The missile, when it came, was all the more surprise. He heard the warning tone and had just one second to look around before he saw it, arrowing off the wing of another Hornet also coming down from the clouds. He knew it was a killing shot the moment he saw it, and just before it nestled in to the hot target source of his engine exhaust, Chan jerked down on the ejection seat handle.
MiG 8
1712 local (GMT –10)
Tai was tumbling toward the ocean. Finally, at the last moment, he felt the wings bite into the air, and control returned to him as the heavy vibration shuddered out. The air was flowing smoothly over his laminar surfaces again, keeping the MiG airborne.
How far had he been? He dared not glance at the altitude indicator during the mad plummet from air to sea, knowing that if he watched the numbers unroll as he fought for control of the aircraft that he would never, ever believe he could accomplish it. Yet accomplish it he had. Now, as the aircraft eased into level flight, he glanced at the altitude indicator. Four hundred feet above the hungry surface of the ocean. Merely microseconds at the speed at which he’d been traveling. Adrenaline pounded through every inch of his body as he realized just how close he had come to dying.
No pilot that he knew of could have recovered from the deadly flat spin and tumble. He had no equal, not in this chunk of airspace. And now he would prove to the Tomcat just how right that was.
Hornet 106
1713 local (GMT –10)
Thor spared a few moments to watch that crazy Chinese bastard lose control of his aircraft before he returned his attention back to the other MiG. They’d finish this one off, no big deal now. Two Hornets versus one MiG wasn’t even a fair fight.
But nobody ever said aerial combat was supposed to be a fair fight. That wasn’t the point — the point was to get there, take care of business, and get home in one piece, hopefully with everybody in the squadron making it back, too.
As he turned his attention back to Hellman and the other MiG, he let out a short, heartfelt, “Shit.” While Hellman hadn’t been taken in by the MiG’s initial maneuver to swoop in from above and take position astern, he had made the fatal mistake of trying to turn inside the MiG’s turning radius. It hadn’t worked — the two were too evenly matched to do that while fighting on the vertical. The best thing to do was disengage from a yo-yo, pull out and away, and circle back in to get in position.
But how had the MiG bastard beat him back into a tail chase? It didn’t matter — it would be thoroughly covered in the squadron debrief, and Hellman would get a chance to make his explanations in before an entire crowd of experienced aviators. Thor was tired of being the one carping on him about his dangerous tactics. Maybe hearing it from the squadron’s skipper would beat some sense into the young jarhead’s brain. But for now, it was time to bail his wingman out before he took it up the ass.
Hellman and his MiG were caught in a flat loop, chasing each other around in ever tightening spirals. Hellman kept trying to cut inside the radius of the circle to take up position on the MiG, spurting afterburner fire as he recklessly waded through his onboard fuel allowance. Thor swore quietly. Even if he did manage to pull the asshole out of this one, he had less than a fifty-fifty chance of making it back to the tanker in time at the rate he was spending fuel.
They were still five thousand feet above him, so Thor came in on a long, flat turn, gradually ascending, timing his intersection with their loop so that he would fall neatly into position behind the MiG. He almost made it without the MiG noticing, but at the last second, Hellman pulled up hard and tried to barrel roll over and around into position. That’s when Hellman evidently noticed his returning wingman for the first time.
“Shit!” Thor pulled the Hornet into a hard right turn, standing the aircraft on its wing and then rolling inverted. He lost sight of Hellman behind the breadth of his canopy, and felt cold, clear dread run through his veins. Bitch of a thing, to put away a MiG and then get nailed by your own wingman. “Where the hell is that little bastard?”
A second later, Hellman screamed past him, still gouting afterburner, his canopy just feet below Thor’s own. Thor screamed obscenities at him as he went by, not daring to take his hands off the controls long enough to render a salute with his middle finger. And where the hell was the MiG? There — coming in from on high, Thor desperately out of position, Hellman now having completely lost the tactical picture, while Thor’s own, more experienced mind immediately worked out the geometries. He yanked hard, pulling the Hornet into a screaming loop, narrowly missing a mid-air collision with the MiG as he did. Just as he went by, Thor toggled the weapons selector to gun and mailed off a short blast. He saw the tip of the MiG’s wing dissolve in a spray of shrapnel. One hit his canopy with a hard, ringing blow, and Thor started swearing again, alternately swearing and praying that it hadn’t hit a hydraulics line. Or a control surface line.
He rolled upright as he reached the top of his barrel roll and saw that the MiG had Hellman on the run. Too close for an AMRAAM, and too dangerous an angle on his own wingman to take a chance with a Sidewinder. No, this would have to be up close and personal.
“Hellman — break right, break right. Now!” Thor shouted. Immediately, Hellman’s aircraft went into a hard dive toward the surface of the ocean. For the first time since they’d been airborne, Thor shoved his Hornet into afterburner and felt the hard kick of acceleration mold his spine and back into the familiar curves of the Hornet’s ejection seat. The force snapped his chin up, and he felt the skin pull back from the corners of his eyes and his mouth. He grunted, panting heavily to keep the oxygen flowing to his brain as he dove down on the offending MiG.
“Circle around and come up behind me,” Thor ordered, now gaining on the MiG
“Get behind me, get behind me.” He wondered if the hotheaded young Marine would obey. It was just the sort of thing Hellman would hate, being aced out of his own kill.
But there was no room in the air for pride, not of that kind. When you were out of position to make the kill and your wingman had it, you let him take the shot. You spend precious seconds arguing about who gets to nail the bastard, and odds are one of you will make a mistake.
Thor yelped in glee as Hellman’s aircraft cleared his Sidewinder field of fire, and he toggled off the missile with a harsh, jubilant cry. He watched it go, angling off his wing and reaching hungrily for the burning exhaust streaming out of the MiG’s tailpipe.
The MiG realized its danger too late. Chaff and flares exploded out from it, and Thor heard the warble of his ESM gear that indicated the MiG 33 was equipped with some pretty sophisticated electronic countermeasures as well. But the Sidewinder was a relatively simple missile, designed for only one thing, to seek out the hottest source anywhere around, and bury itself in it.
As he watched, the long, slender missile seemed to slide up the tailpipe itself, with the smooth grace of chambering a round in any weapon. Then, with its short, stubby tail fins still visible, it detonated.
Thor broke high, determined to avoid another shower of shrapnel. Already he could tell that the previous blast had nicked something, maybe just a control surface. The Hornet felt slightly sluggish under his hands, as though she wanted to obey his every order but was simply too tired.
Off to his left, now, an expanding fireball of red and orange filled the sky. It was fiery incandescent in the center, darkening to yellow then red, and finally fringed in black, rolling smoke. He heard the tinkling ping-ping of shrapnel pelting his fuselage, and prayed that none of it would reach the remaining missiles hung under his wings.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Hellman’s voice asked angrily. “I would have had him.”
“Save it for when we get back to the boat,” Thor said curtly. “What’s your state?”
“Who gives a shit? I — shit.” The bravado seeped out of Hellman’s voice as he realized just how low on fuel he was. “Oh, man, I’m really in the shitter, here.”
“Jeff, this is Hornet 106. We’re in bad
need of a tanker, like within the next five seconds,” Thor announced over tactical. He hated emphasizing the blunder his wingman had made in public — the place to air dirty laundry was in the confines of the ready room — but he had to make sure that the Hornets were given priority for tanking.
“Hornet One-zero-six, One-zero-six, come right, course two-three-zero at seven miles. Texaco standing by.”
“Wingman goes first, Jeff,” Thor said quietly. He switched over to the private frequency he shared with Hellman. “You got that?” He could see by his heads-up display that Hellman was already making the course change and heading for the tanker. “You’ve got one plug at this, Hellman.”
“I’ve never missed a plug yet,” Hellman shot back.
“Not until you had to plug that MiG,” Thor observed. “It’s time to lose the attitude, buddy. You splash that aircraft with a MiG, you’ve got a chance of surviving as an aviator. But you splash one because you ran out of fuel, you’d better believe your flying days are over. Lose the attitude and take the plug, you got that?” Thor’s voice bore not one ounce of mercy. Not now.
“Yes, sir,” came back the short reply.
Thor circled overhead as he watched Hellman slide the Hornet in for a plug on the first tank, and watched as he hungrily sucked down five thousand pounds of JP8 from the KS-3 tanker.
And now for his own trip to the Texaco — 106 was lower on av gas than he needed to be to take a pass at the boat.
Pacific Ocean
1900 local (GMT –10)
Chan stared up at the sky as the most brilliant stars made their first tentative appearances of the evening. It would be, he thought, perhaps the last night sky he would ever see, and he felt a slight surge of gratitude that at least the skies were clear.
He didn’t need radio contact with his carrier to know just how badly the entire mission had turned out. The oily black plumes of smoke towering the sky, still dark smudges against the sunset, told him everything he needed to know. If there were to be a rescue, it would come from the American forces. Chan knew only how he would have treated a downed American pilot had their situations been reversed, and he was not certain that he even wanted rescue. Not at that price.
A split second later, he was quite certain that he would undergo any sort of insidious torture or mistreatment that the Americans might have in mind. Then it happened again — something hard and rough brushed against his leg, something with massive inertia that almost popped him out of the water in reaction.
A third pass, this one more insistent, and Chan started screaming to every god he had ever known for deliverance, for mercy, for a fate other than the one that was approaching too quickly.
The shark’s fourth pass was far less tentative than the previous three, and lasted quite a bit longer.
TWENTY-THREE
The Lucky Star
Six days later
1600 local (GMT –10)
The Lucky Star, with the Coast Guard officer commanding, chugged out to a spot directly over the USS Arizona. Tombstone’s pickup team, along with Tomboy and Batman and the Simpsons, were in a loose formation on the stern. No one had ordered them into ranks, but there was something about the solemnity of the moment that manifested itself in quiet, somber voices and stiffened backbones.
“On station, Admiral,” Captain Henry said finally. “Standing by for your orders.”
“Maintain bare steerageway to keep us in this area,” Tombstone said. “I don’t want to anchor. This poor old girl has suffered enough insults to her final resting place, I think.”
“Maintain station with bare steerageway, aye, sir,” the Coast Guard Officer repeated. In the quiet on the aft deck, the visitors could hear the command repeated first by the officer of the deck and then by both the helmsman and the lee helm.
The Lucky Star’s engines throttled down to a dull rumble. They were running so smoothly now that they could barely feel the vibrations on the deck, a marked contrast to the rough sound that she’d made but a week earlier.
Amazing what the Coast Guard can do, Tombstone thought. I wonder where they pinched the funds from to refurbish this old girl. But on reflection, he decided that it wasn’t so much a matter of throwing money at the vessel’s engine spaces. No, he suspected that there hadn’t been a Coast Guard sailor within a thousand miles who hadn’t begged, insisted, or downright whined to be allowed the honor of working on this boat. Spare parts would have materialized, some, he hoped, contributed by grateful Navy shipmates. There would have been no shortage of manpower, and for a brief moment he smiled at the mental picture of thousands of Coast Guard and Navy snipes thronging the pier, begging to be allowed to help to restore the ship to proper working order.
And Lucky Star deserved it. While nothing was certain yet, he’d heard from his uncle that the senators and congressmen from Hawaii had been lobbying to be allowed to designate Lucky Star as a permanent honor escort for the USS Arizona.
Did ships have souls? Perhaps his surface brethren would be better equipped to say, but Tombstone thought that they might. Oh, perhaps not the incandescent life that a Tomcat had, that quick, sweet responsiveness to your every thought. No, if he had to picture it, a ship would have an older soul, a more gallant one — and perhaps, one that knew better the meaning of “Never say die.”
There was a stir of motion on the deck, and an honor guard made its stately way forward, the colors guarded and flying proudly in the wind, one man carrying a simple wreath. The crowd parted before them, allowing them access to the rear railing of the ship. Tombstone caught a whiff of fresh paint smell in the air, and knew that more than the boat’s engines had been refurbished.
A single trumpeter stepped forward. He wet his lips, and then the hauntingly mournful tones of Taps floated out over the air. The notes slid gently through the thick sea air, glistened under the hot sun and seemed to sink into the ocean of their own accord. Tombstone hoped that somehow, somewhere, the sailors that had gone down to the sea for the last time onboard the Arizona heard them and knew that their shipmates still kept the faith today.
A chaplain stepped forward, and said a brief prayer, accompanied by a trumpet playing the Navy Hymn. How many times had Tombstone heard the words to the hymn, under how many different circumstances? They resonated deep in the soul of every sailor, yet never had they meant more to him than they did at this moment, standing on the deck of this gallant little vessel, surrounded by men and women who’d risen to the occasion just as Lucky Star had.
Tombstone barely heard the chaplain’s words as he stared down at the clear water, at the final resting place for so many brave men. They’d done their duty back then, and had once again reached out from beyond the grave to answer the call to duty. Somehow he knew that they would have been proud that their ship, the USS Arizona, had fought one final fight for her country.
Glossary
0–3 level: The third deck above the main deck. Designations for decks above the main deck (also known as the damage control deck) begin with zero, e.g. 0–3. The zero is pronounced as “oh” in conversation. Decks below the main deck do not have the initial zero, and are numbered down from the main deck, e.g. deck 11 is below deck 3. Deck 0–7 is above deck 0–3.
1MC: The general announcing system on a ship or submarine. Every ship has many different interior communications systems, most of them linking parts of the ship for a specific purpose. Most operate off sound-powered phones. The circuit designators consist of a number followed by two letters that indicate the specific purpose of the circuit. 2AS, for instance, might be an antisubmarine warfare circuit that connects the sonar supervisor, the USW watch officer, and the sailor at the torpedo launched.
C-2 Greyhound: Also known as the COD, Carrier Onboard Delivery. The COD carries cargo and passengers from shore to ship. It is capable of carrier landings. Sometimes assigned directly to the air wing, it also operates in coordination with CVBGs from a sore squadron.
Air Boss: A senior commander or captain assigned to th
e aircraft carrier, in charge of flight operations. The “Boss” is assisted by the Mini-Boss in Pri-Fly, located in the tower onboard the carrier. The Air Boss is always in the tower during flight operations, overseeing the launch and recovery cycles, declaring a green deck, and monitoring the safe approach of aircraft to the carrier.
airdale: Slang for an officer or enlisted person in the aviation fields. Includes pilots, NFOs, aviation intelligence officers and maintenance officer and the enlisted technicians who support aviation. The antithesis of an airdale is a “shoe.”
Air Wing: Composed of the aircraft squadrons assigned to the battle group. The individual squadron commanding officers report to the air wing commander, who reports to the admiral.
Akula: Late model Russian-built attack nuclear submarine, an SSN. Fast, deadly, and deep diving.
ALR-67: Detects, analyzes and evaluates electromagnetic signals, emits a warning signal if the parameters are compatible with an immediate threat to the aircraft, e.g. seeker head on an anti-air missile. Can also detect an enemy radar in either a search or a targeting mode.
altitude: Is safety. With enough airspace under the wings, a pilot can solve any problem.
AMRAAM: Advanced Medium Range Anti-Air Missile.
angels: Thousands of feet over ground. Angels twenty is 20,000 feet. Cherubs indicates hundreds of feet, e.g. cherubs five = five hundred feet.
ASW: Antisubmarine Warfare, recently renamed Undersea Warfare. For some reason.
avionics: Black boxes and systems that comprise an aircraft’s combat systems.
AW: Aviation antisubmarine warfare technician, the enlisted specialist flying in an S-3, P-3 or helo USW aircraft. As this book goes to press, there is discussion of renaming the specialty.
AWACS: An aircraft entirely too good for the Air Force, the Advanced Warning Aviation Control System. Long range command and control and electronic intercept bird with superb capabilities.
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