Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

  "One more pass, comrades," he told the other pilots tucked in close behind his aircraft. "One more pass, then scatter and make for home. I doubt that the Yankees will have the stomach to pursue."

  The irony of using Mao's guerrilla tactics from the cockpit of a combat interceptor was delicious. Hit-and-run raids were designed for people's armies, untrained peasants with inadequate weapons facing a superior foe. It was strange to see the same theory applied to dog-fighting with modern jet aircraft.

  He was close enough to the Yankees now that his radar was burning through their jamming with ease, tracking a target ten thousand feet above him at a range of nearly four miles. He heard the tone of a weapons lock and released another missile.

  He didn't see the American Hornets until they were right on top of him.

  1626 hours

  Hornet 301

  Marty French twisted his Hornet over in a tight, inverted turn, tracking the flight of MiGs rising up from the sea. The pipper on his HUD crawled across one of the target symbols, then flashed ACQ as the warble sounded over his headset. Lock!

  A Sidewinder hissed off his port wingtip. "Fox two!" he called.

  "I see your fox and raise you, Skipper," Lieutenant David McConnell called from the Hornet tucked in off Frenchie's left wing. "Fox two!" Tigershark McConnell triggered a second missile an instant later. "Fox two!"

  One of the MiGs in the Korean formation exploded, transformed into unfolding blossoms of smoke and orange flames as the first missile struck; the second missile hurtled through the fireball. The MiG pack scattered then as if blown apart by a bombshell. French pulled his Hornet around, maneuvering onto the six of one of the fleeing MiGs. "Okay, people," he called over the radio. "Let's show 'em how it's done."

  1626 hours

  MiG number 444, Star Leader

  Major Pak rolled his MiG hard. Sea and sky chased one another across the curve of his canopy, and then he cut in his afterburner and the kick slammed his seat into his back with pile driver force.

  His wingman's voice was shrill in his headphones. "Yankee devil on my tail!" Captain Song Tae-Hwan shouted, panic in his voice. "Help me! Help me!"

  Pak brought his aircraft right, searching the sky. There! One of the American Hornets had slipped into position behind Song, closing now for a kill. Pak knew it was too late for Captain Song, but perhaps there was an advantage here for himself. Still on full burner, he closed with the American Hornet from below and behind.

  1626 hours

  Hornet 301

  "I'm on him." The MiG filled Frenchie's HUD display, the delta form twisting wildly in an attempt to break free. The Hornet closed relentlessly. "Too close for missiles. I'm going for guns."

  He flicked the weapon selector and the gunsight reticle replaced the targeting symbol on his HUD. The MiG was already well inside the outer circle which marked the cone of vulnerability. He continued to pull back on his stick, working to bring his Hornet's M61 cannon dead on target. His lead computing optical sight ― LCOS in fighter parlance ― drew a line which showed him exactly how far ahead of the target to fire.

  "Almost there…"

  He cut his afterburner, then popped the Hornet's air-brakes. For a moment, the F/A-18 lagged, and the fleeing MiG drifted squarely into his gunsight. French squeezed the trigger and felt the muted thunder as 20-mm shells tore into the enemy MiG.

  1626 hours

  MiG number 444, Star Leader

  Pak saw the orange-colored tracer rounds drifting from the F/A-18 toward the wildly twisting Captain Song, smashing into the fuselage and tail. Bits of metal chipped and scattered, and then the canopy itself seemed to explode in fragments of plastic and glass. Flame licked from a gash at the root of the left wing. Song was done for, but he'd held the American's attention just long enough.

  The Hornet grew in the circle of his target reticle. The only radar input to his HUD was range, but Pak had calculated the deflection perfectly. He squeezed the trigger and the roar of his MiG's GSh-23 cannon filled the cockpit, filled Pak with a surging, drunken joy.

  The American's braking maneuver almost caught Pak by surprise as he found himself closing on the Hornet much faster than he'd anticipated. He had an instant's glimpse of tracer fire tearing into the American aircraft's tail and belly, and then he was hauling the stick hard to the right to avoid colliding with the Hornet from astern. His MiG shuddered as it rode across the buffeting wake of the F/A-18.

  Then he was in the clear, rolling past the stricken American aircraft.

  1627 hours

  Hornet 301

  Marty French felt the shock of the 23-mm rounds slamming into his F/A-18's hull and pulled his stick hard to the left. Orange tracers seemed to float past his starboard side as he rolled clear, and then he was plunging toward the sea.

  "Hornet Three-oh-one," he said with a calmness he did not feel. "I've been hit."

  He held his breath as he pulled back on the stick. If there'd been severe damage to controls or control surfaces, this was where he'd find out… it leveled off. The controls felt a bit mushy, but the F/A-18 was still flying, still in control. He took a quick look around. He'd not even seen the guy who nailed him, so intent had he been on the target.

  "Hornet Three-oh-one, this is Homeplate," a voice said over his headset. "What is your condition, over?"

  Gingerly, he experimented with his stick. The aircraft was sluggish, but it responded to the touch. Red and amber tell-tales flickered on his console. Compressor power was down slightly, but he could compensate. He might be losing some fuel. "Homeplate, Hornet Three-oh-one. I've been holed, but she's manageable." He worked the controls some more until he was satisfied that everything was still working. He watched the numbers flicker on his fuel readout for a moment. "I'm losing some fuel. It's not serious yet."

  "Three-oh-one, do you feel it advisable to eject?"

  "Negative! Negative! Anticipate no problem with a normal trap."

  "Copy that, Three-oh-one. Bring her on home."

  Frenchie did a fast calculation in his head. Range to the Jefferson was one hundred twenty miles… about eighteen minutes at this speed. He balanced time against the rate of fuel loss. Fine. He could hold her that long, and get her safely down on deck.

  French was determined to land the Hornet. Once, three years before, he'd been catapulted off the bow of the Nimitz and something had gone wrong. The cat had failed to deliver the needed steam pressure and he'd pitched off the carrier's bow at seventy knots… far too slow to remain airborne. Endless hours of training and practice had paid off; he'd ejected… but his parachute had snagged on the tail of an A-6 parked along the port side of the flight deck, and he'd spent ten nightmarish minutes dangling between sea and sky before they'd been able to haul him in.

  Only later had he discovered that he'd broken his arm during the ejection.

  Commander Marty French would never have admitted that he was afraid to eject… but he knew with passionate conviction that he didn't want to ever have to go through it again. He was a man who believed in odds, who believed that it didn't pay to tempt fate by pressing those odds to the limit. Yeah, he'd hold his bird together and keep her in the air long enough to get back.

  Then he'd land the bitch and walk away.

  1628 hours

  MiG number 444, Star Leader

  It was time to leave. Fuel was running low, and sooner or later more Yankee aircraft would arrive to swing the odds back in the Americans' favor. The battle had dragged individual aircraft farther and farther apart, until it was less a dogfight than it was many widely scattered one-on-one engagements. That was the sort of fight which MiGs could never win against F-14s and Hornets.

  With a final roll, Major Pak broke clear of the contest and swung his MiG onto a bearing with Wonsan. The air, the sky were wonderfully clear, and Pak savored the heady excitement, the sheer joy of being alive. He'd survived and shot down at least one more American aircraft as well with a second kill that would almost certainly be listed as probable.
This day's exploits would enshrine him as a hero of the PDRK. His training, his dedication to his craft had paid off at last. Now it was time to savor the fruits of those labors.

  "Star Group! Moon Group! Disengage and retire!" he snapped over the radio. "We have beaten them!"

  The North Korean aircraft were fewer in number now, and several were limping as they formed up for the homeward leg of their flight. There was no sense of defeat in their retreat, however. The Yankee aircraft were already drawing off, bloodied by the encounter. The Americans liked to boast about the ten-to-one ratio enjoyed by their flyers… ten opponents shot down for every plane they lost. Today they'd lost two, possibly three aircraft if Pak's last target had been hit as seriously as he thought… and downed only eight North Korean planes in return.

  Yes, the People's Air Force had much to be proud of this day. In combat, victory was not always awarded to the side which suffered fewer casualties. Against the Americans, this battle counted as a decisive victory. Major Pak hoped that his superiors would see the action in the same light.

  1630 hours

  Tomcat 205

  The North Korean aircraft were drawing off, breaking free from the dogfight and heading northwest, back toward Wonsan. "Tomcat Two-oh-five," Tombstone radioed. "It looks like the hostiles are disengaging."

  "Roger that," Batman said over the tactical channel. "What say we go get 'em?"

  "Negative, negative," Tombstone replied. "Check your fuel."

  "Uh… understood. Looks like it's back to the bird farm for us."

  Tombstone's fuel stood at just over six thousand pounds, enough to get back to Jefferson, but not enough for further combat. Sustained maneuvers on full afterburner drank fuel at an impossible rate.

  Moments later a call from the carrier confirmed his decision. Homeplate wanted the attack group on deck before sundown, and that meant an RTB now.

  "Hey, Stoney?" his RIO called over the ICS. "We're going home empty, no kills!"

  "So?" Tombstone's response was harsher than he'd meant it to be. "What do you think this is, Snowball, some kind of game?"

  "No, Tombstone. I just thought-"

  "Just keep your thoughts to yourself and let me fly."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Snowball sounded defensive. Let him, Tombstone thought. After today, it wouldn't really matter.

  Tombstone Magruder could not remember screwing up this badly since he'd forgotten to release the brakes on the trainer at Pensacola and managed to wreck the aircraft's nose gear steering mechanism. He'd made one decision after another, and every one of them had turned up wrong.

  He'd let himself be suckered by the MiGs coming up from behind and on the deck while his Tomcats were tangling with the Kosong bandits. He'd sent Dragon and Snoops in to cover Snake and Zombie when they were shot down… putting them squarely in the path of those unexpected MiGs. He'd let himself get so rattled he'd loosed a missile without getting a target lock; hell, that little display was a damned nugget trainee's goof, not the sort of thing expected of a squadron skipper fresh out of Top Gun school.

  Somehow, the dogfight had reinforced his earlier doubts and fears, had left him wondering if it wasn't time to pack it in. He was getting too old to let himself get shot off the nose of aircraft carriers, too old to play cowboy in the sky, competing day in and day out with young guys like Batman Wayne.

  Responsibility, that was what it was all about. He sighed. Maybe it was all true what they said about him. His promotions had come so easily. Having an admiral for an uncle could do great things for your career… but when men's lives began riding on the decisions you made, maybe those promotions weren't such a great idea. Tombstone wondered if maybe it wouldn't be better for himself, the men under him, and the Navy if he didn't find something else to do.

  The image of himself as a COD pilot or hunting subs in a Viking came to mind, and he shuddered.

  1645 hours

  Hornet 301

  Marty French had missed his first shot at the Jefferson's flight deck. For a second time he'd been given the option of ejecting, but he elected instead to ride his Hornet in. The controls were still a bit mushy and his left flaps sticky. He'd also lost a bit of hydraulic pressure, and that was worrisome but not critical. He'd clearly taken some damage, but not enough to warrant ejecting and ditching the plane. The rest of the attack group would wait in a marshall stack, a holding pattern twenty-one miles astern of the Jefferson while he made his approach. Once he was down and clear, the rest of them would be brought in.

  "Three-oh-one," he said, identifying his aircraft. He could see the Jefferson's ball clearly now as he drifted down the approach glide path. "Hornet ball, one-point-six." Fuel loss was his only serious problem. If he missed on this pass he'd have to refuel before he managed a second try, and that would be more time lost… more time for something to go wrong with an aircraft which was already on the verge of falling apart.

  "Roger ball," the LSO replied. "Don't get too low."

  He took the gentle hint, already responding as the glowing yellow eye of the Fresnel lens system began drifting below the horizontal line of green lights, indicating he was low. Gently, he nudged the throttles forward, increasing power, speed, and altitude. Jefferson's deck expanded to fill Frenchie's HUD.

  Too much! The ball went high and he caressed the throttles back. The Hornet was responding slowly, too slowly.

  "Deck coming up," the LSO reported. "power down."

  The deck rushed to meet him. He cut back on the throttles to keep from overshooting the arrestor cables. A last check showed the Fresnel lens was still green.

  He felt the arrestor hook grab. At the same moment he rammed the throttles to full military power and retracted his speed brakes in case he missed his trap. The wheels slammed onto the deck.

  A damaged hydraulic line blew and French's starboard landing gear collapsed. He felt the Hornet lurch to the right, then go nose down and tail high in a savage pancake, still burning at full power as the starboard wing crumpled with the impact, scattering fragments and fuel. Dimly, he heard the LSO's voice over the radio screaming "Eject! Eject! Eject!" His hand was grabbing for the ejector handle when the universe exploded in searing flame, erupting for a split second into indescribable brilliance before darkness engulfed him.

  CHAPTER 16

  1649 hours

  Tomcat 205

  Tombstone was loitering in the marshall at six thousand feet when Snowball interrupted his thoughts. "Oh, God! Tombstone, did you hear that?"

  "Hear what?" He'd not been paying attention to the radio chatter.

  "They just called a fire on the deck."

  Tombstone's blood went cold. Frenchie had been first in line for his trap. Had the damage been that bad?

  "Ninety-nine aircraft!" The voice was that of the Air Boss back in Jefferson's Pried-Fly, and the call code meant the message was directed at all airborne planes. "Recovery operations are suspended until further notice. We have a fire on the deck."

  "What are we gonna do, Stoney?"

  "Hold in the marshall until they tell us, I guess. Just stay cool, Snowball."

  Fuel's down to thirty-two hundred."

  "There's a Texaco up. We'll get a drink when we need it."

  Inwardly, Tombstone suppressed a shudder. It was one thing to tell Snowball to stay cool, another thing entirely to accept that advice himself.

  This is it, he told himself. I don't need this. If I get back on that flight deck today, I'm turning in my wings.

  1650 hours

  Pried-Fly, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Within ten seconds, the burning wreck had been surrounded by Jefferson's crash crew, men armed with fire hoses and foam dispensers. They hit the F-14 with water first to hold back the fire, then attacked the flames with foam, attempting to smother them.

  "Get that wreckage cleared away, and I goddamn mean now!" Commander Dick Wheeler, Jefferson's Air Boss, held the microphone to his mouth, his face a dark mask of anger and urgency. It is an oft-s
tated maxim that any fire on board an aircraft carrier which lasts more than forty seconds means serious trouble. Commander French's Hornet had hit hard enough to smash the right wing and breach the fuel tank. He'd been running nearly empty when he hit, but enough JP-5 remained to ignite the fireball as the F/A-18 went tail-over.

  "We're bringin' Tilly across now!" Chief Kuchinski's voice was unnaturally shrill and harsh over the Pried-Fly speaker. The damage control party chief was using one of the radio helmets called a Mickey Mouse for obvious reasons. The device transmitted words but filtered out the surrounding noise, which made it sound as though the person speaking was shouting himself hoarse against complete silence. "Fire's out. Afraid the pilot's dead, though."

  Wheeler raised a set of Zeiss binoculars to his eyes, watching as the Tilly ― a combination crane and forklift ― hooked onto the wreckage and began dragging it toward the side. With Commander French dead, all that remained now was to get the flight deck back in operation. There was damage to the arrestor gear, and they would need to wash down the deck and check it for loose debris that could damage incoming planes. It would be an hour… maybe an hour and a half before they could start bringing them in again.

  Urged on by the Tilly, French's Hornet teetered on the edge of the flight deck, then vanished over the side. Wheeler lowered the binoculars and looked up toward the sky. Under a rapidly thickening ceiling of clouds, the sun was casting a gold-orange smear of sunset glory across the western horizon. It would be dark in an hour, and those boys would be jittery, having endured an aborted bombing mission and a dogfight. Now they would be circling in the marshall for another hour while the damage to the flight deck was repaired, with nothing to do but think about one of their own, dead. It was going to be a long evening.