Tomcat

by David E. Meadows

  The three leaned forward. Commander Stillwell eased the nose of the aircraft forward to enhance their view.

  Ahead of them, the dark shadow of a submerged submarine appeared under the sea. The tug was to their right, heading toward the harbor entrance.

  “Wonder if he knows we can see him?” Jasbo asked.

  “If he doesn’t, he will soon. Looks almost like a giant whale. One of our VP brethren is on his way. Should be here in the next few minutes.”

  “You mean one of our VP sisters, don’t you?”

  “Jasbo, are you going PC on me during this time of war?” he asked, his voice rising in false astonishment.

  “Give me a goddamn cigarette.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Commander, the only thing I know is that you would never survive a visit by NOW.”

  “NOW?”

  “National Organization for Women.” “I thought they merged with Knotts Berry Farm.”

  “Why would they want to do that?”

  “They now call the new organization Knott NOW.”

  Chief Henckel’s laughed. “That’s good. Commander. I like that. Knott NOW.”

  “Chief, don’t make me call your wife,” Jasbo said.

  The laughter stopped abruptly, drawing laughs from both Stillwell and Jasbo.

  Lieutenant Commander John Andrews stuck his head through the curtains.

  “Hi. John. How’re things going back there?”

  “We may have problems, Skipper.”

  “You’re telling me. I got the Jasbo up here, threatening my career, and the chief is having to grovel because of what she is going to tell his wife. If I were the chief, I’d be very very afraid.”

  “Skipper, Susan and her folks are picking up indications of Algerian fighter activity. Nothing associated with us yet, but if they decide to come our way, we may have little notice this close to the shore.”

  Commander Stillwell nodded. “Any indications they know about us yet?”

  “Haven’t seen anything, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t launched because of us. After all, we are a pretty big airplane, and we’ve got four FA-18 Hornets buzzing holes in the sky overhead,” He nodded. “Yeah, I would say they’re after us.”

  “We’re coming abreast of that tugboat, Commander.”

  Chief Henckels said, touching the two pilots on the shoulders and pointing off to the right.

  Stillwell nodded and glanced down at the compass.

  “Passing two two zero. Let’s increase our turn, Jasbo,” Commander Stillwell said. “We’re getting too close to that lug. and we’re way inside the fifteen nautical miles we were authorized.” He stretched his head forward to look at the telltale shadow of the submarine. We’ll do an aft-to-bow pass over the target,” “John, keep me advised on the hostile air. I will pass the information to the Hornets overhead. Two of them have broken off to refuel, so we only have a couple of CAP aircraft above us. The submarine is outside the fifteen-mile territorial limit, so we can continue to haunt his every movement.’ He smiled. “Let’s us get out of their territorial waters ASAP.”

  The first missile streaked by the port side of the aircraft t o explode overhead about one hundred feet. “Jesus Christ:” Commander Stillwell shouted. He grabbed the controls of the aircraft, jerked the steering column to the right, and pushed it downward. The EP-3E fell into a controlled dive. “Get those Hornets, Jasbo!”

  John Andrews bounced off the bulkhead, slamming his head against a protruding piece of metal mounted to hold one end of the curtains. He collapsed on the small walk way, blood pouring from the wound at his temple. The navigator leaned over from her seat located just outside the cockpit, where she was strapped in by a huge seat belt.

  She pulled the unconscious officer toward her, taking a handkerchief from a flight suit pocket on her leg and pressing it against the bleeding. A trail of blood tracked across the rubber-padded aisle.

  The aircraft jerked and vibrated as it descended toward one thousand feet at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Number two is in the red. It’s overheating, Skipper.”

  The explosion shattered the side window beside Commander Still we 11, sending the glass into a thousand small spiders. “What the hell … ” His eye burned with pain, and for a few seconds his left arm became numb.

  “Number-one engine!” shouted Chief Henckels, reaching up and flipping the secure switch.

  “Help me, Jasbo!” Commander Stillwell said. “Bring her level.”

  “We’re going to lose number-two engine!”

  The sound of the wind rushing by the open window drowned their words.

  “Bullshit! I forbid it! You keep number two online, Chief!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” he shouted, looking at the redlined temperature gauge of the engine. He reached up and touched a couple of the controls but changed not a one.

  There was nothing to do. The engine either kept going or it froze up. He placed his palm over the engine temperature gauge. With his other hand, he flipped up the plastic cover covering the fire extinguisher for the number-two engine.

  “We got fire on number one, Commander,” Chief Henckels said. “Firing extinguisher now.” The plane continued its rush toward the sea. Stillwell shut the damaged eye, ignoring the pain as he fought the controls of the Aries II to bring her back to a level altitude.

  The EP-3E had two extinguishers for each wing. The extinguishers could be directed against either engine, but once they were expended, the only other option was a controlled dive from altitude in the hope that the wind would put the fire out. In this case, they had insufficient altitude to put it out.

  “What hit us?”

  Susan Garner staggered through the doorway. She held a bloody handkerchief to her forehead. She paused momentarily to help the navigator shove the unconscious John Andrews under the navigation table, where she could help control the movement of the unconscious officer.

  “Susan, what the hell!”

  “SAM, Commander. Someone on that tugboat fired a couple of surface-to-air, shoulder-launched missiles. Infrared.

  They locked on our engine temperatures.”

  “Activating second extinguisher, Commander. First unsuccessful.”

  “Roger, Chief. Jasbo, sound ‘ to ditch.’”

  Jasbo reached over and flipped the signal. A rapid series of beeps penetrated the noise level of the aircraft, sending those few officers and sailors who had not already assumed ditching position when the missile hit rushing into their neck-high flight chairs.

  “Chief, status?”

  He lifted his palm and peeked at the temperature.

  “Number two running hot. It’s halfway into the red but seems to have steadied; no further increase in temperature.

  Last extinguisher nearly exhausted. Fire still raging inside number one.”

  Stillwell turned so he could look out of the side window, but wind and the remaining spiderweb of shattered glass distorted the fire on number one. “It looks as if the propeller has been blown off,” he said.

  “Skipper, it don’t look as if this extinguisher is going to put the fire out.”

  “Then we’ll have to dive, Chief. Jasbo, tell everyone to prepare for rapid descent.”

  “Skipper, we’re at one thousand feet. We can’t di vel Jasbo objected.

  “Jasbo, we got no choice. We’re too low to parachute, and I’ll be damned if we are going to ditch in Algerian waters.

  I ain’t going to be no prisoner.”

  “Good luck. Right now, we are heading toward shore.”

  “There are more ways to put out a fire than fire extinguishers and steep dives.” He pressed forward on the control, and the EP-3E responded, vibrating, shaking the dive, pulling to the right.

  The aircraft shook, straining against the increased self made turbulence as it passed through the remaining feet.

  “Jasbo, help me, goddammit! Level off at twenty-five feet.”

  “Twenty-five feet! Skipper, this bird won’t fly
at twenty five feet.”

  “To hell with the safety manual, Jasbo. Trust me, I am a commander, you know. Quit acting as if I’m a junior officer.”

  “Passing three hundred feet,” Chief Henckels announced.

  “At twenty-five feet, Paul,” Jasbo said, inadvertently calling Commander Stillwell by his first name. “We won’t be able to see for the sea spray.”

  He grinned. “You’re learning, Jasbo.”

  She grinned. “Sea spray. Shit! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because I’m the commander and you’re the wet-nosed lieutenant,” he bantered.

  “Passing one hundred feet.”

  “Start easing up on the control.”

  The two pulled on the steering column. It refused to budge. “It’s not moving, Skipper!”

  “Passing seventy-five feet. Pull, goddamn it!” Chief Henckels unstrapped his harness with two quick flips of the toggles. He jumped over Jasbo’s shoulders and grabbed the steering column with her.

  Commander Stillwell reached over and pushed the number-three and — four engines to maximum power. “Turn slightly to the right, Jasbo, and when you do, jerk the column back. Now!”

  The three twisted the column to the right, toward the good engines, and simultaneously pulled back on the steering wheel. The aircraft groaned and from somewhere back near the galley, the sounds of falling metal plates and shattering coffee mugs echoed to the cockpit. The aircraft leveled off.

  The vibration tapered off as water on the windshield blinded them. Chief Henckels released the wheel as the aircraft hit a bump in the low altitude, knocking him off his feet and onto the deck. Water blew in through the blown out window. The low altitude knocked the plane about as the two pilots fought to stay above this unsafe altitude. The chief scrambled up and managed to re strap himself into the raised flight engineer seat above the pilots. The wings of the EP-3E were fifty feet long. Just one hiccup, and the aircraft would Ferns-wheel across the top of the sea, tearing the wings off, and ripping through the fuselage.

  “Engine fire number one is out, Skipper. Number two temperature increasing.”

  Commander Stillwell reached down while keeping his eyes on the altitude gauge. He grabbed the speed throttle for engine number-two and eased it back. The aircraft pulled to the right as the change in torque tried to force it into a spin in that direction. He pushed the throttle forward again. He and Jasbo fought the aircraft, using throttle control and flaps to keep the EP-3E flying straight.

  “Course?”

  “We arc on one eight zero. Christ, we’re heading toward Algeria, Skipper.”

  “Ranger Two Nine, Moonlighter Two Six. What the hell is going on? You’re heading into Algeria.”

  “Moonlighter Two Six, we have taken a missile in our number-one engine.”

  “Missile? From where?”

  “The tugboat must have had a Grail on board. First one missed us but gave us enough warning to take some evasive action. Moonlighter, I am going to try to turn the aircraft.

  She is acting up, and we have lost number-one engine. We are in danger of losing number-two engine. It’s running hot.

  We are fighting a right-turn spin.”

  “Ranger, a right turn is going to take you directly over Oran Naval Base.”

  “I know, but we don’t have the power to do a left turn.

  We are a right-turn-only aircraft, and I have no intentions of ditching this thing near or in Algeria. We are not going to be POWs. Besides, there’s no beer available.”

  “Ranger, we are on our way.”

  “Moonlighter, maintain distance from us. We are having a difficult control problem with the aircraft, and maneuverability is limited. Be advised Algerian fighters have been detected south of us.”

  “We’ll worry about them when we see them.”

  “Okay, Jasbo. Chief, need your help in this. You work the throttles. What I want to do is gain some altitude.] hold us at fifty feet now, which means we are going up.” As if on cue, the sea spray began to diminish. Ahead, the coastline of Algeria appeared.

  “At one hundred feet, I want to start a long, slow turn to the right. Chief, that means you need to be prepared to increase speed on number two and decrease speed on numbers three and four if we find ourselves in an uncontrolled spin to the right. We’ll only have a second or two to correct if we lose control, so be ready.”

  “Roger, Skipper. I’ve got it. Passing seventy-five feet now.”

  Over the ICS came the navigator’s voice. “Commander.

  Lieutenant Commander Andrews is still unconscious. 1 don’t like the look of it.”

  “Roger, Nav. What is our distance to the shore?”

  “We are passing the coastline now, Skipper. It will take a bit to get our picture back with all the maneuvering we just did. I will tell you exact location in a few seconds.”

  “Passing one hundred feet.”

  Chief Henckels reached forward and flipped on the windshield wipers, clearing away the last of the sea spray.

  The desert sands of the coast filled the view.

  “Okay, here we go. Real slow, Jasbo. Real slow.”

  The two eased the steering to the right, letting the aircraft pull it along as they fought the torque trying to jerk the controls from their hands. The aircraft pulled to the right.

  Commander Stillwell watched the shoreline fill the windscreen as they passed over the Algerian coast. He controlled the urge to hurry the turn and escape the landmass below him. “Keep pulling up on it, Jasbo. Let’s try to use a nose up altitude to help control this torque. You’re doing good.”

  “Passing one hundred fifty.” Chief Henckels looked at the compass in front of him on the dash of the pilot controls.

  “Passing two zero zero.” He looked out Jasbo’s side window. “Land on both sides of us. Sea about one mile to starboard.”

  “Ranger Two Nine, Moonlighter Two Six. I have relayed your situation to CTF Six Seven. They have ordered the cruiser Ramage in this direction. Destroyer Spruance is accompanying.

  USS Kearsarge has detached a Marine Corps CH-53 to the Rampage to help in the event you have to ditch.”

  “I am not going to ditch,” he mumbled, cursing a couple of times through clenched teeth as the aircraft jerked roughly as it hit the turbulence where land air met the cooler sea air. The tendons on Stillwell’s arms stood out against the sleeves of the green fire-retardant flight suit.

  “Passing one four zero; altitude two hundred feet.”

  Susan Garner stuck her head inside the curtains. A medical bandage covered the right side of her forehead. “We’ve got problems, Skipper.”

  “What the hell do you think this is?” Commander Still wall said, his voice choppy through clenched teeth as he strained to keep the aircraft in a controlled turn.

  “No, we may have Algerian fighters closing our position.”

  “Susan, go away. You handle it. I’ll fly the plane. You get those Hornets between us and them.”

  She turned to go.

  “Tell Moonlighter flight — shit! You know what to tell them. I can’t talk now. Make sure everyone knows that we are not going to ditch this aircraft. We are going to leave this JEP-3 Echo like we got on; by the ladder.”

  The curtain fluttered back into place as she left.

  “We’re going to have to ease up on the rate of turn. It’s too hard to maintain.” They cased the wheel slightly to the left, causing the torque to diminish. The tension required to maintain the turn eased from his arms.

  “Cockpit, Navigator. John is coming around.”

  “Passing two hundred fifty feet. Keep her climbing: slow and steady. Passing course one zero zero.”

  “Roger, sir. At current rate of turn, recommend steady on course zero six five for direct path to Sigonella.”

  “Roger, Navigator. Keep holding it. Jasbo. We’re getting there. I want to come out on course zero zero zero to clear Algeria and then steady on zero six five toward home plate.

 
We are going to take this aircraft back to Sigonella. Somewhere back there, a cold bottle of Nasty Asturo awaits us,” Commander Stillwell said, murdering the name of the national Italian beer.

  “Commander, we are pegged in the red,” Chief Henckels said, reaching up and turning down the revolutions on engine number two. Henckels spun around and started pulling circuit breakers, only to immediately push them back in.

  The aircraft jerked as the change in speed caused the aircraft to spin faster to the right.

  “Chief, what in hell’ Don’t do that!”

  Stillwell and Jasbo leaned to the left, fighting the sharp increase in torque of the starboard engines as engine number two wound down.

  “Shit!” Stillwell shouted. “Hold her, Jasbo. Hold her!

  Chief, reduce revolutions on engines three and four. Hurry!

  And get number two back on-line and leave it the hell alone!”

  Chief Henckels reached forward and pulled the throttles back. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  What in Hell was the Chief thinking? The pull to the right lessened. They had regained control. The tendons on Stillwell’s arms relaxed slightly. He wondered briefly how long the diminutive Jasbo could keep up at this physical pace.

  “Lieutenant, can I help?” Henckels asked. He unbuckled his seat belt and started to ease out of the seat.

  “Chief, get back in your seat and buckle in!” Stillwell shouted.

  A horrendous explosion rocked the plane to the left, throwing Henckels backward into, flight engineer seat.

  A second explosion broke the sky in front of them, immediately followed by a third on the starboard side.

  “What the fuck?” Jasbo shouted.

  John Andrews stuck his head inside the cockpit. He held a bloody compress against the top of his head. “Antiaircraft guns from the naval base.” “Why are they shooting at us?” Stillwell asked, his attention focused on the instrument panel in front of him.

  “Well, Commander, we are overflying their base right now at”—he looked at the altimeter—“five hundred feet. I think they may have seen us.”

  * * *

  Ibn Al increased the speed of Al Nasser to twelve knots but kept the depth at fifty feet. He knew even a half-alert antisubmarine aircraft should be able to see them in these calm seas, but shallow water and battle damage kept him on this course and this depth. Ten more nautical miles he needed before they would enter deeper waters. Deeper waters meant darker waters. The shade of the sea caused by the increased water depth should help them disappear, even if the submarine could go no deeper than fifty feet