Island Warriors c-18

by Keith Douglass

  “There they are,” Tombstone said, and he made a slight course correction. Ahead of him, just to the right, were three tiny specs of flat gray on the ocean. At altitude, they had appeared to be simply wave tops, but as he descended, their outlines became more and more distinct.

  “They’re on-loading!” Jason said. “Look, small boats!”

  On closer examination, Tombstone could see the small craft cutting wakes perpendicular to the whitecaps as the landing craft ferried men and equipment from shore to the transports.

  “They’re not approaching — the coastline must be too rugged here. Maybe rocks, maybe something else. But you can be damned sure that they know where the good beaches are to the south. They’ll have to, so they can move so fast that the Japanese won’t have a clue what hit them.”

  “No fire control radar, Tombstone,” Greene said unhappily. “Big Eye’s cutting it close.”

  “He knows the schedule — he’s checking on us,” Tombstone said with more confidence than he felt.

  The antiship missiles under his wings were virtually useless without his radar to guide them in on their targets. Oh, sure, he could try a manual line of bearing shot, but the probability of kill went way down.

  “Three minutes,” Jason called out.

  Now Tombstone could see the activity on the rocky shore. There was a mass of movement, both of troop formations and individuals straggling about singly. Nearest to the beach, there was an orderly queue, as men and equipment waited their turn on the landing craft. Further inland, there was still confusion, as the troops tried to find their proper place in line.

  Although amphibious assault looked like a sudden, violent disgorging of everything at once, in truth it was as carefully orchestrated as flight deck operations. The details of who went ashore first — and thus, who was embarked last — occupied the nightmares of more than one amphibious operations planner. There was nothing worse than having your ground troops off first, followed by your long-range artillery. The enemy forces would simply decimate the men first without the artillery there to make them keep their heads down.

  “Two minutes, Tombstone — Mom, I mean.” Jason’s joke was an attempt to break the tension. If the radar didn’t clear, then they would have to make a pass and come around again. And every second that they remained overhead increased the chances of a mobile antiair installation or other weapon getting off a lucky shot.

  Tombstone heard a sharp plink. “Small arms fire.” The Tomcat could take a lot of damage, as long as the rounds missed the hydraulic signs and fuel tanks.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jason said. “I don’t want to be around when they…” Just then, a sharp crack echoed to the cockpit, and a shudder ran through the Tomcat. Jason screamed.

  “Jason!” Tombstone shouted. “Where are you hit?”

  “Arm. Straight through,” Jason said through clenched teeth. “Right through the bicep.”

  “How bad is it?” Tombstone asked, a sick feeling starting in his gut.

  “Lots of blood, but it punched straight through the muscle.” Tombstone could hear the strain in his voice. “Damned small cockpit. I’m putting on a direct pressure bandage. That will slow it down some. It hurts like hell, but it ain’t going to kill me.”

  “Descending on final,” Tombstone said calmly. At some point during any mission, you simply had to decide whether or not you were going to trust everyone else to do their jobs as well as you were doing yours. If you guessed wrong, you wound up dead.

  In a normal operation, that trust was normally built up by repeated training and constant familiarity with each other’s operations. By the end of battle group workups, everyone in the battle group pretty much knew who the weak sisters were and who could be counted on to do what they were supposed to be doing. Even such minor details as a ship’s station-keeping ability was factored into the equation.

  But now, there was no experience to fall back on. It was just a matter of trust. Trust in the Air Force, and trust in his uncle.

  So far, everything had gone right. That alone was enough to worry him.

  “Ninety seconds,” Jason announced. “Sir, we’ve got to consider the possibility of an abort.”

  “No abort,” Tombstone said. “Worst-case, we come around for another pass.” And I hope to hell it doesn’t come down to that. Because I’ve got a very, very bad feeling about this.

  “Roger, copy,” Jason said, his voice taking on the impassive tone of a man who has decided to place his life in the hands of his pilot. “Based on visual, recommend you come right two degrees for better alignment.”

  “Roger, concur.” Tombstone made the minor course correction, his eyes moving rapidly over his instruments, back out to the beach in front of him, and then to check the sky around him for contacts.

  The transports were now clearly visible, and he could make out the details of their superstructure. The flat flight decks had movement all over them, and he thought he could see people turning to stare and point at him. They must hear the Tomcat by now, and the more experienced among them would immediately recognize the throaty growl of the Navy’s most potent fighter.

  “Sixty seconds,” Jason announced. “On altitude, on speed. Looking good, sir.”

  Just as Jason finished speaking, the radar screen fuzzed out completely, then went dead. He could hear Jason swearing in the back seat.

  “Circuit breaker,” Tombstone said, just as Jason restored power to the screen. Solid green fuzz for a few seconds, but then the static quickly resolved into individual contacts. He could hear buzz of chatter over tactical as well, and then heard a familiar voice.

  Batman, is that you? I hope so, old friend. Because if I’m in trouble, at least I know you’re in the area and you’ll do everything you can to get to me.

  “All right, triple nickels, you got sixty seconds of clear air. Get in, get out, because the picture’s going to shit again after that. You want to be long gone before anybody’s in a position to… ah, shit. Triple nickel, you are voted off the island, estimated departure in ten miles.”

  Tombstone groaned. It had all gone too smoothly so far, entirely too smoothly. There was always going to be a screwup, and you just hoped and prayed that it occurred early enough that you could take it into consideration before you committed on target.

  “Thirty seconds. Your dot, sir,” Jason said.

  “Take it, Jason. I need to keep my eyes on what’s going on around us.”

  “My dot, aye.” Jason selected and released the antiship weapons, and Tombstone felt the Tomcat jolt up as first one and then the other of the heavy antiship missiles left his wings. “New target to you, sir.”

  “Your dot, Jason,” Tombstone said. He kept his gaze moving around horizon, searching for the first faint trace of a contrail or jet exhaust that would indicate an enemy fighter. But there was nothing on radar and nothing in the sky, either, as far as he could tell. The greatest threat was from the ground troops. “IP in five seconds… four… three… two… one,” Jason said, and then he toggled off the antipersonnel weapons. That left Tombstone with only three AMRAAM antiair missiles left on his wings.

  “Break left, break left,” Jason said. “We’re out of here.”

  Tombstone swung the now-lighter Tomcat around the left, kicking in the afterburners as he did so. With enemy fighters just fifteen minutes out, he was in complete agreement with Big Eyes. He wanted to be long gone before they were in range for a visual.

  “Say goodnight, Gracie,” Big Eyes announced, and again their communication circuits, radar screens, and everything else that operated in the electromagnetic spectrum was overwhelmed with static.

  “Man, I never thought I’d be so relieved to have no radar,” Jason said.

  “Yes, me too. Now let’s get the hell out of Dodge, find Texaco, and head for home.

  “Yes, I think that’s a — shit!”

  “I see it,” Tombstone said, and stared down at the offending temperature gauge. With all his attentio
n focused on the sky, he had committed the first major sin of any naval aviator. He had not kept up his scan, and while he wasn’t looking, the exhaust temperature indicator for the right engine had crept steadily upward. Now the needle quivered just below the red area, as though undecided as to whether to creep up even higher.

  “Don’t do it, please, don’t do it,” Jason said quietly, as though through sheer force of will power he could force the engine to cool down.

  “They’re built to a heavy tolerance factor,” Tombstone said. “At least fifty percent over normal temps before you even have to start sweating, and another twenty-five percent after that before the engine is in danger.”

  “You certain about that, sir?”

  “Oh yes, I’m certain.” With a pang, he remembered just how he had come to learn that particular fact about the Tomcat. It had been during Tomboy’s early days as a test pilot, when her time was consumed by memorizing the facts and figures that constituted the normal operating envelope for the Tomcat. She had to know every fuel consumption curve, every speed versus angle of attack diagram and then every safety margin built in, just so she could try to push the envelope out just a little bit.

  Tombstone’s decades of experience in compartmentalizing his thoughts kicked in. He shoved away the thoughts of Tomboy, feeling not the slightest bit of regret as he did so, and concentrated on trying to stay alive. She would have understood, if anyone would.

  “Options?” Tombstone asked, although they both knew exactly what the choices were.

  “Japan or the United States,” Greene said. They were both within range — but both had problems, as well. Getting to Iceland meant heading directly back toward the fighters that had launched, and Japan… well, Japan was an entirely different set of problems.

  Will Japan even let us land? I’m not so certain, not if they find out what we’ve been up to. Because the last thing Japan wants is a one-on-one confrontation with China, and that’s what she’s going to get once the Russians figure out what happened.

  “Our first mission and we blow our cover,” Tombstone said. “Not a good deal.”

  “Very much not a good deal. But I’m not sure that that engine’s going to make it all the way back up to Adak, are you?”

  “Maybe… no. No, it won’t,” Tombstone admitted.

  Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. The United States wasn’t the only aircraft carrier around. He had heard Batman’s voice on tactical, and now he stared at his HUD and mentally reconstructed the last picture he’d seen there. Yes, Jefferson was within range, and a good deal closer that either of their other bingo options.

  “Jefferson,” he said, and the moment he spoke the ship’s name he knew that she was the answer. “You got a frequency for her on your kneeboard?”

  “Yes, sure, but she’s a supply depot, not an operational carrier,” Jason protested. Even as he spoke, he was thumbing through the laminated plastic cards, looking for the communications index.

  “Oh, I’m willing to bet she’s a good deal more than that,” Tombstone said fiercely. “Batman’s in command, and you can bet your ass whatever capabilities she had when she left port, she’s exceeded them by now. He’s put her through her paces, fixed everything that could be fixed, and I’m willing to bet that his first priority was restoring at least some of her flight deck capabilities.”

  “Here it is.” Green reeled off the frequency and Tombstone punched them into the communications panel.

  Then, with intense feeling of fierce pride, he said, “Homeplate, this is Stoney. I got a problem. Over.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  USS Jefferson

  Monday, September 23

  2200 local (GMT +8)

  Batman paced the compartment, an angry, fearsome presence. TFCC was minimally manned, little more than a radio watch. Yet he could not avoid the compulsion to be here when anything was happening. He paced the small compartment just as he had in the old days, agitated, trying to think of some way he could help, something he could do.

  But there was nothing. After all, what was Jefferson now except a spare parts depot? Oh sure, he understood the importance of spare parts in supporting the mission, and knew that he wasn’t just out here killing time. After all, not everybody could be on the front lines, could they? The tooth to kill ratio was always about ten to one, meaning that the fighting forces were always outnumbered by their own support forces by a factor of ten.

  Still, why did it have to be Jefferson? Hell, he didn’t even have a normal complement of communication gear — they had cannibalized his crypto to supply other ships, and he was left with just one secure circuit. He listened to the battle going on over it, longing with all of his soul to be part of it, if not in the air, at least in command of the forces.

  Suddenly, a new voice came over. “Homeplate, meet me on…” and the voice reeled off a frequency, asking him to reconfigure his secure gear to listen on that channel.

  Batman turn to his TAO, or what passed for one on the Jefferson now. “What the hell?”

  “New channel assignment, I guess?”

  Batman felt the overwhelming sense of frustration. Not only was he not permitted to be in the conflict, he was now not even allowed to listen to it. “Do it,” he snarled.

  “Roger, sir.” The TAO made the arrangements for the frequency change, and then turned to him, a puzzled look on his face. “Admiral, that voice sound familiar to you?”

  Batman played it back in his mind. A smile started across his face. “Yes. Yes, it sure as hell did.”

  As a light went on indicating that the channel assignment had been changed, Batman picked up the mike, and said, “Stoney, this is Homeplate. Go ahead. Over.”

  Tomcat 155

  2203 local (GMT +8)

  Tombstone smiled at the sound of his old wingman’s voice. There would never need to be call signs or recognition codes between the two of them, not when they recognized each other’s voice so easily. He imagined the look of surprise on Batman’s face, could almost see that shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear. Well, there’d be time enough to explain when he got onboard — and that was the first problem.

  “You doing okay back there?” he asked over ICS. He glanced in the mirror and saw Jason’s pale, strained face.

  “I’m fine. It’s not serious, I swear. Hurts like hell, but it isn’t going to kill me.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m not worried about that.” Tombstone tried for more confidence in his voice than he felt. “It’s just that you’re getting my cockpit all fouled up.”

  “Yeah.” Jason tried to smile, but was unable to quite pull it off. Tombstone switched back to tactical. “Homeplate, I got a situation up here. You got any deck space?”

  “That’s about all I got, as you well know,” Batman answered. “How come you’re not heading for big brother?”

  “The circumstances are… ah… a bit difficult,” Tombstone said, not wanting to go into detail over the circuit. No matter how highly classified any radio circuit was, he wasn’t sure enough about any system in the U.S. inventory to make him comfortable discussing this. “How about an arresting wire and catapult? Are those operational?”

  “Yes. We just use them for post-maintenance flight checks. You’re serious about this?”

  “Dead serious, Batman. Clear me out a spot, will you? I can’t head for big brother for very good reasons. I’ll explain it all what I get down on deck, okay?”

  “How do you know they’re not listening in?” Batman asked.

  “You remember that radio installed just before you left? Well, if you check with your communications officer, you’ll find Pete has some very special instructions that you know nothing about. Just for situations like this. Now, are we going to stand here talking about old times or are you going to get me some deck space?”

  “Give us fifteen minutes — hell, I have to wake up half the civilians. But we’ll be ready for you, Tombstone. We’ll be ready.”

  As Tombstone signed off, he glanced aga
in in the back seat. Jason appeared to have nodded off. Before he ended the transmission, he said, “And Homeplate? I’ll need medical assistance right after we get down. My backseater.”

  “Roger, Tombstone. We’ll be waiting for you. And unless you lost your touch, you won’t need the safety barrier.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  USS Lake Champlain

  Monday, September 23

  2230 local (GMT +8)

  Cruiser officers and crew were usually known to be fairly tight-assed, cold professionals when it came to their jobs. But as they watched the number of confirmed kills building on their screens, the captain could hear an undercurrent of muted exclamations and cheers breaking out around the compartment. One of the electronic warfare technicians, commonly known as earthworms, even ran over to give the air tracks supervisor a high five. They both broke away immediately after, looking a bit ashamed of their emotional outbreak, but neither was able to completely hide the grin on his face.

  Oh, hell. Let them celebrate. It’s not often that you know you’re going to be painting twenty fighter profiles on your superstructure within the next week.

  For indeed, the computer had awarded confirmed kills for every missile they’d launched. A second shot on any one target had not been necessary, and all the shots had been well inside parameters. Even the destroyer, with her six missiles total, had each downed the target.

  Yes, overall, an impressive record. But even as he joined in the muted celebration, the captain felt a sense of uneasiness sweep over him. Twenty missiles, twenty kills? No misses, no mechanical problems? Sure, maybe — but that hadn’t been his experience with technology. Parts rub, seals go bad, a stray electron hits the wrong beam of light — shit happens. And while he’d be glad to take the twenty missiles — twenty kills record if warranted, something deep inside of him worried.