Island Warriors

TWENTY

As soon as Tombstone landed, he was directed into a heated hanger, but his windscreen had already started to ice up. Tombstone slipped back the canopy, and started down the boarding ladder. Even a good day in Adak was brutal by anyone else’s standards. The wind never seemed to stop, and the wind chill factor was always a consideration.

“Hold on, sir. You got some icing. Use this.” A flight technician wheeled over a ladder stand to him.

“Icing already,” Jason said happily. To him, it was just another challenge to overcome. “If you’d let me fly, we wouldn’t have had a problem.”

“Oh, I suppose your stick is so hot that it would keep ice from forming, right?”

“After you, the hottest stick this aircraft has ever seen,” Jason said confidently. “And if I were you, I’d keep looking over my shoulder.”

Despite his weariness, Tombstone laughed out loud. Jason Greene’s brash, uninhibited approach to life never ceased to amaze him. “Any more guff out of you, boy, and I’ll de-ice this aircraft just by letting you talk to it.” The flight technician laughed at that.

“Good morning,” a voice said. “I’m Commander Lawson, CO of the base.” Tombstone turned to face a Navy officer in long-sleeved khakis approaching. “Welcome aboard.” Tombstone noted the absence of the honorific “sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Captain,” Tombstone said. He resisted the impulse to salute, and glanced back to make sure Jason understood. “Appreciate your hospitality.”

Lawson’s face quirked into a grin. “My people are used to welcoming folks to our island paradise. Even people like you. You won’t be asked any questions, and nobody’s going to call you sir. Unless you actually need something, we’ll pretend you don’t exist. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Sounds just right, Captain. Appreciate the consideration.”

“Even if anyone recognizes you, they’ll pretend they don’t,” Lawson said neutrally. “And some people will think that they do.”

“Present company not excluded,” Tombstone said softly.

Lawson nodded. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to escort you to your quarters myself. The fewer people in the loop, the better. Nobody will think it’s unusual — it happens fairly often. Depending on the circumstances.” He patted the side of Tombstone’s Tomcat affectionately. “And we have the finest technicians in the world, si—” He cut off the word “sir” before he could finish it, and shook his head. “Sorry about that. Anyway, as I was saying, our technicians will take care of your bird. Between what we have onboard and those that flew in two days ago—”

“Flew in two days ago?” Tombstone asked, his voice incredulous. “But I didn’t — never mind, Commander Lawson. Never mind.”

As they followed Lawson off to a secluded corner of the hanger, Greene said softly, “There’s more to this cloak and dagger business than I thought.”

“I should’ve worn a ski mask. Or let you do all the talking.”

Jason turned to take one last look at the Tomcat. “We’ll figure out how to handle it next time, Tombstone. I mean, Admir — I mean — uhhh…”

“Ah, what the hell,” Tombstone said, disgusted. It had been foolish to think he could manage to stay unrecognized.

One corner of the hangar had been converted into a sleeping area, with additional sound-deadening materials lining the walls. Commander Lawson showed them to a sparsely furnished compartment which was more than adequately equipped for what they needed: sleep. The schedule allotted them twelve hours before they were due back in the air.

Tombstone stretched out on the rack furthest away from the door, and Jason settled down on the other. Within moments, the younger pilot was asleep, his breathing low and regular.

I remember when I could do that. You sleep, piss and eat when you can, because you don’t know when you’ll get another chance.

Nine and a half hours later, they were rousted by a mess cook knocking on the door. He bustled in carrying a large insulated pot of coffee and a number of covered plates. Delicious smells filled the room.

“Wasn’t sure if you guys would be wanting breakfast, lunch, or dinner. So I settled on breakfast — pilots can always eat breakfast.”

“Breakfast is fine.”

With a flourish, the mess cook pulled off the silver tops from the dishes to reveal healthy portions of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes and sausage. Additional dishes contained fresh fruit, butter and syrup.

“Eat hearty, gents,” he said serenely. Then he produced a bag and held it out to them. “I packed you a little lunch, just in case you didn’t have time to cook.”

“Thank you,” Tombstone said.

The mess cook grinned. “My pleasure, sir. And whatever you’re up to — if you’re up to anything, and I wouldn’t know — you give ’em hell.”

“Say, this is really good,” Jason said around a mouthful of food. “You’re quite a cook.”

“Oh, I didn’t make this,” the man said. “The mess management specialist did. I’m just the delivery boy.”

Tombstone and Jason exchanged a glance. “Then convey our compliments to the chef,” Tombstone said. “How come he’s not here himself?”

“It’s a she, sir. And reason she isn’t here is that she doesn’t have a clearance. I do.”

“So who the hell are you?” Jason asked, still wolfing down pancakes. “Pass the syrup, will you?”

“I’m the leading intelligence specialist here,” he said. “And ten days ago, I saw some very interesting pictures.” He caught himself, as though realizing he’d been presumptuous, and said, “Well, I’ll let you eat in peace and quiet. Like I said, give ’em hell. I figure a couple of days from now, I’ll know whether you did or not.”

He left, with a victorious grin on his face.

“There’s a lesson to be learned in this,” Tombstone said. “He caught what was going on and he wants to feel a part of the solution. He wants to see how his work fits into the larger picture, wants to know that what he does matters. He’s even willing to be a delivery boy to just get a look at us, and he’s risking a lot just letting us know who he is. You keep that in mind, Jason. That’s the sort of people we having backing us up, and with young men and women like that on our side, the Russians don’t stand a chance.”

Tombstone saw the reflective look on the younger pilot’s face, and felt a rush of pride. His words had hit home — maybe, just maybe, Jason Greene would be a better man because Tombstone had reminded him about the little people in the world, the support troops that made everything else possible.

Jason cleared his throat, then looked away.

Touched — by damn, I got to him. His skipper in his squadron couldn’t convince him to stay in the Navy, but maybe I’ve made a difference.

“What is it, son?” Tombstone asked gently, trying to encourage the younger man to voice his innermost thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, sir, I was just wondering…” Jason’s voice trailed off.

“Go on,” Tombstone said encouragingly.

“It’s just that…”

“Whatever it is, I want to hear it.”

“Are you going to eat your cinnamon roll?”

After allowing an hour for their food to settle and for the necessary bathroom visits, Tombstone and Greene started their preflight. As Lawson had promised, the aircraft had been fueled, serviced, and was in perfect shape. They ran through the preflight, talked to the maintenance technician who’d checked her out, and then climbed up the boarding ladder, still in the heated hangar.

“I don’t have to tell you, you don’t want to be hanging around down on the ground,” the plane captain said. “You can ice up here in a heartbeat.”

“Don’t worry, we’re out of here.”

Tombstone slid the canopy forward and shut it, then checked to make sure the heat was working. The de-icers and the windscreen heaters worked perfectly. The temperature was actually quite comfortable inside the cockpit.

On signal, Tombstone started his engines, and then, after the doors slid back, commenced his taxi.

Once they cleared the hangar, the wind buffeted them. He could feel a chill radiating off the windscreen and he double-checked the heater.

“Tomcat, Tower, you’re cleared for takeoff at your discretion, runway seventy right. After departure, ascend to ten thousand feet and check in with — well, who wants to hear from you.” The controller continued with a quick weather brief, and then concluded with, “Good luck, gentlemen.”

Even as the controller was speaking, Tombstone was taxiing to the staging area. As soon as he was released, he shoved the throttles forward into military power and felt the Tomcat surge underneath him. The cold air was exceptionally dense, and the Tomcat required only a small portion of the runway before they rotated and were airborne.

Tombstone checked out with the Adak tower and follow their flight plan as briefed. He continued west for a while, and then rolled out to the south. As Jason completed their post-launch checklist, Tombstone studied the radar picture on his HUD.

“Nothing around here now,” he said. “Let’s hope that doesn’t change.”

“I’m getting LINK feed from the United States,” Jason announced. “Clear picture all around, Stoney. I think we might just pull this off.”

“Keep an eye out for the tanker,” Tombstone ordered. “Four hours out and that’s only for the first one.”

“Roger.” Just then, a voice spoke over tactical. “Tomcat triple nickel, this is Big Eye. Do not acknowledge this transmission. I’m holding you southbound at four hundred and twenty knots, at location,” and the voice reeled off lat and long coordinates. “Be advised I hold radar contact on both you and Texaco, and am available should you need a vector to the ten-yard line.” The ten-yard line was the code word given to their first refueling point.

There was no more dangerous evolution, with the exception of perhaps a night carrier landing, than refueling. Refueling during short-notice operations with the Air Force in charge guaranteed that the pucker factor inside the cockpit was bound to be high.

In Tombstone’s earliest days, coordination with the Air Force had not been particularly inspiring. There were misunderstandings, incompatible equipment, and a general morass of confusion surrounding the terminology. Over the decades that followed, the two services had finally managed to come to an accommodation, and refueling operations today were virtually seamless. Yet, in the back of his mind, Tombstone always retained the harsh early lessons.

As the time for their first rendezvous approached, Tombstone felt his tension increase. Jason seemed to sense the senior pilot’s distraction and the flow of stories gradually trailed off.

“If there’s a problem, the AWACS will let us know. I mean, hell, sir — it’s their bird, right?” Greene’s voice sounded distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of trying to reassure the more senior pilot. “He’ll be there — he has to be there.”

“Yeah, of course they will. We got comms with the AWACS if we need it.”

But the only reason we’d need it is if something goes bad wrong. And if we punch out over these waters, the odds of surviving are pretty much nonexistent. If we don’t freeze on the way down, we will within about thirty seconds of hitting the water.

But Tombstone kept his thoughts to himself. Jason knew the dangers as well as he did. “Be nice to have radar contact on the tanker, though,” Tombstone said.

As though his radar were reading his mind, a small, fuzzy lozenge resolved out of the backscatter on the screen. Jason let out a yelp of glee. “Looks to me like a tanker, boss.”

“You get any IFF?”

Jason fiddled with the IFF controls for a moment, then said, “Sure do. She’s breaking for an Air Force KC-135. And I got a mode four IFF.” Mode four was the encrypted mode signal that positively and indisputably identified an aircraft as a friendly military flight possessing the correct encryption gear for that particular day.

Tombstone felt himself relax slightly, and warned himself not to. In another thirty minutes, after it was all over, sure. He laid his hands on the controls. “I’ve got the aircraft.”

Jason held his hands up momentarily. “You have the aircraft, sir,” he said, acknowledging Tombstone’s assumption of the controls. He’d been flying for the last two hours, and Tombstone had no doubt about his ability to execute the refueling. But Jason was in the back seat and his visibility from there wasn’t nearly as good as it was up front.

“Next time, you can take front,” Tombstone volunteered. “I don’t want you getting rusty.”

“Maybe, sir, we should make some practice runs refueling from the back seat. I mean, they sent us out in a two-seater for a reason, right?”

The reason is because we’re going on long flights, not because something might happen to the guy up front. But you’re right, kid. We got the capability, we need to train to it. Out loud, Tombstone said, “Put it on our list of things to do when we get back. Along with getting the name of that mess cook that made breakfast at Adak.”

“Tomcat double nickel, this is Texaco. Do not acknowledge transmission unless there’s a problem, gentlemen. I am on base course, base speed, awaiting your approach. Unless otherwise directed, I intend to pass ten thousand pounds to you.” The cool, calm voice of the KC-135 pilot reassured them both.

“Nobody wants to talk to us,” Jason muttered, although they both knew the reason for it. No transmissions meant they couldn’t be triangulated by any passive sensors monitoring this part of the sky. “Okay, let’s do it,” Tombstone said. He had a visual on the tanker’s lights now, and adjusted his altitude slightly. Tombstone always favored approaching from below, finding it somehow easier to control his attitude and altitude.

It was so familiar, this process. How many times over the last decade had he plugged the back of a tanker? A thousand, perhaps? So familiar, yet each time was a new experience, fraught with all the danger of the first one.

Time slowed as Tombstone made his approach slowly, carefully, until he had a perfect lineup on the basket. “Looking good, Tomcat. Come to Mama,” the refueling technician said over tactical.

Tombstone nudged the power slightly, and slid forward for a perfect plug on the basket. The light on his enunciator panel lit up, indicating that the seal between the Tomcat probe and the tanker was airtight. “I got good flow,” Tombstone said, as he watched the digits on his fuel status indicator click over. “Good flow.”

“Ten thousand should do us,” Jason said.

“Looking at the numbers, I don’t think we could take more than one or two hundred more than that.”

“Looking good on this end, folks,” the tanker’s voice said. “Speak up if you see any problems.”

“You know, it occurs to me that there’s not much use in maintaining radio silence,” Jason said. “Any radar holding us knows that we’re here, and can guess what the tanker is. So what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that it keeps them guessing. Up until now, we could be an intelligence bird. They might be suspicious and they might not like it, but they won’t get completely wound up unless they know this is a fighter.”

“That’s why I let somebody else do the thinking,” Jason said.

Before long, they were done. The flow of fuel cut off precisely at ten thousand pounds, and Tombstone found the estimates were indeed correct. The tanker said, “That’s it, folks. Disengage at will.”

Tombstone eased back ever so slightly on the throttle and the Tomcat fell back gently from the tanker. He waited till he was well clear of the larger aircraft, then peeled off to the left, waggled his wings, and headed south.

“Good luck,” the tanker said in parting.

“Luck’s not what we need right now,” Greene observed.