Hellfire

TWENTY

Thor’s Hornet smashed through the thin clouds like his namesake’s hammer. The clouds streamed over the canopy, blinding him for a moment like a shroud. Then, as he continued to ascend, they peeled off in sheets and then thin strands that disappeared as he rose above him.

“One zero two, on station.” Thor announced his arrival at the position indicated for the Hornet sponge, and waited. Every ten seconds, another Hornet was rippling off the deck below him, and the air would soon be thick with the small, nimble fighters. A quick tank, topping off his fuel, and then they would form up their wing and head out to meet the Russians.

That the odds were heavily stacked in the Russians’ favor didn’t bother him. Hell, they were used to being outnumbered, weren’t they? If it had been a fair fight, the Navy could have handled it on their own.

The waves of Russian fighters and bombers showed on his HUD as small red symbols. They were still some distance out from the carrier, far enough not to be a problem. Then even as he watched, they edged closer, covering the airspace at what seemed to be a snail’s pace but was just a reflection of the expanded range of the screen.

“One zero three, on station.” A flurry of tail numbers followed, each pilot confirming as he joined on the sponge. Thor listened with only half his attention as he maneuvered his Hornet up behind the Air Force tanker, intent on topping up his tanks. Soon the others would be taking their turns, slipping in smoothly for a top up before they re-formed.

Finally, they were done. “Devil dogs, on me. Make every shot count,” Thor ordered. He peeled away from the sponge formation, and Hornets lined up in ascending altitude behind him, forming a classic attack V. Each one was locked in place as though held there by an invisible ruler, the formation’s impeccable precision a reflection of their skills. That wouldn’t last long.

“Okay, listen up,” Thor ordered. “No plan survives first contact with the enemy. Except this one. On my order, call your target, break off, and take some Russians out. Simple enough. You get low on fuel or Winchester, talk to the Hawkeye and get a vector clear. Other than that, stay on them until they’re gone. By the time we leave, I want to see nice, sweet clear blue sky with nothing in it but Hornets and Tomcats. Any questions?”

A chorus of yells and cheers, punctuated by the traditional Ooooraaaah! answered him. The boys and girls were fired up, the blood lust running hot in their veins, and just for a moment, Thor pitied the Russians.

After the normal, heart-stopping moment when the Tomcat seemed to hang in the air just forward of the carrier, they were airborne. Tombstone poured the power on, ascending rapidly, and headed for the Tomcat sponge. Fifteen Tomcats were already there, with eleven more expected. But their plans for the engagement weren’t Tombstone’s, and he intended to do all he could to even the odds. Tombstone headed north.

“One zero one, interrogative your intentions,” a puzzled voice said from the Hawkeye. “We seem to have a processing malfunction of some sort. I hold two of you airborne.”

Tombstone cut him off by squelching the radio signal. “Roger, Hawkeye, I know what you’re seeing. Guys, there’s no reason for concern. Just keep track of us and our flight.” Tombstone hoped desperately the Hawkeye understood what he was getting at. The communications circuits were supposedly secure, but the last thing he needed was some Russian with the daily codes who had enough smarts to figure out that everyone was seeing a damn sight more aircraft in the air than had actually launched. “We will all see you on the way back. How copy?”

There was a long silence on the net, and a few questions from the other fighters, which were quickly squelched by the flight leader. Some of them had tumbled to what was up and were making sure their slower shipmates did not queer the deal. Tombstone could imagine the discussion going on inside the Hawkeye, as forty aircraft appeared to be spaced evenly around what they had seen was one contact launching. But the Hawkeye’s mission commanders were smart folks, and they would figure it out pretty quickly.

That was a bitch, wasn’t it, he thought as he waited for the Hawkeye’s response. You could no longer count on secure circuits being secure, not after Walker’s treason had rocked the entire security establishment to its roots.

“Roger, one zero one. Understand your intentions for your flight. Good timing, Stony.” The Hawkeye’s voice was decidedly nonchalant, signaling that the mission commander had the picture now.

Good man. Quick on the uptake — hasn’t said anything that would blow it.

“Roger, Hawkeye. Break, Stone flight, Stone leader. On me as lead.” Tombstone immediately put his Tomcat into a hard turn to the north, easing out of it slowly as though giving the rest of his flight time to form up. All around him, the other Tomcats were watching, now well aware that what looked like forty aircraft on their radar was a single airframe.

“We have to stay out of visual range,” Tombstone said to Jeremy. “If they get a visual honest, the game is up.”

“Already on it,” Jeremy said, his voice slightly ruffled. “There.” With a click, he sent a copy of his recommended flight plan to Tombstone’s HUD. “That should keep us well out of visual range and give us room to go buster if we have to get away from them.”

“Looks good.” Tombstone refrained from saying that his backseater was turning out to be a hell of a RIO. He knew quite well that Jeremy would not have taken it as a compliment. “I figure if we can draw them off at least one hundred and fifty miles to the north, the cruiser and the rest of the airwing can do some serious damage.”

“Yeah, that should work,” Jeremy said, his voice entirely neutral.

The entire point of the plan was to pull enough fighters out of the main formation to even the odds. But what neither one said, although both were thinking it, was that if the Russian Backfires caught up to them, they would have more problems than just blowing the deception. Because then the odds would be forty to one, and even Tombstone wasn’t so sure he could handle those.

Tombstone caught a glint of sunlight on metal to the east. With a sinking heart, he realized that the game was up. If they could see the Backfires, then the Backfires could see them and they could see that instead of forty Tomcats crowded into this airspace, there was only one.

The high-pitched deedle of the ECM alert was coming faster now, more insistent. Then a second beat started, sounding counterpoint to the first. Then a third.

“Here come the players,” Jeremy shouted.

“No, wait!” Tombstone ordered. “They’re too far away — we don’t have enough countermeasures to deal with them all. We’ll have to wait until they all get closer, count on one massive clump of flares and chaff for all of them.”

“Two more,” Jeremy answered, his voice showing the first hint of fear. “Tombstone, that’s five — no, six missiles inbound!”

Too many. There’s no way we can take them on, even if there was a way to put enough chaff and flares in the air. Punch out now? We might have a shot at making it out.

Tombstone put the Tomcat nose over, heading for the ejection envelope. They were too high to survive punching out. As he descended, his thoughts raced. Shit. Forty on one — what was I thinking? Yes, it worked. That’s my only consolation. Over tactical, he could hear the main body of Tomcats howling out in victory as their AMRAAMs dealt with the remaining fighters and then the bombers. The ones that survived were forced inside the cruiser’s missile engagement zone and the cruiser made short work of them.

We did what we came to do. And that’s the point, isn’t it? You lose people all the time in this business. You get used to making the calls for the greater good.

But somehow, as many times as he had made this decision about aircraft and other crews, it was of no consolation when it was his own head on the block.

Tomboy. His thoughts lingered on her, a hard yearning flooding his body. How had he survived so long without her? Was that really her in the intell photos or was he just deceiving himself. And what would be the odds that he could go on without her? If she were truly gone, then there was precious little to hold him here, was there?

“We’re in command eject,” Jeremy said precisely, his voice now under control. “On your order, sir.”

Sir. That’s who I am when the chips are down. Not his buddy, not his friend — I’m “sir.” None of us are ever really willing to die for the greater good, no matter what we tell ourselves. But we do it anyway, because of who we are. Jeremy is still young enough that he believes he’s immortal. Oh, he knows he’s not — but he doesn’t believe he can die here and now.

He won’t. I won’t let it happen.

A fierce determination swept through him, a deadly fighting rage. He might be willing to eject and take his chances, looking forward to a reunion with Tomboy, but he wasn’t willing for Jeremy to do the same. He was a youngster, still with his whole life ahead of him. They were going to make it out of this.

A plan occurred to him, one so ludicrous and dangerous that he immediately dismissed it. But the thought wouldn’t go away, and all at once he could see how it might work. No, no guarantees — but it was their only chance.

“Hang on, Jeremy,” Tombstone shouted, fury in his voice. “We’re going to even the odds.” Tombstone yanked back hard to put the Tomcat into a steep climb. He pitched her over slightly to the right, heading directly for the center of the Russian fighters.

“Mother of god,” Jeremy breathed, as if to speak any louder would call the Forgers down on them. “Sharks — it’s like swimming into a school of sharks.”

“Heat seekers only, and guns,” Tombstone snapped, too busy concentrating on flying to worry about the weapons. This would have to be Jeremy’s show completely. Now that he knew what Tombstone had in mind, Tombstone had no doubt the Jeremy could finish the job.

All around them, the air was thick with Forgers. In aeronautical terms, with the aircraft maneuvering at around Mach 1, they were in each other’s laps. There was no margin of error, no chance to recover from a mistake.

Already, the results of Tombstone’s maneuver were having an effect. The AMRAAMs stayed locked on him, following him into the flight of Forgers. Tombstone punched up straight through them, his wing tips almost grazing them, then broke and came down behind them, temporarily shielding his aircraft from the missiles’ radars by interposing the Forgers’ fuselages.

The Russian anti-air missiles were fairly sophisticated, on par with the AMRAAM. But on final, their tiny radar control mechanisms locked onto his friends, they were unable to distinguish between Tombstone’s Tomcat and the Forgers. Those few that did stayed locked on Tombstone considered transferring their intentions to the Forgers but were simply going too fast to make the turn. As nimble as they were, they were not as responsive as an aircraft.

“Two down!” Jeremy shouted, his voice starting to show hope. “It worked.”

So far, so good. But we’re not out of the woods yet.

As he swept back and behind the Forgers, Tombstone stabbed a quick burst from his gun, stitching a line across the vertical stabilizer of one Forger. For a moment, it seemed to have no effect, then fire and smoke billowed from the tail. Probably nailed the hydraulic line. The aircraft shuddered in the air and quickly dropped back, weaving across sky as though drunk.

“Fox one,” Jeremy said, and Tomcat shivered as the heat seekers leaped off the wing. “Any second now, they’re going to figure this out.”

Tombstone could imagine what was going on in the other pilots’ minds. They’d wasted precious minutes all trying to fire at once, crossing each other’s fields of fire and turning their weapons on each other. He took advantage of their confusion to compound their problems, weaving around them, piercing the center of the formation several times and taking shots from his guns and with Jeremy’s heat seekers when possible. In short order, ten Forgers were either seriously damaged and out of commission or destroyed.

“They’ve got it,” Tombstone said. Sixteen of the remaining Forgers were withdrawing, taking the risk of exposing their tailpipes to him as they rapidly left the area. He took advantage of the negligence to pop off a couple more short bursts from his nose gun, and was rewarded with two more kills.

But the remaining four Forgers were a problem. Two on one — that was something they all knew how to do. The confusion factor was eliminated by removing the other aircraft from the area. Now that they knew of his ruse, they would no doubt turn south to provide reinforcement to the rapidly decimated flight under attack by the main body of Tomcats.

“We have problems,” Jeremy announced. “Two chaff, two flares left.”

“Roger,” Tombstone said briskly. “I think it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.” He toggled off their remaining AAMRAAM, targeting the lead aircraft, then slammed the throttles into full afterburner. He dropped the nose down, letting gravity add to the aircraft’s acceleration. Altitude was safety, but sometimes distance was even better.

“They’re on us,” Jeremy said. “Two high, two low.”

“I know, I know,” Tombstone said, his mind searching desperately for a way out. If he continued descending, he’d fall into perfect firing position for the two lower fighters. The higher two already had him targeted, and, secure in the knowledge that he could not escape, they were waiting for the perfect shot.

Suddenly, a voice came in over tactical. “One zero one, on my mark, break hard left and descend to five hundred feet, then clear the area for missile engagement, Stony.”

“The cruiser,” Jeremy shouted, joy in this voice.

“Five hundred feet, my ass,” Tombstone said. “And how the hell am I suppose to manage that?”

“Quit whining and do it,” Jeremy ordered, then sucked in a sharp breath as though surprised at his temerity. Tombstone cracked a grin.

Tombstone broke hard left, putting the Tomcat into a steep vertical dive. He waited for the precise moment, watching the geometry in this mind, then popped off the remaining flares and chaff. That was it. They were now out of countermeasures and weapons.

As he rocketed past, the two lower Forgers wheeled in concert to follow him. Just as they changed their angle of attack, they ran into the flares directly in their paths. Jeremy squirmed around to watch behind them and saw one Forger take a hit to the engine, followed shortly by an explosion as the turbine blades exploded off the rotor.

“One down,” Jeremy said. “Now the last one—”

But the last Forger was proving tougher than his wingman. He maneuvered nimbly to avoid the cloud of chaff and flares, then continued descending, circling slightly to decrease his actual descent and remain in firing position behind the Tomcat. Once clear of the countermeasures, he would shoot, of that Tombstone was certain.

“Spoofing,” Tombstone ordered. “One last time, Jeremy. And make it work.”

“Roger.” A second later, a flurry of contacts popped up around Tombstone on the screen. Invisible to normal eyes, but to the radar on the other aircraft, it must have seemed that the air was as cluttered as it had been earlier.

That took care of the radar seekers. But the heat seekers are still a problem. Without the flares, there are only a couple of decent heat sources, and that’s our engines.

Tombstone broke hard to the left again, pulling out of the descent. The Tomcat complained, howling her protest as the g-forces built, stressing the aircraft past every design factor. She wasn’t built to take this hard of a turn at this speed, but she was doing her best to comply.

“Stay with me, Jeremy,” Tombstone shouted, fighting off the g-forces himself. “Stay with me.” The maneuver was intended to shield his tailpipes from the heat seekers that would be fired at any moment. Sure, the rest of the aircraft had heat sources as well, but nothing as attractive as the fiery glow of the tailpipes.

But he had to ease up on the turn. There was no point to it if it resulted in both pilots blacking out and the aircraft departing controlled flight. Fighting off the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him, Tombstone slowed the turn and pulled up.

On his HUD, he saw six new targets with long speed leaders. The cruiser’s missiles, headed now for the altitude he had just vacated, seeking out the remaining Forgers. Guided by the cruiser’s deadly accurate Aegis radar and precision fire control equipment, the missiles were far more accurate than anything fired by an aircraft. At the very least, they would put the Forgers on the run.

Tombstone’s problem was more immediate. The remaining Forger on his tail was not deterred and, having overcome his panic at the missile launch, was waiting for them.

The Forger was a heavy aircraft, on par with the Tomcat. This would be a knife fight, up close and personal, a fight in the vertical rather than horizontal. Neither had the edge in maneuverability or speed. It would come down to the skill of pilot vs. pilot.

At least fourteen minutes, that was all. Because Tombstone was all too aware that somewhere not too far off sixteen of the Forger’s playmates were probably on their way in now to replace the ones the Aegis had taken out.

You don’t know it, buddy, but you’re dead meat. We already kicked your ass, taking out a bunch of your friends. Now there’s just you left, and then I’m going to get the hell out of here before the rest of the gang shows up. So you just orbit off there, feeling oh so confident. You’ve got about fifty seconds to live.

Tombstone kicked the Tomcat into a hard climb, maxing out his afterburners. Behind him, he heard Jeremy groan, but there was no time to think about his RIO. Not if he was going to keep them both alive.

The Tomcat shuddered, every joint and weld protesting this treatment. She was built tough, rugged, but the punishment Tombstone had been inflicting on her exceeded every design characteristic. They were so far out of the envelope now that Tombstone wasn’t entirely sure what would happen.

Tomboy would have known. She flew out-of-envelope missions all the time as a test pilot. She always said there was a larger margin of safety built in than they’d ever tell us, just to keep us from being reckless.

The vibration inside the cockpit increased, the lower harmonics settling into Tombstone’s bones like an old ache. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he could take it. And then that magic happened again, the moment when he fused with his aircraft and became one with the metal. No longer were flesh and metal fighting alone to stay intact and conscious — they were fighting together. He felt her steel wrap around his muscles, her electronics settle into his brain. He held her together by sheer willpower. Together, no longer man and aircraft but one being, they were stronger than their individual parts. Tombstone had the fleeting suspicion that even if he lost consciousness, his mind would continue to reside in her computer, his eyes looking out of her radar, his fingers flipping the fire control switches automatically.

And as he thought about these moments later, he was never sure he remained conscious at all. Perhaps the fusion was more real than he thought. He had told only one or two people about these moments of fusion he had within the aircraft, and, except for Coyote, he had been met with polite but disbelieving looks.

The Tomcat rocketed up directly toward the remaining Forgers. She fought against gravity, eking out a few additional knots of airspeed.

About him, the Forgers opened up their turns, increasing the angle between their aircraft and Tombstone’s, hoping to nail the perfect tailpipe shot.

Any second now, they’re going to fire. Something, anything — just to put me on the defensive. I can’t let them do that. I’ve got one shot at this before their friends show up.

Tombstone dropped the aircraft’s nose down, breaking away from the straight vertical ascent. His mind was working at lightning speed, computing the exact angle he would need to intercept the Forgers. The master caution on his panel flashed intermittently, as though the aircraft were reluctant to admit she couldn’t take it any longer. He ignored it, pressing her harder, demanding more of her — of himself — than anyone had ever asked before. And she rose to the occasion.

Time seemed to slow, almost stop. Around him, the Forgers were moving at a snail’s pace. Tombstone could imagine the confusion in the other pilots’ minds. It made no sense for the Tomcat to be screaming directly for him, not at all. Three additional Forgers were on their way back to wrap up the conflict, and sixteen more remained behind that. Now the Tomcat’s only hope of survival was trying to run and relying on Lady Luck. Maybe the Tomcat could somehow evade the missile shot that would surely be coming. It was a pure crap-shoot, relying on luck, but both the Forger’s pilot and Tombstone knew it was the only logical thing to do.

To hell with luck and logic. I don’t like the odds.

Then the Forger made his fatal mistake. He had felt secure in his tactical position, waiting for backup, comforted by the fact that a lone Tomcat could not take on the remaining sixteen Forgers by itself. Not now, not now that they knew what was going on.

Yet against all odds, the Tomcat was coming for him. It made no sense — and the Forger’s pilot panicked. He did the one thing that he should not do, the one thing that Tombstone had been hoping and praying for. He turned to run.

Tombstone toggled off the remaining heat seeker, then rolled his Tomcat out of the hard climb. New stresses ran through the airframe as bolts and welds fought forces they were never designed to withstand. A barrel roll help bleed off altitude more quickly and, hopefully, confused the firing solution that the other Forgers were undoubtedly computing.

Then Tombstone settled into level flight, still at max afterburner, and started hauling ass. He descended slightly, letting gravity add airspeed.

Behind him, he heard a low moan as Jeremy regained consciousness.