The Art of War

SEVEN

Admiral Wayne paced in the small compartment, too annoyed to stay in his elevated leatherette chair. The attack on his two CAP made no sense, no sense at all. Why would the Iranians start something now?

“Answers, people. I need answers,” he said into the silence broken only by the calls from the tanker as the fuel-low Tomcats chivvied in line. “What just happened up there? And more importantly — why?”

Lab Rat watched the admiral pace. “Sir, I think… that is, Chief Armstrong agrees with me… well… it may have something to do with the construction taking place in Iran.”

Batman paused. “The photos you showed me before?”

“We initially classified it as something else, but the look this morning caught a convoy of trucks with heavy equipment headed into the area.”

“Where? Show me again,” the admiral ordered.

Lab Rat held out a sheaf of photos.

“In the conference room,” the admiral said. “Red light’s too hard.”

Lab Rat followed the admiral into the conference room located just off TFCC. Batman spread the photos out on the table, and the intelligence officer walked the admiral through their analysis. When he finished, the admiral said, “Okay, so they’re building an airstrip. But why jump us now? What sense does that make?”

“No answers, sir. But the two are related somehow — I can feel it.”

“Find out,” the admiral ordered. “And make it fast, Lab Rat. I got a feeling that we don’t have much time.”

“Rabies” Grill held the KS-3 tanker at a steady course and speed as the fuel-starved Tomcat made its approach. The rigid basket streamed out behind the aircraft, a small but critical target for the approaching fighter.

“Come on, Fastball,” Rabies said. “You done this a thousand times before, buddy. Just snuggle on up here right now, come on, you got it…” Rabies kept up a calm, confident chatter as he coached the younger pilot in on the basket.

And just how the hell had Fastball gotten so low on fuel? Never mind that—Rabies thought he could probably guess what had happened. The bigger question was why Rat had let it get to this state. She was the one who knew enough to keep an eye on the gas gauge even when her idiot pilot figured that playing afterburner was a free ride.

But now wasn’t the time to talk about it. There’d be plenty of time to assign blame later, after they got this stupid nugget and his starved Tomcat back on the deck.

“You’re looking good, good, real good,” Rabies said as he watched the approach. “Just a hair lower, mate, that’s it.”

A hair, hell. That damned idiot was bouncing around the sky like a yo-yo. They’d be lucky if he plugged it on the first pass.

But he had to, didn’t he? Fuel state almost at the flameout point — just two snorts less of fuel, and that Tomcat was about to be just another hunk of metal on the ocean floor. Hell, if he were a RIO, he would have punched out by now and left it to the pilot to explain to the CAG why he’d returned without his canopy or his RIO.

“Bingo,” Rabies said, as against all odds the green light on his panel lit up, indicating a good seal with the Tomcat. “Hold on, buddy. You gonna be feeling a lot better here in a second.” Rabies’s copilot flipped the pump switch, and aviation fuel started pumping into the nearly-empty Tomcat tanks.

“Now if he can just hold on a few minutes, get that stuff shifted into his online tank,” the copilot muttered. They both knew what the problem was — the fuel was going into the fuel tank not in use, and had to be pumped from that one to the one in use before they could be sure that the Tomcat wouldn’t flame out.

As they watched the fuel transfer figures click over, Rabies started to breath easier. Finally, when their gauge indicated that they’d transferred two thousand pounds to the Tomcat, Rabies felt at ease.

“Okay, Fastball. That’s enough to get you home with some left over for sightseeing,” Rabies announced. “Pull on out of there, buddy. We got other customers lined up.”

“Roger,” Fastball said, all business and no hint of the disaster that had almost happened in his voice. And no thanks, either, for the job they’d done coaching him in and not ragging on him about his fuel state. The youngster’s attitude pissed Rabies off.

“You know the way home?” he asked. “Because if you don’t listen to Rat for a change, you’re not going to have enough fuel to get back onboard.”

“Roger, holding TACAN,” Rat’s voice said, and Rabies winced at the coolness in her voice. He’d just screwed up — not as bad as Fastball almost had, but enough so Rat would make sure he heard about it later. It was one thing for a RIO to rip her pilot a new asshole — another thing entirely for the tanker toad to rag on him, no matter how egregious the sins.

“Thanks, Rabies,” Rat said finally, as the Tomcat unplugged and dropped quickly below and away from the tanker. “I owe you one.”

Hey, okay. Rabies allowed himself a slight smile. There was something about Rat that had always attracted him, and maybe he hadn’t blown his chances entirely with her. Not if she was willing to talk to him like that.

“Save some auto-dog for me,” Rabies answered, referring to the soft-serve ice cream dispensed in the dirty shirt mess, the product of which looked uncannily like dog turds. And not very healthy dogs at that.

A single click from Rat’s mike acknowledged his transmission. Rabies had a feeling that that was the most he’d ever get from Rat.