Hellfire

TWENTY-TWO

The incoming Forgers were still well outside range of the carrier when the Hornet sponge was finally filled. Thor, the flight leader for Packer flight, and his wingman split off from the pack. “Packer flight, we’ll take the right side,” Thor announced. There had been some discussion while on deck about whether the bomber/fighter composite squadron would maintain its current formation or whether it would split into two independent squadrons, one heading for the mainland and the other dealing with the carrier. So far, it looked like the Russians were electing to deal with one problem at a time.

A chorus of clicks greeted Thor’s command, acknowledging the order. Packer flight peeled off from the sponge, Thor and his new wingman, Marine Captain Jim “Beetle” Bailey, in the lead, the rest spaced out at equal intervals behind them. Thor shoved his Hornet into afterburner, intent on closing the Forgers before the Backfires could come within range. His flight followed suit.

“Packer flight, break,” Thor ordered as they drew within combat range of the enemy fighters. The Hornet fighting pairs immediately broke off, selecting their targets under the direction of the E-2 Hawkeye and boring in for the kill.

“Fox three,” Thor said, toggling off an AMRAAM. They were at max range, but a few missiles inbound might serve to shake up the incoming aircraft. At the very least, they would break them off from their flight plan if they took defensive action, and a good offense was always the best defense. If you just counted numbers, the Hornets were slightly outnumbered, but that didn’t tell the whole story. The training, the armament, and everything else made the odds more than equal.

“Beetle, let’s take the one high. On me,” Thor said, selecting the first victim. One Forger was at a slightly greater altitude than the others, apparently cruising alone. He would be no match for two Hornets.

“Roger,” Beetle agreed. Beetle settled in above and behind Thor in the classic fighting pair formation. As they headed for the solo Forger, the other Forgers apparently noticed. Suddenly, the air around them was lousy with fighters.

“We have a winner,” Thor announced. “This must be the flight leader.”

“Coming around behind,” Beetle announced, although there was no real need for him to tell Thor. He and Thor had worked together so often that his intent was immediately obvious to his lead.

“Let’s keep them honest,” Thor said, and toggled off another AAMRAM. To his left, he saw three Forgers approaching rapidly, almost within weapons range. His ESM warning gear began beeping rapidly.

Their target Forger broke right, descended rapidly, then wheeled back around to come in behind Beetle. But Beetle had anticipated this, and used his advantage of being in a smaller and more maneuverable aircraft to gain altitude, wing over, and dive back in behind the Forger. The Forger was trying to keep Beetle on the defensive, evading prime target position while waiting for the cavalry to arrive, but it wasn’t going to work. He scraped past Beetle inverted, undercarriage to undercarriage, then rolled out and started hauling ass. Thor slid high and above them, waiting for them. “Fox one!” The heat seeker leaped off his wing, spitting fire out the back, hungry for the warm tailpipes just in front of it.

“Got one on me,” Beetle announced, his voice calm. “You see him?”

“No, I — yeah, I got him.” A Forger had descended from on high to slip in behind Beetle, and was following every move Beetle made as though being towed by an invisible wire. Beetle flipped his Hornet into a hard turn, trying to cut such a tight circle that the Forger couldn’t get inside. For a moment, it looked like it would work, then another Forger arrived on the scene, certain that Beetle was too distracted with his target to notice him arriving.

“Fox two,” Thor said, slamming off another missile at the newest arrival. He banked back around, then descended to fall into position behind the Forger chasing Beetle. “Beetle, break hard right!” As Beetled complied, Thor spit out a short round of fire from his cannon. The depleted uranium bullets bit into the Forger’s engine, shattering it immediately. Thor was already turning hard to avoid the shrapnel and was well clear of it when the Forger exploded into flames.

“New target,” the Hawkeye announced, “on your right, six o’clock low.” Thor and Beetle both saw the contact immediately and, staying in their fighting positions, headed down to intercept him.

“Why does he have to send us down?” Thor muttered, unhappy with the choice. Sure, the Hornet was better able to handle changes in altitude, since it had a far higher power-to-wing ratio than the Tomcats did. The classic game for this situation, Hornet versus a heavier aircraft, was to force the fight into the vertical, taking advantage of the Hornet’s greater maneuverability to entice the heavier aircraft into a mistake. It was different with a Tomcat, given its powerful engines, but all reports said the Forger didn’t have nearly the horsepower the Tomcat did.

Around Thor, black smoke and flashes of fire littered the air. He broke hard to the right, avoiding the shrapnel then rolling over and descending toward the new target. It would be a bitch to survive enemy fire only to be nailed by FOD in his own engine.

“Nasty,” Beetle said. The Forger had rolled inverted, winged over, and was trying to slip into position behind Beetle. But Beetle cut hard to the right then suddenly reversed the direction of his turn, forcing the Forger out into the open.

“Open range, Beetle,” Thor said, suddenly realizing how close they were. “You’re too close, you’re too close!”

“I’m pulling out,” Beetle said, his voice suddenly tight. He was still inverted, following the Forger down in the bottom half of a loop. He eased his Hornet out of the descent into level flight, now right side up, intending to clear the area for Thor’s shot. But as he did so, the Forger seemed to stagger in the air and Beetle’s Hornet clipped its tail assembly.

The Hornet immediately departed control flight, falling through the air like dead metal. Light, smoke, then black trailed from its tail. Thor was closer to the Forger but too close for a missile. He jammed the weapons selector to guns, and rattled off a long blast with his nose cannon. The Forger’s canopy shattered, glass hanging in the air for a moment to catch the sun like a rainbow. There was a blast of white smoke, and debris streamed out of the cockpit. Smoke billowed from the Forger’s right engine, followed shortly by a stream of liquid that burst into flames. Thor was already rolling out, moving away and hunting for Beetle when the Forger exploded.

“Beetle!” Thor shouted, scanning the air for the injured Hornet.

“Seven clock, low,” the Hawkeye said, barely pausing as it rapped out orders to the remaining Hornets.

Thor saw him then, sunlight blinking off metal as the Hornet tumbled. “Beetle!” Thor shouted again, kicking in the afterburner to intercept his wingman. Was Beetle even alive? The impact should have been survivable. Beetle had hit the tail assembly, sure, but he hadn’t hit the cockpit as far as Thor could tell. Had the g-forces gotten him?

Thor was on him now, following him down, screaming his name in the mike. He thought he heard a brief, clipped answer but he couldn’t be sure. He could see inside the cockpit, but the Hornet’s erratic movement made it hard to tell if Beetle was injured. If Beetle was still alive, his hands were glued to the controls and every ounce of his concentration would be focused on pulling out of the deadly spin.

Was it possible — was Beetle’s Hornet pulling up? It seemed to be, but the motion was still so severe that Thor could see no way to recover. If Beetle could just stabilize enough to punch out, that would be good enough. There was no way this aircraft was going to land, no way at all. It had no business being airborne. The best they could hope for was to save the pilot.

Unbelievable. The Hornet’s motion was stabilizing. It was still in a steep dive, but the yaw was damping out. It still maintained a slow rotation around its longitude, but maybe, just maybe it was slow enough to let Beetle get out.

“Beetle, you got it — eject, eject!” Thor shouted, still not knowing whether his wingman could hear him.

His own ESM warning gear beep cut through the cockpit, demanding to be heard. Lock, missile lock — but where? Thor broke off from following Beetle’s injured Hornet and searched the air around him.

At first he couldn’t find it. Then it came out of the sun, headed directly for him, two Forgers with nose guns blazing. Thor dropped his Hornet’s nose and shot under them, exposing his tailpipe for an instant but more willing to risk that than his undercarriage. The Forgers streamed past him, guns still firing, tracers blindingly white against a blue sky, searching for him. The Forgers started to turn back on him, but Thor was already back in position, his own gun firing now. Two could play this game.

The lead Forger turned away, tipped over into a steep dive, and headed for Beetle’s injured Hornet. Thor swore. Surely the Forger pilot could tell that the Hornet wasn’t quite flying anymore. What was the point in going after one that was already fatally injured?

Just then, the cockpit blew off Beetle’s Hornet, followed shortly by a small, black figure. Beetle ejected at a forty-five-degree angle from the cockpit, fire blazing under the ejection seat as the rocket drove him through the air.

“He’s clear, he’s clear,” Thor shouted, relief flooding him. For just a moment, he thought Beetle would make it. But then, just as his wingman was clearing the dying Hornet, the aircraft rolled again. The tail assembly smacked into his wingman, driving him sideways.

The Forgers, evidently having seen the ejection, tried to break off. Thor was torn between keeping Beetle in view and pressing the attack on the Forgers. There was really no choice — he was in the air for one reason, and that was to kill Forgers.

“Chute, I have one chute,” Thor shouted over tactical. “Beetle, immediately below my position. Requests SAR.”

“Roger, Packer lead, we have him,” the Hawkeye replied. “SAR is standing by.”

Dammit, they’re standing by until it’s safe to come in. And it won’t be, not until these Forgers are gone.

Thor wheeled his Hornet back and gave chase. The Forgers saw him immediately, and cut around, trying to throw him off, but Thor anticipated their maneuver, ascended, then dropped into perfect killing position. He toggled the weapons selector to Sparrows, then changed his mind and selected guns. He boosted into afterburner for a few seconds, closing the distance, the Forger gyrating through the air as it tried to shake him. Thor shot off a short blast, feeling an immense satisfaction as the tracers made their way through the Forger’s skin. He pulled out, then dropped back down to get another visual on Beetle. He couldn’t get too close, for fear that his jet wash would collapse Beetle’s chute. From this range, he could not tell whether Beetle was conscious and had his hands on his risers or was simply riding the chute down.

He would be okay, Thor knew he would. Hell, it hadn’t been that hard of a hit, had it? Marines survived far worse than that and came out okay, didn’t they? Sure they did.

His ESM demanded attention. “Son of a bitch,” Thor muttered, turning back to open sky to find the threat. It took him a moment, but then sunlight splashed on metal and he saw his new target coming at him out of the sun. No heat seekers, then — too dangerous. Too much danger that the missiles would take off after the sun instead of the aircraft, and Thor was getting low enough on weapons that he couldn’t afford to waste a single one.

The Forger was above him, descending rapidly, and it wasn’t alone. Slightly above and behind, a second one came, hoping to catch Thor as he broke for altitude to escape the lead aircraft. It would have been no problem with a wingman, since the wingman could have kept the higher aircraft distracted long enough for Thor to gain altitude, but it was slightly trickier now. The real problem was being low on weapons, especially in a two-on-one situation.

Thor punched into afterburner and pulled away from the two, briefly exposing his tailpipes before wheeling back in on them. His ESM was screaming now, warning that missile launch was imminent, that targeting radar had a lock on him. Thor ignored it. His eyes could tell him more than any electronics could right now.

A missile leaped off the lower aircraft’s wing, heading for the Hornet’s underbelly. Thor held steady for a moment, then ejected chaff and flares, winging over and descending, pulling up hard enough to come up on the other side of the aircraft. If the missile managed to follow the maneuver, there was at least a fighting chance that it would see its own aircraft as the target. Meanwhile, time to deal with the higher bird.

The other aircraft was waiting for him, standing off in the distance, evidently wary of the Hornet’s maneuverability. But Thor was starting to run low on fuel, and the danger of a prolonged two-on-one fight was quickly becoming a problem.

Altitude, I need altitude. And a wingman. Thor boosted again, screaming to the air. The ESM screamed again, and he punched out another round of countermeasures, then pulled out of his climb and ejected more flares as a screen when he turned.

“Thor, I got the lower one — stay clear!” Fastball Morrow’s voice said over tactical. “Fox one, Fox one.” The heat seekers streaked across the air, nailing the Forger in the ass. Between ensuring that Beetle’s aircraft was dead and trying to take on Thor, the Forger had lost the big picture, and Fastball was on it before it knew what happened.

“I’ll get the other one,” Thor said, grunting, as he pulled the Hornet in a tight turn. The higher Forger, watching the destruction of his wingman, had decided he didn’t like the odds anymore. He had turned, intending to run back to the pack, when Thor caught him with a Sidewinder.

Man, I’m in the hurt locker, Thor thought, surveying his fuel gauge and weapons status. One AMRAAM, two rounds of countermeasures, and just a little more than fumes in the tank. “Big Eye, Packer lead — Texaco.”

“Roger, Packer lead, Texaco bears 304, range 20 from your position. Standing by, full-service and all lines open.”

Twenty miles — can I make it? Sure — there’s always a margin of error built into these things. Thor swore quietly, knowing he’d screwed up by not watching his fuel more carefully. No point in surviving a couple of Forgers if you dump your Hornet in the drink by running out of fuel.

“Isn’t it a good day for flight?” Fastball crowed, snapping out of a fast barrel roll. In the backseat, Rat gritted her teeth. “The weather, the sunshine, and a bunch of stupid Russians — man, you have to love it!”

They were on the fringes of the Tomcat sponge, waiting for the rest of their flight to arrive. From the moment they’d started their pre-flight brief in the ready room, through the walk-around on deck, the launch and climbing to altitude, Fastball’s mood had grated on her nerves.

Just what was there to be so happy about? Outnumbered, bombers in the center of the formation — no, she didn’t really see a reason to be happy. Sure, it was the job, and it was — well, not a good thing, but certainly a gratifying challenge to go into combat. It wasn’t something you were happy about, exactly. High on, maybe, more alive than you were at any other time. Every moment was precious, every sense heightened. Probably the result of adrenaline, she knew, but that didn’t make it any less exhilarating.

But happy? No, she wasn’t happy. The difference between her attitude and Fastball’s was that she now knew she could die. Unconsciously, she ran her left hand down her right sleeve, felt the reassuring shape of her muscles under her fingertips. A few inches either way and her arm would have been blown off. Held as it was, she had been on the verge of bleeding to death in the cockpit before Fastball had gotten them back on the deck. It was only by sheer luck and good surgery that she retained complete use of her arm and was allowed to return to flight status. Sure, Fastball had been there, had seen the damage, had known how close she’d come to dying. Another foot or so and the shrapnel would’ve punched through his guts instead of her arm.

But until it happens to you, until you feel your own skin and flesh tearing, until you work through months of rehab and healing, you never really believe it. It always happens to someone else.

Well, she had been that someone else, and she knew it made a difference.

“Dolphin flight, on me.” Bird Dog’s voice rapped out over their flight circuit. “It’s still one solid cluster fuck, boys and girls. The lightweights will take the right side and we’ll head for the heavies on the left. Come in over the top and call your target on the E-2’s mark. Any questions?”

Of course there weren’t, other than whether the Hornets knew that Bird Dog was calling them lightweights. They had gone over this in the ready room, then again on the flight deck as a pre-flight. The Hawkeye had updated them while they were gathering at the sponge point, and they were about as up-to-date on the disposition of forces as anyone had any right to expect.

Rat stared down at the radar screen until goose bumps shivered on both arms. There was something evil about seeing Russian fighters and bombers in a formation they’d studied as history. This was back to the bad old days, the Cold War, when families were building bomb shelters in their backyards and the world was poised on the brink of nuclear war.

Stop it. It’s just fighters. The bombers don’t even count. They’re too slow and heavy to make any difference at all, at least as far as our mission is concerned. A turkey shoot, once we get to the Forgers.

But the Forgers, those were a problem. The Tomcats were slightly heavier but more powerful. She ran through their performance characteristics in her mind again. Insert techno—

“Fastball, close up,” Bird Dog ordered, his voice curt. Obediently, Fastball slipped into position tight on Bird Dog’s right wing.

“What’s the matter, you getting lonesome?” Fastball asked cheerily.

“Do you have to be like this?” she snapped, her nerves finally fraying.

“Like what?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Like you’re having fun! Fastball, get your head in the game. This isn’t Top Gun School or a computer game.”

“I know that,” he said, sounding hurt.

“Yeah, right.”

There was a long silence, and she immediately regretted her words. The fact that Fastball irritated her said more about her attitude than about his. Maybe they shouldn’t have returned her to flight status. Maybe she’d lost her nerve.

“Okay, Rat,” Fastball said, his voice not quite as obnoxious. “Sorry. I just thought — well — I thought it’d cheer you up.”

“Fastball,” she muttered, “just fly the aircraft, okay? When I need an amateur psychologist, I’ll let you know.”

Just then, her ESM gear bleated out a warning. She snapped her gaze back to the radar screen and saw that they were just crossing over and above a Russian flight. This was the single most dangerous part of the transit, when they were directly in front, although above, the Russian fighters. They presented an excellent target aspect, broadside to the radars then flashing their tailpipes.

“Afterburner,” Bird Dog ordered. “Break formation.” This, too, was exactly as planned, providing a more difficult problem for Russian targeting.

The punch of the afterburner shoved Rat back into her seat. For a few seconds, she was too busy trying to breathe and keep her attention on the scope to worry about Fastball and whether or not he thought she’d lost her nerve. Then, as the g-forces eased off, she saw they were across. The plan was to continue ten miles past the formation, then swing back and approach them on an angle. A few more minutes — now.

“Now!” she said, giving Fastball the signal. He had anticipated her command and was already pulling into a tight turn and heading back toward the Russians. Below them, Bird Dog was accelerating, pulling away and increasing the separation between his aircraft and theirs to standard distance.

Immediately, three Forgers rose up to meet them. All around them, as the fighting pairs broke formation and selected targets under the Hawkeye’s direction, the Forgers split up to meet them.

The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Every fighting pair was facing four, if not six, aircraft. And still more were in formation, closing in tight on their Backfires, ready to take out anyone who got too close.

“Keep your distance,” Bird Dog reminded everyone. “Fox three, fox three.” An AMRAAM leaped off his wing, heading for the lead Russian. Bird Dog immediately broke off, accelerated, and ascended. The Russian he had targeted turned back into formation, panicked by the incoming missile and scattering the Backfires like marbles.

One part of Rat’s mind applauded the performance. Another part was panicking. Bird Dog did realize, didn’t he, that he couldn’t shoot his whole load at first encounter? Sure, if you didn’t get by the first missile, then there was no point in worrying about the next one, but you couldn’t expend every countermeasure on the first shot at you. That was a lesson she’d learned early on.

Bird Dog evaded the countermeasures easily, swinging over the top of the second Forger then wheeling back around to take another shot. It was clear he believed there was nothing to worry about, that the Forger in front of him had his complete and total attention. Fastball was supposed to be watching to make sure of it.

The second Forger proved to have a steadier hand. It stood its ground as the missile approached, waiting until the last second then braking hard down in a nearly vertical descent. The missile almost had it, but then was unable to follow. Trying to turn, it lost itself in a compact burst of flares and detonated harmlessly. The Forger lost its tactical awareness, however, and as it turned back to face Bird Dog, it exposed itself vertically to a heat seeker. Fastball, never one to miss an opportunity, snapped, “Bird Dog, break right!” and, at the same second, toggled off a heat seeker. The Tomcat below maneuvered almost instantly, but had Bird Dog been a hair slower or taken time to question Fastball’s command, it would have been a toss-up as to whether the missile took out the Forger or Fastball’s lead.

“Nice shot, Fastball,” Bird Dog said coolly over tactical. Rat cringed. By refusing to admit that he had been in danger, Bird Dog merely compounded the problems with Fastball. And once the two pilots had determined to out-cool each other, there was little a RIO could do to stop them.

The third Forger had not escaped their attention, either. Realizing that both of its companions had been lost, it fell back slightly, and waited for a second Forger to form on him. Then, moving a loose pattern that suggested a lot of experience, the two moved in.

“And here come the big dogs,” Fastball shouted, evidently realizing the same thing. “Bring them on!”

The preferred tactic would be to take on one, then the other, but the Russians were not giving them that choice. The Forgers split apart almost immediately, each one gunning for an individual target.

“Fox one!” Fastball shouted, shooting an AMRAAM. Even as he did so, the ECM blared its warning.

“He’s got us, Fastball,” Rat shouted, her fingers flying over the controls as she pumped out chaff and flares. Not too much, not too little — just right. Her radarscope exploded with a buzz of static as the chaff spread.

The Forger was on them almost instantly, nimbly evading the chaff. He came in again, blasting off another missile then cutting away and circling back up under, like a shark after a swimmer. Rat saw tracers just off their right side, and realized that the Forger was hoping to trap them between the missile, the chaff, and its guns.

Fastball saw it coming, too. He tipped the Tomcat nose down, letting her drop like a rock, and then pulled back hard, kicking into afterburner in a display of raw power that the Forger could never match. In seconds, he was back at altitude, high in behind the Forger. The missile veered off, losing its lock and streaking off toward open sky.

The Forger, not to be outdone, seemed to leap through the air as it followed Fastball up. It couldn’t manage the sheer power of the Tomcat in a climb, but it could cut well inside what its pilot thought was Fastball’s turn. The Forger cut across the arc, intending to intercept them and drop into position behind, firing off the heat seeker to increase the distraction factor.

Fastball swore, and reversed his turn. He pulled up again, flashing the undercarriage of the jet at the Forger, then dove over to drop back in position. The Forger, not realizing what was coming, had once again turned in the vertical, intending to intercept, and had failed to allow for the change in altitude. Once he realized his error, the pilot began maneuvering radically across the sky, cutting a series of hard turns designed to exceed the Tomcat’s envelope. But once again, Fastball saw it coming. He kicked afterburners back in and simply powered his way through a gut-wrenching ascending turn, coming back down behind the Forger again.

The ECM warning went off again, and Rat twisted in her harness, looking for the threat. Meanwhile, Fastball bore down on the helpless Forger, almost psychically guessing which way the other aircraft would turn. Finally, the Forger tried to run one too many times. Tracers streaked across it and seemed to disappear, harmlessly passing through its skin.

Rat knew that was impossible. Everything she knew about the Forger said that its underbelly had additional armor plating on it, enabling it to more effectively and safely support ground operations, but the rest of the fuselage was lightly armored in order not to weigh the aircraft down too much. Consequently, the rounds would do maximum damage.

Evidence to support her conclusion was not long in coming. The Forger twisted in the air, trying to evade the Tomcat. But just as it leveled out, it spun violently to the right, rolling so hard it was almost a blur.

Fastball pulled away hard, clearing the area. As he did, the Forger’s wing snapped off, flying off at an acute angle to the fuselage. Other pieces of gear broke loose, peppering the sky with bits of metal, oil, and debris.

A few seconds later, the inevitable happened. Fuel hit hot metal, flashed past its ignition point, and the Forger exploded.

“Where’s Bird Dog?” Fastball asked, trying to control his voice but clearly breathing hard. Maybe she overestimated his cool, Rat thought, because he sure didn’t sound like a guy who was really enjoying himself.

“Three clock, and low,” she said instantly. One part of her mind was always fixed on lead, tracking his position and maintaining a running picture of where he was relative to Fastball. Not always a RIO’s job, but that was the way it worked when she flew with Fastball.

“Okay.” Fastball dropped the nose of the Tomcat down, then rolled over, searching the sky below them.

“There, just to the right,” Rat said.

“Bird Dog, you okay?” Fastball asked.

It was Bird Dog’s RIO who answered, saying, “Yes, we’re fine, just about — there.” A fireball in front of Bird Dog punctuated the RIO’s self-satisfied pronouncement. “That’s two.”

Immediately, Bird Dog’s Tomcat broke off and began ascending, coming up to meet them. As Bird Dog flashed past them, Fastball fell into position on his wing, following his lead. There was no need for conversation. Both pilots knew exactly what they were doing — picking out the next target.

This time, the Russians were taking fewer chances. Five Forgers broke off to meet them, settling into one group of three and a traditional fighting pair, a configuration that had Rat worried. Funny how your mind got used to seeing just pairs. Now, with one trio joining on them, it was too easy to lose track of one of the players. Not to mention the second pair.

“I’ll take the three,” Bird Dog said. But even as he spoke, the lower pair broke off and gave chase. Bird Dog had no choice but to react. “Stay loose, Fastball,” Bird Dog snapped, a trace of worry in his voice. “I’ll be right back.”

“Not a problem, Dog,” Fastball said. But even as he spoke, Rat could see that there was indeed a problem.

Fastball shoved the Tomcat into afterburner, shoving Rat back hard in her seat. “Ah,” she grunted.

“Altitude,” Fastball said, grunting as well. “Altitude. That’s first.”

“They’re tracking us,” Rat warned. One Forger was directly behind them, falling behind slightly but in perfect position. His playmates were on either side, offset by five thousand yards so that the formation of Tomcat and three-point Forgers looked like a trefoil.

“Sun,” Fastball said, not deigning to explain any further. Not that it was necessary — Rat knew where he was heading. He turned hard and pointed the nose directly into the sun. It glared off the canopy, blinding her. Rat jammed her head down hard against the plastic to block out the light. Fastball probably had his eyes shut by now — the way he was today, she doubted he even needed his eyes in order to fly and fight the aircraft.

“They’ve got a lock,” Rat warned, her fingers tweaking the picture into focus as the gear began its warning time. “Chaff — no flares, not at this angle.”

“Roger. Hold on.” Coming from Fastball, that could mean practically anything. Rat braced herself.

Fastball began a series of violent maneuvers, skipping across the sky like a pebble. The orderly formation of Forgers behind them broke apart slightly as they tried to anticipate his next move, each waiting for the perfect shot. But by forcing them to maneuver, he fouled their fields of fire. And there was one other problem — although she suspected the Forgers hadn’t notice it yet, the Tomcat had slowed its violent maneuvers, and the net effect had been to decrease the distance between the Forgers and the Tomcat to within minimums. They were too close now to fire their missiles.

That didn’t mean they were defenseless. All at once, the air around them was lousy with tracers. For a moment, Rat quailed. Then, seconds before he did it, Rat knew what Fastball intended. She started to object, to warn him not to, that it was too dangerous, but it wouldn’t have done any good.

Just at the point the Forgers began to realize they had a problem, Fastball manually swept the wings forward, deploying his speed brakes and landing gear. The Tomcat reacted as though it had hit a solid object. Its speed slowed abruptly, peeling off knots so quickly that it was inside the stall envelope almost immediately. But as the Tomcat slowed, the Forgers shot past her. Forcing out another two seconds of maneuverability before the Tomcat became aerodynamically unstable, Fastball sprayed the three with gunfire, reversing their situation.

Smoke enveloped two Forgers immediately. The third was apparently untouched. It broke away from the others, afterburner glaring, then, from a safe distance, turned back in on them. Rat could almost sense the other pilot’s fury and determination.

Meanwhile, Fastball was having to cope with the aftereffects of his daring maneuver. The Tomcat was no longer flying. It hung in the air for a second, then, as gravity began to assert its pull, the angle of attack deteriorated. Gravity won, as it always did, and the Tomcat began dropping like a stone, tail first.

Not good. Very not good. Rat wanted to scream, but it would have done no good.

Fastball swept back the control surfaces and punched the afterburner. The thrust was sufficient to rotate the Tomcat in the air, so instead of falling tail first, it was nose down to the ocean. The airframe picked up speed quickly, regaining lift as air flowed over the wings. Within moments, Fastball had built up sufficient airspeed to regain control of the Tomcat.

Too late! The other Forger was now on them, popping off missiles like fireworks. Poor fire control, one part of Rat’s mind noted coolly. Just as bad as the last Forger. Spend everything now, and nothing left for later if you need it.

“Fastball, break right,” Bird Dog’s voice shouted. “I’m on him — break right, dammit!”

Fastball reacted as instinctively and quickly as Bird Dog had earlier, turning so hard that he shed precious airspeed. But stalls can be recovered from. Missile hits can’t.

“Fox one,” Bird Dog shouted. Rat twisted in her seat, staring back at their tail. She saw Bird Dog’s missile coming in at right angles to them, but for a moment she thought it was headed straight for them. But no, Bird Dog had judged the angle quite accurately. The missile was not aimed at the Forger, it was aimed at where the Forger would be in three seconds, which was where Fastball was now. As the aircraft continued on their courses, it worked out just as Bird Dog had planned. The missile pierced the Forger’s flank, and for a moment Rat thought she saw it sticking out from the side. A microsecond later, the warhead detonated, destroying the Forger.

“Nice shot, Bird Dog,” Fastball said, too, too cool.

“Not bad,” Bird Dog acknowledged offhandedly. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

“Not a problem,” Fastball said. “We managed.”

Rat wanted to scream.

Just then, the Hawkeye came over tactical. “Dolphin lead, assist Packer lead, bearing zero three zero, range ten.”

“Thor? Where’s his wingman?” Bird Dog asked.

“SAR operations under way,” the Hawkeye replied calmly. “You want to discuss this now, or get your ass in gear?”

“I’m on it,” Fastball said immediately.

“No, I’ll—” Bird Dog began, only to be interrupted by the Hawkeye.

“Roger, Fastball. Dolphin lead, remain with flight.” The Hawkeye continued with a rapid summary of the scenario — eleven kills for Dolphin flight, one Tomcat splashed. That left one without a wingman, and it was Bird Dog’s duty to fill in.

“Acknowledged,” Bird Dog said, already turning back toward the rest of his flight. “Fastball, take care of it, and get your ass back here.”

And assist where fastball pulls doors but out of the bacon.

One bomber peeled way from the pack, evidently intending to make a run for it on its own. Tombstone changed course and headed directly for it. His blood was running hot, his anger concentrated into every cell. His entire life seemed to depend on killing Russians. Nothing else could ease the pain in his soul.

Suddenly, his international air distress frequency came alive. A low-pitched but definitely female voice snarled, “Damn you, all of you. I’m not going to do it — fuck you!” The transmission cut off as abruptly as it began.

Tombstone’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The aircraft around him disappeared. It was as though he was in suspended animation, trapped lifeless between the ejection seat and the sky. The words pounded in his brain.

She always had a mouth on her. That’s just what she would say. But what were they trying to make her do?

“Tombstone? You okay?” Greene snapped. “Get your head in the game, asshole.”

Tombstone didn’t answer. The voice obliterated his entire world, the words overwhelming them. No, not the words — the voice. Because he was as certain as life itself that Tomboy had been speaking.

“Stony?” the voice said. “I love you.”

“Stony — oh, god. That’s her, isn’t it?” Greene said, his voice weak. “Tombstone, where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Tombstone said, his lips barely moving. He was cold, so cold. Sweat poured off his forehead and his palms were clammy. “She could be anywhere.”

“Stony One, Hawkeye. Be advised that last transmission was from an aircraft. The line of bearing and track put it directly in front of you. Whoever that was, she’s on that bomber.”

I can’t do it. No one would expect me to. I’m already dead — I won’t kill her, too. The stream of consciousness flowed through Tombstone’s mind, confusing him. He waited — for what, he wasn’t certain.

“I won’t do it!” Her voice again, howling her anger and outrage. It was just like her, that indomitable spirit even when confronted with the most unimaginable odds. “Let go of me, you can’t—there!” If he thought he had been cold before, he was mistaken. The savage glee and victory in her cry of triumph froze his very soul.

The sky in front of him shattered into fragments of glass — no, it wasn’t glass. The top of the bomber exploded, sheets of metal peeling back from the fuselage. Small black dots shot out at forty-five-degree angles to the aircraft. The bomber was still airborne, just barely, it’s structural integrity assaulted by the violence of the ejections.

Was she strapped in? She was fighting with them — no, she wasn’t.

Of course she was — Tomboy wouldn’t be that stupid.

Or would she? Would she find a way to grab an ejection handle and yank down, knowing that it would eject everyone except her. Would she ride a dying aircraft down to the surface of the sea, sacrificing herself in order to destroy the aircraft?

“Tomboy!” The howl was ripped from deep inside of him, anguish and protest rolled into one. “No!”

There were eight chutes now, floating down in the air. The bomber itself was wobbling, trying to fly but not able to, its autopilot unable to keep up with the cascading damage and system failures.

“She punched out,” Greene said. “Tombstone, she punched out, she punched out.” Greene repeated the phrase like a mantra, trying to refocus the pilot’s attention. Finally, in response to pleas and threats from his backseater and from the Hawkeye, Tombstone rallied.

“I’m okay.”

“Stone One, you have priority in the pattern. Get your ass on deck.” The stern voice of the admiral echoed over the airwaves. “Pull yourself together, partner. Get that aircraft back down here. Now! We have SAR en route the chutes.”

“Come on, Tombstone,” Jeremy said, his voice gentle but urgent. “Let’s get back to the boat — come on, you can do this with your eyes closed.”

Cold, so cold — dear god, I’ve been there, punched out, not knowing if I’d survive. They said they had eight chutes. She’ll make it. I’m sure she will.

“Come right, course three two zero,” Greene said, his voice firm. “Descend to ten thousand feet.”

Mechanically, Tombstone flew the aircraft. He flew with precision, muscles and mind detached from his intellect and emotions, automatically taking the Tomcat around the marshal stack, lining up on the stern of the carrier, calling the ball, making the adjustments required, and taking his Tomcat in for a perfect three-wire trap. A perfectly executed approach and trap — all done by reflex.

At the moment the plane captain stepped in front of his aircraft and signaled him to reduce power, his world shattered into pieces. Instead of reducing power and taxiing to his spot, Tombstone eased the throttles back. The hard scream of the Tomcat died. The aircraft rolled backward slightly in response to the pull from the three-wire. Tombstone applied his nosewheel brake, waited for the tension to ease off, then retracted the tail hook and popped the canopy.

Tombstone reached down to safe his ejection seat, then stood. He swung one leg over the side of the aircraft, groping for the foothold, then descended to the deck.

There was a moment of confusion on the deck, then the yellow shirts stormed across nonskid and clambered up the boarding ladder. Jeremy unfastened his ejection harness and climbed into the front seat. He popped the brakes, taxiied to the spot, and ran through the shutdown checklists. There were still Tomcats in the air that needed to get down on deck, and they couldn’t land until this aircraft moved.

Tombstone walked blindly across the deck, saying nothing. Her voice drowned out the rest of the world. Two white-shirt safety deck observers were shortly joined by Admiral Grant. A corpsman slipped in beside him, followed shortly by a doctor. The rest of the flight deck crew formed a protective circle around him.

Tombstone disappeared into the skin of the ship. Greene watched him go.