Nuke Zone

5

“I trust your people are situated comfortably,” Admiral Magruder said.

He kept his voice calm and neutral, determined not to let a rocky initial meeting with the State Department influence the whole course of their relationship. When he looked at the rumpled diplomat sitting in front of him, however, it was difficult to believe that these people were anything but trouble. Particularly on a front-line warship.

“The interminable noise–how in the world do you stand it?” Bradley Tiltfelt said. “I can’t believe that your own quarters are quite as noisy as mine are, Admiral.” He tendered a skeptical, knowing look at the new Sixth Fleet commander.

Tombstone gestured over his shoulder. “I’m directly below the waist catapult. But I suppose it’s just something you become accustomed to, Mr. Tiltfelt. After twenty years of listening to Tomcats launch, the noise makes me drowsy.”

Tiltfelt’s look deepened into sardonic amusement. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Tombstone shrugged, suddenly tiring of the interminable pleasantries.

Late yesterday Mr. Bradley Tiltfelt and five assistants had arrived on board USS Jefferson, proclaiming with wide smiles and firm handshakes that they were there to help. The reaction from his staff and Batman’s had been guarded. They’d already been evicted from their quarters, forced to double up among themselves and with the ship’s company, and otherwise inconvenienced by the arrival of the civilians.

“Admiral, if we might perhaps get some preliminaries out of the way ” Tiltfelt suggested delicately. “First, I want you to know how much I appreciate your having us on board.”

It’s not like I had a choice. “Glad to have any assistance possible, sir,” Tombstone said, surprising himself a bit at the smooth tone in his voice. Perhaps it was something you learned when you got more senior, this ability to dissemble and mislead on command. “The sooner there’s a resolution to this, the happier we’ll all be.”

“Yes. Of course. Which brings me to my first point. Admiral, I want you to know that the State Department takes this matter most seriously. In our view, there should be an immediate in-depth investigation into this entire incident. No holds barred, sir. And we expect some answers–at least preliminarily–along with appropriate disciplinary action within the next forty-eight hours.”

Tombstone nodded pleasantly at what at first appeared to be the suggestion that the State Department was more firmly on board with his thinking than he thought possible. The last phrase jerked him out from his comfortable assumptions. “Disciplinary action? I’m afraid I don’t understand. If you mean perhaps a reexamination of the relationship between Turkey and the United States, then that’s hardly our province.”

Tiltfelt shook his head from side to side emphatically. “Don’t try to misunderstand me, Admiral. I’m talking about the unprovoked attack by your aircraft on a Turkish freedom-of-navigation operation. This sort of unchecked aggression simply cannot form a solid basis for mature international relationships.”

“Mature international–you want me to put my guy in hack for taking a shot at that Falcon? Hell, they missed.”

“Did you think that you could cover it up forever?” Tiltfelt demanded. He snorted in disgust. “I think not. Matters are at too delicate a stage of resolution for inappropriate retaliation.”

“They’re not in any stage of resolution as far as I know,” Tombstone shot back. “The last I heard, Turkey did the unthinkable. My pilot was simply following orders.”

A deep expression of sadness and disappointment crossed Tiltfelt’s face. “How often have we used that expression for war crimes?” he asked the room in general. “Admiral, this situation simply must be stopped before it gets out of hand.”

“It’s already out of hand,” Tombstone roared, forgetting his resolution to play their game with the same cold canniness the State Department was famous for. “Dammit, that was a nuclear weapon. And you expect me to let them back within tactical range of this ship?”

“I expect you to do more than that, Admiral.”

For the first time, Tiltfelt bared the iron hand that lay beneath his smooth, soft words. “And I think you’ll find your superiors back me up on this.”

“On what?”

“On an immediate diplomatic resolution of this unacceptable state of affairs. It is clear to me that Turkey has found some reason to feel extremely threatened by the American presence in the Mediterranean. Our only hope for a peaceful resolution to this conflict is to bring all parties together to uncover the underlying rot in U.S.-Turkey relationships. We must talk, Admiral, not fight. Can’t you see that?”

“You want to talk to them?” Tombstone couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Talk. And not only with Turkey. I have authority,” he continued, drawing an intricately sealed and stamped document out of his briefcase, “to invite representatives from area nations on board this carrier in order to work out a lasting peace proposal.”

“On my ship.” Tombstone had passed from shock into sheer incredulity. “You must be joking.”

“Read this.” Tiltfelt thrust the document at him. “I have appropriate copies for you, of course, signed by your superiors. Including,” he continued pointedly, “your uncle.”

Tombstone scanned the document rapidly. It was just as the State Department official had said. Admiral Matthew Magruder was directed to provide air support, transportation, and berthing for such concerned nations as would agree to attend an Eastern Mediterranean peace conference.

Moreover, it appeared that his uncle and the other Washington cohorts had been busier than he’d thought.

No wonder they wanted to get me out here so quickly. There’s no way I’d sit still for this, not if I were back in D.C. They must be insane.

Or maybe they weren’t. Perhaps the pressure brought to bear on the Navy establishment had simply been too great. Uncle Thomas might have known that, might have even made sure that Tombstone was on site so that at least one admiral tied to him with additional ties of loyalty and kinship would be on scene.

To ensure that I’d go along with it?

Or to serve as an extra set of eyes and ears?

Suddenly, Tombstone desperately needed to make a secure phone call to his uncle, to hear the words from his own mouth. He needed an explanation, some framework in which this entirely unprecedented maneuver would make sense.

“When?” Tombstone shook his head in resignation. “This will take time to arrange. Security alone will be a nightmare.”

“We have nothing to hide from our allies, nor will I have you offend them by assigning Marine Corps escorts’ to make them feel as though we don’t trust them,” Tiltfelt said firmly. “If you will read the last paragraph, you will find the intended commencement date.”

Tombstone leafed rapidly through the document, finally coming to the last page. His eyes lingered on the paragraph, then widened in shock. He looked across the table at Tiltfelt. “You must be joking.”

“I am hearing that phrase entirely too often from your mouth, Admiral,” Tiltfelt snapped, evidently at the end of his patience. “What is there that you do not understand? Or is your ship simply incapable of fulfilling any mission that doesn’t involve dropping ordnance on a civilian target?”

Tombstone stood, icy with rage. He glared down at the five civilians and said, “I think you’ll find this ship far more capable than you ever dreamed, Mr. Tiltfelt. And as for your damned directive–Jefferson will be ready to receive these representatives on the scheduled date. Tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s see an Immelman,” Commander Steve Garber ordered. “So far, so good.”

Skeeter obediently eased the Tomcat into a picture-perfect Immelman, completing the maneuver to settle into rock-stable level flight. He’d said barely two words to his squadron XO since they’d gotten airborne, and had no intention of changing. He’d been on the carrier less than twenty-four hours, and he was already in hack. A not-unusual experience for a nugget pilot, but still a squadron record, the XO had assured him.

As instructed by Lieutenant Commander Robinson, Skeeter had made his way directly to the VF95 Executive Officer and shame-facedly reported his incident on the flight deck. The XO had transitioned rapidly from a relatively pleasant greeting to irritation. Ten minutes later, Skeeter had left the XO’s stateroom dragging ass. In hack. And with a new set of orders–report to CAG and get himself slotted for a checkout flight with his new XO the next day.

“You look like you’ve got the makings of a good pilot,” the XO said over the ICS.

“Thank you, XO.” Skeeter’s voice was polite, noncommittal.

“Were Tomcats your first choice?”

“Yes, XO.”

An uncomfortable silence descended in the cockpit.

Finally, the XO said, “Talkative little shit, aren’t you? Listen, mister, everybody screws up once in a while. You’d best get that chip off your shoulder most-skosh, or I’ll be all over you like stink on shit! You copy?”

“Yes, sir.” Skeeter’s heart sunk even lower in his chest. Well, this was just fine. Now he could add giving the XO a hard-on for him to his list of sins.

How had everything gone so bad so quickly?

It had all started on the La Salle. He’d been confident–too confident–hell, he’d barely been out of the RAG for a month before he’d screwed up big-time. No matter that some paperwork shuffle in D.C. had led to him being stashed on board La Salle until his orders could get straightened out. He hadn’t minded it, except for the complete lack of stick time. In fact, once he’d gotten over his initial outrage, Skeeter had been rather pleased at it. Some exposure to some senior officers, a chance to get an inside look at how a fleet staff functioned–he’d been determined to make the best of it.

First Sixth Fleet, now his own XO. Where was that fabled Naval leadership he’d heard so much about in ROTC?

It sure as hell hadn’t worked on him so far. If it hadn’t been for his completely fulfilling and insanely intoxicating passion for flying the Tomcat, for flying in absolutely anything at all if the circumstances required it, but especially in the Tomcat, he would have bailed out of this canoe club a year ago. But his first contact with the sleek, powerful fighter had been love at first sight. As soon as he’d settled into the cockpit, even in the simulator, he’d known that this was what he’d been born to do. To be the master of this nine thousand pounds of steel and hydraulics, strap it on his ass every day and become as one in the sky. It was more than he’d ever thought it could be, more completely satisfying and fulfilling than the finest lady he’d ever had a chance to spend an evening with. Given the choice between sex and flying, he was fairly sure which one he’d choose on any given day.

“Skeeter–that’s your call sign, right? Let me try this one more time,” the XO said, breaking into his reverie of lost dreams and stolen hopes. “You seem to have gotten off to the wrong foot around here. Do you get that feeling?”

“Oh, I don’t know, XO,” Skeeter said suddenly, still feeling the pangs of anticipated loss that not making it as a Naval aviator would bring. “How could you possibly say that? In the past two days, I’ve only gotten the Sixth Fleet flagship shot up on my watch, managed to piss off the entire aircrew on board Jefferson, taken a swing at a chief petty officer, and landed myself in hack. That’s nothing, right? Just good old Naval aviation at its best.”

Skeeter heard the bitterness dripping out of his voice, and wished desperately to call the words back. All he’d managed to do with his little tirade was to prove conclusively to the XO that he had no control over his temper and that he was a sullen, whiny child. He’d thought it impossible, but his spirits sank even lower.

“You were on watch when it happened?” the XO said quietly. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, sir, I had the watch, I was TAO, and I’m the one that made the call–I let that aircraft sucker-punch us, wiped out a whole ship. Pretty impressive, huh?”

“Boy, that’s-“

“Don’t call me boy.” Skeeter’s voice lashed over the ICS like a snapped arresting line. “Goddamn it, XO, don’t you ever call me that again.”

“I’m sorry–it’s just an expression I use with some of the younger pilots. But you’re right–I can see how it would sound patronizing.”

“Anyone ever call you boy, XO? You hear any of the white pilots called boy?” Skeeter demanded.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” The XO’s voice turned frosty. “But for the record, I won’t make that mistake again. Anything else on your mind?”

“No, sir.”

A tight band settled around Skeeter’s throat, ratcheting a notch tighter. Jesus, he wasn’t going to–he felt the hot wetness well in his eyes. He choked back a sob, turning it into a muffled throat-clearing.

“Skeeter, let’s talk for a minute,” the XO persisted. “This is no way to get started with the squadron. And I didn’t know you were on watch on La Salle during the attack. Tell me what happened.”

Skeeter cleared his throat noisily. With his hopes for a career in Naval aviation raining down in flames around him, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about La Salle. The very last thing. “I was on watch, I made a mistake. That’s pretty much the whole sum of it, XO.”

But it wasn’t, one part of his mind insisted. There’d been other factors at work, things he could hardly explain to the XO. Not now, not under these circumstances. How proud he’d felt, selected to stand a flag watch position. How determined he’d been to appear self-confident and at ease, all the while still desperately trying to remember what each of the buttons on his TAO console did. How he’d wanted to get along with everyone, been confused by his first prolonged exposure to the enlisted men and women, uncertain as to how familiar, how friendly or how distant, to be with them. In the end, when the operations specialist had tried to focus his attention, he’d failed.

“So you were on watch by yourself,” the XO persisted.

“There was an enlisted man there as well. He was running the radio circuits, for the most part.”

Suddenly, the story started to pour out of his mouth. Skeeter listened to himself in amazement, tried to stem the growing tide of words and couldn’t. All of the pent-up rage, the hurt, the anger and frustration and disappointment came pouring out.

“He told me, you see, sir. He tried to get me to do something–but I didn’t. I thought it was another routine flight. I didn’t ask for CAP, didn’t request that the ship maneuver to open weapons armament, didn’t do any of that. I blew it. Completely, without a doubt, and through no fault of anybody’s but my own–I blew it.”

Skeeter felt surprisingly calm as he finished his recitation of his own failures. It felt like that moment when a Tomcat reached the highest point of an Immelman and you hung suspended in the ejection harness, free of gravity and floating more than sitting in the cockpit. It was a feeling of lightness, of an unbearable diffusion of self until the boundaries between you and your aircraft disappeared, until you were one with the hydraulics, the engine, the leading and trailing edges of the wings.

“So that’s what that was about,” the XO said finally.

“You mean my screw-ups? Yes, XO–I guess it was. By the time I got to the carrier, I wasn’t even thinking straight. Not really.”

“No, not that at all. I mean what Admiral Magruder said about you–he saw me before you checked in, you know. It was his first stop when he came on board.”

Skeeter’s head jerked up from his automatic instrument scan. “Admiral Magruder? Why? I only met him for just a minute. Flew over with him on the helo, but that hardly counts.”

“There’s more that counts than you know,” the XO continued. “I take it you met Admiral Magruder as soon as he came aboard La Salle, right?”

“Yes, sir. Sixth Fleet sent me out to greet him.”

“You didn’t feel a little naked out there, like a Christian in the arena with lions roaming around?”

Skeeter was confused. “No, XO. They just told me to go out and escort the admiral. Besides, I figured he’d come looking for me eventually, since I’m the one who screwed up his ship. I thought it might be better to get it over right away.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it,” the XO mused. “Not the half of it at all. Sixth Fleet sent you out there figuring that Tombstone would have you drawn and quartered right there on the flight deck. From what Admiral Magruder said, the Sixth Fleet Chief of Staff was along as well, to make sure it happened. Didn’t you notice that?”

“I thought it was just standard procedure.”

“Hardly. Sixth Fleet intended to sacrifice you to preserve his own ambitions.”

The XO’s voice was grim. “That’s a nasty thing to do to a lieutenant–make him take the fall for your mistake.”

Skeeter’s confusion deepened. “His mistake? But the admiral wasn’t even in TFCC when we were attacked.”

“Exactly. It was as irresponsible an act as I’ve ever seen from an officer to leave you alone in that flag plot, Skeeter. You had no right to be on watch there alone–none at all. Now, I’m not saying that you’re not a good aviator–I can see from the way you handle this Tomcat that you’ve got the moves, the reflexes. If you’ve got the brains to go with your nervous system, you’re going to do just fine. But a couple of months out of the RAG, standing watch in a flag officer’s TFCC? I don’t think so. Someone was too lazy–or even worse, just didn’t care–to put experienced officers on that watch bill. You may have been the actual officer on watch, but the rot in Sixth Fleet went a lot deeper than that.”

Skeeter felt a new humility seep into his innermost self. He knew, at some level, that what the XO said was true. He’d wanted to believe himself that he was competent, capable–a bloodied and salty Naval aviator taking on responsibility early, just like in the commercials. But in truth, he’d never felt entirely comfortable with standing TAO watches there. Sure, he’d done it–and to even be asked was entirely flattering. But had he really been qualified to do so?

“I should have said no, shouldn’t I?” he asked the XO slowly. “I just didn’t think I could.”

“There are ways of saying no, and there are ways of saying no. You’ll learn’em as you get some more time under your belt. But as far as the VF95 Vipers are concerned, the only mark on your record is the stunt you pulled on the flight deck. And under the circumstances, I can almost see why that happened. That soon after the attack, you should have at least been medically cleared–mentally, I mean–before you went wandering around a flight deck for the first time on your own.”

Another surprise. “Admiral Magruder was right,” Skeeter said quietly. “He warned me before I stepped out on the flight deck, told me to keep my head on a swivel. I started to follow him off of the helo, but I got bumped back to the back of the line by the other senior officers. Something else I didn’t know.”

The XO chuckled. “I heard about that–Bird Dog’s an old shipmate of mine. He came crowing in to me about setting our newest nugget straight. But I think what Admiral Magruder had in mind was for you to follow him across the flight deck. I don’t know, Skeeter, I wasn’t there, but I’d bet on it. Stoney’s that kind of man. He’s got a sixth sense about when an aviator needs a little looking after.”

“Stoney?”

“Tombstone–he got that call sign from his face. Don’t you ever think about playing poker with the man, Skeeter. He can outbluff anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Another silence settled over the cockpit, one considerably more comfortable than the one that had preceded it. Skeeter felt relieved, purged. The sense of lightness, of freedom, was growing. He put the ICS back on and ventured, “XO?”

“Yeah?”

“How about we see what this Tomcat can really do.”

An earsplitting smile crept across the young pilot’s face.

“Roger–go for it. Impress me, Skeeter.”

“I’m just a lonely cowboy, lonely for my baby,” Lieutenant Commander Steve “Rabies” Grill sang lustily. He could hear the muttered protests from the other three crew members over the ICS, and chose to ignore them.

They simply had no taste in music, and despite two cruises flying together–three for some of them–they had yet to learn to appreciate the finer nuances of country-and-western.

“Another Tomcat launch,” the TACCO said, desperate for something tactical to say over the circuit to forestall a second chorus. “Should be well clear of our area, though.”

“Altituuuuude separaaaaaation,” Rabies sang in response, picking up the notes from the refrain.

“Come on, sir, give it a break,” AWI Harness said wearily. “I’ve never heard a key before that had seven flats and eight sharps.” AWI Harness was cursed with perfect pitch.

“All right, all right,” Rabies said, reluctantly abandoning his newest favorite melody. “But when I retire and make it big in Nashville, you’ll be telling people about back when. But as good as I’ll sound at the Grand Ole Opry, I sound better at ten thousand feet.”

A chorus of groans greeted the all-too-familiar beginning of his plans for his future career. “As long as I don’t have to fly with you,” the TACCO muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, I didn’t say-“

“No, down there.” Rabies waved over toward the left side of the cockpit. “I saw a flash.”

“Nothing on FLIR,” muttered Harness. The forward-looking infrared sensor was one of the many potent avionics carried on board the S3B Viking ASW hunter-killer.

“I saw something,” Rabies insisted. “Let’s go take a look.”

“I’ll lose contact on the more distant buoys if you get too low,” the TACCO warned. “Any of those bastards have the little missile launcher on top of them that we saw in the South China Sea?”

“Not to my knowledge,” the copilot said promptly. Of the four, he was the one who stayed most current on intelligence threat estimates. The crew’s interest in submarine-launched anti-air missiles had become almost an obsession after their first encounter with the first operational platform carrying the weapons in the South China Sea. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

“Careful, hell,” Rabies snorted. “This here’s a jet, fellas. Any of you limp dicks want to bail out, you know where the panic button is.”

Rabies tipped the sturdy aircraft over into a deep dive. Of all the aircraft carried on board Jefferson, the S3 Viking was arguably the most airworthy and stable of any platform. It was designed to cruise at patrol speeds for long periods of time, carrying a comprehensive set of sensors.

Foremost in its arsenal were the sonobuoys tucked into its gut, each one spat out on command by a tiny explosive charge in the end. Depending on the water conditions below, a single line of sonobuoys could provide comprehensive undersea surveillance for the entire battle group.

“Rabies, take it easy. You’re passing four hundred knots.” The copilot’s voice was annoyed.

“Ain’t seen nothing yet, asshole. Max speed on this baby is four hundred and forty knots, and I figure that’s going downhill.” Rabies grinned insanely. “About time somebody set a new speed record in this aircraft, don’t you think?”

“I’ve got it,” Harness said suddenly. “Buoy Four–it’s barely there, but I have contact on some electrical sources. Flow tones as well. I make her doing about six knots.”

“Six knots? That’s moving along for a submarine running off battery.”

The TACCO looked puzzled. “She probably heard our sonobuoys hitting the water and wants to clear the area at all possible speed,” Harness countered. “I don’t know that that makes much sense–it just makes her more detectable, and it’s a long time until sunset when she can snorkel in relative safety.”

“Any indication of depth change?” Rabies asked, suddenly all business.

“Negative. She’s headed due west, and I’ve got no indications of a depth change.”

“How deep?” the TACCO asked.

“Deep enough–she’s not shallow, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean,” the TACCO confirmed. “As long as she stays at depth, even if she’s got that Codeye installed,” he said, referring to the surface-to-air-missile assembly they’d seen before, “she can’t launch. Isn’t that right?”

“As far as we know.” The copilot sounded dubious. “I don’t know that I want to bet on our intelligence estimates.”

“This is the Med,” Rabies chimed in. “No weird shit here–just straight-forward find’em and kill’em.”

“Sir, she’s headed directly for the carrier.” The TACCO’s voice took on a formal note as his training took over. “Recommend that we set up for deliberate attack. We’ve got time.”

“And torpedoes,” Rabies responded. “You give me a fly-to point, and I’ll take us there. But no weapons free until I talk to Homeplate.”

“Roger.” The TACCO’s fingers flew over the keyboard, entering the tactical fly-points that would appear on Rabies’ screen. “You’ve got it.”

“Got it, aye.”

The S3 tipped over into a steep port turn. “You want a six-buoy pattern in front of them, right?” Rabies confirmed.

“That’ll do it.”

The TACCO switched his radio to the tactical circuit. “Homeplate, this is Hunter 701. We hold contact on an unidentified diesel submarine,” he said, continuing with range, frequency, and bearing information.

“Request weapons free.”

There was a long pause over the circuit, just as he’d expected.

Requesting weapons free on an unidentified submarine was particularly dangerous. Of all bodies of water in the world, the Mediterranean was most crowded with allied submarines. Most littoral nations built their own or bought some variant from any one of the number of other nations exploiting submarines. Without positive identification, the submarine they were tracking could just as easily be Russian, Ukrainian, or even Israeli.

Still, to hold contact and not request weapons free would label one as a bit of a pussy.

“Negative, Hunter 701. Launching two SH60 helos in five mikes. Coordinate transfer of prosecution to Sea Lord 601. After turnover, continue to monitor forward ASW barrier as briefed.”

“Well, ain’t that the shits,” Rabies remarked. The transfer of responsibility for the prosecution was hardly a surprise. Two dipping helos working in tandem against a submarine contact were every submariner’s worst nightmare. In addition to a smaller load of sonobuoys, the SH60 carrier variant had a dipping sonar capable of being deployed to a considerable depth. While the submarine might try to hide by shifting between the various thermal layers found in the warm, salty Mediterranean, it would be difficult to escape two determined and proficient helo crews.

The turnover went quickly, and the Sea Hawks eagerly took up prosecution of the contact. Twenty minutes later, Hunter 701 was headed back on station.

Rabies sighed. “So that’s all we get for being the best around–always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

“You’re forgetting about the Aleutians,” Harness said. He shuddered. “A submarine with anti-air missiles–it’s damned unnatural if you ask me.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Rabies agreed readily. “Still, this is the Med, not some weird-ass corner of the world.”

The Mediterranean. He gazed down at the clear blue waters, always looking for that unexpected flash of light that indicated a protruding snorkel tube, an amorphous shape just below the surface of the ocean that would reveal a submarine running submerged and shallow. The Mediterranean was a submarine hunter’s worst nightmare for water, and Rabies loved it for that.

The enclosed sea was divided into two distinct thermal layers, in one of the oddest arrangements of any ocean in the world. The top layer was warm and salty, and flowed toward the mouth of the Mediterranean. Deep beneath it, a second layer replenished the Med, cold, less salty ocean water rushing in to replace that lost through evaporation and outflow. The difference between the two vertical currents could produce odd acoustic effects, and an inexperienced crew could easily lose their prey in the shifting sound channels.

“Just another hour on station,” Rabies said cheerfully. “Our reliefs are probably taking a last piss call as we speak.”

“Don’t talk about that,” Harness groaned. “I hate those damned piddle packs.”

The rest of the crew chimed in in agreement. Of all the hardships of flying a long-endurance ASW aircraft, the lack of an adequate relief tube was among the most significant. While some tactical aircraft had a tube built directly into the airframe venting to the outside, the S-3 aviators had to be content with a device that most resembled a hot-water bottle.

The “piddle packs” had been banned by Rabies based on an entirely understandable accident two missions earlier involving a too-exuberant change of altitude by the pilot that was not coordinated with Petty Officer Harness’s more personalized maneuvers in the backseat.

“I’d even take the pack right now.” Harness’s voice sounded strained. He heard Rabies rooting around in the forward part of the aircraft, and moments later the dreaded clear plastic pack was passed back to him.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“Tomcat 308, you have strangers inbound.” The laconic voice of the TACCO in the E-2C Hawkeye orbiting ten thousand feet above them was calm. “Vector zero-four-zero to intercept and VID.”

“What the–? Sentry, this is 308. We’re on a checkout flight. What about onstation CAP?”

“Four aircraft inbound,” the Hawkeye replied. “Both CAP currently on station are already en route. Request you break off current training operations and join them.”

There was no mistaking the note of command now in the E-2C TACCO’s voice.

“Okay, Skeeter.” The XO’s voice was determinedly calm. “You want to show me what this aircraft can do–you’ve got your chance. Good thing you’ve got the best RIO in the squadron,” he continued.

“We’re going on an intercept?”

“Looks like it. Here, here’s your fly-to point.” The XO transmitted the coordinates of the station he wanted his pilot to take. “Get hot, Skeeter. Training mission’s over.”

“Roger, copy.”

Skeeter slewed the Tomcat around into a tight port turn. They were currently at Angels 11–eleven thousand feet–and had been drilling on a scissors maneuver, the tactic preferred by the light Falcon against a heavier aircraft. The XO had just been reviewing the breakout points and counters with him when the call from the Hawkeye came in.

“I hope you were paying attention,” the XO said. “I’m going to be a little bit busy back here, but I’ll coach you through it when I can.”

“Not a problem, XO.”

Skeeter felt a surging buoyant feeling of confidence. What had Admiral Magruder said–that he’d give him a chance?

Well, if more of those assholes who’d shot up the flagship were inbound, they’d find they were facing an entirely different Skeeter. This time, he was in his platform of choice, one that he knew as well as his own bedroom.

The Tomcat was an extension of his skin, a natural marriage of man and machine so intimate as to defy complete description. No one who had never flown in a Tomcat could fully understand how it felt to him, how it reacted to his demands and requests almost before he could translate them into action, how he and the aircraft seemed to meld into one being–a deadly, potent, unified force.

“I’m ready,” he repeated, this time out loud. “Let’s go kick some Turkish ass.”

“Ah, there you are.” The pilot glanced at the heads-up display and identified the third fighter inbound on their flight. “Four of us, three of you–yes, I think these odds will be fair.”

“Red Three, break right and intercept new bogey.” The flight leader’s voice cut through his contemplation of the new contact. “Stick to the Rules of Engagement–no incidents this time. But if the Americans wish to play hard, we may show them what we’re truly capable of.”

The pilot turned his aircraft slightly toward the south and accelerated to Mach 1.5. At that speed, he was traveling fifteen miles every minute, closing on the incoming aircraft at breakneck speed. The radar-warning receiver squealed one short alarm. He glanced at it, assessing the data instantly. “Tomcat–yes.” The signature of the AWG9 radar was unmistakable. “Are you as reckless and aggressive as your squadron mate was? Shooting at our aircraft with no provocation other than he was near your ship? We will see if you find a prepared fighter pilot as easy a prey.”

He could see from the speed leader that the Tomcat was accelerating as well, quickly moving to match his speed. Their combined closure speed was now in excess of 1800 miles per hour, and the powerful Tomcat had a slight advantage. The Falcon, while lighter and more maneuverable, simply could not keep up with the sustained speed of bursts of the Tomcat if it involved an altitude change. “This time, we will fight my game.”

“Steady, steady,” the XO murmured from the backseat. “He hasn’t done anything yet, Skeeter. Don’t toggle one off until I tell you.”

Skeeter clicked the mike twice in acknowledgment. His earlier burst of ebullience was fading. This was his second time under attack this week, and he was determined to acquit himself more honorably than he had aboard La Salle. Despite the XO’s warning, he moved the weapons-selector switch to the Phoenix position. When the XO deemed it necessary–he would be ready.

“You have not targeted me yet,” the pilot said softly. “Are you afraid? Do you know what vengeance I am about to extract from you?”

He adjusted the Falcon’s course minutely to bring it directly head-on to the Tomcat. “Be careful, you may get more than you bargained for.”

“Sir, he’s within Phoenix range.” Skeeter heard his voice skid slightly up at the end of the sentence. “Recommend we-“

“No. Not yet.” The XO’s voice was firm. “It’s bad, we’re not making it worse. They may not be out here for us.”

“Not here for us?” Skeeter asked. “Sir, it’s a Falcon.”

“I’m aware of that. After all, I’ve got the ESM gear back here. But you’re not paying attention–didn’t you hear that last contact report? The submarine?”

“Yes, but–oh. Targeting profile.”

“Exactly. These bad boys may not be here for us. They may simply be providing position updates to that submarine, vectoring it in closer to the ship. And the submarine’s not our problem–the Viking’s turned it over to the helos. They’ve got him pinned down right now, bouncing him from sonar dome to sonar dome like he’s a badmitton bird. Until he shakes them, he’s not going to feel comfortable coming up to data-link with those fighters. Besides, we’re still inside the inner missile engagement envelope.”

“Sir, this is going too fast,” Skeeter warned. “It was like this last time–aircraft inbound, nobody willing to take them with missiles. Look what happened then.”

“Wait for the Hawkeye, Skeeter. We’ve got to make sure the Aegis doesn’t need us to clear the area, and there’s no point in wasting missiles on him yet.”

I waited last time. I ended up with a dead ship. What happens this time?

“You can’t shoot.”

Bradley Tiltfelt’s voice was insistent. “Admiral, you risk everything we’ve worked to achieve if your men take a shot now.”

Tombstone wheeled around and glared at the civilian. “I can and I will if I have the slightest indication that this ship is in danger. This is not a game, Mr. Tiltfelt. People die. Ships die. And I’m not losing another one in this sea, not based on your in-depth analysis of a tactical scenario.”

“They’re doing freedom-of-navigation operations,” Tiltfelt insisted. “You saw their message yourself.”

“I know what it said.” Tombstone pointed at the large screen display. “But that is not an unthreatening profile as briefed. Those bastards are inbound at Mach 1.5, and in five minutes they’ll be within missile range of this ship. Unless they break off within four minutes, I’m firing.”

“Admiral,” Tiltfelt wailed, “they told us they were going to do this. You can’t-“

“Watch me.”

Tombstone settled back in his brown leatherette chair to watch the battle unfolding on the screen.

The fighter bore down on the incoming American aircraft, eking out another few tenths of Mach and accelerating again. The engine settled into a steady, screaming roar.

A little closer now, a little closer–that’s it. Commit yourself to this profile. In level flight, you have no chance. Not one. He kept his hands away from the radar switch, careful not to toggle it into fire-control mode. At the first sniff of the tightly focused radar beam beating down on the skin of their aircraft, the Tomcat crew would be justified in retaliating with a missile. At this distance, it was not the Falcon’s preferred fight. No, in close knife-fighting, his instructors in the United States had called it. The Falcon was a knife-fighter, the Tomcat a heavyweight boxer. In close, it was no contest.

“Remember, he’s an angles fighter,” Garber said rapidly, back-briefing his young pilot as quickly as he could. “His first priority is going to be to keep you at the same altitude. You’ll see him start to cut in on you, to turn inside your own turn, get position on you from behind. Skeeter, pay attention–it comes with experience, and you’ve gotta get that fast.”

An angles fighter–God, how he’d studied the maneuvers at the RAG.

Back then, there’d been pilots who’d flown against MiGs in Vietnam, and they were more than willing to share their experience bought at the price of their squadron mates’ lives with the incoming generation of fighter pilots.

Altitude–you have to use altitude to your advantage. The Tomcat, with its higher thrust-to-weight ratio and higher wing loading, could easily outstrip and turn inside the Falcon on the vertical plane. On the horizontal, it was a turkey trying to evade a chicken hawk. A beached whale trying to writhe away from pecking seagulls. Altitude is safety–altitude and maneuverability.

“I’m taking us up to twenty-five thousand,” Skeeter said firmly. “Energy fight–standard tactic while he’s down this low.”

“Concur.” The XO’s voice was slightly muffled. “I’m getting a fix–there. Solid data link with the Hawkeye. Good data, good solution. If we need to shoot-“

Skeeter’s burst of acceleration turned the XO’s last words into a grunt. The Tomcat accelerated rapidly, afterburners spitting unholy fire out the tailpipes, speed over ground decreasing to almost zero. The Tomcat was in a pure vertical climb, gaining altitude and, with it, kinetic energy. When the time came for forcing the Falcon into an energy fight instead of an angles one, Skeeter would be ready.

“Fuel,” the XO warned. “It kills more pilots than missiles. Skeeter, easy on the afterburners. Save it for when you need it.”

Cursing his impulsiveness, Skeeter eased back out of the afterburners and decreased his angle of attack. There was still enough separation between the two aircraft that afterburners had not been necessary. But his increasing sense of urgency not to be vulnerable to this second attack had overridden his professional good sense.

“I’ve got him–at five o’clock,” the XO said.

Skeeter leaned over and gazed down outside the right side of the cockpit. He could see the flash of light on metal that had caught the XO’s attention. “I’ve got him too.”

“Something odd about this guy,” the XO said tersely. “He’s climbing to meet us. Skeeter, watch your ass–he’s not much off your six.”

“Got it. I’m going to nose over here in just a second.”

Skeeter rolled over to the side opposite of the Falcon, preventing him from closing to within guns range on his tail. For just a moment, he thought he’d out-flown him. Over-confidence replaced his fear.

He pulled down, pressing in for a favorable angle of attack. To his surprise, the Falcon pulled up under him, again in excellent guns position.

“Skeeter,” the XO snapped, “you’re getting into a rolling scissors. You can’t play this game with him.”

“I know, I know–but he’s climbing with me. Every time I try to outrun him, I put him in guns position on me.”

“At least he hasn’t shot yet–Skeeter, we need to break out of this–now.”

The Tomcat was descending now, bleeding off energy advantage as it lost altitude. Skeeter searched his memory, tried to remember if any of his instructors talked about an angles fighter that didn’t mind fighting in the vertical. They weren’t supposed to–most of the MiGs in encounters that his instructors had discussed had either kept the fight strictly to the horizontal or turned to run if they didn’t have the advantage.

At eight thousand feet, with the Falcon still high above him, Skeeter put the Tomcat nose up and grabbed for altitude. The Falcon zoomed down not five hundred feet away, canopy to canopy. Skeeter resisted the impulse to job the afterburners again, lessen his angle of climb. “Watch him for me,” he said to the XO. “Keep an eye on him-“

“Got it. Skeeter, he’s at the bottom of his arc right now. He’ll be back up on our tail again.”

The XO’s voice was cold, professional, but Skeeter could hear the undertone of worry in it.

What was it, what was it, something he’d read somewhere, the story of a MiG and a–a Phantom–that was it. The details came flooding back. It had been Duke Cunningham, now a U.S. Representative from California.

Flying his F-4 Phantom against a MiG-17, the Duke, as he was known, had run into a MiG fighter who didn’t mind the vertical. They’d done the same maneuver, up and down, rolling scissors, with the MiG consistently turning inside the vertical and stitching the Duke’s ass with his nose gun. And the solution was–“Where is he now?” he asked the XO sharply. “Give me a range.”

“Just bottoming out at three thousand feet. We’ve got ten thousand feet of separation, Skeeter. Let’s turn and wait for him.”

“No. I think I know what–is he climbing now?”

“On afterburners,” the XO confirmed. “Skeeter, he’s just going to move back into perfect position on your ass. Let’s get out of here–while we can.”

“Hold on–I thought you wanted to see what this Tomcat could do.”

The note of cold glee in his voice surprised even him.

Five thousand feet–four thousand feet–Skeeter asked the XO to sing out the altitudes as the Falcon gained on them. Skeeter eased slowly back on the throttle, decreasing his speed of ascent while avoiding even the edge of the stall envelope. It was a tightrope calculation, walking the thin line between appearing to maintain a continual ascent and stalling.

“Five hundred feet–Skeeter, let’s-“

Skeeter pulled hard toward the Falcon and yanked the throttle back to idle. At the same time, he disengaged the automatic control that configured the Tomcat’s wings for the most efficient airspeed, driving the wings forward into their low-speed configuration. As he felt the aircraft start to turn, he kicked in the afterburners to avoid stalling.

Like a gray streak, the Falcon shot by him. Skeeter thought he saw the pilot’s face, hoped there was as much fear and confusion in it as Skeeter had experienced on La Salle.

“Take that, you bastard,” the pilot muttered. No, it wasn’t a kill, but if he had been free to shoot it would have been. He held position on the Falcon, in perfect guns position. If he hadn’t been so close, a Sidewinder up the tailpipe would also have been an ideal shot.

“Skeeter–he’s turning out of it.”

The lighter, more maneuverable aircraft turned sharply to the right, intentionally stalling as the pilot repeated Skeeter’s maneuver. It swung over to point down at him, nose first.

“Lockup,” the XO screamed. “There’s no time for-“

Skeeter was just closing his thumb over the weapons-selector switch to select guns when his world exploded.

He woke up when he tried to breathe. The metallic tang of salt water filled his mouth, his nose, and jolted his survival instincts into action.

Skeeter coughed violently, spewing out seawater before his eyes were even open. He flailed his arms, the motion driving him the last few feet up to the surface.

The paroxysm of coughing occupied his entire world for a few seconds.

His eyes were open, but they were misted with tears and stinging from water. He choked, coughing up a last cup of water, then finally drawing a deep, shaky breath.

His eyes focused. Water, waves–he looked up into the blue sky. For another few minutes, his mind refused to focus, simply satisfied with the fact that he was alive.

It came back to him slowly, in bits and pieces. An explosion–the canopy bolts firing, he realized. The Falcon–it had been inbound. The rest of the encounter flooded his mind.

The XO must have gotten them out. Suddenly, he was frantic. He scanned the ocean around him, praying for a glimpse of a flotation device or a rubber raft. He started screaming, his voice raw and hoarse from the water. He tried to propel himself higher up on the waves by flailing his arms, and found new sources of pain. His groin–another throb awoke to join the growing chorus.

Finally, his training kicked in. He fumbled open the flotation device pocket, extracted the dye marker, and broke it open. A sickly yellow stain flooded the water around him, gradually spreading out. He then took out the shark repellent packet, prayed that all the studies he’d heard on its effectiveness were true, and broke it open.

The pain in his face was now a throbbing, insistent beat. He let his flotation device buoy him for a moment, leaned back in the water, and started running his hands over his body. Wetness–he held his hand out in front of him. Not just water. Blood. Evidently shards of the canopy or the sheer force of the ejection had cut his face. He looked again at the growing yellow stain and prayed that the shark repellent was just as effective.

One by one, he ran his hands over his arms, his torso, then finally his legs. Everything seemed to work, although movement was accompanied by a dull ache that promised to blossom into something fiercer later on.

So where was SAR?

Dammit, the helo guys–just then the distinctive whop-whop of an SH-60 reached his ears.

Minutes later, a rescue diver plunged into the water a few feet away.

He swam over to Skeeter, quickly ascertained that he was conscious and not seriously injured, and helped the pilot struggle into the horse collar.

Satisfied finally, the diver lifted his hand in a thumbs-up to the crewman leaning out the open hatch of the helicopter. The downdraft from the SH-60 was explosive, generating wind speeds of up to sixty knots directly down on the water. It spread waves out in odd, flat ripples that beat a counterpart to the normal progression of waves. Skeeter fixed on that, staring at the concentric disturbances that looked like water washing out from a stone thrown in a pond, the diver situated in the middle.

Except this wasn’t a pond. It was the Mediterranean, and as soon as he was hauled aboard, he asked, “Did you find my backseater?”

One look at the aircrew’s faces gave him the answer. Skeeter exploded. “Dammit, he’s out here somewhere. We’ve got to find him. We have to-“

“Just take it easy, sir,” the corpsman said, gently trying to muscle him to the aft part of the helicopter. “We’ve done this before–just let us do our job for now. We’ll find him.”

“He was there,” Skeeter said mindlessly. “In the backseat–he must have punched us out.”

He shot the corpsman an anguished look. “Just before the Falcon got us–he punched us out. How could he-?”

“Just lean back, Lieutenant.” The corpsman’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Need to take a look at you, sir. Your backseater’s gonna be just fine.”

“Where is he?”

Skeeter struggled to his feet and tried to walk toward the open hatch. The rescue swimmer was just being hauled aboard. “I have to-“

A sharp prick in the left arm. Skeeter spun around, unsteady on his bruised and battered legs. “What did you…”

The rest of the sentence faded away as a cool fog settled over his mind.