"FOD on the flight deck. Red Deck for now."
"Then pick it the fuck up," I screamed at the AIC. "Jesus, don't you realize what's-"
"Ramp strike, Viper Flight," the AIC said, cutting me off. His voice was cold with anger. "Don't you think we know what the hell we're doing?"
Ramp strike ― too low on approach and too gutsy to take a wave-off. There would be pieces of pilot and aircraft smashed on the stern of the ship with flaming debris scattered down the entire flight deck. Who had it been?
I had no time to reflect on the possible identity of the ramp strike. Another flight of MiGs was rising up from the trees, adding another six airframes to the battle. Almost as many as we'd already shot down.
"Viper Flight, fall back and regroup," I ordered finally. The furball was getting too dispersed, a bad time-distance problem for providing support to each other. You don't want to be in too tight ― you need a little elbow room ― but you also want to have somebody delouse your six when it's necessary. Somebody besides your wingman.
Most of the Tomcats broke off their engagement and scampered out to our predetermined point. The MiGs followed them, and the Tomcats jinked wildly to avoid allowing them a perfect tail shot.
We pulled it back together and re-engaged. Gator fed me a third target, and I debated a moment whether to take it with a Sparrow or a Sidewinder. Finally, I selected the Sparrow, since the Sidewinder was truly my last weapon of choice. This MiG was a beauty, painted with something special that made it glint in the sunlight like raw gold. An odd, very distinctive undertone to its paint, one that did nothing for its low-observability characteristics.
But then again, maybe he wanted to be noticed. If so, then I'd just oblige him.
I tickled off the Sparrow, made the Fox call, then spiraled up to gain altitude. Altitude is safety. You can trade it for speed, which gives you increased maneuverability. Then things got nasty. Real nasty.
"SAM site," Gator said. "To the north. Bearing three two zero."
"Where the fuck are all these SAM sites coming from?" I asked. "Jesus, those intelligence guys don't know shit."
"Your turn, lead." Skeeter's voice was tight and controlled on the tactical circuit. "He's on me, Bird Dog, he's on me."
I snapped my head around to see what was happening out the back. Gator chimed in with an explanation. "Below us, about two thousand feet. Three o'clock. You got it?"
I did. Sun glinted off the wings of the two aircraft as they dodged and parried at low altitude. They were low, too low ― I swore quietly. How had Skeeter let himself get suckered into a low-altitude fight with the lighter, more maneuverable MiG? "Viper Flight, this is Home Plate. Friendlies inbound flight of four Hornets." The controller's voice off the carrier was clipped. "Watch out for 'em, fellows ― they're the cavalry."
The cavalry. Yeah, like the Hornets were going to save our ass this time. They always thought they were on the front line, when in truth they were getting into this fight long after my Tomcats got it stirred up. Still, they carried air-to-air missiles, and I was getting damned low on them at this point.
"Need some help there, Skeeter?" The cheerful Texas twang grated across my nerves as it always did. "I'm inbound on your six ― wait for it. I'll give you a break."
Of all the Marines to show up on station, it had to be Thor. Major Frederick Hammersmith, if you want his real name. The prototype for all Marine pilots ― I'd seen him drop down on the brutally hot tarmac to crank out fifty push-ups before getting into his aircraft just to piss the Air Boss off. Given half a chance, he'd probably carry a knife clenched between his teeth while in flight.
Still, there was no denying his help would be welcome about now. Not that I'd ever admit it to him. But the lighter Hornet, while it didn't have the staying power of my own dear Tomcat, had some advantages in a fight with a MiG. Since it was smaller, with a higher thrust-to-wing-area ratio, the Hornet was a scampery little bastard, able to cut inside arcs and turns in a way that the Tomcat couldn't. Besides that, it has LERX ― Leading Edge Root Extensions. These give it an extended range of angle of attack above and beyond sixty degrees, which is about what we're limited to. Also, it has a high-tech retrofitted fence running along the LERX that generates the right airflow patterns to reduce metal fatigue on its tail assembly.
"Come on in, Thor," Skeeter said. I could hear the relief in his voice. Like what ― he thought I wouldn't be there? I was already headed for the deck, trying to pick him out from the gaggle of other Tomcat pilots who'd let themselves get suckered. Too many ― far too many.
"Wait for it, buddy," Thor said. I could see his Hornet now, the small, agile form of his two-seater night-attack variant arrowing in from the direction of the carrier. "Almost there ― get ready ― now! Break right, Skeeter. Hard right."
My confusion over which set of aircraft was Skeeter and his MiG was immediately cleared up. I saw an F-14 break hard right, the maneuver almost immediately duplicated by the MiG on his six in perfect firing position.
Almost.
Skeeter made the bright move of taking on some altitude at the same time he was turning, thus increasing his separation from the doomed MiG. The F-14 was almost on top of him now, seemingly being reeled in by some invisible fishing line trailing off the MiG's ass.
A slight twitch, a puff of smoke, then the heat-seeking Sidewinder blinking in the sunshine like a beacon.
The missile sought out the MiG's tailpipe like it was mother's milk. It streaked inbound, dead on target and never wavering, then the two images merged into one. The silver shape of the MiG was replaced immediately by a blossoming, ugly black and red fireball.
"That one's mine." Thor's voice was calm and confident. "Any other problems I can solve for you turkey jockeys?"
"Thanks, Thor," Skeeter said. I almost puked.
More Hornets were arriving on station, calling out their tallyhos and missile shots almost as soon as they were on station. I started getting calls from my own flight on a separate circuit, early indications that they were getting low on fuel or that they were Winchestered ― out of weapons. The Winchesters I sent back immediately ― there was absolutely nothing they could do out here except for a lucky shot with their twenty-millimeter Vulcan Gatling-type guns fitted on the left sides. The guns are bitching when you can take the shot, but even most knife fighters don't like to get that close. Their 675 rounds, even shooting small bursts, isn't a lot of firepower.
"Viper Flight, Dragon Flight, Home Plate. Two flights of Tomcats, one flight of Hornets inbound. Viper Flight, break off as needed."
At least we were getting some more Tomcats into the fight. And the controller was right to remind me ― those of us who weren't low on fuel soon would be, and it was better to clear the deck for the fresh forces.
"Let's get going," Gator urged from the backseat. "Bird Dog, our fuel is-"
"I know what our fuel is," I cut in. Damn it, someday I'm going to tape a cardboard shield between the front seat and backseat on this aircraft so he can't stick his nose into my business. "You think I'll run out of gas?"
"Of course not. At least, you never have before." Gator's voice sounded just the slightest bit dubious. "Still, don't you think we ought to-?"
Without answering, I put the Tomcat into a hard, tight climbing turn. "One more quick look, then we're out of here. I want to make sure all of our guys are out."
"Whatever you say, Bird Dog."
We spiraled on up, slowing slightly as we poured all of our power into the climb. When I felt we had a bird's-eye view, I rolled back into level flight, and then into inverted flight.
I love this part. Gator hates it. It's a good thing for him that our fuel-transfer mechanism doesn't allow me to remain inverted for the entire flight. There's something about hanging from the ejection-seat harness. Maybe it's the blood getting forced into your head by gravity that does it.
The ocean was spread out below me, looking almost calm and peaceful from this vantage point. The aircraft still engaged b
elow were dull gray shapes against darker water, or brilliant specks of light like fireflies as the sun reflected off wings. They winked in, back to dull gray, then back into fiery brilliance.
I saw the remnants of two fireballs hanging in the air, slowly dissipating as the wind tore at them. Only one that I knew of was ours ― and better them than us.
The new aircraft were joining up on the battle already in progress, picking out beleaguered Tomcats to delouse of MiGs and neatly nailing the enemy aircraft one by one. Other Tomcats were rising up from the fray, seeking altitude and shaking the last of their pursuers as they broke off.
"Viper Flight, say state," I asked, then waited for their responses. Each pilot called out his fuel status, then waited for the tanking order.
"Red, go on in ― you're lowest," I ordered. "Then Smiley, Joe, and Theresa. Skeeter, you stick with me. I think we're better off than most of them."
"Not by much," Gator said tartly. "In fact, Theresa's got more fuel than Skeeter does."
"Ladies first. Besides, neither of them is in the red zone."
I heard the exasperated sigh over the ICS. As much as I hated to admit it, there was something to what Gator was saying. Still, more of us were at bingo state. A little low, a little light-winged of weapons, but basically in good shape.
Those of us who'd made it out. Theresa had just cleared the tanker when I led Skeeter, now wing-welded to me again, in a gentle turn toward the tanker. She called out and checked in with the carrier, then peeled off toward the starboard marshal pattern to wait her turn at the deck. She'd made it ― Theresa was a good stick, and the weather conditions were optimal.
"Skeeter, go ahead," I said. "Plug and suck, buddy, then get the hell out of the way."
"Want to take any bets on this one?" Skeeter queried.
I laughed. "No, you asshole. I know you plug first time. Just go on and get it over with. Hell, you're probably as fast in bed as you are on the tanker."
"Now, that's not what they tell me," Skeeter answered, his voice cool and amused.
We were both in the throes of that exhilaration that sets in right after combat, the period of time in which it finally sinks in that your ass was almost grass and that you'd escaped once again. Plus you'd put a few bad guys at the bottom of the ocean along the way. It's a heady euphoria that's got no equivalent in civilian life. Except maybe bungee jumping, and that was one thrill I'd never tried out.
True to his word, Skeeter nailed the tanker right off. It was a smooth, fluid plug, probe right into the basket, and the tanker started pumping him right away.
Six minutes later, he was topped off enough to go take a look at the boat. I waited until he was safely away, then slid in to try my luck.
Well, not luck really. Skill is more like it.
"Take it easy, Bird Dog. You're coming in a little fast on me." The KA-6 tanker's pilot was a bit testy.
I guess I couldn't blame her. We had been coming in a little bit fast for her.
"Now, darlin', you just hold steady," I said, trying to make light of the situation. "Let me try this again."
I eased back off the tanker and lined myself up again. The mistake that most people make when they're trying to tank is they get fixated on watching the basket bob around in the air in front of them. You don't want to do that ― you want to be staring directly at the lights on the tanker and maintaining the correct relative position between your two aircraft. Otherwise you get disoriented from the little bobbles and jerks the basket does in the air. It was something I knew better than to do ― and I'd just done it.
The second time went smooth as silk, my probe sliding right into the hard plastic basket like ― well, I wasn't going there. Not on cruise, not with the women on board the ship looking better and better every day that went by.
"Good seal," the tanker pilot said. "Ready to transfer fuel."
"Ready to receive."
I could hear the slight gurgle as the fuel fed smoothly into the probe and was distributed to the two wing tanks. Five thousand pounds, that would hold me until we got back to the boat. Enough to make two passes at the deck, although I doubted that I'd need more than one. It had been a long time since I hadn't gotten back on board on my first pass, and I didn't aim to break my record now.
"That'll do me, darlin'," I said finally. I shut off the switches that allowed fuel to flow in through the probe, and allowed her to do the same. Then I gently backed off, slid further back until I was well clear, and rolled off to the right. "See you back on the deck," I called out as a farewell.
"Not anytime soon," she answered tartly. "Got a bunch more customers up here soon enough."
"Those Hornets get thirsty fast," I agreed.
Despite some relatively decent performance statistics, that was the one problem with the F/A-18 ― it was a hungry little bastard. The trade-off for having a lightweight aircraft was that it could carry less of everything. Fuel, weapons, hell, probably even piddle packs. You never want to get into a fight with a bunch of Hornets without having a lot of gas in the air nearby.
I was just four thousand yards away from the tanker when I heard the tanker pilot start screaming. "Bird Dog, get back here! He's on me, he's on me!"
I slammed into afterburner and rolled and turned, heading back to the tanker. I knew what was wrong ― one of those goddamn Hornets had let a MiG sneak through and make a run on their Texaco. That should have been the first thing they'd done, make sure that their tanker was protected. If I'd been down there The MiG was almost toying with her, like a cat with a mouse. It was a bit above her, and well aft, in perfect firing position.
I sighted in, got the low growl of a Sidewinder, then said, "Gina, break left. Now!"
Tankers aren't the maneuverable airframes that fighters are, but she did the best that she could. As old as those birds are, she probably damn near tore the wings off trying to get away. The KA6 rolled hard, overshot, and exposed her underbelly to the MiG, then completed the roll and fell down toward the ocean in a spiral. It's always nice to use gravity if you need to gain some airspeed in a hurry.
I waited two seconds, enough time to get her out of range of the fireball, and just long enough for the MiG pilot to start getting truly pissed.
A missile leapt off his wings, the ignition of its booster blinding me slightly. I thumbed off the Sidewinder at the same time.
I had one second to see the canopy of the KA6 peel off, shatter into pieces, and two ejection seats rocket up at forty-five-degree angles from each other. They were barely clear of the aircraft when it exploded into flames.
The smoke and fire blanked out my view of the two chutes. Had they opened? I didn't know, and now I sure as hell couldn't see. The MiG I'd shot the Sidewinder at was a smoking black hole in the air.
"Get down ― look for chutes!" Gator said.
"On my way." I took time to make a quick visual scan of the area around me, knowing that Gator was doing the same thing with his radar. "All clear?"
"I'll tell you if it's not."
I put the Tomcat into a steep dive, pulling up just about at the altitude where I estimated the chutes would be. We made a 360, each of us craning our necks trying to see them wherever they were. I felt a heavy, rotten, sinking feeling in my gut. There hadn't been time ― not enough distance. Even though they'd cleared the aircraft, the fireball must have got them.
"Get down lower," Gator said. "Maybe we missed them."
I did as he suggested, far too low over the ocean for my own comfort, but desperate to see any trace of the tanker pilot and her RIO.
"Bird Dog?" Gator's voice asked. "Have you got 'em?"
"Not yet." I wished he'd just shut the fuck up and let me look for them.
I'm joining on you," Skeeter said.
"No ― get back to the boat," I ordered. The last thing I needed was Skeeter poking around down here while I was trying to find the two women who had gone down. "One of us is enough."
"But who's gonna cover you?" Skeeter asked. "Bird Dog, you
can't-"
"Back to the boat, Skeeter," I said again. "Jesus, why don't you just follow orders for once without arguing?"
Two clicks on the circuit acknowledged my last transmission. I kept my eyes glued to the ocean, hoping for something, anything. "He's right, you know," Gator said. "Fuck him."
"No, fuck you." There was a note in Gator's voice I rarely heard, but knew better than to ignore it when I did. "Bird Dog, he's got enough fuel, we need another set of eyes out here, if not for the crew, then for any of those nasty little bastards that want to jump US."
"How about you keep your eyes on that radar scope and keep that from happening," I suggested.
"Damn it ― too late for that. Bird Dog, MiGs at five o'clock, four miles off and closing fast. They're in targeting mode ― Bird Dog!"
"I'm coming in," Skeeter said, still on the net. "Hold on, Bird Dog."
I was a little bit too busy to answer at that point, trying to get my turkey ass off the deck and back in the air where it belonged. How had I got suckered into this? I know better, I damn well know better.
"Targeting radar," Gator warned, his voice higher now. "Bird Dog, we're too slow ― too low. We can't make it out of this one."
"I'm almost there," Skeeter said. "Please, Bird Dog, just-"
"We'll get some distance," I said, thinking furiously. "I've still got one Sparrow, the gun ― we're gonna make it, Gator."
"The hell you say," Gator's voice had a note of quiet desperation in it this time. "Bird Dog, get ready. You know we're gonna have to punch out."
"I'm not punching out. This is my aircraft, and no goddamned Vietnamese is going to take it away from me."
"Vampire, vampire," Skeeter screamed over the circuit, his voice losing every trace of cool it had ever had. "Jesus, Bird Dog ― punch out. Punch out now!"
I'm not-"
The wind ripped the words out of my throat and slammed my head back against the headrest. I had just a split second to realize what had happened before the canopy broke away from the airframe, tumbled backwards in the sky above us before falling back in the slipstream. A microsecond later, the pan of the ejection seat slammed me up. Over the noise of the wind and the explosion in my ejection seat, I heard Gator's seat go, saw out of the corner of my eye the bright flash of his ejection rocket firing. My vision was already going gray, and every bit of exposed skin felt numb and sandpapered. The gray crowded in on all sides, until my vision dwindled to a mere pinpoint of light in front of me. Then quietly, amazingly understated in the fury of noise and sound around me, that too winked out.
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