Hellfire

TWENTY-ONE

The captain stared at the screen, his anger building. He’d told the pilot to break left and run — why the hell hadn’t he complied? Sure, he killed some aircraft, but look at the situation he was in now. Running for his life, with sixteen Forgers on his ass.

“Is there enough separation?” he asked his TAO. “It doesn’t look like it.”

“At best, its marginal,” the TAO said promptly, his cursor circling the lone blue symbol in front of a pack of red ones. “At worst, well…”

“It’s too close,” the captain said, his frustration building. The separation had been sufficient earlier, when he’d told the pilot to break, but now the geometry wasn’t going to work. If they took the shot, they were just as likely to take the Tomcat out as they were the other aircraft.

“It is. But it’s the only chance he’s got,” the TAO said firmly. “Captain, you have to take the shot.”

The Aegis system had already assigned missiles to each of the enemy aircraft. The missiles were ready, waiting only for the TAO to release them. If the captain had not been present, the TAO had authority to release them on his own. But with the captain present, everything depended on him.

For a second, the captain wanted to jump on the TAO and smash him into small pieces for such insubordination. Then he looked at the screen again and saw that the TAO was exactly right. It was a chance they would have to take, and one that he would answer for later if they were mistaken.

“Weapons free, target all Russian aircraft,” the captain said immediately. No more than a microsecond had elapsed between the TAO’s comment and his decision, but he knew the TAO had seen what his first impulse was.

Even before he finished speaking, the TAO had mashed a button down, clicking it firmly past the detente and sending the missiles on their way. The cruiser shook as the missiles rippled off at two-second intervals, a string of pearls stretching out from the ship into the clear blue sky. The forecastle was enveloped in a cloud of noxious fumes, the exhaust from the propellant. For a moment, it completely obscured their vision, as though they had just plunged into a heavy fog bank. Then it cleared, the wind whipping it past the bridge. In that few seconds, the missiles had virtually disappeared, and now only the best eyes could make them out as slivers of white against blue.

Once cleared of the ship, their courses changed slightly, each one heading for a different aircraft. They were still under the control of the Aegis computer, which was updating the target position data and feeding it in a constant stream to the missiles. The new course corrections were made as they bore in on the Forgers.

“Tomcat 101, incoming,” the captain said into the mike. “Suggest you make best speed to be clear of the area.”

“Clear the area, right,” Tombstone muttered. “Just what the hell does he think I’m doing?” He tipped the nose of the Tomcat down another five degrees, now channeling his will into the skin of the aircraft, willing the air to slip over her skin with no friction.

“What?” Jeremy said, announcing his return to the world of the living.

“We’re running from the Forgers,” Tombstone said rapidly, his attention on the HUD. “Cruiser’s trying to help us out, but it’s going to be close. Watch for the missiles, Jeremy — I’m a little busy up here.”

The last traces of blackness drained out of Jeremy’s brain. He put his face down against the hard plastic mask around the radar screen. His heart sank when he saw the geometry. Sixteen Forgers chasing one Tomcat, and a ripple of long speed leaders aimed at the center of the pack. The cruiser missiles — yes, if it worked, it would save their ass, but there was an equal chance that they would be on the receiving end of the cruiser’s volley of missiles.

A loud beep beep filled the cockpit. Jeremy tore his gaze away from the radar screen long enough to glance at the forward instrument panel. The master caution light burned steadily, its incessant tone announcing that there were serious problems with the Tomcat.

“Engine temp, right engine,” Tombstone said. Jeremy looked right and saw flames coming out of the engine.

“Fire,” he said.

“Initiating right engine fire suppression system,” Tombstone announced, his hand slipping over the instrument panel with an ease born of experience, while not taking his gaze off of the HUD. “Flame out, right engine.”

On the radar screen, the Forgers were now gaining rapidly as the Tomcat’s speed peeled away. Reduced to one engine, they had lost not only speed but maneuverability as well. Tombstone was using the vertical control surfaces to maintain level flight, but the Tomcat wanted badly to roll to the right.

“We got problems,” Jeremy announced. “They’re closing too fast, they’re too close. The missiles won’t be able to distinguish between us. Tombstone, we have to punch out.”

“No,” Tombstone said, his voice low. “Hold on.” Without warning, he slammed the Tomcat into a vertical dive, heading straight for the surface of the water.

As she departed level flight, the Tomcat began spinning. One engine, too fast, uncontrolled movement — even Tombstone couldn’t pull them out of this one, Jeremy thought despairingly. And they couldn’t eject, not with the spin on, not at this angle. Sure, airspeed was increasing sufficiently to widen the distance between the Forgers and the Tomcat, but what good was that if they augered into the surface of the ocean?

“Tomcat one zero one, interception in five seconds — four — three — two — contact!” the cruiser’s TAO said, his voice tight. “Request you evaluate visually the damage.”

We’re trying to get out of his way and he wants to know if his missiles hit. If he hadn’t been so frightened, Jeremy would have laughed.

Suddenly, the Tomcat broke hard to the right and her spin decreased markedly. The force threw Jeremy hard against his ejection harness. Then the Tomcat slowly rolled out of her spin, airspeed peeling off rapidly.

What the hell? He checked the instrument panel and saw that Tombstone had dropped both the landing gear and popped the speed brakes, giving him more control surfaces and decreasing her airspeed in order to regain control of the aircraft. At that speed? She shouldn’t have survived deploying landing gear. For a moment, Jeremy contemplated saying that out loud, then he decided to keep quiet.

“Cruiser, one zero one,” he heard himself say, although he had not the slightest idea how he was even functioning, much less alive. “Confirmed three — now four kills,” his voice continued, and he realized that while some part of him was screaming in fear, another part was scanning the sky looking for fireballs. He relaxed and let himself function on automatic. “Eight now. And the remaining Forgers are getting the hell out of Dodge.”

On board the cruiser, a cheer rippled through CDC. Not only was the Aegis computer assigning kills based on its assessment of the radar picture and a missile/target intercept picture, but the pilot of the Tomcat had confirmed eight of them as well. In the next few moments, four more missiles went down, bringing the total to twelve.

“They’re turning,” the TAO shouted, his gaze locked on the screen. In front him, the speed leaders attached to the enemy aircraft had shifted and were now pointed away from Tomcat 101. “They’re turning back!”

“I don’t think it’s us they’re worried about,” the captain said. “It looks like the cavalry has just arrived.” On the screen, twenty small blue blips were just edging into view, the contingent of Tomcats and Hornets from the main attack party.

Red lights were rippling across the instrument panel, indicating cascading damage. Their problems had only begun with the right engine fire, flameout, and shutdown. The hydraulic systems and electronics were following suit. The Tomcat had fought bravely, but in the end, she had done more than she was designed to, and the results were becoming obvious.

Tombstone let it all wash over him. Just for a moment, he was going to concentrate on flying. Before long, he would have to make the decision of whether to stay with her and try to land, or whether to abandon her. But not right this second. She was still flying.

Behind him, Jeremy was frantically popping circuit breakers, routing essential systems through backups, securing those that were most damaged. The hydraulic leaks were the most dangerous problem as the fluid was highly flammable. If it came in contact with the searing white-hot engines, then they were done for.

“Tomcat one zero one, Home Plate. Interrogative your status?” the carrier asked.

“Request green deck and priority in the stack,” Tombstone said calmly, aware that he’d made his decision in that split second. “I am declaring an in-flight emergency. Right engine flameout, loss of two hydraulic systems. Operating on redundancy now, but we can get back on board.”

“Say state,” the carrier demanded.

Tombstone glanced at the fuel gauge and groaned. “Not good,” he admitted. “I have enough for one pass, that’s it.”

“Can you take on some fuel?” a new voice asked, and Tombstone recognized it as Coyote’s.

“I don’t think so. She’s about as maneuverable as a blimp right now, and I’m not sure the fuel probe is even intact.”

A pause, then Coyote said, “I’m not sure about getting you back on board, Stony.”

“I can make it,” Tombstone insisted. He could. He knew it so deep in his bones that there was no denying it. “But we have to come on board now, Coyote. Give me a green deck?”

“All right.” Tombstone could hear the doubt in his friend’s voice. He knew what Coyote was thinking — the same thing he would have been worried about not so long ago. If Tombstone made a less than optimal landing—come on, say it, if you crash, let’s not bother with euphemisms—then the remaining Tomcats and Hornets were stuck airborne until the carrier cleared the crash off the deck. Sure, they could orbit and tank, but from what he could tell, the battle wasn’t over yet. Sooner or later, aircraft would start running out of weapons, and that was something that couldn’t be taken care of with a tanker. They would have to get back on deck, have to re-arm. And if Tombstone’s aircraft was a flaming mass, recovery or launch would be impossible for some time. And there was always the chance that a crash would cause enough damage to the deck or the arresting gear or the catapults — not to mention the island — to prevent any flight operations at all.

Maybe we should just punch out and take our chances. Tombstone considered it, even going so far as to raise one hand and close it around the red-and-white striped ejection handle. He could feel the tension on the cables holding it in place, feel the rocket underneath his seat poised and ready to fire.

No. We’ve come this far — I’m taking her home. Carefully, he pulled her into a slow turn, balancing out the thrust from one engine with her control surfaces.

“One zero one, come right to heading one two zero,” the Hawkeye said, taking over the problem of directing the injured Tomcat to the carrier. “Glad to see you’ve taken care of that multiple personality problem, sir. It was getting a bit confusing up here.”

“You should see the other guys,” Tombstone joked.

“We did.”

The Tomcat was responding well for an aircraft flying on one engine, a bit sluggish but responsive. As long as he could take it slow and careful, they should make it.

“One zero one, call the ball,” the tower’s voice said.

“Ball, one zero one,” Tombstone said, the Fresnel lens now in view. “On final, no needles.”

“Roger, sir. You’re looking good, looking good.” The LSO’s voice was calm and confident, intended to reassure an uncertain or nervous pilot. No matter that Tombstone had more time in a carrier’s chow line than the LSO had in the cockpit, the LSO was still in charge of the approach. “Come left a bit, sir. You’re looking good.”

The Tomcat balked at any attempt at fine-tuning the descent. Finally, Tombstone arrived at a compromise of staying roughly on course, reserving his strength and last-minute corrections for attitude and altitude adjustments.

“Three wire,” Tombstone announced, his gaze now focused on the deck. The carrier was looming large, a massive and inhospitable steel cliff.

“You’re on,” Jeremy said.

“Altitude, altitude,” the LSO barked, his voice now sharp. “Sir, you’re too low!”

The roiling air astern of the carrier was taking its toll, as was the speed he was losing.

Should he correct, and risk overshooting if the carrier’s stern dropped back down as he came over her? He didn’t have enough fuel for another try — if he missed this one, she was going in the drink.

But if he didn’t correct, if the carrier stayed stern high, riding up on the wave, there was every chance he’d smash into her ramp like a bug against a windshield. Maybe a compromise — he watched the stern, gauged its movements, and made his decision. He held his attitude and course.

“Oh Jesus,” he heard Jeremy moan behind him. Tombstone ignored it, concentrating on willing the aircraft down onto the deck.

“Stay with her,” Tombstone shouted. If Jeremy panicked and punched out now, there was every chance that Coyote’s worst nightmare would come true, with an out-of-control Tomcat tumbling flaming across the deck. The only way out now was straight through it, bringing her down on deck in one piece. “I’ve got her, I’ve got her!”

Then, suddenly, they were over the deck. Instants later, they slammed down, the nose wheel taking more of the impact than it should, the tail following it. Tombstone knew a brief moment of panic as he waited for the tail hook to catch. The seconds dragged on as he skidded across the deck, still bouncing, waiting for the tail hook to intercept a wire and slam them to a stop.

Finally, it happened. The forward motion stopped abruptly, jolting them against their harnesses. Tombstone immediately increased power, in case of a bolter. All that that would accomplish would be to get them clear of the ship before they punched out.

Seconds ticked by. Finally, the plane captain stepped slowly in front of them and made the signal to reduce power. The fire-fighting team was assembled just outside the flight deck proper, waiting, hoses at the ready to dispense foam if necessary. The giant crane and the yellow gear were also manned, ready to push the Tomcat over the side if she caught fire.

Tombstone eased back on the throttle, reducing power on the remaining engine. The engine speed slowed, then it coughed and quit. The plane captain regarded him with a puzzled expression for a moment, then signaled to the yellow gear. The tow truck raced across the deck and came to a smart halt in front of them. Within moments, the hitch had been affixed to the nose wheel strut and the Tomcat was towed away from the arresting gear.

“I believe you owe me a beer,” Jeremy said, his voice almost completely normal. “Nailed the one wire, didn’t you? And about your attitude — well, the whole landing left a lot to be desired.”

Tombstone laughed out loud. He twisted around to stare back at the younger pilot, who was making such a valiant effort at terminal cool. “You’re some piece of work, Jeremy,” he said.

“Am I? Well, you just wait until the first time our positions are reversed and you have to sit in the backseat during a landing like that.”