First Strike

THIRTEEN

The threat warning receiver in the cockpit screamed, indicating that he’d been targeted by fire control radar. Tombstone’s pulse pounded, and he could hear Greene swearing quietly in the back seat.

Had his uncle gotten the message to the Jefferson? Did it get lost somehow aboard ship before the right parties got it? And did somebody remember to tell the cruiser? Hell of a thing to get shot down by friendly fire.

“Home Plate, this is unidentified air contact bearing one eight zero, range twenty miles from you. Be advised that this is a friendly contact — no IFF, but you should have verification on board of our identity.”

“Roger, unidentified contact, we hold you at that position. Say again your identity and interrogative your intentions?” The operation specialist’s voice was suspicious, but was replaced almost immediately by a different voice.

“Unidentified contact, this is Home Plate CO,” indicating that the commanding officer was speaking. “Be advised that we are in receipt of the traffic you mentioned. What assistance do you require?”

“A green deck,” Tombstone said promptly. “And a tanker. Get Rabies up if you can — I need a good one.”

There was a long silence, and Tombstone could only imagine the incredulous conversations taking place on board the carrier. Finally, the captain’s voice returned. “Unidentified contact, are you aware that this is an American aircraft carrier?”

“Do you think I could put this down on a cruiser?” Tombstone snapped. “Of course I know it’s a carrier. Now get me some gas in the air or you’re going to need a helo to get me on board. And believe me, if I have to punch out of this bitch due to lack of fuel, I’m going to be one royally pissed off aviator.”

Another long silence, then, “Roger, we have Texaco aircraft in your area at this time. And, as luck would have it, Commander “Rabies” Grill is the pilot in command. And, unidentified contact…? Is there something we ought to call you, something besides unidentified contact?”

“Sure. Call me Stoney One,” Tombstone said promptly. “Composition one, two souls on board, state one point six, and I’m really getting thirsty up here.”

“Roger, sir,” the operation specialist said, evidently having decided that, unidentified or not, this was something he did know how to do. “Suggest you come left, sir. Texaco is fifteen miles from your location, and he’ll be waiting for you. Oh, and sir, no disrespect, but Commander Grills… well… he asked me to ask you…” the controller’s voice trailed off.

“What?” Tombstone demanded.

“If you know how to do this, sir. Tank, he means. And if you know him personally.”

“Yeah, I can manage it. And tell Rabies that since he’s so concerned about it, I’ll let him sing his latest song during the approach.”

The controller kept the mike open to allow Tombstone to hear him chuckle. “I guess you do know him, sir.”

“All too well.”

“Button three for coordination.”

“I don’t have a button three. How about a frequency?”

“Roger, wait one…” The controller then reeled off the frequency associated with that preset channel on an American aircraft. Then he continued with, “Sir, just out of curiosity — just exactly what is it you’re flying? The deck wants to know for the tension line settings.”

“A MiG-37,” Tombstone replied. “And if you’ve never seen one close-up, I’ll be glad to give you a personal tour once we’re on deck.”

“Roger, copy a MiG-37,” the controller said, his voice as calm as though this were an everyday occurrence. “I will advise Texaco.”

“Hell, don’t mind me,” a familiar voice broke in on the circuit. “Just get your ass on up here before I change my mind about committing unnatural acts. Tanking is bad enough, but doing it for a MiG really sucks.”

Outside of landing at night on the deck of a carrier, few evolutions are as dangerous as tanking. Tombstone had done it so many times in so many American aircraft he thought he could probably do it in his sleep, but he knew the dangers of complacency. And, even though the evolution was familiar, the MiG was still a new aircraft to him. He had less than thirty hours in her, and while he’d grown to appreciate the aircraft’s nimble handling and performance characteristics, tanking with an unfamiliar cockpit configuration would test his skills to the limits.

He already had radar contact on the KS-3 tanker, and a vector from the controller took him right in behind the aircraft. The tanker was trailing the familiar basket and Tombstone settled in low and slightly behind the KS-3.

“Is this who I think it is?” Rabies asked over their private control circuit.

“Probably,” Tombstone answered. “No names, okay?”

“Yeah, right, I got it. What the hell are you doing flying that bitch?”

“Long story, and now is not the time.” Tombstone glanced down at his fuel indicator. “Let’s get this done and we’ll catch up when we’re back on board.”

“Roger. Take it slow. I’ll keep her steady for you.”

One of the advantages of the S-3 airframe as a tanker was it was an exceptionally aerodynamic platform. All the S-3’s series liked to fly and did it easily. They had exceptionally long endurance, and their stable, aerodynamic characteristics made them an excellent choice for tankers.

Tombstone finessed the control surfaces, allowing the MiG to gain altitude almost inch by inch. She was more than glad to accommodate him, and seemed to understand exactly what he was trying to do. When he attained the correct altitude, with his refueling probe lined up on the basket, he tapped the throttles forward ever so slightly.

The MiG bolted forward. Tombstone swore, and pulled back, dropping well behind S-3.

“Easy, big boy,” Rabies warned, and Tombstone could hear the tension in the pilot’s voice. “You got all the time you need to do this right — but no time to do it wrong.”

“Roger, she’s a little too loose on the throttle,” Tombstone acknowledged.

“Try doing it with control surfaces instead,” Rabies suggested. “I saw them doing it at an air show once.”

Still at the correct altitude, Tombstone adjusted the control surfaces and then compensated with the throttle. The MiG slowed noticeably and he tapped the throttles so that he was keeping the correct distance from the tanker. Then he eased off the speed brakes ever so slightly, allowing her to drift forward. The distance between the two aircraft closed slowly.

“That refueling probe — you sure it’ll fit?” Rabies asked.

“I think so. It’s supposed to.”

“All right, let’s do this.”

Attitude, attitude. Watch your line up. Keep your eyes on the basket. That’s right, slow and easy. You can do this.

But it didn’t feel right. The probe was closer to the cockpit than it was on the Tomcat, and was set slightly farther back. He would be perilously close underneath the KS-3.

“They must use a longer tanker probe, and trail the basket back farther,” Tombstone said.

Tombstone slid the MiG forward, almost holding his breath. It looked like he was going in smoothly, but then he heard a thump and a shiver ran through the MiG.

“Off center,” Rabies said. “Slide back a bit and try it again. And, remember, that refueling probe is off to the right a bit, not midline.

Tombstone pulled back slightly, readjusted his speed, and tried again.

Come on, baby. You can do it. Now!

The refueling probe slid into the basket smoothly and locked into place. A green light appeared on Tombstone’s control panel. “We got a lock.”

“Roger, concur lock. How much you want?”

“Four thousand pounds.”

“That much?” Rabies said, doubt in his voice. “I thought you were heading in for landing.”

“Yeah. But if you think refueling for the first time was tricky, imagine the trap. I want to be a little heavier, have plenty of time for a couple of go rounds.”

“Roger, you got it.” Another green light on the panel lit up, indicating fuel was flowing. “You sure you know how much she holds?”

“That is one of the things I do know,” Tombstone answered.

The MiG proved to be an exceptional refueling platform once he figured out how to plug into the basket, and the aircraft gulped down the fuel quickly. Within a few minutes, Tombstone was able to reduce speed and drift away from the tanker.

“Thanks,” Tombstone said. “I’ll see you on the boat.”

“Roger. If you have any problems with a trap, I can give you some pointers.” Rabies voice was smug. He was known as a hotshot who rarely missed a perfect three wire trap.

“I think I can manage.” Tombstone chuckled.

“Some kind of fun,” Greene said from the back. Except for a few quiet comments during Tombstone’s lineup, he had been silent during the entire evolution.

“Yeah. You can try it next time.”

“Wonderful.” Again Tombstone detected a note of surliness in the younger pilot’s voice.

“Now, let’s see if we can get back on board.” Tombstone switched away from the coordination frequency back to the tower frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Request permission to come on board.”

“Roger, green deck, and you have priority in the stack. We’ve recalculated your weight to account for the fuel you took on and we’re ready for you.”

“Roger, I’d like to make two passes over the deck before I actually try it. And put the Hornet LSO back there, would you?”

“Roger, you got it.”

Tombstone descended and slowly turned, getting a feel for the handling of the aircraft now that she was fully fueled again. He came in behind the carrier at five miles, lined up on her and proceeded to the two-mile point, intersecting what his glide path would be for a Tomcat, then commenced his descent.

“Stoney One, call the ball,” the controller said.

“Roger, call the ball,” Tombstone acknowledged. Moments later, he saw the Fresnel lens. “Stoney One, ball.”

“Stoney One, LSO. First for both of us, sir. Looking good at this time, on path, on altitude. Say needles?” the calm, professional voice of the LSO requested.

“No needles,” Tombstone said. “We’ll do this by visual.”

“Roger, copy no needles. Disregard needles, well, fly visual, Stoney One.” The LSO reflexively fell into the standard patter he used with an approaching aircraft.

“Disregard needles, aye,” Tombstone answered.

For a few moments, he simply let the aircraft fly, his hands light on the controls as he made his approach. The MiG was so much lighter than the Tomcat he was used to and he was sure that would shortly play a major factor.

Astern of the aircraft carrier is a mass of roiling, disturbed air, and every aircraft approaching for a landing runs smack into it. This area, known as the bubble, makes it difficult to hold on glide path, particularly in an unfamiliar aircraft. For his first approach, Tombstone would approach intentionally high, avoiding ramp strike.

“Stoney One, you’re above glide path, on course,” the LSO said. “I understand you’re doing a fly by?”

“Touch and go,” Tombstone said, feeling confident with the way the MiG was handling. He would touch wheels to the deck well forward of the arresting wires, continue maintaining full power, and take off again immediately over the bow. “Two touch and goes, and then we’ll do it for real.”

“What are your tires rated for?” the LSO asked.

Tires. Another spec we didn’t cover. But there’s only so much you can absorb in two days. I think they’ll take it, but I don’t remember. Maybe I should just try it. Tombstone groaned. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “But, to be on the safe side, cancel the touch and goes — we’ll do a fly by instead.”

So, no actual contact with the deck prior to the trap, he thought. “You ready for this?” he asked Greene.

“Yep. We’re in command eject, and I got my hand on the bar. We run into trouble, I’ll have us out of here.”

That worried Tombstone a bit. Would Greene panic and punch them out unnecessarily?

“It’s going to feel different,” he said. “A lot harder landing than it would be in a Tomcat.”

“Don’t worry — I know what to do.”

And now the boat was coming up at them quickly, a massive steel tower, its deck cluttered with aircraft and people. He saw sailors lining up outside the green line, staring up in wonder at the sight of a MiG flying over their deck. Vulture’s Row, the observation area on the weather decks at the 0–10 level, was also crowded. A few people waved as he went by.

He flew down the length of the deck, then pulled up sharply and peeled off to the left. “Nice pass, Stoney One,” the air boss said.

“One more, and we do this for real.”

Tombstone circled around and this time intercepted the flight path at just over two miles from the boat. He lined up again, eased her in, and followed the LSO’s directions, getting used to the sound and rhythm of the LSO’s coaching. This time he took her down even closer to the deck, so close that in a Tomcat his wheels would have been touching. Again, he continued his pass on down the deck, then peeled off to the left. Behind him, Greene muttered a word of encouragement.

“All right, this time is for real,” Tombstone announced as he veered away from the carrier once again. “I’m taking bets on the three wire.”

“You’re on,” the LSO said promptly. “I bet two sliders that you nail the three wire.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” Tombstone warned.

The aircraft felt right, so very right. He knew with a sudden surge of confidence that there would be absolutely no problem with the trap, that he would nail the three wire cleanly, easily, righteously.

“A little high, sir. Down just a bit,” the LSO coached. “That’s right, that’s right, looking good,” he continued, as Tombstone bled off the speed slightly. “Watch your speed, sir — not as much needed in the smaller bird.”

Tombstone increased his speed slightly and corrected his course as the MiG veered in the bubble. The LSO was right. The lighter aircraft could land a bit faster than a Tomcat could, and had less of a margin for error in minimum airspeed.

“You’re right a bit, sir. That’s it, that’s it — right on path right on altitude. Bring her on in, looking good,” the reassuring patter from the LSO provided Tombstone with instantaneous updates on how he was doing. He glanced one last time at the Fresnel lens, at the bright green glow, a friendly welcoming sight, and then fixed his gaze on the deck. He was committed now.

All at once, the carrier loomed up at them, massive and inhospitable. It was always at this moment in any landing that he was convinced, just for a microsecond, that he wasn’t going to make it. And it passed just as quickly as it always did.

“Power back, power back,” the LSO said, as he came over the flight deck. “Now!”

Tombstone pulled throttles back, and let the MiG slam down on the tarmac. “Full power,” the LSO ordered, and Tombstone slammed the throttles forward again.

For one terrifying moment, he thought he had missed all four wires. Or perhaps the tail hook had been down — no, the LSO would have seen that and warned him. Then, he felt the neck-snapping jolt that threw him forward against his ejection seat straps, and the MiG slammed to a halt. For the next several seconds, it strained against the arresting wires, engines burning at full power, ready for take off again should the wire snap.

Then a plane captain stepped up front him and signaled for him to reduce power. Tombstone eased back on the throttles until the engines were barely idling. He backed up slightly, then retracted the tail hook. “Good job, Stoney One,” the LSO said. “I’ll see you in the dirty shirt mess. We got a lot of folks who owe us a slider or two.”

Tombstone followed the directions of the plane captain and taxied to his spot. The handler elected to place him with the Hornets. Tombstone powered down the engines. The crowd around him stood back, wary. Finally, as a wide-eyed plane captain scrambled up the boarding ladder, Tombstone popped the canopy back. Fresh air rushed over him, cool and welcoming. He smiled, as the plane captain said, “Welcome aboard the USS Jefferson, sir.”

Before Tombstone was even out of sight of the MiG, Lab Rat had his people swarming over her. They took pictures, made measurements, and Tombstone could tell they were itching to completely disassemble the entire aircraft.

“Don’t do anything that will disable it,” he warned, as a safety observer led him toward the island. “It’s not ours — not yet.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Lab Rat reassured him. “They’re not allowed to touch anything that moves.”

“I mean the avionics as well,” Tombstones said, scrutinizing Lab Rat carefully. “You know what I mean, Commander. Don’t down my bird.”

“Promise, sir,” Lab Rat said.

Not completely satisfied, but unwilling to stand watch on the aircraft himself every second of the day, Tombstone let the white shirt lead him away.

As he walked down the so-familiar passageways, Tombstone felt wave after wave of nostalgia wash over him. It was here that he started his career so many decades ago as a nugget aviator, served as CAG, and later as commander of the battle group, the billet Coyote now held.

His escort took him straight into flag spaces, and people he passed in the passageways stopped, then turned to stare, their jaws dropping. Many of them recognized him, and seemed to understand that he did not want to be acknowledged. But they still cleared space for him just as though he were still an admiral, and he heard a few quiet comments of “Good trap, Admiral,” as he passed by.

He walked into the conference room, then back through it into TFCC. Coyote was watching the screen, asking questions and shouting orders as he watched the battles progress. He paused just long enough to slap Tombstone on the back, then turned his attention back to the screen.

“I’m not even sure you have a security clearance, old buddy,” Coyote said. “But if you’ve got any suggestions or comments, speak up. The president wants us to deal with this and deal with it now.” Coyote shook his head wonderingly. “I’ve never seen such a strong directive. So I sent in the SEALs to deal with as many of the missile launchers and antiair weapons as I could. We’re taking on the MiGs at the same time and trying to prevent a second squadron from reinforcing them.”

Tombstone shook his head, watching the scenario unfold. To the north of Bermuda, half the air wings fighters were decimating the remaining Russian MiGs. The Aegis was standing by in case the missiles were launched. Coyote was providing voice updates to the National Command Center every thirty seconds.

Coyote swore quietly. He turned to Tombstone, anger in his eyes. “It’s the damned mobile antiair platforms,” he said. “The Russians are sticking close to shore, and backing off to lead us in closer.”

“You got anything airborne with HARMs?” Tombstone asked, referring to the antiradiation missiles. HARMs were intended to destroy enemy radars. They homed in on radar signals and the later versions of the missile could even remember where the radar was, even if it was shut down immediately.

“No. Strictly antiair load outs. I’m having two loaded out right now, but it will be another fifteen minutes before they launch. But they’ve got long-range antiair launchers on the island. I don’t think we can get close enough to target them before they can target us.” He shook his head, glaring at the screen. “But the real priority is the missiles. If they make it past the Aegis, the East Coast is in deep shit. The cruisers along the coast are deployed to take them out on final, but there’re no guarantees they can take them, either.”

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Tombstone. It was outrageous, completely outrageous — but it just might work. He waited for break in the action, and grabbed Coyote by the arm. “Have you got any really, really smart weapons and intelligence people?”

“Of course.” Coyote didn’t take his gaze off the screen. “What do you want them for?”

“See if they can jury rig those HARMs on the MiG. I might be able to get in closer and faster than they can — I’ll have the transponder on and I’ll show up on their radar as a friendly. I can be on top of them before they know what hits them.”

Coyote looked at him, doubt on his face. “Never work. The avionics are—”

“Are stolen from us,” Tombstone finished, remembering the lecture his instructor pilot had given him on the avionics. Even hard points, the fixtures on the wing to which the Russian missiles attached, were strictly American specs. “It’ll work — I know it will. It’s worth a shot.”

Coyote thought for a moment, which seemed like an eternity in the fast-paced environment in TFCC. “If nothing else, you could launch as an antiair platform,” he agreed cautiously. “Come up behind them, even up the odds.”

“Yes. Give me two HARMs, the rest antiair.”

Coyote shook his head, still not certain he believed what they were discussing. “Can you even launch that bird off the cat?”

Tombstone nodded. “More borrowed technology. Rather than building their own catapult systems from scratch, the Russians studied ours. They’re completely interchangeable.”

Coyote turned to a chief. “Pass the word for Lieutenant Commander Gurring and Chief Harding. I want them up here on the double.” He turned back to Tombstone. “Those are your men. If anybody can do it, they can.”

Bird Dog had called in every favor he could in order to have himself included in the air combat mission. Sure, the land attack group would see plenty of action, but it wasn’t the kind that he preferred. Give him a fight against a MiG any day, to dumping iron on stationary targets. When the flight schedule was posted, though, he was in for a disappointment. He turned to the CO and pointed at the offending line item. “What’s this?”

Commander Gator Cummings, the commanding officer and a RIO, peered at the offending item over the top of his reading glasses. “It’s you and Shaughnessy. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t fly with her,” Bird Dog said, feeling his temper start to rise. “I thought I made that pretty clear.”

Gator shut his eyes for a moment as though replaying the conversation in his mind, and finally said, “Yes. Yes, I believe you did.”

“Then what’s this assignment? I don’t want her on my wing. She’s too — too hotheaded.”

At that, Gator roared with laughter. He turned to the rest of the pilots, who were milling about, checking their gear and talking excitedly among themselves. “Hey, listen to this. Bird Dog thinks Shaughnessy is hotheaded.” A wave of guffaws and rude comments swept across the ready room, as every pilot chimed in.

Bird Dog thought someone was too hotheaded? Well, it was about time he knew what it was like to be on the other side of things for change.

“Hey, I’ll swap,” one of the pilots said. “He could have Boomer — I’ll take Shaughnessy any day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Boomer snapped. Boomer was a lieutenant on his second cruise and had already earned a reputation for being an extremely cautious pilot. “You got a problem with the way I fly?”

The first pilot slapped him on the back. “Naw, not a bit. It’s just that Bird Dog wants a conscientious wingman, and well, you fit the bill, don’t you think?”

“Prudent,” Boomer insisted. “Prudent, that’s all. I like to make sure of my shots.” From around the room, other offers to swap wingmen with Bird Dog were called out.

Finally, Gator held his hand up. “Pipe down, everybody. They’ll be no swapping — the flight schedule stands as written.”

“Why?” Bird Dog asked, aware that he was starting to whine. “I don’t see why I should have to—”

“Follow orders like anyone else?” Gator snapped. A sudden silence descended on the ready room. “What makes you think you’re entitled to your choice of wingman? You think that maybe, just maybe, I might know better than you what’s best for this squadron?”

“But I—” Bird Dog started, and Gator waved him off.

“Try looking in the mirror sometime, asshole. Half the time, you’d see Shaughnessy’s face staring back. The only difference is you got more time under your belt. She stays your wingman. Got it?”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Shaughnessy said, walking to the front of the room. Cold fury infused her delicate features. Electricity seemed to crackle off her. “Because if I do, then I—”

“No,” Gator said simply. “You don’t, either. Now, unless both of you want to be assigned permanent squadron duty officer while everyone else flies, I suggest you get your asses up to the flight deck and start preflight. You fly together, or you don’t fly at all.”

Shaughnessy beat him to the ladder heading up the flight deck, and he had to admit that hurt slightly. She was smaller and weighed less, he told himself. She squirmed through holes in the crowd that you couldn’t expect a guy his size to go. And, climbing the ladder, well, she had a lot less weight to carry around, didn’t she?

By the time Bird Dog arrived on the flight deck, Shaughnessy was already well into her preflight checklist. The plane captain stood by her side, nodding and smiling, and that bothered Bird Dog, too. It was his favorite plane captain, and he resented the defection. Just because Shaughnessy herself used to be a plane captain, they were all over her like she was still one of their own. Well, she better learn about the responsibilities and burdens of being an officer. She couldn’t keep sucking up to a stupid airman.

“Sir?” his own plane captain asked. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I’m ready,” Bird Dog snapped. “I’m always ready.”

All around them, the flight deck buzzed with frantic activity. An outsider watching might have concluded it was uncontrolled chaos, but everyone on the carrier knew better. It was a delicate, complex ballet, each sailor with his own starring role, all under the watchful eye of the Air Boss located in the tower seven decks above.

Forward, the alert five aircraft that had been sitting manned on the catapults were already launching. Steam boiled up from the catapult line as the piston came up to full power. The catapult officer ordered one final check of control surfaces, and the Tomcat wiggled every moving part. Then, satisfied that no last-minute gremlins had crept in, the plane captain popped off a sharp salute. The pilot returned it, the catapult officer dropped the deck and pointed and released his finger from the pickle.

The aircraft shot forward as the shuttle began its run down to the end of the deck. It picked up speed at an astounding rate, taking less than five seconds to reach minimum takeoff speed. First one, then the other alert five aircraft launched.

As the jet blast deflectors lowered, a long line of steam curled lazily away from the shuttle. A familiar vibration rang throughout the deck, a gentler echo of the one produced by the launch, as the shuttles ran back to their starting position. Already Tomcat and Hornets were vying for position. From the middle of the deck, a helo lifted gracefully from its spot, then moved off to the side and took station astern of the carrier.

Bird Dog performed his preflight quickly, almost automatically. How many times had he done this? Why, hell, he had more time preflighting than Shaughnessy had in the cockpit, he’d bet. Finally satisfied, he pulled down the boarding ladder from the side of the aircraft and started to climb up. As his eyes cleared the fuselage, he could see that Shaughnessy and her RIO were already buttoned up, canopy down, and waiting to taxi to their shot.

Dammit, she shouldn’t be getting ahead of him. She was his wingman, not the other way around. He added this offense to the list of infractions she had committed just to piss him off.

A plane captain followed him up, helped him with the ejection harness fastenings, and pulled the safety pins from the ejection seat. He held up the ejection pins for Bird Dog’s inspection, then put them in his pocket. “Good hunting, sir. Kill one of those bastards for me, would you?”

“You got it, buddy. Bird Dog started to slide the canopy forward.

“And, sir?” The airman pointed over at Shaughnessy’s bird. “Bring her back. She’s still kinda new — she doesn’t know what she’s doing like you do. But, I know she always watches to see what you do. She says you’re the best pilot she’s ever known in a Tomcat. So, keep her out of trouble. We’d all really appreciated it.”

“No sweat. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Bird Dog locked the canopy down and turned to taxi.

So, he wasn’t the only one who realized what Shaughnessy was facing, was he? Even her own former peers realized it. Hell, knowing where she came from, maybe that made her a little desperate to succeed. Maybe she tried too hard, felt like she had something to prove.

But she was a hot stick. Did she know that? Did she know how really good she was? Good enough not to have anything to prove to anybody. Not even to me.

Maybe she didn’t know that. He considered the possibility as he kept up his scan of the deck and followed the plane captain’s motions to taxi forward. Shaughnessy fell in behind him and her own plane captain held her back and waited for Bird Dog.

Good thinking. Maybe between the plane captains and her RIO, they could keep her from screwing up.

The shuttle locked on and the Tomcat jolted slightly. He watched the plane captain and the catapult officer, cycled his stick on signal, saluted, and braced for launch. Seconds later, he was airborne.

Once clear of the ship, Bird Dog circled around to the marshal point and waited for Shaughnessy. One way or another, along with killing his share of MiGs, he was going to bring her back alive.