredible, and Gator was performing the M1 maneuver. You tense up all the muscles, tense your stomach up, and grunt. It forces the blood back up out of your legs and keeps it pumping to your brain. That keeps you from blacking out on a high-G turn.

Harder on him than it was on me. Sitting up front, I know when it's coming. Sometimes you catch the RIOs unawares and knock 'em out before you really know that you're doing it. "You okay?" I asked as the G forces started to ease.

"Got it ― target here." Gator kept radio chatter to a minimum as he fed me another target.

I craned my neck around, trying to see it. He was in front of the sun, hidden from visual by the brilliant glare.

"I don't have him, I don't have him."

"He's up there. I gave you the target." Gator sounded certain. "Take him with the Sparrow."

"Fox two, Fox two." The lighter Sparrow leapt off the wing like a weapon possessed and steered straight up toward the sun. It was the only weapon of choice at that point. Sidewinders become easily distracted by the sun. They see it as a giant, warm and fuzzy target, the mother of all targets for a heat-seeking missile. They wander happily off course, chasing it out of the sky until they run out of fuel.

"Break right," Gator ordered.

We were flying as a team now, the perfect trio. Gator was no longer a separate person but a part of me, a disembodied voice that seemed to be coming from inside my own head as much as through the earphones, and an extra set of eyes that fed me data and radar targets so quickly and seamlessly that it felt I was doing it myself.

And the aircraft that enclosed us ― no more metal and struts and fuselage, but simply power, raw power carrying us back and forth across the sky. We were one entity, one being, with one single purpose in life ― to kill other aircraft.

There were so many of them, so very many. We had the missiles to take them, but the sheer target density and the necessity to avoid a blue-on-blue fratricide constrained our engagements. The chatter on tactical was at a minimum, as it should be. When you've got a MiG on your ass and you need somebody to take him out, you don't want any gossip cluttering the circuit. "Billy, go high! I can't get turned around ― yeah."

"Break hard right, Fred. On my mark ― now."

"Fox three, Fox three."

"Jesus, did you see ― where the-"

I heard six quick engagements, followed by six triumphant cries of "splash, splash."

And one of ours.

"Oh Jesus, they got it. Chutes, chutes ― no chutes. They didn't make it."

The exploding fireball off to my right was one of my own squadron mates, a man that I'd served with since my first cruise. I'd known him well, spent many long hours with him in the ready room or in a sleazy bar on liberty solving the problems of the world over a couple of pitchers of beer.

"Bird Dog, head for the deck." Gator was almost screaming now.

I put my Tomcat into a steep vertical dive without even asking why. When your RIO sounds like that, you don't want to know first.

The Tomcat rolled violently to starboard, buffeted by the force of the missile passing close overhead. I almost wet my pants. It was so close I could make out the small aerodynamic fins of its body, see the deadly, sleek warhead mounted on the missile. It arrowed straight away, headed for another target. Along its flight path, Tomcats were jinking and diving, others jockeying for position on it. "Splash two!"

"Yeah, I got it ― Jesus, there's another one. Chopper, get him off my ass. C'mon, man ― c'mon, c'mon ― thanks."

"Home Plate, where's that backup?" I demanded. I'd put the call in for the all alert aircraft as soon as I'd seen the MiGs, and they still hadn't shown up.

"Hang in there, Viper Flight," the voice on the other end of the circuit said grimly. "Gonna take a few minutes ― you've got to hold the line."

"What the hell is the problem!" I said, keeping my visual scan up trying to keep my ass from getting fried. "Just what the fuck is the problem?"

"FOD on the flight deck. Red Deck for now."

"Then pick it the fuck up," I screamed at the AIC. "Jesus, don't you realize what's-"

"Ramp strike, Viper Flight," the AIC said, cutting me off. His voice was cold with anger. "Don't you think we know what the hell we're doing?"

Ramp strike ― too low on approach and too gutsy to take a wave-off. There would be pieces of pilot and aircraft smashed on the stern of the ship with flaming debris scattered down the entire flight deck. Who had it been?

I had no time to reflect on the possible identity of the ramp strike. Another flight of MiGs was rising up from the trees, adding another six airframes to the battle. Almost as many as we'd already shot down.

"Viper Flight, fall back and regroup," I ordered finally. The furball was getting too dispersed, a bad time-distance problem for providing support to each other. You don't want to be in too tight ― you need a little elbow room ― but you also want to have somebody delouse your six when it's necessary. Somebody besides your wingman.

Most of the Tomcats broke off their engagement and scampered out to our predetermined point. The MiGs followed them, and the Tomcats jinked wildly to avoid allowing them a perfect tail shot.

We pulled it back together and re-engaged. Gator fed me a third target, and I debated a moment whether to take it with a Sparrow or a Sidewinder. Finally, I selected the Sparrow, since the Sidewinder was truly my last weapon of choice. This MiG was a beauty, painted with something special that made it glint in the sunlight like raw gold. An odd, very distinctive undertone to its paint, one that did nothing for its low-observability characteristics.

But then again, maybe he wanted to be noticed. If so, then I'd just oblige him.

I tickled off the Sparrow, made the Fox call, then spiraled up to gain altitude. Altitude is safety. You can trade it for speed, which gives you increased maneuverability. Then things got nasty. Real nasty.

"SAM site," Gator said. "To the north. Bearing three two zero."

"Where the fuck are all these SAM sites coming from?" I asked. "Jesus, those intelligence guys don't know shit."

"Your turn, lead." Skeeter's voice was tight and controlled on the tactical circuit. "He's on me, Bird Dog, he's on me."

I snapped my head around to see what was happening out the back. Gator chimed in with an explanation. "Below us, about two thousand feet. Three o'clock. You got it?"

I did. Sun glinted off the wings of the two aircraft as they dodged and parried at low altitude. They were low, too low ― I swore quietly. How had Skeeter let himself get suckered into a low-altitude fight with the lighter, more maneuverable MiG? "Viper Flight, this is Home Plate. Friendlies inbound flight of four Hornets." The controller's voice off the carrier was clipped. "Watch out for 'em, fellows ― they're the cavalry."

The cavalry. Yeah, like the Hornets were going to save our ass this time. They always thought they were on the front line, when in truth they were getting into this fight long after my Tomcats got it stirred up. Still, they carried air-to-air missiles, and I was getting damned low on them at this point.

"Need some help there, Skeeter?" The cheerful Texas twang grated across my nerves as it always did. "I'm inbound on your six ― wait for it. I'll give you a break."

Of all the Marines to show up on station, it had to be Thor. Major Frederick Hammersmith, if you want his real name. The prototype for all Marine pilots ― I'd seen him drop down on the brutally hot tarmac to crank out fifty push-ups before getting into his aircraft just to piss the Air Boss off. Given half a chance, he'd probably carry a knife clenched between his teeth while in flight.

Still, there was no denying his help would be welcome about now. Not that I'd ever admit it to him. But the lighter Hornet, while it didn't have the staying power of my own dear Tomcat, had some advantages in a fight with a MiG. Since it was smaller, with a higher thrust-to-wing-area ratio, the Hornet was a scampery little bastard, able to cut inside arcs and turns in a way that the Tomcat couldn't. Besides that, it has LERX ― Leading Edge Root Extensions. These give it an extended range of angle of attack above and beyond sixty degrees, which is about what we're limited to. Also, it has a high-tech retrofitted fence running along the LERX that generates the right airflow patterns to reduce metal fatigue on its tail assembly.

"Come on in, Thor," Skeeter said. I could hear the relief in his voice. Like what ― he thought I wouldn't be there? I was already headed for the deck, trying to pick him out from the gaggle of other Tomcat pilots who'd let themselves get suckered. Too many ― far too many.

"Wait for it, buddy," Thor said. I could see his Hornet now, the small, agile form of his two-seater night-attack variant arrowing in from the direction of the carrier. "Almost there ― get ready ― now! Break right, Skeeter. Hard right."

My confusion over which set of aircraft was Skeeter and his MiG was immediately cleared up. I saw an F-14 break hard right, the maneuver almost immediately duplicated by the MiG on his six in perfect firing position.

Almost.

Skeeter made the bright move of taking on some altitude at the same time he was turning, thus increasing his separation from the doomed MiG. The F-14 was almost on top of him now, seemingly being reeled in by some invisible fishing line trailing off the MiG's ass.

A slight twitch, a puff of smoke, then the heat-seeking Sidewinder blinking in the sunshine like a beacon.

The missile sought out the MiG's tailpipe like it was mother's milk. It streaked inbound, dead on target and never wavering, then the two images merged into one. The silver shape of the MiG was replaced immediately by a blossoming, ugly black and red fireball.

"That one's mine." Thor's voice was calm and confident. "Any other problems I can solve for you turkey jockeys?"

"Thanks, Thor," Skeeter said. I almost puked.

More Hornets were arriving on station, calling out their tallyhos and missile shots almost as soon as they were on station. I started getting calls from my own flight on a separate circuit, early indications that they were getting low on fuel or that they were Winchestered ― out of weapons. The Winchesters I sent back immediately ― there was absolutely nothing they could do out here except for a lucky shot with their twenty-millimeter Vulcan Gatling-type guns fitted on the left sides. The guns are bitching when you can take the shot, but even most knife fighters don't like to get that close. Their 675 rounds, even shooting small bursts, isn't a lot of firepower.

"Viper Flight, Dragon Flight, Home Plate. Two flights of Tomcats, one flight of Hornets inbound. Viper Flight, break off as needed."

At least we were getting some more Tomcats into the fight. And the controller was right to remind me ― those of us who weren't low on fuel soon would be, and it was better to clear the deck for the fresh forces.

"Let's get going," Gator urged from the backseat. "Bird Dog, our fuel is-"

"I know what our fuel is," I cut in. Damn it, someday I'm going to tape a cardboard shield between the front seat and backseat on this aircraft so he can't stick his nose into my business. "You think I'll run out of gas?"

"Of course not. At least, you never have before." Gator's voice sounded just the slightest bit dubious. "Still, don't you think we ought to-?"

Without answering, I put the Tomcat into a hard, tight climbing turn. "One more quick look, then we're out of here. I want to make sure all of our guys are out."

"Whatever you say, Bird Dog."

We spiraled on up, slowing slightly as we poured all of our power into the climb. When I felt we had a bird's-eye view, I rolled back into level flight, and then into inverted flight.

I love this part. Gator hates it. It's a good thing for him that our fuel-transfer mechanism doesn't allow me to remain inverted for the entire flight. There's something about hanging from the ejection-seat harness. Maybe it's the blood getting forced into your head by gravity that does it.

The ocean was spread out below me, looking almost calm and peaceful from this vantage point. The aircraft still engaged below were dull gray shapes against darker water, or brilliant specks of light like fireflies as the sun reflected off wings. They winked in, back to dull gray, then back into fiery brilliance.

I saw the remnants of two fireballs hanging in the air, slowly dissipating as the wind tore at them. Only one that I knew of was ours ― and better them than us.

The new aircraft were joining up on the battle already in progress, picking out beleaguered Tomcats to delouse of MiGs and neatly nailing the enemy aircraft one by one. Other Tomcats were rising up from the fray, seeking altitude and shaking the last of their pursuers as they broke off.

"Viper Flight, say state," I asked, then waited for their responses. Each pilot called out his fuel status, then waited for the tanking order.

"Red, go on in ― you're lowest," I ordered. "Then Smiley, Joe, and Theresa. Skeeter, you stick with me. I think we're better off than most of them."

"Not by much," Gator said tartly. "In fact, Theresa's got more fuel than Skeeter does."

"Ladies first. Besides, neither of them is in the red zone."

I heard the exasperated sigh over the ICS. As much as I hated to admit it, there was something to what Gator was saying. Still, more of us were at bingo state. A little low, a little light-winged of weapons, but basically in good shape.

Those of us who'd made it out. Theresa had just cleared the tanker when I led Skeeter, now wing-welded to me again, in a gentle turn toward the tanker. She called out and checked in with the carrier, then peeled off toward the starboard marshal pattern to wait her turn at the deck. She'd made it ― Theresa was a good stick, and the weather conditions were optimal.

"Skeeter, go ahead," I said. "Plug and suck, buddy, then get the hell out of the way."

"Want to take any bets on this one?" Skeeter queried.

I laughed. "No, you asshole. I know you plug first time. Just go on and get it over with. Hell, you're probably as fast in bed as you are on the tanker."

"Now, that's not what they tell me," Skeeter answered, his voice cool and amused.

We were both in the throes of that exhilaration that sets in right after combat, the period of time in which it finally sinks in that your ass was almost grass and that you'd escaped once again. Plus you'd put a few bad guys at the bottom of the ocean along the way. It's a heady euphoria that's got no equivalent in civilian life. Except maybe bungee jumping, and that was one thrill I'd never tried out.

True to his word, Skeeter nailed the tanker right off. It was a smooth, fluid plug, probe right into the basket, and the tanker started pumping him right away.

Six minutes later, he was topped off enough to go take a look at the boat. I waited until he was safely away, then slid in to try my luck.

Well, not luck really. Skill is more like it.

"Take it easy, Bird Dog. You're coming in a little fast on me." The KA-6 tanker's pilot was a bit testy.

I guess I couldn't blame her. We had been coming in a little bit fast for her.

"Now, darlin', you just hold steady," I said, trying to make light of the situation. "Let me try this again."

I eased back off the tanker and lined myself up again. The mistake that most people make when they're trying to tank is they get fixated on watching the basket bob around in the air in front of them. You don't want to do that ― you want to be staring directly at the lights on the tanker and maintaining the correct relative position between your two aircraft. Otherwise you get disoriented from the little bobbles and jerks the basket does in the air. It was something I knew better than to do ― and I'd just done it.

The second time went smooth as silk, my probe sliding right into the hard plastic basket like ― well, I wasn't going there. Not on cruise, not with the women on board the ship looking better and better every day that went by.

"Good seal," the tanker pilot said. "Ready to transfer fuel."

"Ready to receive."

I could hear the slight gurgle as the fuel fed smoothly into the probe and was distributed to the two wing tanks. Five thousand pounds, that would hold me until we got back to the boat. Enough to make two passes at the deck, although I doubted that I'd need more than one. It had been a long time since I hadn't gotten back on board on my first pass, and I didn't aim to break my record now.

"That'll do me, darlin'," I said finally. I shut off the switches that allowed fuel to flow in through the probe, and allowed her to do the same. Then I gently backed off, slid further back until I was well clear, and rolled off to the right. "See you back on the deck," I called out as a farewell.

"Not anytime soon," she answered tartly. "Got a bunch more customers up here soon enough."

"Those Hornets get thirsty fast," I agreed.

Despite some relatively decent performance statistics, that was the one problem with the F/A-18 ― it was a hungry little bastard. The trade-off for having a lightweight aircraft was that it could carry less of everything. Fuel, weapons, hell, probably even piddle packs. You never want to get into a fight with a bunch of Hornets without having a lot of gas in the air nearby.

I was just four thousand yards away from the tanker when I heard the tanker pilot start screaming. "Bird Dog, get back here! He's on me, he's on me!"

I slammed into afterburner and rolled and turned, heading back to the tanker. I knew what was wrong ― one of those goddamn Hornets had let a MiG sneak through and make a run on their Texaco. That should have been the first thing they'd done, make sure that their tanker was protected. If I'd been down there The MiG was almost toying with her, like a cat with a mouse. It was a bit above her, and well aft, in perfect firing position.

I sighted in, got the low growl of a Sidewinder, then said, "Gina, break left. Now!"

Tankers aren't the maneuverable airframes that fighters are, but she did the best that she could. As old as those birds are, she probably damn near tore the wings off trying to get away. The KA6 rolled hard, overshot, and exposed her underbelly to the MiG, then completed the roll and fell down toward the ocean in a spiral. It's always nice to use gravity if you need to gain some airspeed in a hurry.

I waited two seconds, enough time to get her out of range of the fireball, and just long enough for the MiG pilot to start getting truly pissed.

A missile leapt off his wings, the ignition of its booster blinding me slightly. I thumbed off the Sidewinder at the same time.

I had one second to see the canopy of the KA6 peel off, shatter into pieces, and two ejection seats rocket up at forty-five-degree angles from each other. They were barely clear of the aircraft when it exploded into flames.

The smoke and fire blanked out my view of the two chutes. Had they opened? I didn't know, and now I sure as hell couldn't see. The MiG I'd shot the Sidewinder at was a smoking black hole in the air.

"Get down ― look for chutes!" Gator said.

"On my way." I took time to make a quick visual scan of the area around me, knowing that Gator was doing the same thing with his radar. "All clear?"

"I'll tell you if it's not."

I put the Tomcat into a steep dive, pulling up just about at the altitude where I estimated the chutes would be. We made a 360, each of us craning our necks trying to see them wherever they were. I felt a heavy, rotten, sinking feeling in my gut. There hadn't been time ― not enough distance. Even though they'd cleared the aircraft, the fireball must have got them.

"Get down lower," Gator said. "Maybe we missed them."

I did as he suggested, far too low over the ocean for my own comfort, but desperate to see any trace of the tanker pilot and her RIO.

"Bird Dog?" Gator's voice asked. "Have you got 'em?"

"Not yet." I wished he'd just shut the fuck up and let me look for them.

I'm joining on you," Skeeter said.

"No ― get back to the boat," I ordered. The last thing I needed was Skeeter poking around down here while I was trying to find the two women who had gone down. "One of us is enough."

"But who's gonna cover you?" Skeeter asked. "Bird Dog, you can't-"

"Back to the boat, Skeeter," I said again. "Jesus, why don't you just follow orders for once without arguing?"

Two clicks on the circuit acknowledged my last transmission. I kept my eyes glued to the ocean, hoping for something, anything. "He's right, you know," Gator said. "Fuck him."

"No, fuck you." There was a note in Gator's voice I rarely heard, but knew better than to ignore it when I did. "Bird Dog, he's got enough fuel, we need another set of eyes out here, if not for the crew, then for any of those nasty little bastards that want to jump US."

"How about you keep your eyes on that radar scope and keep that from happening," I suggested.

"Damn it ― too late for that. Bird Dog, MiGs at five o'clock, four miles off and closing fast. They're in targeting mode ― Bird Dog!"

"I'm coming in," Skeeter said, still on the net. "Hold on, Bird Dog."

I was a little bit too busy to answer at that point, trying to get my turkey ass off the deck and back in the air where it belonged. How had I got suckered into this? I know better, I damn well know better.

"Targeting radar," Gator warned, his voice higher now. "Bird Dog, we're too slow ― too low. We can't make it out of this one."

"I'm almost there," Skeeter said. "Please, Bird Dog, just-"

"We'll get some distance," I said, thinking furiously. "I've still got one Sparrow, the gun ― we're gonna make it, Gator."

"The hell you say," Gator's voice had a note of quiet desperation in it this time. "Bird Dog, get ready. You know we're gonna have to punch out."

"I'm not punching out. This is my aircraft, and no goddamned Vietnamese is going to take it away from me."

"Vampire, vampire," Skeeter screamed over the circuit, his voice losing every trace of cool it had ever had. "Jesus, Bird Dog ― punch out. Punch out now!"

I'm not-"

The wind ripped the words out of my throat and slammed my head back against the headrest. I had just a split second to realize what had happened before the canopy broke away from the airframe, tumbled backwards in the sky above us before falling back in the slipstream. A microsecond later, the pan of the ejection seat slammed me up. Over the noise of the wind and the explosion in my ejection seat, I heard Gator's seat go, saw out of the corner of my eye the bright flash of his ejection rocket firing. My vision was already going gray, and every bit of exposed skin felt numb and sandpapered. The gray crowded in on all sides, until my vision dwindled to a mere pinpoint of light in front of me. Then quietly, amazingly understated in the fury of noise and sound around me, that too winked out.

I woke up when I tried to breathe. Cold seawater is a poor substitute for air.

My gear had done its job as advertised. Sometime after I hit the water, the ejection seat had separated and the buoyant flotation pan had kept me above water. The life raft was already inflating nearby.

For a few moments, I focused on just trying to breathe. The seas were rougher than they'd looked from the sky, and every second wave slapped me in the face and tried to make me breathe it. I got my life jacket inflated, got enough air in my lungs to be able to think clearly, and then started swearing.

"Gator?" I hollered. Silly thing to do ― I doubted he'd be able to hear me over the wave noise.

"Gator, are you here?"

I set out for the raft, breast-stroking in my best fashion and trying to keep my head out of the water. All the while, I was looking for the other life jacket, the parachute, anything that would give me an indication of Gator's position. I'd seen his chute ― the seats are timed so that his fires a split second before mine does, giving him enough time to get clear so his ejection rocket won't turn me into toast.

I grabbed the raft, hung on the side for a moment to catch my breath, then pulled myself into it. A flight suit, ejection harness, and boots were a hell of a lot heavier wet than dry.

I raised up on my knees, tried to stand, and almost lost my balance.

There ― off in the distance. I could see a speck of something that looked orange, something that might be Gator. I grabbed the paddle out of the raft and headed for him.

"Goddamn RIOs," I said, as the events of the last few minutes flashed back in my mind.

I knew what he'd done. And he'd probably been right to do it. What was worse, I was going to have to admit it.

The missile had been on us, so quick and so fast that Skeeter hadn't had a chance to get to us. If I'd let him come back when he first tried to join on me, it wouldn't have been a problem. But it had been my delays ― mine ― that had kept him at arm's length and out of position.

There had been no time, no time at all. Gator had known it ― and at some level, so had I.

Still, I never believe that anything in the air can get me.

It's one of those things about being a pilot. You start believing that it's possible for you to get hurt, that your bright and shiny new Tomcat wrapped around you isn't an invincible and all-powerful weapon, and you lose your nerve. The next thing you know, you're starting to stutter on your approach to the boat, you lose the edge, that thing that makes you the very best in the air.

Fear? You can't afford it. Not with the guy in the back depending on you.

But this time, it had been the guy in the back who'd saved my ass. RIOs have no ego compunctions about admitting when they're over their head. After all, they're not flying. Gator had seen what I wouldn't admit ― that the missile was too close and that we were about to buy it.

Command ejection. When the ejection seats in a Tomcat are set to command-eject, activating either seat causes both to shoot out. Experienced pilots with a new RIO stay away from that, in case the guy in the back gets panicky and pulls the ejection handle. If they do, they're the only ones leaving the aircraft ― and they're the ones who'll have to explain it to the Inquiry Board.

But with a guy like Gator, one who's been on more cruises than I have and has been flying with me for a couple of years now, you leave it in command-eject. For just such circumstances as this.

I was a little closer now, close enough to see that it was indeed a life jacket I was looking at. Gator had his back to me, and was floating uneasily on the top of the waves. He was still, except for the water-generated motion.

"Gator!" I hollered, and paddled over to him as quickly as I could. All this water ― I was conscious of the overwhelming need to pee.

About three yards away from him, it suddenly hit me. The life jacket ― it looked wrong. And what I could see of the figure was too small for Gator.

I started swearing again, this time really meaning it. A damn Vietnamese ― it had to be. Now I could see the skin color, and I was certain it was not one of our guys. Or girls. For a moment, I'd had a wild rush of hope that it could be the tanker crew, but no such luck.

I sculled the boat to a standstill a few yards away and considered my options. If I waited a little longer, maybe he would just drown. That would save me a whole lot of trouble.

Still ― there's a kinship among aviators that transcends a lot of things. One of those being floating in the sea face-down.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn't let him die like that. I took a last look around the ocean, still searching for Gator, and saw another splash of orange off in the distance. What now? Head for Gator immediately and come back later for the gook?

Still, I was right there. I hauled ass over to him, grabbed him by the neck, and yanked him into the boat. I pulled my.45 out. Maybe not the most logical thing to do, because if I shot him I'd undoubtedly put a hole in my raft as well. But maybe it would slow him down some.

He was unconscious, pale even under that golden skin, but breathing. Nothing stuck out at an odd angle, so I figured there was nothing broken. Not that it mattered ― as long as he was breathing, I'd about reached the limit of my first-aid abilities.

I kept him where I could see him, right in the front of the raft, and headed for Gator. It seemed to take hours, much longer than it had to reach the stranger. But finally I was there.

Gator was conscious, sculling the water and clearly looking around for his own life raft. Obviously it had blown out of reach. One of his arms hung at an awkward angle by his side. I was a good deal gentler with him as I hoisted him into the raft.

"Got your radio?" Gator gasped. "I couldn't ― my arm wasn't working. I couldn't grab it and paddle at the same time."

I felt in one long deep pocket and pulled out my emergency SAR radio. It was preset to the appropriate channel, and I keyed the flat switch on the side and spoke into it.

"This is Viper Leader, does anyone read?" I unkeyed the mike and waited for a response. Blessedly it came within seconds.

"Viper Leader, Angel 101 en route to your position. I have a visual on you."

Never have words been so welcome in my ears. I let out a wild shout, which Gator echoed weakly. Our companion in the raft still appeared to be unconscious.

I slumped back down on my butt in the ass end of the life raft ― like you can tell one end from the other ― and gazed fondly at my RIO. His face was battered and bloody, white with pain, and his arm looked like shit. Still, those SAR guys knew how to get us back up in their bird without doing permanent damage ― I hoped. At least they claimed they did. "First time for everything," Gator said finally.

"Last time too," I said. "And last time I leave us in command-eject." Gator managed a weak frown. "Don't give me that bullshit," he said, his voice faint. "If I hadn't punched us out, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Maybe you're right," I said finally. The urge to argue the point with him was overwhelming, but there was one factor that stood in my way.

He was right.

"So what do we do with him?" I said, gesturing at the Vietnamese pilot. "I vote we throw him overboard."

Gator shook his head slowly. "I know you're not serious."

"And what if I am?" I said, trying to salvage some degree of ego out of this whole thing. "So it's okay to shoot 'em down but not to drown 'em?"

Gator sighed and shifted slightly. He reached out with one hand and touched the Vietnamese pilot. A low moan issued from the still form, and the Vietnamese stirred slightly.

"We take him back with us. On the helo."

"There it is." I pointed off toward the west. The tiny, ugly insect ― Angel 101. "Hurry up, you guys," I said into the radio. "And we've got an extra passenger for you here ― one of the bad guys we fished out of the water."

"Roger, copy three souls," the SAR crew chief answered. "We've got room for you."

Off to the east, I could see the air battle still raging. The fighters circled and danced in the sky, the Tomcats using their greater power against the MiGs' more maneuverable form. I saw another hit, but couldn't tell who it was. Please, God ― not one of ours. I offered up the silent prayer, as contrite at that moment as I ever had been in my life.

Somehow, I'd always envisioned the war stopping when I left it. I knew it wasn't true, at least on an intellectual level. The flights who replaced me while I went to plug and suck on the tanker or back to Jefferson to rearm still continued the battle. Although it seems like you're at the center of the universe when you're in the cockpit, it really isn't so, as the battle off to my east was now making patently clear to me.

I saw one of the small figures break off in hot pursuit and head our direction. Gator was watching too. I heard him say, "Oh, no. No, not that."

My only excuse for what I said next was that I'd just come out of air combat, been ejected from an aircraft, half drowned, and wasn't thinking straight. It didn't make sense, not even as I said it, but I said it anyway.

"They're not gonna strafe us."

Gator shot me a look of sheer, hellish disgust. "Maybe not at first." He gestured with his good arm toward the helo. "They're after the Angel first."

It was simply no match-up. The MiG came no closer than two miles, circled for a moment, then fired two missiles at the CH-46. The helo dove for the water, trying desperately to shake the missiles among the clutter of waves, but the sea state was simply too light. I'd never seen a helo move that fast, or that nimbly. Their pilot did a helluva job.

It wasn't good enough. The first missile hit dead on, shattering the canopy, then plowing part of the way into the fuselage before exploding into a fireball. The second missile detonated upon hitting the suspended shrapnel in the air, creating a secondary explosion that was completely unnecessary. The crew had died in the first moments of impact.

"No!" I was trying to stand now, shaking on my feet in the fragile life boat and lifting one hand at the air and shaking it. "No, you bastards."

I felt a hand on my back, and something yanked me down hard. I lost my balance, fell half out of the raft. My head was submerged in the cold water, and it must have cleared my brain. I grabbed for the side of the raft to keep from falling out, and in the process lost my gun. Two hands hauled me back into the raft and tossed me across to the other side. I sputtered, choked, then puked over the edge.

The Vietnamese pilot was awake ― and clearly had been for some time. I clenched my right hand reflexively, felt the absence of the pistol as keenly as I'd ever noted a loss before.

Our eyes met ― his black, battered from his own ejection and colder than the water. No blinking, just staring. I broke the gaze first and looked down in his left hand. A pistol, not an American one.

"Oh, Bird Dog," I heard Gator say softly. "Jesus, Bird Dog."

The Vietnamese whirled on him, pointing the gun in his direction. He made a motion, clearly indicated that Gator should move to my end of the raft. He did so, dragging himself and his crumpled arm painfully down the length. As soon as he was within arm's reach, I grabbed him and pulled him up toward me. "Just hold still, buddy. They'll be back."

Gator groaned, now past the point of having a coherent discussion.

In the far end of the raft, the Vietnamese settled down, seated, but with the gun pointed implacably in our direction.

We just sat like that for a long time, staring at each other. I checked Gator over, did what I could to make him more comfortable. There was nothing I could use on the boat to splint his arm except the oar, and the gook had gotten hold of that.

The other fellow pulled out his own version of a SAR radio and spoke briefly into it. My heart sank as someone answered. It took them about thirty minutes, but the patrol boat finally found us. We saw them well before they saw us, and our not-so-good friend guided them straight in on us.

They took him aboard first. Then two of them climbed down in the raft to hand Gator up. They went pretty easy with him once they saw he was injured. I saw Gator start to scream at one point when his arm joggled the wrong way, and the guy we fished out of the ocean said something in a nasty tone of voice to them. I don't speak Vietnamese, but I could guess what it was by the expression on their faces.

Something else struck me odd about the entire exchange. Our good old buddy in the water, the one I'd been so tempted to drown, looked like he might be something a little bit more than your average fighter pilot. There were no insignia on his uniform, nothing to give away his rank ― a standard precaution when flying combat patrols ― but I could tell from the way the rest of the men on the boat reacted to him that he might be somebody special. Maybe real special. I should have drowned him when I had the chance.

But for what it was worth, it got Gator fairly decent treatment. The fact that I'd fished him out of the water to begin with seemed to count for something.

It took us two hours to get to shore, a rolling, gut-puking journey in what looked like a converted fishing vessel. It must have had no draft whatsoever ― we bobbed around even in the mild seas like a cork with a trout on the other end.

Finally, we pulled into a naval base and pulled up to the pier. Once again, my buddy departed the boat first. That clued me in too ― last on, first off is the rule for senior officers. He stood on the pier, a bedraggled, soaked, and exhausted figure, with something burning inside of him that kept him upright and snapping out orders. A stretcher was waiting for Gator, and two men who looked to be the Vietnamese equivalent of medics were at his side immediately. Not a routine evolution from the looks of it ― I expected our friend's extended conversation on the ship-to-shore radio had something to do with it.

Nobody paid much attention to me, other than a tough-looking guy patting me down real thoroughly. He took away my knife and my radio. He left me with a chocolate bar and my plastic bottle of water.

Finally, old Fred ― and that's how I was beginning to think of him, because I was tired of thinking of him as a gook or simply that guy ― motioned to both of us. We marched off to an ambulance and a panel truck. They tried to pull me away from Gator's side and stuff me in the truck, and I protested vigorously.

"You are American?" The words in English surprised me, and I spun around to see a small, delicately made Vietnamese woman looking up at me. She smiled. "I am the translator," she said carefully, her words precise and accented. "You are American?"

I nodded. "Lieutenant Commander Curt Robinson, 78322-9872. United States Navy."

She nodded, as though she'd expected nothing more. "And your friend?"

"Commander Gator Cummings, United States Navy. I don't know his Social Security number."

Again she nodded, an odd, cryptic expression on her face. "I have some questions to ask you."

"I don't answer questions."

"They are very easy."

I shook my head in the negative. "No questions. And I go with him." I pointed to Gator, who was being loaded into the ambulance.

It was her turn to shake her head, and a frown appeared on her face. "You had General Hue in your boat," she began, and pointed at Fred. He was standing off to the side and watching this all with a cynical expression on his face.

"A general?"

"Yes. He has ordered for us to take care of you in light of that fact. And your friend. But your friend must go to the hospital, and you will go to…" She struggled with the phrase for a moment, then came up with it. "A holding facility."

She blew it when she glanced over at the general to see if she'd gotten it right. I knew at that point that good old Fred spoke a good deal more English than he'd let on. I turned to him and spoke directly to him.

"You know what happened. So you just explain it to her. And I gotta go with my buddy." The rear doors to the ambulance were now closed, and Gator was out of sight. I was growing increasingly desperate. "C'mon, you'd feel the same way if it were your backseater, wouldn't you?"

General Hue regarded me for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether or not to admit that he spoke English. Finally, without a word, he nodded. He rattled off a short series of commands in Vietnamese, then turned back to me.

"Thank you." The words were harsh and guttural, and barely understandable. It was evidently one of the few phrases he was willing to admit that he knew in English.

I stared back and gaped. None of this was making sense, none of it. I was certain that the general understood a good deal more than he was letting on.

But then again, you're not really in a position to challenge a general's word when you're a prisoner of war. I settled for being handcuffed and placed in the back of the ambulance with Gator.

With a rough squeal of tires, the ambulance took off from the edge of the pier. They lit up the siren, but only for a few minutes, evidently to clear traffic out ahead. I looked back at the pier through the rear window of the ambulance, and saw the general standing there talking to our interpreter.

The hospital looked like any hospital ― smelled funny, lots of white walls, a lot of people doing things that seem either painful, embarrassing, or downright pointless. Nevertheless, they seemed to treat Gator pretty well. I refused to leave the room, so they just ignored me as they wheeled in a portable X-ray machine, took some shots of his arm, then motioned to me to follow as they wheeled him down the hall.

An hour later, Gator had a real fine smile on his face, the result of whatever painkiller they'd pumped into him shortly after we arrived. He also had a nice white cast on his arm, and a neatly tied scarf in place for his sling.

"How you feeling?" I asked quietly. "Listen, you know where we are?"

Gator smiled dreamily. "Hong Kong?"

"No." It was as bad as I thought it might be. Gator was disoriented, and there was no telling what he might say until the drugs wore off. "Gator, listen to me. You punched us out, we were in the drink. The Vietnamese picked us up. Listen, good buddy, they're taking real good care of us so far. But I don't know how long that will last. You need to keep your mouth shut, don't say anything. Not about the ship, not about the aircraft, not about anything. You got that?"

"You're always telling me to shut up," Gator said vaguely. He looked up at me, and his pupils were dilated until they ate up the whole iris. "You never listen to me."

"I will from now on, Gator." I laid my hand on his good one, and held it tight. "You were right this last time, buddy. You were absolutely right and you saved my ass. But you gotta listen to me, Gator ― pay attention now. Don't say anything. We're POWs, you understand?"

Gator nodded. "Don't say anything." His voice trailed off into a sleepy mumble. I sat right next to him in the room as activity teemed in the passageway. Through the open door, I could see more pilots being brought in, all of them Vietnamese. The sounds of a working hospital were almost overwhelming.

For a while, I thought they'd forgotten about us. But no such luck. Finally a big heavy guy, a security fellow of some sort, showed up. "Come." The word was clear and understandable.

I stood up, then motioned to Gator. "He can't walk just yet."

That damn panel truck was back, parked right by the ambulance entrance. It must have followed us back from the pier. I couldn't be certain it was the same one, but it looked like it. It had that faded, oxidized green you get on Army vehicles, streaked with rust on the sides. It looked pretty rickety, but the engine sounded decent.

The guard motioned us to the back of the truck, and I helped Gator in first. Damn, it was so hard not to jar him ― thank God the drugs hadn't worn off yet. He moved like a little schoolkid, sort of clumsy and awkward, with a trusting expression on his face.

I handed him up into the truck, and whispered to him, "Don't forget. Don't say anything." He nodded once dreamily, scooted back into one corner, and seemed to doze off. I turned back to our guard. "Where are we going?"

He motioned at the truck again with his rifle.

I took the hint. As soon as I sat down, he slammed the door shut and I heard the lock turn. He walked around, got into the passenger seat, and talked to the driver for a minute. We pulled away, out of the parking lot, and onto a paved road.

Thirty minutes later, we were deep in the countryside. The road had degenerated to a rutted track, mostly paved but often not. Gator was awake now ― the first teeth-rattling jolt over an enormous pothole had brought him awake with an anguished moan. Now he just sat there, staring out into the air, holding his arm close to him and trying to keep it from jarring. It looked like the drugs were wearing off ― his face was getting tight, and his pupils were contracting.

"How're you doing, Gator?" I raised my voice to be heard over the rattling of our vehicle.

He groaned and turned white as we jolted hard to the right. I knew, whatever he said, he wasn't doing well at all. Not at all.

"I'm okay," he said finally. The words were forced out between clenched teeth. "My arm ― they fixed me?"

Okay, so maybe he wasn't all the way there yet. The last couple of hours must have been a blur for him. I debated rehashing them, then glanced toward the front. There was nothing separating us from the security man and the driver, and I had evidence that the security man knew at least one word of English. "Yeah, they set your arm."

Gator nodded, then looked back up at me. "What happened?"

I shook my head. "Not here, Gator. It's not safe." I pointed to the guys up front. His eyes followed my gesture, and it seemed to make sense to him. He nodded, then said, "Are you okay?"

Jesus, how could the guy even think of it? Here we were, trundling off to God knows where, his arm in a sling and my ass in one, and he asks if I'm okay? I don't know what I ever did to deserve flying with a guy like Gator, but whatever it was, it wasn't enough. He'd been taking care of me for years now, going along with some of the wild-ass schemes I cooked up ― the one over the Arctic came to mind first, where we'd whizzed along blind nearly at ground level to chase down some bad guys living in the ice spears ― and he'd damned near never said a word. Oh sure, he complained from time to time, but he went along with it. And so far, I hadn't done anything serious enough to get us killed.

At least not until now.

If I ever got out of here, I was gonna have to make it up to him somehow. Be more considerate, not roll inverted in a steep dive just for the sheer hell of it when I know it pisses him off. Listen to him occasionally, even laugh at those dumb-ass jokes he likes. Hell, I'd even make his rack every day if it would get us out of this situation.

"I'm fine," I said finally. "As fine as I can be."

Gator nodded. It looked like the medicine had kicked in just a little bit more. His eyes, unfocused and glazed, drifted shut, then jolted back open wide as we hit another bump.

"Where are they taking us? Did they say?"

"They're not the most talkative of fellows," I said.

I'd taken a long hard look at the sky when we walked out of the hospital and headed for the truck, wondering if the air battle was still going on. I hoped not ― it had looked like it was turning in our favor when we departed the pattern, but I couldn't be sure. Still, given enough Tomcats and Hornets, the United States Navy can whip the ass of any fighter air force around. And that included the bad-ass MiGs that were flown by the Vietnamese. Hell, I'd shot down a couple myself in the last Spratly Islands conflict.

I hadn't seen anything, but I was glad I'd at least looked. There was no chance that we would see it now, not this deep in the jungle. Trees towered overhead, tangled with vines and undergrowth. The sky was just patches we'd occasionally catch a glimpse of. The real overhead was the jungle.

I was halfway expecting it when we got there, but it still depressed me. Wire fencing, with guard posts set in every corner. One main building, no signs of barracks or anything like that. But behind the building, a structure in the ground that slanted downwards, about eight feet across at the entrance and maybe six feet high. The entrance was fortified with huge wooden girders, a nicety of construction that degenerated further back into unfinished tree trunks.

The open cavern inside was pretty big, and seemed to be well supported by timbering and boards. It was maybe fifty feet by twenty, illuminated only by a single strand of electric lights that ran across the middle of the ceiling. Near the rear, there were eight sets of bunk beds. A primitive bucket evidently constituted the sanitary arrangements.

One of our guards flicked on the lights, pointed us down the ramp, and gave me a gentle shove. I started to swing at him, but Gator caught my arm with his good one. "Not now."

I looked around the wire enclosure outside. Twenty, maybe thirty uniformed ground troops were milling around smartly, their curiosity about us evidently at a fever pitch. Our two guards held them back, waving them away with their weapons.

We went in and settled down on two bunks, the lower two that were side by side near the forward part of the cavern. It seemed important to me to be as near as I possibly could get to that one blank patch of natural sunlight. Gator stretched out on his rack and fell asleep. I lay down on mine and tried to think.

What were the odds that anyone had seen us taken by the Vietnamese? The helo had seen us in the water, sure, and had probably gotten a report back to Jefferson. But after it had been shot down, what had happened next? Had any of the aircraft overhead actually seen the Vietnamese fishing boat come out and pick us up?

And what about Fred ― General Hue, I mean? If he really was a general, what was he doing flying? You don't do that when you get stars, at least not in the United States Navy. You barely get to fly when you're a captain. And if he wasn't a general, what exactly was he?

My mind ran around in circles, trying to make some sense of it and wondering whether anybody even knew we were still alive. Finally, despite my best intentions of standing guard over Gator the entire time, I fell asleep.