Joint Operations

SIX

Hot Rock stared in horror at the picture unfolding on his heads-up display. The MiG, the civilian airliner, the missile — a simple, uncluttered geometry, entirely too elegant to result in the death of almost four hundred civilian passengers.

He could see in the first instant that he was too late to stop it. Too far away, too out of position — even if he had wanted to drive his Tomcat into the path of the missile, take the hit to save innocent lives, he couldn’t have. The inexorable equation of time, speed and distance wouldn’t allow it.

Fury boiled in his veins. They were going to die, right there while he was watching, and there was nothing he could do about it except avenge their deaths.

“Lobo — you see that?” Hot Rock demanded, anger searing in his voice. “Come on, let’s go get the bastard!”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a little problem with doing that,” Lobo said acidly. “Like an island. Like a couple of Chinese ships probably loaded with surface-to-air missiles. Like the MiG himself, who’s bound to have some more buddies out here to play patty cake with. In case you haven’t checked recently, maybe I ought to let you know — it’s you and me, and that’s it.”

Just then, a black spot appeared on the horizon. It mushroomed immediately into a boiling cloud of orange, yellow, and black. Smoke billowed up as well, quickly obscuring the flames. It streamed out behind a central mass, evidence that even though the aircraft as such had ceased to exist, its shattered remains were still traveling south at about three hundred knots.

Hot Rock swore violently. This wasn’t a war. It was a massacre.

He yanked his Tomcat into a hard turn, heading directly for the MiG. Three miles of island lay below him, and he offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness, knowing that he was violating orders. But anyone would understand, under the circumstances — there was no doubt in his military mind.

Within seconds, he was feet dry, streaking over the island like a silver rocket. Over tactical, he heard the startled yelp from the Jefferson air controller, then a hard command from Lobo as she turned to follow him.

“Tomcat 207, this is the admiral. Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” an all-too-familiar voice demanded over tactical.

Hot Rock winced, then answered, “Jefferson, I’m having some communications difficulties. Will contact you when back in range. Out.”

“That’s not going to work, son,” the same voice continued calmly. “Anything you can think of pulling at this point I’ve already used in every part of the world you can think of. I know what you’re thinking, but you’re not being paid to think. You get your ass back to the carrier this instant, you hear? There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

Lobo — was she in or out? Hot Rock switched over to ICS and asked, “Do you see her?”

The answer came quickly: “She’s going buster to catch up with us.”

Batman paced the small compartment that housed TFCC like a caged lion. “Get his squadron skipper up here — and I mean now!”

He turned and faced the carrier Air Wing Commander, who was just entering the compartment. In a glance, CAG took in the situation with the Tomcat.

“Dammit, why can’t I have a pilot that obeys orders.” He fixed CAG with a steely glare. “Do you know why, Captain?”

The CAG, never one to quail in the face of an angry admiral, nodded gravely. “Yes, Admiral, I think I do.”

“Then tell me — why? Weren’t they briefed on no overland operations? Don’t they know that those Chinese ships are probably carrying surface-to-air missiles? Those pilots were smart enough and tough enough to have gotten through the entire Tomcat training pipeline,” Batman raged. “So tell me, mister — why?”

“They’re doing what you would do, Admiral, were the situation reversed. That’s all.”

The silence in TFCC was absolute. Batman paused in his facing and turned to look back at the display. “There’s one big difference, mister. We all made it back.” He pointed at the tactical display. “And right now, that’s looking like a distant possibility for Lobo and Hot Rock.”

As he watched the Tomcat race forward, Chan continued to climb. It would be altitude that he would later convert into speed, trying to entice the heavier Tomcat into an altitude game. Finally, he converted into level flight, and waited there for the Tomcats to catch him.

Just then, he got a call over his own communication circuit. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the sense that it was all futile lift. If he could hold on for five minutes, maybe a little more, he would have reinforcements. Four more MiGs were launching off the third Chinese vessel.

“We’ve got company, Lobo,” Lobo’s backseater announced. “Four more playmates inbound — let’s get the hell out of here. As it is, we’re not going back overland — we’ll have to circle around seaward to get some support.”

Lobo acknowledged the pronouncement with two clicks of the mike. Her attention was elsewhere, as she took station on Hot Rock’s position, coming in high as he automatically took the low position.

“How much time have we got?” she asked.

“Three minutes, maybe.”

Lobo nodded. It would be enough, especially with a two-on-one engagement. Especially now.

There had been a time when she wouldn’t have been so certain, when Hot Rock was facing demons of his own, learning that being a fighter pilot was more than just fast reflexes and good eyesight. He’d come to terms with it several cruises ago, and since then his attitude equaled if not surpassed his technical flying capabilities.

“We’re going in. Kill him now,” she ordered.

Hot Rocks barreled in ahead of Lobo, slipping into the low position that was usually hers. He expected to hear a sharp reprimand over tactical, but she simply took his normal position above and behind. Somehow she knew how much he wanted this kill, how intensely personal it was for him.

The MiG was slightly above him, just starting to turn away. Hot Rock ascended, calculating the vector that would put him square on the other’s tail in perfect firing position. While the envelope for an air-to-air shot was increasing every day with the advanced avionics and independent seeker heads in the AMRAAM, he wanted this kill to be up close and personal. If there was a way he could have made it a slow, painful death, he would have.

“Take him with AMRAAM,” his backseater ordered. “Don’t screw around with this.”

“I can’t. We’re too close to land. Can’t take a chance of overshooting and collateral damage,” the pilot answered. Collateral damage — a cold, passionless word for the death of civilians, the exploding cement and bricks, the shattered bodies and lost lives.

“We don’t have time for guns,” the backseater argued.

Hot Rock ignored him. If there wasn’t time to avenge this atrocity, then time had no meaning at all. He kicked in afterburners and rapidly closed the distance between them. Just as he settled in within range, the MiG jinked violently upward, using its own afterburners to achieve a sheer vertical climb with no movement forward. It was an impressive display of power and airmanship, had Hot Rock been in the mood to admire it.

But he’d seen the maneuver too often at airshows to be distracted by it now. Reacting instantaneously, he slammed his Tomcat into a similar maneuver, starting well before he reached the MiG’s last position of level flight. No, the Tomcat couldn’t duplicate the maneuver, but it could come damned close.

“Back off, Hot Rock,” Lobo snapped. “You’re interfering with my shot!”

“Not a chance,” Hot Rock grunted, straining against the G-forces slamming him back into his ejection seat.

“Break right!” Lobo ordered. “Break right, or you’re going down with him.”

Hot Rock ignored her, fine-tuning his approach on the rapidly ascending MiG. Sooner or later the bastard would run out of airspace and be forced to turn out of the climb, and Hot Rock was making sure he had just enough reaction time to roll into level flight behind the MiG and blow it to Kingdom Come.

“Out of time!” his backseater shouted. “Hot Rock, we gotta get out of here, buddy! His playmates will be within weapons range in fifteen seconds, and I guaran-damn-tee you they’re not going to give a shit about firing over land or collateral damage.”

Hot Rock swore violently, and just for a split second considered ignoring the unfolding geometry. A few more seconds and the MiG would have to turn out of the climb, just a few more —

“Now!” his backseater screamed. “Break off now or I punch us both out!”

Finally, the hot red rage flaming behind his eyes loosened its hold on his brain. If he got the MiG, but added to the loss of civilian life, what was the point?

He pulled out of the climb and looked for Lobo. She was eight thousand feet below him, waiting on him.

“Buster, asshole,” she snapped. “Follow me this time.” She peeled off and headed back for the boat without another word.

Hot Rock followed, but snapped his head around to get one last look at the MiG as it escaped.

I’ll be back for you, you murderous bastard. And next time, no power on earth is going to stop me from smearing you and your aircraft across five acres of sky.