First Strike

FIFTEEN

With a slider in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, Tombstone was on the flight deck with Coyote’s two weapons experts. They’d spotted the MiG just aft of the island to stay clear of the long line of fighters waiting to launch. Greene was ignoring the MiG, staring hungrily at the catapult and the Tomcats.

Coyote’s experts made a cursory examination of the exterior of the MiG, then the chief broke out a multimeter and started taking readings. “You’re sure they told you it was the same?” the chief asked, shouting to be heard over the launching aircraft.

Tombstone had no idea whether the chief recognized him and didn’t care. “Yep. That’s what he told me.”

The chief put away his gear. There were four carts loaded with missiles and aviation ordnance men standing by, just waiting to download the antiair missiles Tombstone had flown in with. “You understand, I can’t get into the guts of it, not with a lot more gear and a lot more time.”

Tombstone nodded. “But the fact that the hard points match up says a lot, doesn’t it?”

Gurring spoke up. “Yes, of course. But we don’t even know how the system is grounded. If it doesn’t work the way ours does and you catch a stray shot of voltage you could light off a missile and not be able to get it off your wing. If that happens, you’re out of there.”

“I know. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

The chief looked at the younger pilot. “And how about him?”

Tombstone turned to Greene. Yes, how about you, my moody little sidekick? Just what the hell is going on with you? “You don’t have to go,” Tombstone said. “This is strictly volunteer.”

An offended expression crossed Greene’s face. “You think I don’t have the guts?”

“I never said that. But you have to admit, you’ve been off lately.”

Greene waved away his concerns. “Maybe. But no way you’re going to try this without me. No way. Of course I’m in.”

Tombstone nodded, pleased. “Okay, let’s do it. We shoot the HARMs then buster back here. The admiral’s got a Tomcat with your name on it as soon as you land.”

Tombstone had never seen any weapons crew work more quickly or more efficiently. There was not a single wasted motion. The techs waltzed around each other as they went through the precise business of downloading one missile from hard points, lowering it to a carry cart, and sliding the HARM cart underneath. Uploading the two missiles took less than eight minutes, with the team on the right side edging out the team on the left by a few seconds.

The chief grunted “Not bad.” Tombstone turned to him, astounded.

“Chief. Not bad? Your crews upload HARMS onto an aircraft they’ve never seen before and do it faster than I’ve ever seen anyone load up any missile — and you say not bad? Where did you get these guys? Are they robots?”

“Naw, sir. We’ve just done some training.”

An understatement if I’ve ever had heard it. But he’s determined to be cool about it. Tombstone stepped forward and said, “Gentlemen, thank you. That has to be the finest job I’ve ever seen.”

Every last one of them tried to look cool, tried to pretend it was no big deal, but Tombstone could tell they were pleased with themselves. More than pleased — damned proud, and with every right to be so.

Greene had already started preflight and Tombstone decided not to double-check him as he normally would have. Instead, he climbed up the boarding ladder and strapped in, then began his preflight checklist. A few moments later, Greene climbed up and started his as well. They ran through the remainder of the checklist at record speed, glossing over a few steps with no more than a cursory glance. Three minutes later, the engines were turning over, the cockpit buttoned up, and they were taxiing toward the catapults.

The catapult crew had watched the ordnance men, and were determined not to be outdone. Watching them, you’d think they launched a MiG every day of the week. All routine, so routine — and yet every evolution was handled with the utmost professionalism. The MiG was directed to the catapults, the shuttle attached with a retaining pin, and a jet blast deflectors raised. Tombstone made a complete cycle of his control surfaces at the catapult officer’s direction. He returned the sharp salute and braced himself.

A split second later, the MiG started rolling down the catapult. Tombstone knew a moment of terror — it felt so different from the much larger Tomcat that had so much inertia. By contrast the MiG was so light it seemed like they were already airborne.

Finally, with a sharp thump, they were airborne. The MiG dipped slightly toward the waves as her wings caught the air, but less than a Tomcat would’ve done. He was able to pull her up and begin to climb almost immediately. He pulled off to the left, gained altitude, and headed for Bermuda.

“The missiles look okay?” Tombstone asked over ICS.

“I’m getting all green lights,” Greene said. “Everything checks out fine so far. But we won’t know for sure until we try to fire them.”

“If we’ve got solid green lights, then there shouldn’t be a problem.” A green light indicated that the avionics were talking to the weapons and getting the right answers to their electronic inquiries.

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Okay, let’s go over how we’re going to do this. I’m going in at low altitude, trying to stay out of the radar’s envelope. If we go in on the right approach path, the MiGs will think we’re one of them.”

“And what about the Hornets?” Greene asked. The HUD showed a mass of Hornets engaging the original squadron of MiGs between the carrier and the island. Tombstone and Greene would have to maneuver around them in order to reach their targets.

Tombstone shrugged mentally. “The Hawkeye will be keeping an eye out for us — they know who we are. And if anybody starts to look like they’re interested in taking a shot, they’ll break them off.”

“If there’s time.”

“Right. There will be.”

Thor picked his first target almost before he was off the catapult and certainly before his wingman, Captain Bennie Randy, formed up on him. To no one’s surprise, Thor targeted the lead MiG on the western edge of Bermuda even before he’d fully pulled up from his launch and settled in to level flight.

“Roger, one oh two,” the Hawkeye said, as Thor identified his contact. “You going to let anyone else take a shot this time?”

“If there’s a need for them to,” Thor said, his hands moving as he pulled the Hornet around to head east, his finger already toggling off his first weapon, his eyes searching for the next target. “You got one Marine, I don’t know that you need much more.”

“Hey.” Randy’s voice sounded aggrieved. “Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mean you, buddy,” Thor assured him. “Go ahead, get rid of some of that shit on your wings and let’s get down to business.

“Roger.” Thor saw a flash of fire and smoke as Randy shot an AMRAAM. “Okay, you call it.”

“Take high,” Thor said promptly. And watch your distance to the island — you move in too close, you’re in range of those antiair launchers. For now, we pick off what we can from a distance and wait until we can move in closer to do some real damage.”

“Roger,” Randy acknowledged.

“Come on, oh two,” Bird Dog’s impatient voice said over tactical. “You take any longer launching, I’m going to have to refuel.”

“On your wing now,” Shaughnessy said, seething. He knew where she was, he had to. Not only was her transponder lighting her up on his HUD, but she was within visual range as well.

“About time. Take low station and stay where I can keep an eye on you,” Bird Dog grumbled.

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” she snapped.

“Matter of opinion.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, opinions are like assholes.”

Silence for a moment, then Bird Dog said, “Look, let’s just get over there, okay? Head north, then turn east once you’ve cleared the island. We should be able to engage the reinforcement squadron before we get within range of the antiair batteries. Stay tight with me.”

Shaughnessy complied, seething. Right, stay tight. That’s because you think I’m a hothead. That I take chances I shouldn’t take. Like you should talk. Fat chance, mister. I waited too long for this, put up with too much shit from you when you were an ensign. I see a chance, I’m taking it. Because I’m every bit as good a pilot are you are — maybe better. And, sooner or later, you’re going to have to admit it.

Five minutes after the MiG was airborne again, she was in the midst of the light fog along the coast at 5,000 feet. Tombstone was counting on the confusion factor, with each pilot focused on only his individual engagement, to allow him to sneak into the pack. While he was behind the fur ball, he gained altitude and circled around like he was a MiG spoiling for a fight.

“Give me the frequency,” Tombstone said. Greene reset the radios and they heard an inquisitive Russian voice coming over it. Tombstone could pick out a few words, but his language skills fell far short of being able to answer.

The coast was only a short distance away. It would be no more than two minutes until they were dry. The voice over the radio grew increasingly insistent, then finally quit speaking altogether.

“Any reaction behind us?” Tombstone asked.

“Nope. I think maybe the controller wanted them to break off and take a look at us, but they’re all a little busy right now. With any luck, he’ll just decide that we’re having radio problems.”

“Great. Okay, first target. My dot,” he said. “Cross your fingers.” He toggled the weapons selector switch to select the radar homing missile, he paused, his finger over the firing button. “Be ready to punch us out if we have to.”

“That’s my job.”

“Tombstone punched the button.

The MiG pulled hard to the left as a missile sprang off the right wing. The sudden loss of weight coupled with the hard backdraft from the missile proved too challenging for the lighter aircraft. Tombstone regained control immediately and brought her back into level flight. “Second target now — your dot, Jeremy.”

“My dot,” Greene acknowledged, then toggled the second missile off.

The white exhaust from each of the two missiles was visible for a few minutes as they arrowed toward the island. The two remaining missile radars were located at the opposite ends of Bermuda.

“We’re targeted,” Greene said, as the ECM system howled. “Missiles.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Tombstone said. “And if the missiles work, no more problem in a few minutes.”

Tombstone put the MiG into a hard climb, kicked in the afterburner, and headed south. “Keep an eye on them.”

“Roger.” Greene turned around in his seat to watch the island behind them. A few moments later, he saw two explosions, followed by fire. “Hard kill, I think.” The radar warning signal fell silent. “And missiles have gone dumb. We did it!”

Tombstone switched to the tactical frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Two HARMs fired, two kills. Request you have the Hawkeye confirm.”

“Roger, Stoney One,” the Hawkeye said. “Confirm two radars off line.”

Howls of anticipation echoed over tactical as the Tomcat pilots turned back into the battle within the renewed deadly intent on the remaining MiGs. With shore-based missiles no longer complicating the picture, the matter of sweeping the sky clean became increasingly less complex.