The Tomcat was coming back for another strafing run.
1328 Local
Tomcat 201
“That finishes that.” Bird Dog tried to feel the same sense of victory he’d felt on the bombing run over the island, but it was slow in coming. It was one thing, he thought, to scream in above the landscape and drop ordnance on anonymous opponents on the deck. You didn’t look at them, didn’t see their faces turn pale and eyes grow wide as you approached. It was sanitary, somehow.
But this had been different. Even at 250 knots, he’d had a few seconds to look at the faces of his opponents. No matter that their Kalishnikovs were turning to bracket him, and that if they’d had their way he’d have been a small greasy spot on the surface of the ocean. No, it was still different, he decided. Watching their faces, seeing them crumple in response to his gunfire, and coming back over for a second pass on the motionless figures made it personal.
“The submarine?” Gator prompted.
Bird Dog cast an uneasy look in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, yeah, the submarine.” He banked the Tomcat to the right, coming back around toward the stern of the boat. From fifteen thousand feet of altitude, the Oscar was still visible, her conning tower just breaking the surface of the ocean. The 540-foot-long submarine looked small next to the carrier, but Bird Dog knew that it was among the largest submarines in the world. Certainly the largest, most potent antiship boat. Looking at her now, even from five hundred feet up, he could well believe that one torpedo from her tubes could crack the keel of the carrier, rendering his airport permanently inoperative. “Let’s go get those Rockeyes.”
Forty-five minutes later, rearmed with Rockeyes, Tomcat 201 was airborne again. Bird Dog pulled out from the cat shot and arrowed straight out toward the submarine.
“You’re too close,” Gator warned. “Move out to at least a mile and a half.”
“I’m going, I’m going. I just wanted to get a look at her first. Those guys on the deck back there …” He let his voice trail off.
“Ugly, wasn’t it? Just as nasty as what we’d look like right now if they’d had their way about it. Same thing with the submarine.”
“I know. But that’s one good thing about flying backseat, Gator — the only thing. You don’t have as good a view of it.”
“Save the soul-searching for later, buster,” the RIO snapped. “We’ve got our range now, now, now. Get that bastard off the wing.”
Bird Dog toggled the weapons selector switch to select the Rockeye stations. Waiting until his targeting gear beeped a solid, reassuring tone at him, he fired. The Tomcat lurched as the heavy missile streaked off the wings. Bird Dog waited two seconds, targeted the second missile, then fired again.
“Jesus, look at those bastards,” he breathed. Although he’d fired several practice Rockeyes before, they hadn’t been the true heavyweights of an actual missile.
The bright burn from their rockets seared his eyes, and he looked away for a moment. When he glanced back, the missiles were still in sight, something that wouldn’t have happened if they’d been antiair missiles. The huge antiship and — submarine Rockeyes moved much more slowly through the air. Almost too slow, it seemed, to stay airborne. Compared to the quick flash of a Sparrow or Sidewinder, they looked like dirigibles.
Ten seconds later, the first missile struck. It impacted the water just forward of the submarine, just missing its intended target.
The explosive force of the warhead lofted the bow of the submarine up, and the forward part of the hull broke the surface of the water. The second missile arced down, spilling bomblets in its wake. Two seconds later, it hit the exposed hull of the submarine dead-on. Water geysered up and out, reaching a height of almost seventy-five feet and spewing water droplets over a two-hundred-yard radius. A buffet of displaced air caught the Tomcat, rocking her gently, and Bird Dog banked hard to the right to avoid the airborne blast of seawater. “Time for some BDA,” Gator suggested. Bird Dog nodded, somehow relieved that this kill was not as up close and personal as the last. He put the Tomcat into a gentle orbit a thousand feet above the surface of the ocean, and waited. The forward portion of the hull was completely gone. The aft part stayed afloat for a few minutes, even bobbing up to the surface for a moment as the men inside it evidently blew all their air tanks. A hatch on the back popped open, and three figures struggled out, turning to haul a large package out with them. A life raft, Bird Dog surmised, although whether or not they would have time to open it and still survive the air temperature clad only in their thin submariner overalls was open for debate. Evidently the impact from the Rockeye had cracked the hull in too many critical spots. Bird Dog saw huge gouts of air bubbles stream out of the hull, and the stern half sank appreciably in the water. Thirty seconds later, it was completely awash. The three men who’d exited the submarine still struggled with the life boat package, their movements now noticeably slower and lethargic. The poor bastards, he thought, still trying to stay focused on what the Oscar had intended to do to Jefferson. At least they’ll go fast — and they’re not trapped inside the hull, waiting for the water to leak into their compartment. I’d rather freeze than drown any day, he concluded.
Four minutes after the first Rockeye had hit near the submarine, it was all over. The men were floating on the surface of the water, their abandoned life raft, only partially inflated, bobbing gently among them. The remaining portions of the submarine’s hull slipped quietly beneath the sea, although air bubbles and occasional gouts of water still rippled up.
The two aviators, as though by silent agreement, watched the submarine die before turning to consider their own situation. Finally, when there had been no air bubbles for several minutes, Bird Dog said, “Let’s call Mother and let her know.”
“Okay. I’ll do the honors.”
Bird Dog heard Gator’s voice going out over Tactical, advising the air boss — temporary commander of the carrier battle group — of what had occurred. He listened to the brief conversation, patiently orbiting in a standard marshall pattern, albeit at a lower altitude than he normally would have done had there been other aircraft in the pattern. Finally, he heard the air boss say, “Bring her on home, gentlemen. We’ve still got a few problems, but I think we’d best get you on deck.”
“Sounds good to me,” Bird Dog said wearily. “And this time, boss, we’re getting out of the cockpit right away.”
1410 Local
TFCC, USS Jefferson
“We’ve lost communications with our submarine,” Rogov said heavily. He glared at Tombstone Magruder. “I warned you what the consequences would be if you interfered.” He raised his 9mm slowly, and held it against the side of Tombstone’s neck.
“No!” Tomboy shouted. She started to stand up.
Rogov turned to face her, training the weapon on her. “Even better. You first.”
A movement in the corner of the room caught Tombstone’s eye, momentarily distracting him from the life-and-death scenario being played out in front of him. He glanced up, saw a black form move through an escape shuttle located behind the JOTS terminal, and a hand with a dully gleaming black shape pointed at Rogov. There was a short, quiet bark, too soft to seem like gunfire.
The bullet caught Rogov in the throat, slamming him across the small compartment and into the far bulkhead. Before he fell, his head rolled back, ending up resting along his spine, held to his body by only a few thin strips of skin and sinew. From chest to chin, his throat was almost completely gone.
The gruesome, decapitated corpse slid slowly down the wall, catching for a moment on a yellow emergency lighting battle lantern before hitting the deck. Blood poured out of the shattered neck at a tremendous rate, stopping only when his heart gave up the struggle to keep it circulating through the body.
The black-clad figure climbed the rest of the way through the escape hatch, and then stood and stretched. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” Sikes said simply, looking back and forth between the two. “It was a chance, with him so close
to you, but I couldn’t wait. You know that.”
Tombstone nodded. “Another few seconds and it would’ve been one of us. You did all right, Sikes.”
The SEAL nodded at Tomboy. “Good thing you spoke up. It distracted him just long enough for me to get a shot off. If you hadn’t — well, better lucky than good.”
“Tombstone turned to Tomboy. “TAO — get someone in here to clean up this mess,” he said, surprised at how steady and calm his voice sounded even to himself.
Tomboy nodded. “Aye, aye, Admiral,” she said. “But there’s something else I need to do first.” She crossed three steps over to Tombstone, carefully stepping over the mutilated body on the floor, and let her arms snake around him. Tombstone resisted for just a second, then pulled her toward him as though he’d never let her go.
CHAPTER 16
Friday, 30 December
1500 Local
USS Jefferson
“You got them all?” Tombstone said into the hand-held radio.
“Yes, sir. Nasty bit of work. You’ve got two injured up here, one pretty seriously. The corpsmen are already here — first impression is that they’ll make it,” Sikes replied. “You’ve got the bridge of your ship back, Admiral. And four nasty characters in custody.”
“Good work. And just for the record, it’s not my ship for much longer. About ten seconds, I’d say.” Tombstone glanced across the room at Batman, who was pacing back and forth in the admiral’s cabin. His own cabin, Tombstone reminded himself, not mine. Not anymore — and never again. This one last brief command of the carrier group had been a fluke.
“You ready to relieve me?” Tombstone asked Batman. “If you’re going to wear out that strip of carpet, you might as well be the one who has to explain it to the shipyard.”
“You bet! For a moment there, I was afraid you wouldn’t give her back.”
“The thought crossed my mind. But I’ve had my tour — Jefferson is all yours.” Tombstone paused as a thought suddenly occurred to him. A cold, distant shadow flitted across his face. “Almost. There’s one last thing I have to take care of.”
“What? You’re not pissed about the JAST bird going sneakers up, are you?” Seeing the look on Tombstone’s face, Batman added hastily, “Not that I really care. Being project manager for JAST was last tour, not now.”
“No, nothing to do with your baby at all. It’s just I’ve cleaned up the mess I left in your cabin — I ought to finish the job.” Tombstone reached for the telephone, then paused. “Can you wait another five minutes? No longer — and you’ll be glad you did.”
“Wha-?”
Tombstone cut him off. “I just remembered another little mess I left on your ship. And I’m going to need the lawyers to straighten it out.”
“You’re sure?” The JAG officer looked doubtful, then shook his head. “Washington’s going to scream bloody murder over this one.”
“Let them scream,” Tombstone answered coldly. “Those people endangered the safe operation of this ship with their stupid stunt. I want criminal charges brought against all of them — and I want my name on the charge sheet. How long will it take you to get moving on it?” He glanced over at Batman. “My relief’s chomping at the bit.”
The JAG held out the manila envelope he’d been carrying in his left hand. “Admiral, after our last conversation — well, I took the liberty of — I thought you might be asking for this at some point. I think you’ll find everything in order.”
Something softened slightly in Tombstone’s eyes. “Why, Captain. By any chance have you anticipated my desires in this matter?”
The lawyer nodded. “I like to be prepared for anything, Admiral.”
“And what, may I ask, is in the other folder?” Batman broke in. “Commendations for all of them?”
The lawyer looked faintly alarmed. “if I’d thought of it, there would be. No, the only other option I’ve prepared is an airlift request — with and without armed guards.”
Tombstone nodded. “You get those armed guards ready to go. I think I’m going to need them.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tombstone watched from Vulture’s Row as four civilians wearing flight deck cranials paraded across the flight deck toward the waiting COD. Two master-at-arms carrying sidearms flanked them. Each of the civilians had his or her hands clasped behind the back in a peculiarly uniform-looking arrangement. From the 0-10 level, the handcuffs were invisible.
“Pamela’s going to be damned pissed at you for a long, long time, Stoney,” Batman remarked. “Though I do admit the handcuffs were a nice touch. Something in your personal life you want to share with your old wingman?”
Tombstone shot him a wry look. “You got it all backward. If you think Pamela’s going to stay mad at me, then you know nothing about the media and reporters. Hell, I’ve just put her on the top of every news show in the world. Can’t you see the headlines — Journalist Imprisoned on U.S. ship? And ACN is going to have an exclusive.”
Batman looked doubtful. “I don’t know about that. She looked pretty damned mad when you had that petty officer search her.”
“it wasn’t even a strip search — though now that you mention it …” Tombstone looked thoughtful.
“I don’t think you ought to press your luck on this one,” Batman said hastily. “Besides, it’s my ship now.”
Tombstone slapped him on the back. “Damned sure is. Now you see why I made you wait that extra five minutes?”
“I do — and thank you. I wouldn’t have had the nerve — and I wouldn’t have missed the expression on her face for anything.”
The two men fell silent, too tired to try to talk over the noise of the COD taking the cat shot. Finally, as the rugged little C2 started to gain altitude and veer away from the boat, Batman asked, “So what about the rest of this mess? The Cossacks, I mean.”
Tombstone shrugged. “Above my pay-grade. I imagine the State Department’s going to want a whack at them, along with every intelligence organization in the country. They’re not going anywhere, not after sinking that Greenpeace boat. The rest of the business will be written off to a misunderstanding, to engineering casualties and such. Nobody’s going to want to give up the peace dividend over the Aleutian Islands.”
Batman gazed off at the horizon. “The Cossacks — who would have thought a splinter group like that would almost start another Russian-U.S. conflict? Just a tiny group of extremists, when you think about it. Good thing we don’t have that kind of ethnic conflict in the States.”
Tombstone looked sober. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Think of the damage some of these white supremacist groups could do to our national interests. They’ve already managed to commit one atrocity, the Oklahoma City bombing. They’re there, and they’re dangerous.”
“Too bad the military can’t do anything about domestic terrorism,” Batman said thoughtfully.
Tombstone snorted. “I think we’ve got enough to do already, don’t you?”
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Arctic Fire c-9 Page 25