Flash Point

22

Ricketts was startled when a man he didn’t recognize ran into the shop with a frenzied look on his face yelling something incomprehensible. “What?” Ricketts asked in Arabic.

“Big plane battle near. They’re heading this way! Come and see!”

The shop owner looked at Ricketts as if to ask whether they should go outside.

“We’ve got to stay here,” Ricketts said gravely, annoyed that the shopkeeper would even consider leaving the shop at this critical point in the operation. He stared at the owner, who understood and tried to find something to keep him busy until the Sheikh showed up. Any minute now.

Chermak’s one-thousand-pound laser-guided bomb slammed into the Honda trailer Ricketts had driven so carefully to the right spot. The explosion, like a huge car bomb, detonated the C4 explosives that lined the inside of the van. Ricketts had set the van up to create the much needed diversion while he and the Sheikh disappeared into another section of buildings. His group was waiting to secret them out of Dar al Ahmar in a highly detailed and rather brilliant plan, at least Ricketts thought so. The guards and supporters of the Sheikh would be left to sort through the rubble and confusion for days after the Sheikh was out of the country and on his way to justice. As it turned out, Ricketts only had three-one-thousandths of a second to realize that his van had exploded at exactly the wrong time. The second American-made laser-guided bomb landed directly on the roof of the single-story building and penetrated right to the floor between Ricketts and the owner of the shop before exploding with all its force.

“Yes!” Woods said into his mask as he saw the explosions in Dar al Ahmar some six miles away. He couldn’t judge how close to each other they’d really hit but what he could tell was that they were close to each other in time and proximity. Which meant they had gotten their target. It would be unlikely in the extreme for both to miss in the same direction at the same time. “They got him!” Woods said to Wink, fighting the urge to do a victory roll.

“Yeah, well, they’re going to get us in about a minute if we’re not careful. Syria has come in force, and we can’t even talk to the airplanes around us. Stay off the radio, the Major said. Fine, right. But we don’t know what the hell is going on!”

“Relax. We’ve just got to get back to Israel.”

“We’ve got to get back to the damned boat, Trey! We’re due to land in forty-five minutes and we’re two countries away in the middle of the biggest fur ball I’ve ever seen!”

“We’re heading south.” Woods took in the sky around them in amazement. There were at least twenty planes, MiGs, F-15s, and F-16s, turning toward each other. Some were in afterburner, others not, some trying to escape, others trying to pursue. He didn’t see any MiGs on the tail of any Israeli, but there were plenty of MiGs in deep trouble from the fighters with the blue Star of David on their sides.

“We’ve got to help out,” Woods said as he moved sharply to the right to head toward the fight. Approaching, he could see another cluster of planes to the west, and another farther south. He selected Sidewinder on his stick.

Wink changed the display on his screen to show their plane in the center. The symbols showed planes, friendly and hostile, to the east, behind them. Wink turned to look, but couldn’t make any of them out.

Without any warning an F-15 shot up in front of them from below, with a MiG-23 following it a mile behind. Woods was sure the Eagle pilot didn’t know the MiG was behind him. He looked to his right at Big, went to military power, and pulled straight up to follow the MiG after the F-15. They were much slower than he was and he gained on the MiG quickly. His airspeed started to bleed off. He went into afterburner and pulled his nose up to the MiG, flying straight up away from the earth. He heard the hungry growl of the Sidewinder missile and pulled the trigger. He felt a slight shudder and listened to the characteristic whoosh as the missile raced off the rail and headed for the tailpipe of the Flogger. Woods’s heart pounded, as he watched the first missile he had ever fired at an airplane fly toward it with mindless dedication. Unknowing, uncaring, unmerciful, wanting only heat, and more heat. The hotter, the more intense, the more concentrated, the better.

Woods wondered if the Syrian pilot flying the MiG knew the capabilities of the Sidewinder, knew how mean it really was, that once it locked on to your heat signature, you might as well jump out. Apparently not. The missile flew right up the tailpipe of the Flogger, disappeared in the luxurious heat of the afterburning engine, and exploded. The Flogger pitched over as if it had been pole-axed, and the pilot ejected, jettisoning his worthless airplane.

“Boola, boola!” Woods yelled.

“Nice shot,” Wink replied. “Belly check.”

Woods rolled the airplane completely around, still heading straight up. No bogeys threatening. “Clear!”

Woods pulled the Tomcat over on its back and brought the nose to the horizon. He rolled wings level, checked his instruments, and came out of afterburner.

“Two visuals, left nine and eleven,” Wink called. “F-16s.”

“Got ’em,” Woods replied. Four F-15s were chasing three MiG-21s trying to escape to the north. “They’re bugging out,” he reported.

“Still a lot of them around here,” Wink said, looking at his screen. The sweat rolled down his face even though the cockpit was cool. His hand shook imperceptibly as he held the radar control handle. “Looks like a flight of four bogeys to the west, headed this way,” he said with concern in his voice. “Come starboard hard, head 275!”

Woods came hard right, and accelerated. Big saw him turning and began his own right turn. They steadied up heading west, and climbing. Big took his place in combat spread, one and a half miles to Woods’s right, and five thousand feet below.

Woods strained to see ahead, looking for the bogeys. “Nothing, Wink. You sure?”

Wink looked at the screen again. “Yep. Four of ’em have broken out of the pack and are hauling east, headed right for us. Five miles ahead. Slightly right.”

“I don’t see anything,” Woods said, concerned.

Suddenly Big’s voice came over the radio. “Below us!”

Woods saw four Syrian MiGs coming up for them. He pushed the nose of the Tomcat over into a negative G dive. Dirt and dust flew up from the floor of the cockpit and settled against the canopy as they went downhill. Woods and Wink floated up against their straps, as the blood in their bodies fought to get into their heads and pop blood vessels in their eyes.

“211, come north. Bogey 020 for 45 miles, angels 12…”

“211, Judy,” Wink said hurriedly, cutting Tiger off.

“Two Fishbeds and two Floggers!” Woods said, sweat on his face. Two MiG-21s, two MiG-23s. Not great airplanes, but good enough to kill you.

“No other bogeys,” Wink said, his voice up half an octave. Lots of airplanes, lots of bogeys, but none that was a factor right now.

Woods struggled to get the nose of the Tomcat on one of the MiGs. The two MiG-21s were in the lead with the MiG-23s behind them. Woods couldn’t tell if they were flying in a box formation, a difficult formation to attack, or had just ended up in the same piece of sky at the same time. Didn’t matter now. They were after him. The lead Fishbed on the left was directly in front of him, heading right for him, two miles ahead in afterburner. At least they aren’t timid, Woods thought.

He checked to make sure Sidewinder was selected. He listened for the tone, and shot. The missile flew off at the MiG. The Fishbed saw the missile come off and immediately began a hard turn away, dropped flares, and dove for the ground. Woods watched the Sidewinder correct its flight path to compensate for the target’s movement. It caught the MiG and ripped the wing off. The MiG tumbled out of control and Woods shifted his gaze to the trailing Flogger. He smiled inside his mask, then suddenly his mouth went dry. The Flogger had radar-guided missiles, and Woods didn’t have any more Sidewinders. They couldn’t turn on their radar. They were flying right into the heart of the envelope of the Flogger’s radar missiles with no ability to shoot back. He could see the big nose, like an F-4 Phantom, with its radar probably trained on him. They could turn and run, or — “Turn on the radar, Wink!”

“We can’t! They’ll pick it up!”

“It’s a Flogger!” Woods yelled into his mask as he waited for a missile to come off at them. “Now!”

“No!” Wink said. “Split S and we’ll bug out!”

“No chance. We’re too close, too low. Turn on the radar, Wink!”

“Let’s close on him and gun him,” Wink said, trying to think of any alternative, continuously scanning the skies for other planes. “We can’t use the radar!”

“Turn it on!” Woods screamed. “We’re inside three miles!”

Wink growled in his mask. “Let me do the shooting. Select Sparrow.”

Woods’s thumb quickly slipped to the round weapon selection button on the stick and moved it to select Sparrow missiles. Wink moved the radar out of standby, chose a radar channel out of sniff, and immediately picked up the two approaching Floggers. “Geez, Trey; they’re really hauling,” he said, looking at their speed — two hundred eighty-five for three miles. “Two right, slightly low.”

“I’ve got a tally!” Woods said. “Shoot him!”

“Come starboard, easy,” Wink said quietly. “Steady.” His left thumb went to the red launch button on the console by his left knee. He waited until the Flogger was in the absolute heart of the head-on shot, where there would be no escape. He locked up the target with the radar, and pushed the launch button. They felt the clunk and movement of the Tomcat as the five-hundred-pound Sparrow missile dropped off the plane and its motor fired. It flew hurriedly toward its target as the Flogger shot its own missile.

Woods brought his throttles back to idle to keep as far away as he could from the Flogger missile while their own missile flew toward its target. Woods glanced over at Big, who was flying directly at the other Flogger, but hadn’t fired a Sparrow. The Flogger shot at Big, and closed on him. Big rolled over and did a split S, pointing the nose of the Tomcat at the ground.

Wink’s Sparrow drank in the continuous reflection of the radar energy from Flogger all the way to impact. The warhead exploded next to the Flogger and severed both wings. The plane fell toward the earth as it rolled uncontrollably.

The missile from the other Flogger followed Big down toward the ground. The Flogger was descending, following its missile down, closing in on Big for the kill. Big leveled off at a thousand feet and pulled up and into the Flogger, heading right for him. The Flogger’s missile couldn’t make the turn and overshot Big’s Tomcat, exploding harmlessly behind him. Seeing Big coming back uphill at him, the Flogger turned hard and headed north, his big single engine in afterburner pushing him as fast as it could, his wings moving aft.

Big turned north, climbing after him. Woods fell in behind Big, looking for other planes. Two F-16s were directly above them at twenty thousand feet chasing two MiG-21s. To the west were countless missile trails and parachutes.

No, Big, Woods said to himself. Don’t get pulled too far north.

But Big had no intention of flying too far north. He was going to let his Sparrow fly north for him. The missile dropped off his left wing and tore toward the fleeing Flogger. By this time the Flogger was supersonic, in full flight, its wings aft.

“Fox two, set up another one,” Wink transmitted as he watched Big’s missile pursuing the Flogger. The missile closed on the target, not nearly as fast as they expected; but just fast enough. The Sparrow flew by the Flogger ten feet away. The warhead exploded with startling speed and deadliness and cut the engine off from the rest of the plane. It broke in half and tumbled end over end, flames coming from its ruptured belly and lapping around the entire front end.

Big turned toward the south and picked up Woods. They climbed back to ten thousand feet and checked their fuel.

“You okay, Wink?” Woods said.

“So far. Fuel’s okay, but we need to think about heading south.”

“Let’s get north of the fur ball, and pick off the next one that tries to bug out north.”

“Roger.”

Woods turned gently left and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. He kept the biggest group of tangled fighters just to his left as he closed on them.

“Right two o’clock! Way low!” Wink yelled. “Starboard hard!”

Woods brought the Tomcat around to the right pulling 6 Gs. He saw the bogeys. Under Big. Two MiG-21s running from the fight. They were low and headed lower, two miles away. Big pulled up to let Woods pass underneath him, rolled over on his back, and fell in behind his section leader.

The MiGs were only doing three hundred knots or so, but their engines were in afterburner. They had clearly decided to bug out after running out of airspeed, altitude, and ideas. They looked out of sorts, flying unevenly. Woods’s fangs were out. He wanted blood. He felt the rush of the pursuit as he aimed his Tomcat at the Fishbed on the right. Its desert camouflage paint was worn and blotchy. The Delta shaped wing seemed wrong somehow, incomplete. Suddenly he realized the plane had been hit, probably by an F-15 or F-16 cannon, the same 20-millimeter Gatling gun sitting in the Tomcat, just under his left foot.

Woods pushed his throttles to the stops to close the gap. He saw Big catch him on the left. The Tomcats stayed in tight combat spread as they chased the MiGs northward.

“We’d better close them fast, Trey, or we’ll be ten miles away from the strike group.”

Woods nodded, glanced at his remaining fuel, and touched his afterburner to close the MiGs. “They’re sitting on the deck,” he commented, frustrated. “Are they in range?”

“Barely. We could take a shot, but the chances of hitting them from here aren’t very good.”

“Go for it,” Woods said.

Wink locked up the right MiG and waited for the distance to close slightly. “Fox one,” he said as he fired the Sparrow at the low-flying MiG. The Sparrow came off and guided straight for the Syrian. Woods pulled out of afterburner as the Sparrow closed the gap for him.

“If we hit the lead we may get both of them, they’re so close together,” he said excitedly.

Wink took his eyes off the missile and forced himself to look for other planes. He spotted a Flogger going the other way three miles to the west, but didn’t think the Flogger saw them. Wink’s first instinct was to call out the bogey, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. That MiG wasn’t a factor. He tried to breathe easier, but his throat was so tight it felt like a balloon being tied off.

“AArrgghhh,” Woods said.

“What?” Wink asked.

“Sparrow hit the ground. Went under the lead.”

“We’re not shooting a Phoenix, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’d never be able to replace that.”

“No sweat.”

“Better head back. Come starboard to…” Wink checked their position.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“We’ll gun him.”

“He’ll outrun us.”

“Nope. He’s crippled. Got a hole in his wing. He can’t outrun us,” Woods said as he closed the distance in military power. “The problem is, he’s so low, we’d have to hit him from behind, and he’s too low to do it. We’ll see what he does when we get close. It’d be a brave man who doesn’t do anything,” he said. “Anybody behind us?”

Wink turned hurriedly, realizing he hadn’t tried to look in over a minute. “Nope.”

“We’re less than a mile, Wink. Lock him up with the radar again. See if it spooks him.”

“VSL low, selected,” Wink said. “Got him,” he added quickly as the radar locked on the fleeing MiG.

Woods waited. Suddenly the MiG pulled up sharply from the ground and toward Woods. “Oh, yeah,” Woods said. He used the change in altitude to close the distance. He selected “gun” on the weapon-select button on the stick, and pressed the attack. The MiG was in a climbing left hand turn pulling hard.

Woods settled in behind the MiG. The G forces mounted as the MiG turned harder and harder, now apparently seeing Woods. The second MiG started up after his leader but changed his mind and stayed on the deck heading home. Woods closed the MiG, watching the computerized gun sight as it marched up his HUD toward the plane. He curled his finger around the trigger. He grunted as he held his breath and tightened his stomach muscles to help his G suit keep the blood from leaving his head. The G forces continued to mount, to 6 then 7 Gs, as the MiG tried desperately to turn into him. But his turn was predictable, and the F-14 could match it easily. Woods was about to shoot when the MiG suddenly reversed and began a hard right-hand turn, descending. Woods looked over his shoulder to see if the MiG had help in that direction, but only saw Big hovering above, protecting them.

Woods was closing too fast. He pulled back and converted some of his airspeed to altitude and looked down at the MiG in a tight right turn. He pulled over and back down toward the MiG.

“We’ve got to head south, Trey. Let this guy go,” Wink said.

“No,” Woods grunted.

“We’re not going to make our recovery time!” The radar suddenly broke lock.

“I know!” he said as he pulled lead on the MiG.

Woods held his breath, exhaled in bursts, and concentrated on his pipper. “VSL high!” The radar went into a vertical scan that locked on the first thing it saw.

Wink hit the switch to make the radar scan above the nose and looked at the two green lights to show the radar had locked on. “Good lock,” he reported through the crushing G forces. Wink had one hand on his leg, and the other on the radar control handle. He couldn’t move either as Woods pulled harder to get the lead he needed to shoot the Fishbed.

“Bingo,” Big said over the radio, stating the dreaded fact that they had run out of any spare fuel. They had to turn toward the ship now to be able to recover with the minimum fuel.

Woods pulled back on the stick and fired. The 20-millimeter bullets flew out of the Tomcat at six thousand rounds per minute. The first burst went ahead of the MiG, and Woods relaxed the pressure on the stick. He shot again and the bullets slammed into the MiG’s cockpit and shattered the Plexiglas. The MiG began flying straight and level, gently toward home.

“Aren’t you going to finish him?” Wink said as they pulled off and up toward Big.

“I did.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Watch him,” Woods replied as he checked his fuel.

Wink watched over his left shoulder, as the MiG descended gently and slammed into the ground in a ball of flames.

Big rendezvoused on Woods’s Tomcat. He looked over the airplane. He descended, crossed under the jet, and back up the other side. He scanned the plane with his trained eye for any damage or problem. He crossed back over to the other side and gave Woods a thumbs-up. Woods gave him the lead and returned the favor. Their planes were both in good shape. No damage.

He gave Big the signal to take combat spread again, and headed south. “What heading, Wink?”

“200 for 60.”

“Okay. We got a little east,” he said, surprised. “How we doin’ on time?”

“We’re sucking wind. You realize how hard it’s gonna be to explain if we don’t show up on time?”

“Yep,” Woods replied. “Where’s that MiG’s wingman?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Wink replied, not having thought about it before then. “Did Big get him?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see anything.”

They flew south at three hundred knots toward Ramat David. Planes still cluttered the sky to the west, but it was clear to the east. The major part of the fight was over. Israeli and Syrian fighters were heading toward their respective homes; those that were left.

“Keep your eyes open,” Woods said, looking up through the canopy toward the sun for the unseen bogeys.

They crossed the border of Israel without seeing another MiG. The radar warning gear continued to indicate occasional SAM and AAA activity, but nothing steady or close to them. Wink looked up from his radarscope when he felt Woods rocking his wings back and forth vigorously. “What’s up?” Wink asked, concerned, as he put his radar on standby again.

“Left ten o’clock, low,” Woods replied.

Wink looked left and low and saw an airplane with its nose on them converting an intercept, rolling in on them to shoot. It was an F-15 showing no sign of recognition. Woods exaggerated his motions even more. Big, seeing the problem, and the other F-15 closing on them from the right, did likewise.

The F-15 cooled his intercept and rolled out behind the Tomcat. He flew up beside Woods on the left and examined the U.S. Navy fighter. He joined on Woods’s wing, and nodded to him. Woods looked at him and nodded back. The Israeli pilot tapped his forehead and pointed to his chest. “It’s Chermak.” Woods held up a fist. Hold on. He pulled away from the F-15, then moved his plane like a porpoise. Big read the signal and flew over to Woods, joining on his wing, flying in formation. Woods then shifted over to the F-15, tapped his forehead, and pointed at Major Mike Chermak; no radio transmissions required, everything understood. The other F-15 joined on the outside of Big. The flight of four, two Eagles, two Tomcats, fled south toward Ramat David.

In what seemed like no time at all they were overhead the field. Micah Chermak kissed off Woods and pulled up sharply, dropping him off directly over the field in perfect position to enter the break. Woods kissed off Big, and broke left in a sharp turn. They both landed without incident, but looked at their clocks in horror as they taxied to the end of the runway.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Wink asked.

“I’m not really sure,” Woods replied, removing his oxygen mask and breathing deeply. They reached the end of the runway and taxied to the right, as instructed. He pulled his oxygen mask over his mouth again to talk. “The Major said to taxi off to the right, and everything would be obvious. The only thing that’s obvious to me is how conspicuous we are here. One guy with a camera on this base and we’re dead.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Wink said, the implications chilling him. “What are we supposed to be looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Woods said, exasperated. “Wait, here comes a truck.”

A camouflage truck raced toward the taxiing Tomcats and stopped in front of them. It changed directions with a quick turn, and headed back down the taxiway in the direction they had been traveling.

“Guess we’re supposed to follow him,” Woods said, watching the driver motion him with his arm, like a cowboy in the front of a posse.

“Where are we going?”

“I think we’re about to find out.”

Woods eyed his clock and drew in a short breath. The next launch from the Washington was in ten minutes. They were supposed to be overhead in the pattern now, preparing to recover at the earliest possible moment after the last airplane of the next launch was airborne. We’ll never make it, Woods thought, feeling a sense of panic. He looked around for the ground personnel the Major had said would be waiting for them. He didn’t see anyone. There were F-15s, F-16s, and F-4s everywhere getting refueled and rearmed. The camouflage truck continued past the main section of the airfield, nearly to the end of the taxiway, right by the end of the runway where they had just touched down. Then Woods saw them. A man was waving at them from a spot off the taxiway in front of the hangars. Woods stepped on the left rudder to steer the Tomcat to the left with nosewheel steering and they followed the truck into a small cul-de-sac behind the last hangar. There were several men in white uniforms with large orange Vs on their chests waiting for them with two trailers next to them. Big followed as they taxied faster than was safe, but necessary under the circumstances.

Woods spun the Tomcat around and pointed parallel to the runway. A soldier walked in front of the plane and raised his hands. Woods stopped hard, and put on the parking brake. The soldier looked over the Tomcat and gave him a thumbs-up. There were eight other men standing by one of the trailers. They stood at parade rest with sound protectors over their ears. The soldier nodded to them. They ran to the Tomcat, examined the missile rails and wing pylons, then backed away to the truck. The leader of the eight nodded to the soldier in front of the Tomcat. He put his arms up as if signaling a touchdown. Woods and Wink put their arms on the air conditioning rails so their hands could be clearly seen. The eight men turned up the canvas flaps on the trailer. Missiles were stacked on racks on both sides, Sidewinders and Sparrows.

Woods would have smiled if he had been able. As it was, he was so concerned about their time and being found out, nothing was even remotely amusing, appealing, or satisfying. Every second made them later and more anxious. Wink watched the men line up underneath a Sparrow and lift it easily off the rack. They moved toward the Tomcat, sitting there with both its engines turning. “I sure hope these guys know what they’re doing,” Wink commented as the one in front moved closer to the jet intake. “I’d hate to suck one of them down the intake. You have any idea how hard it would be to explain that?”

“If that happens, I’m just going to shut it down, walk west until I hit the Med, and keep walking,” Woods replied, trying not to think of how many things could still go wrong.

Wink, on the other hand, was reflecting for a long time on each little thing that could go wrong, rolling each around in his mind, like a new candy, wondering what was inside, dwelling on each potential catastrophe with a detachment that he found refreshing.

Wink took off his oxygen mask again and breathed deeply of the Israeli air. He wiped the sweat from his face, and took off his helmet. His skull cap fell into his lap as he scratched his head. He put the skull cap and yellow helmet with white skull and bones on it back on, and reconnected his oxygen mask. He watched as the Israeli ordnancemen loaded new missiles on the rails. “You sure these are the same missiles we carry?”

“Yep. AIM-9M Sidewinders, and AIM-7M Sparrows. Same exactly.”

“No difference?”

“I sure hope not. If there are, as long as they can load them on, the Gunner can take care of anything else.”

“I hope we don’t have scorch marks all over from the rocket motors.”

Woods suddenly sat up. “I didn’t even think of that,” he said, looking around. He glanced quickly at Big’s plane sitting fifty feet to their right, and studied it for marks. He could see black carbon where the Sidewinder had fired off the rail. “It’s noticeable, but looks mostly like dirt. I don’t think anyone will notice. The Sparrow didn’t leave any marks. They don’t fire until they eject clear.”

“Let’s go; they’re done,” Wink said hurriedly, noticing the gesturing of the soldier in front of the plane.

Woods lowered his hands and released the parking brake. Big’s crew finished right behind Woods’s.

“Let’s go,” Woods said. He looked at the Israeli ordnancemen, who were smiling. The leader saluted him and Woods returned the honor with a snappy salute of his own. He added throttle and taxied quickly away from the truck. He turned toward the runway to take off and head back to the Washington.

They turned left onto the taxiway next to the runway. Israeli fighters were still landing, nearly one every minute. Woods looked around anxiously. They didn’t have time to hang around. No time at all. They had to get back to the ship. They had to go now.

Wink broke into his thoughts. “You know how hard it’s going to be to explain why we couldn’t get back to the ship on time when we were supposed to be thirty miles away?”

“We’ll make it,” Woods replied.

“You know that the next launch begins in five minutes and we’re in the middle of Israel?”

“And we’re supposed to be the first down,” Woods said as the Tomcat bounced down the taxiway toward the end of the runway, receiving stares from ground crew and pilots alike. “We should be in the overhead pattern right now, circling at two thousand feet, looking cool with our wings back and our tailhooks down.”

“We’re not even off the ground, and we don’t have enough gas to go back very fast. You realize that?”

“We’ll land with a little less gas than usual, Wink.”

“A little? We’re already below what we usually land with,” he said, watching the fuel gauge with horror. “We’ll be lucky to get on the deck before we flame out.”

“I know.”

“You know how hard it’s going to be to explain why we needed to tank before we land, when we’re coming back from a simple air intercept hop?”

“We’ll be okay.”

Woods stopped at the line separating the taxiway from the runway. Big taxied up next to him and stopped. Wink looked at Sedge and gave him the signal to report his fuel state — 4.5. Four thousand five hundred pounds. The amount they should be landing with. Five hundred more pounds than Wink and Woods. “This is gonna be colorful,” Wink muttered.

A section of F-16s landed directly in front of them. Woods looked at the control tower, dying inside. He saw the green light the controller was shining at him and looked quickly left to see if anyone else was landing. Clear. He taxied to the left side and turned to point down the runway, ready to take off. Big taxied to the right side, just behind Woods. Woods turned two fingers quickly next to his ear, and the Tomcats ran up their engines to full military power. They didn’t need afterburner — they were light. They couldn’t afford the gas anyway, no matter how much they’d like to impress the Israelis, which was a lot. Woods didn’t even hesitate. He did a cursory check of his instruments, skipped his usual check of the flight controls, dropped his hand to point forward like signaling a first down, and released his brakes. Big released his as soon as Woods’s jet moved. They rolled down the runway together and lifted off in a formation takeoff after nine hundred feet. They raised their gear and flaps together and turned toward the Med, leveling off at five hundred feet.

Woods looked at his clock — 0845. The second launch of the day was starting. The first plane of the second event on the Washington was being shot down the catapult right now. The Air Boss was no doubt leaning over by his window looking up, wondering where the Jolly Roger Tomcats were. All the other planes from the first launch were either in the overhead pattern, or making their way there. Soon, people would notice their absence. He advanced the throttles to full military power and headed straight west.

“What heading?”

“Don’t know,” Wink replied. “We’re too low to pick up the TACAN,” he said watching the needle spin aimlessly on the compass dial. “The only thing I can say is where the boat was when we left. Could be off by twenty miles or more.”

“Use it if it’s all we’ve got,” Woods said.

“Head 265,” Wink said. “We really should head northeast of the ship, so we’re at least coming back in from the right direction when we check in.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Woods said.

Wink watched the airspeed indicator climb through four hundred fifty knots. “We can’t burn gas like this, Trey! We’ll flame out!”

“You got any other ideas? You want to come strolling in after the recovery and answer a lot of questions about where we’ve been?”

“No. We’ll never make it! I sure as hell don’t want to go swimming! You know how much gas we burn at five hundred knots on the deck!”

“We’ll make it. I’m sure.”

Wink didn’t answer. He knew it was useless. Their speed climbed through five hundred fifty knots. They flashed over the coast highway and the beach, and were quickly over the water, where they were most comfortable.

As soon as he thought it appropriate, Wink called the carrier on the radio, about fifty miles out. “Gulf November, this is Bright Sword 211, flight of two, 020 for 20 inbound.”

“Roger, 211, don’t have you, continue inbound, report see me.”

“Wilco,” he replied.

“Why don’t you climb to two thousand feet. It’ll put us at our orbit altitude and we can pick up the TACAN sooner.”

Woods pulled back on the stick and the Tomcat climbed quickly to two thousand feet as their airspeed passed through six hundred knots. They flew west, minute after minute, the TACAN needle spinning, heading generally in the direction of the ship. Wink turned his radar on and scanned the sea for the big target and the airplanes above it. But there were a lot of big targets: tankers, cargo ships, and other military ships.

As if on cue, the needle of the TACAN settled and fixed on the carrier, and pointed steadily five degrees to the left. The DME — Distance Measuring Equipment — which showed how far they were from the ship, began to spin, then settled on thirty-three miles. Woods turned left to put the needle directly on the nose, and checked his clock — 0850. The launch was probably half over. The Air Boss had to be wondering where they were by now. If they were much later than now, questions would be asked. The officer from VF-103 who had the Pri-Fly watch, standing right behind the Boss in case there were any F-14 emergencies or questions, would be asked some very hard questions about the performance of his squadron mates, which the Boss would order him to pass on to the Commanding Officer of the Jolly Rogers. All very awkward.

“211, see you,” Wink transmitted.

“Roger, 211, still don’t have you, switch frequencies.”

“You see the ship?” Woods asked, amazed.

“No, I just didn’t want Strike to be looking for us too hard.”

“I think I see it,” Woods said. “I’m showing fifteen miles, that should be just a couple more minutes,” he said, looking down at his clock. He glanced over at Big, who was flying tight formation on him.

Wink turned on his IFF so the ship would see them. The tower frequency was silent, as it usually was on day recoveries. He looked for other airplanes, but didn’t see any yet.

“I’ve got the ship,” Wink said. “Just to the right. Looks to be heading 300 or so.”

Woods came right, and headed for the carrier, five miles ahead.

“211, see you,” Wink transmitted.

“What are you doing?” Woods yelled at Wink.

“Calling Boss, say again?”

Wink knew he had screwed up. “Sorry, Trey. I blew it.” He realized he had called the ship on the Air Boss’s frequency, something you didn’t do. He had lost track. He sat silently hoping the Air Boss would let it pass.

The radio was silent as Woods and Big screamed toward the USS George Washington in tight formation. Woods reduced throttle to slow down from six hundred knots to three hundred fifty. They came up the side of the ship and looked at the deck. The last plane for the second event, an S-3 Viking antisubmarine plane taxied onto the bow catapult. The landing area was clear.

Woods glanced at Big, brought his right hand to his mouth like an Italian chef, and kissed him off. He threw the stick hard left and broke in front of the carrier. He pulled hard, five Gs, and took the Tomcat downwind. As they leveled their wings Woods lowered the landing gear and flaps, and went through the landing checklist with Wink.

Wink looked left and saw the S-3 shoot off the bow of the ship, and men scrambling to clear the flight deck for their approach. The white-shirted LSOs were in place, ready to wave them off if their approach was dangerous, or “advise” them if their approach needed correction.

As they flew past the LSO platform a mile away heading the opposite direction from the ship, Woods began a left turn that he would hold until directly behind the ship in the groove. He had done it so many times it was a habit.

Big was right behind them with a perfect interval. Woods rolled his wings level three quarters of a mile behind the ship, lined up with the centerline of the angled deck. The ball, the lens that showed where they were on the glide path, was centered. Woods checked his airspeed, lineup, and angle of attack, and descended steadily toward the flight deck. He made small corrections to stay on the glide path — big corrections would lead to bigger ones later. They landed just behind the three-wire. The hook grabbed the wire, pulled it up off the deck, and held the Tomcat as Woods went to military power. The plane tried its hardest to get airborne again, but the steel cable held it back and finally stopped it fifty feet short of the end of the angled deck.

A yellow-shirted sailor ran out and signaled Woods to take his feet off the brakes and go to idle on the engines. He did, and the retracting three-wire pulled the Tomcat gently backward. They rolled toward the stern for thirty feet until the cable cleared the hook. Woods raised the hook on the signal and quickly taxied forward to get out of the landing area for Big to land. They crossed the red and white line on the edge of the landing area ten seconds before Big slammed into the deck, snagged the number-two wire, and came to a stop just to their left.

They taxied toward to the bow of the ship. The yellow shirts maneuvered them just forward of the island as the ordies ran underneath the wings to safe the missiles. Gunner Bailey stood in his red turtleneck and red flotation vest supervising the entire operation. Woods and Wink put their hands up while the ordies put the pins with long red flags on them into the missiles to ensure no accidental firings. Routine. Ordinary. Happens every flight. Except the ordies weren’t usually safing Israeli missiles. Woods closed his eyes, hoping they didn’t notice anything different about them.

The ordies ran out from under the wings with their thumbs up. Woods looked at Bailey, who gave him a knowing thumbs-up, and the yellow shirt motioned for them to taxi forward to the bow.

Woods, Wink, Big, and Sedge walked into the ready room together, helmets and flight bags in hand. Woods surveyed the room carefully, trying to look casual, and saw the usual activity: briefing and watching the PLAT as the recovery continued above their heads. The first day out from a port was always more exciting as the aircrew were anxious to get back into the air, back into their routine of flying.

“How was the hop?” Meat asked, sitting at the SDO desk in his khakis. Second only to Big in size, Lieutenant Mark Mora, Meat, was another first tour pilot.

“Defied death once again,” answered Woods.

Meat looked at Woods more closely as he sat in a ready room chair to fill out the yellow sheet. He frowned. “You guys look like you’ve been swimming,” he said, noticing the sweat-drenched hair and flight suits. “You didn’t do any unauthorized ACM, did you?” Air Combat Maneuvering, Dogfighting.

Woods tried to look disinterested. He put his finger to his lips. Meat smiled.

Chief Lucas walked into the ready room looking for them. “Any gripes?” he asked.

“None,” Woods replied, looking at Wink, who shook his head.

“Nope,” Big answered.

A young sailor with a green maintenance turtleneck on stuck his head into the ready room. “Hey, Chief, can you come here for a sec?”

Chief Lucas rolled his eyes, “Never a moment’s peace,” he said, turning. “What!” he yelled, walking next door to Maintenance Control.

He came back in five seconds later and crossed to Woods. He stood in front of him glaring angrily. “Petty Officer Wynn said the accelerometer reads eight Gs. You pull eight Gs on that hop, Lieutenant?” he asked.

Woods felt a rush of blood; he wanted to kick himself for failing to reset the needle on the accelerometer. “Guess we got carried away. Did a little tail chasing.”

“Sir, that’s a down jet. You know we’ve got to pull the panels if someone pulls eight Gs. You told the mechs on the roof the plane was up, sir!”

“Sorry, Chief,” he said, chagrined. “I guess I forgot.”

“Sir, begging your pardon, but how do you forget pulling eight Gs? We told the aircrew for the third go that they could have your jets. Now the spare’ll have to go instead of the lead,” the Chief said, putting his hands on his hips. “They’re gonna be pissed.”

“Sorry, Chief,” Woods repeated.

Bark walked into the ready room in his flight suit ready to brief event four. “Hello, boys. How’d it feel to get in the air again after five days off?”

“Great, Skipper,” Big said, watching Chief Lucas to see if he was going to take the opportunity to let the Skipper in on his unhappiness.

Chief Lucas scowled, and left the ready room without another word.

“What’s with him?” Bark asked.

“What’s for lunch, Meat?” Big asked.

“Spaghetti, and Israeli milk.”

“Weird containers again?” Woods moaned, writing on the yellow sheet.

“You’re still fixated on the German milk,” Big said. “The Israeli milk is actually much worse. It tastes like Brie cheese that has been sitting out for three days with flies crawling on it. It’s cold just to cover the flavor.”

“Lumps?”

“What the hell is Brie cheese?” Wink asked, annoyed.

Big shook his head. “You are so cosmopolitan, Wink. You probably think eating a cheeseburger on a whole wheat bun is on the cutting edge of culinary adventurism.”

“You really crack yourself up, don’t you, Big?” Wink replied.

“I have to laugh. Nobody else gets my sophisticated humor. Living with you guys is like putting on a Shakespeare play in front of a bunch of prisoners. They just stare at you, no idea what’s being said, missing the subtlety, the nuance, the turn of the phrase, the double entendres…”

“What the hell is a dooble ontonder?” Wink said.

“Do you actually know who Shakesp—”

“Blow it out your ass, Big. Don’t give me your drama major crap,” Wink said, not looking at him, writing on the yellow sheet. “You don’t even know what a cosine is.”

“Sure I do,” said Big quickly. “It’s someone who guarantees a debt for another, someone…”

Wink laughed out loud, joined by others, the engineers.

Big smiled, his eyes twinkling. “You guys are so easy. You think you’ve got a secret world that we truly educated don’t know about? Cosine is so sophisticated it’s from about, oh, eighth grade or so, maybe ninth if you’re slow.”

“So what is it then?” Wink pressed, hoping Big was bluffing.

Big glanced at Wink, sitting three chairs away from him. “You don’t think I know, do you,” he said, looking down at the green sheet on which he was writing a minor gripe about the throttle friction sticking. “Maybe I won’t tell you.”

Wink smiled knowingly. “Like I figured.”

Big spoke tiredly, as if to a poor student who had heard the explanation before. “It’s a trigonometric function of an acute angle. It’s the ratio of the leg of a triangle by the angle, if it’s a right triangle, and the hypot—”

The ready room door opened suddenly and a group of officers in white turtlenecks and flotation vests walked in. “Event one?” the leader asked.

Woods looked up and recognized the CAG LSO, the Air Wing Landing Signal Officer, the one on the platform for the recovery of the first event. He was debriefing every pilot who had landed and had worked his way aft to Ready Room Eight. “Hey, Bolt, right here,” Woods said, lifting his hand.

Woods and Big stood up and the group of LSOs — and LSOs in training crossed to meet them.

“211?” Bolt asked.

“Me,” Woods said.

Bolt opened his book and looked for the entry on 211’s pass. Finding it, he read the comments. “Okay three-wire, little high at the start, settled over the ramp. That’s it,” Bolt said, looking at Woods. He didn’t expect much response, having given him nearly the highest grade possible, only an underlined okay being better, but very rare.

“Thanks,” Woods said.

“207?”

“Me,” Big said.

“Okay two wire, little left in the groove, little nose down at the ramp.”

“Thanks,” Big said.

Bolt closed his book. His fine straight blond hair was a mess from the wind and jet exhaust. He looked at Woods and Big with a gleam in his eye. “How fast were you guys going coming into the break? We didn’t see you in the overhead pattern, then suddenly we see you coming like your hair was on fire, enter the break, and land.”

Woods glanced at Big and shrugged. “What do you think, Big, two-fifty? Two seventy-five?”

“Kilometers, maybe,” Big said. Then to Bolt. “It’s hard for you, Bolt.” Bolt was an S-3 pilot. “You’re not used to seeing that kind of speed, you know, like a Cessna or a Piper might throw at you.”

“You’re hilarious,” Bolt said, smiling.

Pritch came in as Bolt left. Woods fixed her with a sharp glance, but Pritch avoided his eyes. “The aircrews from the first event haven’t debriefed in CVIC,” Pritch announced to Sedge.

Sedge turned away from the schedule board where he was looking for their next hop. “Like it matters. What are we going to say? Did four million intercepts, saw my wingman each time, returned home, and took a leak? Why do we go through this charade?”

“Not up to me, Sedge,” Pritch said. “Who’s it going to be?” she asked, studying all four of them.

“Come on, Sedge,” Wink said. “Let’s go tell the nice Intelligence Officer about our hop.”

They followed Pritch out the door and down the passageway to the intelligence center. “How’d it go?” Pritch asked Wink as they walked down the passageway.

“No problem. Routine hop,” he answered.

“Everybody get back okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we? It was just a silly AIC hop, you know, you go outbound, then inbound, then you land. Nothing to it.”

Pritch turned and examined their faces as they walked behind her.

“You expect any trouble?” she asked in a low tone of voice.

They both shook their heads, as they entered CVIC.