"Where are they?" I demanded, searching the sky overhead for the familiar shape of a Tomcat. I hadn't heard another missile call out of Skeeter since he'd taken out the lead pair, nor had my backseater given me any indication what was going on in the other battle. "I can't find him--what happened?"
"He's at eleven o'clock, high," he said. "In trouble, too, from the looks of it. Tombstone, he needs us over there buster. Something's wrong." "Skeeter," I said over tactical, hoping to get some idea of what he had planned. "I'm here, buddy--what do you need?"
There was no answer for a moment, then my backseater said, "Tombstone--I think we've got company." Another Mig was closing in on us.
14.
Tuesday, 22 December
1534 Local (+3 GMT) Inbound on USS Jefferson Off the northern coast of Russia
Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon
With a Mig on my ass, I didn't have much time to worry about Tombstone. I didn't have time to listen to Sheila wailing from the backseat either. I'll be damned if I know how I put up with that day in and day out. Talk about your candy-assed, weak-kneed RIO. That was Sheila.
It didn't help that she was right this time. She starts muttering about the Migs the second we left the tarmac and she kept at me on the way out like it was a pop quiz or something. We'd already done a couple practice engagements with them--what, she wasn't paying attention or something? She ought to know by now that I knew how to handle a Mig. Or a couple of them.
Oh yeah? And just how the hell had I gotten myself in this fix?
My mama wouldn't have liked the words I was saying, but they were coming at a steady stream now. Quiet, only half said out loud, but swearing nonetheless.
It had started off pretty straightforward, but if I'd been the admiral, it would have started sooner. The second those bastards started edging away from me, I would have taken the first set out. But we'd waited, like I guess we had to do. Finally, when the admiral heard the other shoe drop, at least he turned me loose on mine.
The first two were easy, since they didn't know who they were up against. I got the Tomcat twisted around and in firing position before they even really realized we'd disappeared from the center of their tight little cattle herding formation. By the time the wing guard set of Migs was back in on us, I was ready for them. The first one took a long shot at me, but I was ready for that, too. The flares, the chaff, a few other fancy countermeasures, and that Mig didn't have a chance. I rolled out of my evasive maneuver and headed straight into the pack. That was when Sheila really started howling.
OK, OK, there's something to what she was saying. If you're going to fight close in, then you have to count on the Mig being able to outmaneuver you. Still, we trained against that, and we'd done all right with it in the last war game. So why wasn't it working now?
"You fool," Sheila said, ever the backseat driver. "Don't you figure that maybe they let you get a little overconfident during the planned evolution? Maybe played dumb, suckered you in some? You take on a couple of Migs under GCI control, and you think you're hot shit. Damn it, Skeeter, you get some altitude on this aircraft or I'm punching out on you.
Maybe I'll get lucky and somebody'll shoot up my chute on the way down."
I ran the geometry in my mind real quick, and suddenly realized just how big a mistake I'd made. Two Migs, one Tomcat, all in level flight and approaching each other with a rate of closure that you wouldn't believe.
No, not a good place, not for this Skeeter.
I hauled the Tomcat up, but by then it was almost too late. We slid over them, gaining altitude as the Tomcat's engines clobbered the air, but we were still too slow. Too slow and too low--a deadly combination when you're fighting against a little guy like that Mig.
I kicked it into full afterburner, saw the altimeter starting to creep up faster now. It was moving at almost the same speed that my fuel status was spooling out--couldn't keep this up forever, but then I didn't need forever. I just needed a few minutes, a little bit of luck, and for that damn backseater to shut up for a while and let me do my job.
I pulled out of the climb just as the Migs were starting to join on it, when they were at their most vulnerable. You don't have to stall during ACM in order to be too deadly slow. So when I hauled back around, I was expecting to see two Migs climbing like they were flies caught in amber, relatively good targets for a nice Sparrow shot.
Except I was short on Sparrows. I'd already let off three at the trailing Migs, had only one left, and was down to Sidewinders and Phoenix other than that. Phoenix wouldn't do much good. We were too close. That big, slow missile would be like throwing a telephone pole at them, no problem to evade even at the edge of the envelope like they were now.
Still, it was better than nothing, and might force them into a reaction that would put them in a vulnerable position.
Nose-to-nose like we were, Sidewinders weren't the weapon of choice, either. Sidewinders love those tailpipes, but they'll settle for engines.
Nose on, though, is a bad shot, and I wasn't completely sure just how far Tombstone was away. That would be the worst result possible, of course, if the nifty little Sidewinder blew right past the two Migs and headed for my lead.
I waited for the growl, then toggled off a Sparrow at the lead aircraft. Then, just ' I wasn't going to need them anymore, I added a Phoenix to the mix.
As I predicted, the Phoenix wasn't much of a problem for them. You could almost outrun it. But the Sparrow was still a good shot, and as I pulled away, I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see a happy fireball, my third of the hour.
No such luck. Sparrow is usually a pretty reliable missile, but this one must have had a fusing problem or something. For whatever reason, it sailed on right past its designated Mig, fat, dumb, and happy. No fireball, and no good angle for the Sidewinders. In fact, I'd been counting pretty heavily on only having one Mig to deal with after that last shot. I was just starting to cut back in, figuring I'd grab some altitude and deal with the remaining one at my leisure, when all at once I've got two of them coming nose on at me again, both balls to the walls. And both very, very pissed from the looks of it. Sheila's yelping was starting to bother me. I yelled back, heard Tombstone's fox calls over the radio, then saw one of the Migs pull out and turn away. So we had two left now, and it was one-on-one for the remainder of the engagement. Nice odds, and I liked them a lot better than what I'd had just a few seconds ago. Still, it was kind of insulting in a way, too. I mean, did this Mig that was still headed for me think I was such a pussycat that he could take me by himself?
Well, I'd already taken care of his two trailing Migs in the earlier formation, and one little old Mig by itself wasn't about to bother me. I'd slipped out of afterburner for the engagement and still had a fair amount of airspeed. Time to get this battle going my way, and get into position so I could use my remaining Sidewinders.
"No guns," Sheila said. "No, no guns. Oh please, don't do that.
Bird Dog would, you know. He-"
Her voice choked off as I put the Tomcat into a steep climb, the G forces catching her by surprise. With an older chick like Sheila--hell, she must be almost thirty--it doesn't take a lot to knock her out of the loop for a minute. The Tomcat thrummed gently under my hands like a sweet classic car, every inch of her sweet fuselage alive and ready for battle.
I felt like I was floating, part of the metal framework myself. You get an aircraft like that, there's nothing in the world that can beat you. Except there was still this little problem with the Mig, the one that was hanging off my ass and trying to catch me.
Well, they'd caught me once not watching, and that wouldn't happen again. Higher and higher we went, until at around thirty-two thousand feet I pulled out of the climb, looped over, and looked back down for my adversary.
He wasn't there. He was waiting for me down at the bottom, looping around and ascending slightly, staying nose-on to me. I wonder if he'd been counting. Did he know I was down to Sidewinders and Phoenix, or was that
just a lucky guess?
It didn't matter, I could deal with it. He popped off another missile, and I thumbed the countermeasures. I could see it ascending toward me, like a small, white straw, reflecting the light from the stars and the moon. It wavered for a moment as it crept up toward me, picked up speed, and then settled in at me on a deadly straight arrow. I jinked, danced the Tomcat around the sky, then tipped the nose over and left the missile behind in a cloud of flares and chaff.
The Mig rose up to meet me finally, taking the bait, at least for a little while. This was exactly what I wanted, yo-yoing up and down, trading altitude and speed back and forth until I was firmly settled in on his ass. I watched him move, saw his wings slide forward to reconfigure for more lift, and waited for the moment. Now. I yanked back hard and pulled out of the dive, turning at the same time so I would end up directly behind him.
Except he wasn't there again. He'd pulled out of his climb, circled around, and now was diving back in toward my six. I pulled back around, turned to follow him, figuring we'd start off on a racecorse-type track slantwise in the sky until I could force him into a stronger vertical game.
But he turned inside of me again, still high and fast, and bore back down on me with deadly precision.
"Fox one, fox one," I heard Tombstone cry. And where the hell was he?
Dealing with the one Mig that had peeled out of my pack? Had to be. And a good thing it was, too. By now, this one Mig was proving a lot harder to handle than I'd thought he'd be.
"Lead, we could use some help back here," I said finally. It hurt like hell to say it, but by now the geometry of this whole mess was crystal clear in my mind. I was out of position, and the one Mig I'd had left to deal with was closing in for the killing shot.
"On my way, two," I heard Tombstone say. "Just a few seconds, Skeeter. Be ready to break when I tell you."
By now, I was bobbing over the sky like a crazy man, trying to keep the Mig from getting a good solution on me, while at the same time staying out of gun range. No matter what I did, he stayed glued there, falling behind sometimes when I climbed, but still within range. Waiting for that right moment.
I saw Tombstone's Tomcat, finally. It was streaking across the sky above me, curling in toward me now and descending. Tombstone was probably going to try to fall in behind my Mig, order me into a quick break, then take a quick Sidewinder shot at it. You hate being in close to another pilot when you do it. There's always the chance of fratricide, blue on blue. The only thing worse than missing a Mig is nailing a friend when you do it.
I was sweating bullets. If I'd been listening to Sheila, if I'd made the Migs play my own game instead of assuming that I'd taken out one with a Sparrow shot, I wouldn't be in this fix. I could've taken care of both of them by myself, sent them off to hell with the two brothers they'd had behind me, and then be headed back to the boat. But now there was nothing I could do, and every time I turned, it was only on the desperate hope that I could keep confusing his firing solution long enough for Tombstone to vector in and save my ass.
"Break right, break right. Now, Skeeter." Tombstone sounded even closer now, as he yelled the commands over tactical.
I broke. No need to warn Sheila; she'd heard the same transmission.
The Mig was breaking with me, still turning so tight I could hardly believe it. You forget how big the Tomcat is, how unwieldy in the air it is against certain other aircraft, but there's nothing like a Mig to make you a true believer again.
Was there enough distance? I pulled off the tightest turn I possibly could, approaching stall as my airspeed dropped. We were at fifteen thousand feet now, enough altitude that I'd have the chance to pull out if we edged out of envelope, but not a lot of safety factor.
"Reverse your turn. Now, Skeeter." More orders from Tombstone, but he wasn't the one watching the airspeed indicator drop down to dangerous levels.
I reversed my turn, and felt the Tomcat go sluggish and heavy in the air. Slow, way too slow. I pitched the nose down, starting the dive that I hoped would give me the speed I needed to stay airborne. But you don't have many options when you're in that situation, and damned little maneuverability. All I could hope for was that the Sidewinder was going to do its job.
The Mig peeled off, spewing countermeasures out from its undercarriage, dancing around in the horizontal until it evaded the Sidewinder.
The Tomcat was feeling better now, slipping through the air with more authority, and I felt some control return to her. I breathed a sigh of relief, slowly eased back around, and stayed in level flight until I was back up to combat speed.
Tombstone had somehow managed to lure him into a vertical, although I don't know how. I thought the Mig driver was smarter than that, but evidently he'd slipped up somehow. I turned back into the fight, watched the horizontal tail chase edge-up into the vertical, then made my call.
"On the next down loop, Tombstone, break out hard to the left. I'm coming in after you."
"I can get him." Tombstone's words were hard and clipped, and I could hear him straining against the G forces of the climb. "Just stay back, Skeeter. This next circuit-"
I cut him off. "I'm right in on him, Tombstone. Do it smart, buddy.
ACM is a team sport, remember?"
Two long seconds, then two sharp clicks on Tombstone's mike acknowledged my last.
Five seconds later, Tombstone reached the top of his circuit, seemed to hang in midair for a second, then started the downward loop. The Mig turned inside, and began descending even closer in. I was inbound at the same time, trying to gauge the altitude, watching for the moment that I knew Tombstone would feel as well, exactly the right second, when he- There. Tombstone broke hard, and the Mig tried to follow, exposing for a few seconds those precious, precious tailpipes. "Fox one. Tombstone, head for the deck!"
The Tomcat was already plummeting out of the sky, headed for the black ocean below us. He was at twelve thousand feet, picking up speed now, approaching the ocean far too fast.
The Sidewinder streaked toward the Mig, who at the last second seemed to realize that he was in deep, deep shit. The Mig jerked violently, shuddered as the pilot tried to bring it out of the descent. It seemed like he might pull it off for a moment, then his luck ran out.
The Mig exploded into an ugly yellow ball of orange and yellow, gas and black smoke boiling out from it. I whooped a war cry, and heard Sheila chime in. Maybe she wasn't such a bad guy, after all. But where was Tombstone? I scanned the ocean, looking for that white-gray fuselage against the water. Finally, I spotted him. "You OK, man?" I said over tactical.
"I'm OK," his voice came back, steadier now that he was no longer fighting the G forces. "Thanks, Skeeter."
"How ' we head back to the boat, sir," I asked, the adrenaline still throbbing through my system. "Me, I'm so hungry I could even eat a couple of sliders." The sliders, the greasy flat hamburgers that seemed to be the mainstay of the late-night galley watch section, gave me my year's worth of grease and fat in one sitting.
"I like the sound of that. Wait for me there--I'll climb back up and you can join." True to his word, Tombstone's Tomcat picked up altitude quickly, and soon I was smack-dab off his wing where I was supposed to be.
"What was that all about, sir?" I asked finally. "Why did they wait until we got out this far and then jump us?"
"I don't know for sure, Skeeter, but I've got some ideas on it. We'll talk about it when we're back on deck, OK?" It was clear from his tone of voice that the admiral was in no mood to answer questions. And now that we were out of the frenzy of the battle, we were no longer equals. No more shoving him around, telling him to break off and let me make the shot like I'd done with the last Mig. Not that that should have mattered, anyway.
The Mig was mine to start with. Three kills--now, that was something.
Hell, I might even have two sliders.
"Tomcat flight, this is Home Plate. Be advised that we are red deck at this time. Repeat, red deck. Tanker support is on its way
, guys." The operations specialist continued, and reeled off a vector to our airborne gas station. I clicked back over to Tombstone's circuit, and asked, "What's going on?"
The answer was slow in coming, and when it finally got there, it wasn't much help. "Jefferson's got a few more important things on her mind just now. So button up, let's get some gas, and we'll wait her out."
Great. Those sliders were getting farther away with every minute that passed.
15.
Tuesday, 22 December
1600 Local (+3 GMT) USS Jefferson Off the northern coast of Russia
Commander Lab Rat Busby
I knew that Batman would rather have been down on the flight deck, standing on one of the catwalks that run just below it and supervising the whole evolution personally. Nevertheless, he was here, on the bridge. A gaggle of surface warfare officers and boatswain's mates were where he wanted to be, with another cluster on the elevator that had been lowered to the level of the hangar bay.
I would have rather been down closer to the action as well. After all, it was my plan.
And my career on the line if it failed.
But if the admiral felt that command leadership required him to be here on the bridge, calmly seated in his chair and watching the evolution from the top of a ten-story building, then the least I could do was keep him company. He had as much riding on the whole thing as I did.
The submarine had come shallow two hours earlier and poked her UHF antenna up above the surface. We had coordinated the entire evolution in short bursts of conversation, and so far it had gone well. We had slowed to two knots, bare steerageway. The submarine approached us from astern, since she was a little bit more maneuverable than we were. From there, it had gone like any standard underway replenishment operation, with the submarine maneuvering into position, then making her dash forward to come alongside us.
We couldn't stop, not completely. To do so would leave both ships at the mercy of the oceans, and the force of the water would eventually push us around to stay beam-on to the swells. Not too terribly troublesome for a carrier, but a real disaster for a round-hulled boat like a submarine.
Carrier 13 - Brink of War Page 23