Joint Operations c-16

by Keith Douglass

  He pointed down at the cargo netting that dropped from the LSO platform to a spot that was affixed to the hull of the ship. “Anything goes wrong, you jump for that net. There’s a hatch down there off to the side — you can make it back into the ship that way.”

  Hot Rock and Lobo exchanged glances. If a Tomcat pilot was in trouble, then it had to be someone they knew. Neither of them recognized the LSO — it was from one of the other squadrons onboard — but both could now see the Tomcat inbound. The pilot was clearly having problems maintaining altitude and orientation to the deck. The Tomcat wandered around the sky like a wounded goose. Wavering back and forth off center line, sometimes too high, far off and too low.

  “Man, oh, man — I’m looking at a ramp strike waiting to happen,” Lobo breathed. “Get some altitude, buddy, come on, come on…” Her voice trailed off as she realized the chief was staring at them curiously. Four feet in front of them, the LSO was repeating virtually the same words.

  They both stared at the incoming Tomcat, silently willing it across the flight deck. As the nose of the aircraft passed over the stern, they both breathed a sigh of relief. At least it wouldn’t be a ramp strike, a head-on full speed impact into the stern of the ship. But just when they thought he would make it, snagging the four wire, the stern of the ship jutted abruptly up. It caught the Tomcat just forward of its main landing gear, snapping the struts like matchsticks. The tail-end of the aircraft slammed down, and the aircraft itself commenced a flat spin across the nonskid, headed directly toward them.

  “Down!” the chief shouted, and he yanked both of them down to the railing and over it and into the cargo net in one motion.

  They were staring in horrified fascination when the chief yanked them down. Behind them, they could hear other feet clanging on the metal deck plates, feel the hot breath of the burning Tomcat, now on fire, hurtling over their head and into the ocean.

  As they hit the cargo net, they hit on their backs and rolled over to see the lieutenant flying through mid-air toward them. Just as his forward section cleared the cargo net, the shattered remnant of a landing gear strut snagged his foot. It ripped the flesh open in a thin smear of blood and hung in the air a moment. The impact slammed him hard into the side of the ship, and he crumpled into an ominously still heap in the bottom of the net.

  The chief scrambled down after him. Before he even performed first aid, he stripped off the lieutenant’s headset and clamped it over his own head. Then, simultaneously making his report to the Air Boss and checking the lieutenant to see if he was still breathing, he briefed the Air Boss.

  Hot Rock glanced out and could see two more Tomcats wheeling into position on final approach. He stepped forward, tapped the chief on the shoulder, then started to remove the headset. The chief clamped one beefy fist over Hot Rock’s hand. “What the hell you doing, kid?” the chief snarled.

  “I’m Lieutenant Commander Stone,” he said calmly. “And this is Lieutenant Commander Hanson. We’re both F-14 pilots. Both LSO qualified. And I think you could use one of those about now.”

  The chief stared at them for a moment, disbelieving, then sudden recognition dawned in his eyes. “I know who you are. Didn’t recognize you in — Sir, what the hell are you — never mind.” He ripped the headphones off, shoved them in Hot Rock’s hands, and turned his attention back to the lieutenant. “Air Boss knows what’s going on, and Medical is on the way. He said the forward part of the aircraft slid completely off and they’re checking the catapult for damage right now. May be a couple of minutes until we can launch, but we’ve got two birds inbound.” He pointed aft. “Think you can get them in?”

  “If there’s no damage to the wires, yeah,” Hot Rock said.

  “Keep in mind they’re going to be a little shook up.” He glanced at the two of them then said, “You know how it is. You see somebody buy it right in front of you getting on the deck, you’re going to be kind of shaky coming in. Don’t let on that you’re a replacement LSO.”

  “This part I know how to do, Chief.” Hot Rock climbed back up the net and stationed himself on the undamaged portion of the LSO perch. Lobo joined him. She put her head up next to his, pulling the earpiece away from his ear slightly so she could listen in.

  “Tomcat Two-zero-one, call the ball,” Hot Rock said, falling easily into the LSO pattern of coaching a bird onto the deck.

  “What the hell is going on down there, LSO?” a panicked pilot’s voice asked. “Jesus, is he — ”

  “Tomcat Two-oh-one, call the ball,” Hot Rock repeated, keeping his voice calm and professional. “Keep your mind in the game, mister. You’ve only got one thing to worry about right now, and that’s putting that turkey down on the deck.”

  “Yeah, but — ”

  “Tomcat Two-oh-one, call the ball,” Hot Rock repeated, letting the repetition cue the pilot’s mind back into the familiar pattern of the landing sequence.

  “Roger, LSO, Two-oh-one ball.” The pilot’s voice already sounded calmer as he focused on the immediate problem at hand. “Four thousand pounds on board.”

  “Roger, Two-oh-one, say needles?” Hot Rock asked, asking the pilot to tell him how his glide slope indicator held the aircraft’s position in relation to the ideal glide slope.

  “Roger, needles show high and to the right.”

  “Two-oh-one, LSO, disregard needles, I hold you on course on speed. Keep it coming in, you’re headed straight for the three wire.”

  “We got a green deck?” the pilot asked, the anxiety surging in his voice again.

  “Roger, that’s a green deck,” Hot Rock said. “Green deck, green deck… looking good, Two-oh-one, a little power, a little power, that’s it, watch your attitude, attitude, that’s it, that’s it…” Hot Rock settled easily into the familiar singsong patter of an LSO walking a Tomcat down the invisible slope that linked his last position on final approach to the number three wire on the deck. He could feel Lobo’s hot breath on his neck as she listened, heard her subvocalizing the same patter he was putting out over the airwaves to the nervous pilot. “Looking good, looking good — got it!” he shouted as Tomcat Two-oh-one slammed down onto the deck in a controlled crash as it crossed the three wire. “Good trap, Two-oh-one.”

  “What the hell is going on down there?” a new voice demanded on the circuit. “Chief said the LSO was out — Henry, what are you doing?”

  “Air Boss, it’s Hot Rock and Lobo,” the pilot answered, suddenly not at all certain that he was on solid ground. Sure, he knew what he was doing, but he supposed he should have asked the Air Boss’s permission first before taking over the LSO duties without even informing him. Still, with a turkey in the air and a nervous pilot, the last thing the Air Boss or the Admiral would have wanted was to put the pilot back in the starboard marshal, particularly not when it looked like they were going to need every airframe they could get airborne within the next hour.

  “We happened to be out here, and when the LSO bought it, well…”

  There was silence for a moment on the circuit, then the Air Boss said, “I hold Two-oh-five inbound next. Be advised, we’re still a green deck.”

  “Roger. Two-oh-five, LSO, call the ball.”

  For the next half an hour, Lobo and Hot Rock efficiently brought the remaining aircraft back on deck. Just as the last aircraft touched down, the Air Boss said, “As soon as we secure from flight quarters, the admiral wants to see you in his office.”

  Lobo turned to Hot Rock and grinned. “We’re either in big trouble or — ”

  “Or we’re back on the flight schedule,” Hot Rock interrupted.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were back on the flight schedule and headed for the paraloft to gear up for launch.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tomcat 203

  1510 local (GMT –10)

  Jefferson set a new personal best record for launching the most fighters in the least amount of time. For Bird Dog and Gator, the minutes seemed like hours. Bird Dog kept worrying about his new wingma
n, Lieutenant Junior Grade Kelly Green, and her backseater, Tits.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Kelly Green — the name had been her parent’s doing, and the squadron hadn’t looked beyond that for a call sign — was the squadron’s newest nugget. As the most inexperienced pilot on the flight schedule, she was paired with Bird Dog, on the theory that he’d be able to teach her the ropes and keep her out of trouble. Gator had loudly expressed the opinion in public that in this particular instance, there was little hope of the latter.

  “She’ll be okay,” Gator said reassuringly over ICS. “So will Tits. I trained him myself, and you’ve been watching Kelly in action for the last three months.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Bird Dog snuck a quick glance aft through the canopy and spotted Kelly immediately in position, two thousand yards aft and two thousand yards above him. The tall lanky brunette — and yes, she did have green eyes to go with her nickname — had been a source of contention between he and Lobo ever since the new pilot had joined the squadron.

  But what was he supposed to do? Just pretend she knew everything she was supposed to? If she were going to fly as his wingman, he had to be damned certain he could count on her. Certain enough that he didn’t have to look back and check to make sure that she was in position visually, even though his heads-up display fed the information to him automatically.

  In the last three months, they’d spent endless hours talking about tactics. She’d started out slightly in awe of him. Evidently word of his combat experience in every theater around the world had already traveled throughout the Tomcat community, and she appeared slightly in awe of him. She’d gotten over her awe a little too easily for his taste, but that’s the way women were, weren’t they?

  And at least she was flying with a guy who had a sense of humor, Tits. Not like Gator, that old sourpuss.

  “Okay, just like we practiced,” he said over tactical. “Another round of AMRAAMS — I’ll take the lead, you take the guy behind him.”

  “Roger.” From the calm, collected tone of voice, no one could have guessed that Kelly was about to take her first live shot.

  “Then we close in with the Sidewinders. Remember, these guys have maneuverability on us. We have to exploit our greater power, get them into the vertical game, you remember?” Bird Dog asked.

  “I remember,” Kelly answered.

  “Okay, on my mark — now!” Bird Dog said.

  The Tomcat jolted slightly as the heavier missile leapt off of its wing, white smoke gouting off the stern as it traced an unerring path toward the lead aircraft.

  Bird Dog’s MiG broke right hard, and curved down below the two Tomcats, clearly intending to come up behind and position himself for a tail shot.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Bird Dog said softly. “Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

  He pulled the Tomcat into a hard right-hand turn, ascending and rolling as he did, coaxing the MiG into the vertical game. Once he’d grabbed five thousand feet of altitude, he rolled back into a nose-down position, and found that it worked just as he’d planned — he had a perfect, slightly trailing side shot on the other MiG.

  He flipped the weapons selector switch from AMRAAM to Sidewinder and blasted the lighter IR-seeking missile off the wing. Without waiting to see how it did, he grabbed for altitude again, fully expecting the MiG with being preoccupied with trying to shake the Sidewinder for at least ten seconds.

  The heads-up display clobbered immediately with radar returns, indicating that the other aircraft had ejected flares and chaff. He rolled easily out of range of them, coming back into level flight at nineteen thousand feet, and turning back toward his quarry.

  The MiG was nose up, screaming through the sky in an almost vertical climb. A few more seconds and its soft underbelly would be directly in his line of fire. Bird Dog goosed the Tomcat with a touch of afterburner, closing the distance. For a brief moment, he considered going to guns, then dismissed the idea. Not a perfect angle for a Sidewinder shot, but it was worth a try. Save the guns for when he really needed them, when they were up close and personal instead of almost at the edge of the guns’ maximum range.

  “Got ’im, got ’im,” a howl came over tactical.

  “Good kill, good kill,” he heard Tits cry in response. “Nailed him with the first AMRAAM.”

  “Some guys get all the luck,” Bird Dog muttered. “I had to give them the stupid bastard, and now Kelly’s going to have to help me out with this one.” For indeed, the MiG was proving to have a far more capable pilot than he’d counted on. Everything in the intelligence reports indicated that the Chinese fighter pilots got significantly less training than American ones did, and that their equipment was often poorly maintained. But the bloke in front of him, dancing that MiG through the sky, clearly had not been reading the same intelligence reports.

  The MiG shot up past him, sunlight gleaming off the undercarriage, glaring in his eyes, momentarily blinding him. The symbols on his heads-up display were blanked out by the glare.

  “Joining on you now, Bird Dog,” Kelly’s voice said over tactical, a deep tone of satisfaction in her normally sensual alto voice. “On your high six.”

  “She’s got the shot, Bird Dog,” Gator pointed out. “By the time we get nose up to nail his tailpipes, she’ll be there.”

  “It’s my MiG,” Bird Dog insisted. “Mine.”

  He yanked the Tomcat around again into a hard turn, and felt the gray creeping in at the edges of his vision. Too many G-forces, too many — sure, he’d pulled more before, but it was always a risk. Behind him, he heard a muttered protest from Gator, then silence as the RIO blacked out.

  The Tomcat responded beautifully, turning harder and tighter than he’d ever thought possible for her to do. He lost some speed in the maneuver, and drained off even more as he pitched the Tomcat nose high to track the MiG down. He punched the afterburners, felt the surge slam him back into his ejection seat, and again felt his consciousness start to fade. “Not now, dammit. Not now,” he muttered, fighting off the darkness. He eased the afterburner back, and felt the gray start to recede. But by then the MiG had already topped out, and was heading back down toward him.

  “Fox two, fox two,” Kelly howled. “Bird Dog, break right!”

  “Fuck you, Kelly,” Bird Dog howled. At the same time, he cut the Tomcat to the right as directed. No pilot in his right mind ever ignored a break command from a wingman.

  But his forward momentum was just too great. Had she been more experienced, Kelly would have seen it. She would have known that Bird Dog could not get his aircraft out of the line of fire in time.

  Bird Dog saw it happen as if in slow motion. The AMRAAM seemed to creep through the air, a long, white cylinder with stubby fins hurtling toward him, yet seeming to creep along at a snail’s pace. The MiG was still descending, picking up speed, and was now almost parallel with him. His Tomcat felt sluggish, and was just starting to come right in response to his order as the MiG passed by.

  The AMRAAM seemed to gently caress the MiG, and then started disintegrating. Bird Dog howled, aware that they were close, too close, too damned close. He could see the other pilot’s face through the canopy, the Chinese’s expression masked by the oxygen mask and helmet.

  Just as the MiG exploded into flames, his canopy popped off and he and Gator were spit out like watermelon seeds. He felt a moment of sheer, raw fear, hanging suspended in the air, his parachute not yet deployed, the ejection seat separating from its pan with almost painful slowness. He tried to twist his head around to see Gator, but couldn’t stop his motion tumbling through the sky.

  The combination of excessive G-forces, ejection, proved to be too much. He felt his gorge rise, hot, foul liquid crowding the back of his throat. Bird Dog puked, then passed out.

  Tomcat 208

  1515 local (GMT –10)

  Kelly watched in horror as the burning MiG airframe reached out tendrils of flame to stroke the Tomcat carcass. Shrapnel peppered the fatally wounded America
n aircraft, and thin spews of JP8 fuel sparkled in the air for a microsecond before the entire mass exploded into an incandescent fireball.

  She stared down at the water below, ignoring the repeated calls from Jefferson asking if she saw any chutes.

  “I’ve got ’em!” Tits said. “There, just forward of our nose. Two of ’em. Ain’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  It was, except for the MiG exploding into flames. In that brief millisecond when it had been her kill and her kill alone before disaster reached out to stroke her lead.

  Finally, the incessant queries from Jefferson could no longer be denied. As she descended through ten thousand feet, keeping her eyes fixed on the chutes below, she answered their repeated inquiries with, “Tomcat 203 bought it. I have two chutes, repeat, two chutes. I’ll be orbiting overhead, awaiting SAR aircraft.” She flipped her transponder beacon to indicate the emergency distress code.

  “What happened up there?” a new voice asked.

  Kelly recognized it immediately as Batman. “I took a shot at a MiG, nailed him, Admiral. But Bird Dog was too close. He punched out just before the fireball got to him.”

  “Are they okay?” Batman’s voice asked.

  She shook her head, knowing he couldn’t see the gesture. “I have chutes. I’ll know more in a little bit.”

  “How did you manage to get too close?”

  “I don’t know exactly, sir. I called for a break right and took the shot. Maybe I called too late, maybe he didn’t break fast enough. I don’t know, sir.”

  There was a long silence, then Batman said, “How are you for fuel?”

  She glanced down at the fuel indicator and grimaced. “Five thousand pounds. Enough for a pass at the boat.”

  “You want a tank before you take a shot at the deck?” he asked. What he really meant was, was she so shook up that she needed a couple of passes to get on board.