Santana had two seconds to wonder just how the other aircraft had managed to eke out another fifty knots of airspeed and make one frantic grab at the ejection seat handle. Before the fifty-six-foot Fulcrum could even begin to twist its thirty thousand pounds of mass through the turn, the Fulcrum slammed into the smaller aircraft. The fireball blotted out the full moon’s light.
0330 Local (+5 GMT)
CDC, USS Jefferson
“What the where the hell did they go?” The TAO’s voice ratcheted two notes higher. He turned to the CDC watch officer. “Get your ass back to Tracker Alley find out what the hell is going on here.”
The CDC officer bolted out of his seat and trotted toward the two parallel rows of consoles. The TAO turned back to the large-screen display. Two seconds earlier he’d held hard paint on both the Fulcrum and the civilian aircraft. Now the screen showed empty airspace.
0332 Local (+5 GMT)
40 Miles West of Cuba
The surface of the ocean slammed into Santana like a brick wall. The force drove the air out of his lungs. He sucked in a breath reflexively, then erupted into choking and spasmodic retching as seawater coursed down into his lungs.
He twisted his head back and stared up at the surface so far above.
Five seconds later, the automatically inflating life preserver did its job. Santana bobbed up to the surface, coughing, sputtering, and gagging. Warm night air poured into his lungs like a blessing.
Burning debris from the mishap spattered the ocean around him. A large chunk hit near him, floated for a few seconds trying to scorch the water, then sank with a burbling swirl of bubbles. Santana gasped, finally able to concentrate on something besides his own desperate need for oxygen.
He fumbled with the pocket on his flight suit and drew out his portable air distress radio. Ten seconds later, he was talking almost calmly to the sea-air rescue station ashore.
GCI had already passed them his last location, and the watch officer assured him that a helo was launching at that moment for his location.
Santana let the radio slip out of his fingers, leaned back in the warm water with the life jacket buoying him up, and waited.
There was no doubt in his mind now as to the identity of the other aircraft. No smuggler would have been so careless.
The Americans would pay for this. He would make certain of it.
TWO
Saturday, 22 June 0345 Local (+5 GMT)
TFCC, USS Jefferson
“This better be good.” The noise level inside TFCC dropped immediately as Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne strode into the small compartment.
The Flag TAO, still wearing his modular headset, stood up and turned to the admiral. “Admiral, approximately fifteen minutes ago, a Cuban MiG-29 apparently downed a civilian aircraft forty miles north of Cuba.
The contact was inbound at one hundred and thirty-five knots, no IFF, no Mode 4. We designated it as a contact of interest and maintained a watch on it, pending a change of course toward the battle group.”
“Shit,” Batman said softly. “Did we interrogate the contact on International Air Distress?”
The TAO nodded. “No response. And no distress call now 1-on either civilian air distress or military air distress.”
Batman rubbed his hands over his face, then scratched absentmindedly under his left arm. The flight suit he’d slipped on as he crawled out of his rack naked was still new, and the stiff fabric chafed. “Is anybody saying anything?”
He jerked his thumb at the right bulkhead. “What about the spooks?”
“That would be me,” a short, blond-haired, blue-eyed officer said as he stepped through the hatch leading into TFCC. “There was a brief, encrypted transmission from GCI, probably to the Fulcrum, immediately prior. Admiral.”
Commander Hillman Busby, known as Lab Rat to the other intelligence officers, shrugged. “Not unusual. They keep their land-based air patrols under close control. We knew the MiG was there, of course, but there were no indications of hostile activity.”
“Did the MiG take a shot at it?” the admiral asked. “A small contact like that, maybe he’s just too low and dropped off our radar.”
Lab Rat shook his head. “We can’t tell. Immediately before the contact disappeared off radar, we were holding targeting transmissions from the MiG, but there was no contact on an actual missile launch.
They both just dropped off the screen.”
Batman suppressed a yawn. “Any indications where the aircraft launched from?”
“The track seems to correlate with a civilian aircraft launched out of Miami forty-five minutes before. No flight plan, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s entirely possible that he launched from a private airfield. That, or the paperwork just got mixed up. The Coast Guard is checking on it now.”
“Has SOUTHCOM been notified?” the admiral asked.
The TAO spoke up. “Voice report five minutes ago, and the message is almost ready to fly.” He held out a single sheet of paper. “Any comments to add. Admiral?”
Admiral Wayne studied the message, then shook his head “No, we don’t know anything at this point. Just what the message says.” He scribbled his initials in the upper right corner of the paper. “Go ahead and send it.”
The admiral climbed up into the high-backed, elevated leatherette seat located in the middle of TFCC, his thoughts hundreds of miles away from the carrier. Ashore, the watch staff would soon be waking the SOUTHCOM admiral, just as Batman’s staff had awakened him. He grinned, wondering if his old running mate. Admiral Matthew Tombstone” Magruder, would like it any better than he had.
Tombstone and Batman had spent practically every tour in the Navy together on one carrier or another. Together they’d seen most of the nastiness the world had to offer, fighting wingtip to wingtip. First, as junior nugget aviators, they’d chased MiGs in all parts of the world ranging from; Norway to the South China Sea. Later, as more senior officers, they’d fallen into a now predictable pattern. Tombstone, two years senior to Batman, blazed the trail, For his last two tours, Batman had relieved Tombstone in his billet while Tombstone went on to scout their next duty station. What had first begun as an odd coincidence had been elevated to a standing joke within the tight-knit F-14 Tomcat community.
Distracted, Batman stared at the left-hand seat in front of the TPCC.
He stared for a moment, then grinned. Odd that he could recognize the back of her head, when she’d spent most of her time in the air staring at his. He stood up and walked over to the console. Tomboy?”
The diminutive naval flight officer turned around, looked up, and stood. “Yes, Admiral. Can I help you?”
Batman shook his head amusedly. “As I live and breathe, lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were still playing test pilot out at Patuxent River in Maryland.”
Following their last cruise, the radar intercept officer, or rio, had been ordered there to operationally test the latest flying machines the Navy had to offer. Foremost among them was the JAST bird, an advanced avionics F-14 Tomcat that featured an augmented look-down, shoot-down Doppler pulse radar.
Tomboy had flown as Batman’s RIO during a conflict two cruises ago in the South China Sea when Batman, as program manager for the JAST project, had persuaded Tombstone, then commander, Carrier Group Nine, to use the test platforms in actual combat.
“Just catching up on the changes,” she said, gesturing to a large-screen display behind her. “A few things are different.”
“More has changed with you than has with TFCC,” Batman said, looking down pointedly at her left hand. “So you finally did it?”
Even in the semi gloom of TFCC, he could see her blush “Las Vegas.
Neither of us felt like a large wedding.”
“You could have at least told me. Me, of all people,” the admiral huffed. “As many aircraft as I have on board this ship, I would have found a way to get there.”
“My apol
ogies. Admiral. The next time” “There’d better not be a next time. So what are you doing on board?”
“PXO, of VF-54.” The small naval flight officer couldn’t hide her grin.
“Who’d have thought?”
“I saw your name on the list, but didn’t realize that was so soon.
You’re relieving Henry?”
“Yes. He fleets up to CO in two weeks. I talked Tombstone into letting me come aboard a week early, just so we could start turnover.
Besides, I need a FAM flight in the B-bird.” She shook her head ruefully. “After the birds I’ been flying, it takes some getting used to. At least I’ve Gator in the squadron to keep me honest.”
“That’s right he’s the VF-54 operations officer, isn’t he? Good man.”
The admiral glanced up at the tactical display, then turned back to her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Bird Dog was in the air.
This is just the sort of situation he’d be involved in.”
Tomboy laughed. “He’s your problem now. Admiral, not Gator’s, since he’s on your staff.”
“Since this is old-home week, let’s just get his young ass up. How about it?” The admiral turned to a messenger. “Go wake up Bird Dog.
I think he’ll want to see this.”
0355 Local (+5 GMT)
Stateroom 03-135-03-L, USS Jefferson
For some reason, Callie Lazier was trying to wake him up.
Her hand was on his shoulder, shaking gently but insistently.
He could feel her snuggled up spoon fashion in back of him, her nipples gently pressing against his back, his butt nestled into the taut hardness of her belly. He smiled, wondering if her other hand was already snaking around his waist, reaching lower to caress him, waking him up in what had already become a delightful morning tradition in their relationship. If so, she’d find out just how ready he was, asleep or not.
Lieutenant Commander Curt “Bird Dog” Robinson moaned and rolled over onto his side. Why not make it easier for her? He pulled her hand off his shoulder to guide it down, feeling the urgency and anticipation build as he since when did Callie have hairy wrists?
“Sir. Sir!” The voice was low and insistent.
Bird Dog tried to twist away, then paused to think. Sir?
Why was his fiancee calling him that? It didn’t make sense.
The only time he was awakened with that was when he was His eyes snapped open and he stared into the plain, hone stand now, horrified face of the Flag messenger.
“Oh, shit.” With a sigh. Bird Dog shoved the pillow away from his face. “I’m back on Jefferson, aren’t I?”
The admiral’s messenger gulped, then nodded. “Sir?”
“Never mind.” Bird Dog released the man’s wrist and shoved himself up into a sitting position. “This better be good.”
The messenger smiled. “That’s just what the admiral said, sir, about ten minutes ago. He thought you might want to see this.”
Bird Dog sighed. “The admiral, huh? Okay, I’ll be right there.”
As the messenger scuttled out of his stateroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Bird Dog flipped on the small light mounted immediately over his head, casting a dim glow over the entire room. No point in waking up his roommate if he didn’t have to.
Heavy snores cut through the compartment from the rack above him. Bird Dog glanced enviously up at his roommate, wondering why he deserved to sleep another four hours.
Well, no help for it When the admiral wanted his staff assembled, it happened, and happened now. He reached for his flight suit, paused, then sighed and pulled his khaki pants and blouse out of his locker, trying not to make any noise. His days of living in the soft, comfortable green jumpsuit were over. At least until he got back in a squadron And that wasn’t the only disadvantage to being a staff puke In his last two cruises, both on board Jefferson, Bird dog had seen combat in the Spratly Islands and helped thwart Russian invasion of the Aleutian Islands. Based on his extensive operational experience, he’d been promoted early to lieutenant commander, then selected to attend ege in Newport, Rhode Island. Attendance at the demanding college of staff and command courses was reserved for only 10 percent of naval officers service-wide.
During his year there, he had been exposed to the most advanced techniques in tactical and operational art, rubbing shoulders daily with the top officers from every other service and civilian agency in the U.S. government. Somewhere along the way, he found out that he’d done the right things during his previous two cruises, if sometimes only by mistake.
And that wasn’t the least of it. He pulled on his blouse, smiling as he thought of Callie. Of all the great things in Newport, she was the best. And if tonight was any indication, she was indeed the girl of his dreams.
Callie Lazier, Navy lieutenant commander surface warfare officer. He smiled. If ever there’d been an officer that looked less like a warrior, it was her. Long, honey blond.hair, deep blue eyes, and, at five foot ten inches tall, only two inches shorter than he was. Her soft, luxuriant curves couldn’t mask the fact that she spent an hour in the gym every morning before classes and ran five miles every evening.
The woman was a jock, an absolute jock. The last time he’d tried to keep up with her, he’d fallen out on the side of Thames Street, made his way into the Brick Alley Pub, and was happily half drunk by the time she’d finished her run. Callie had been disappointed and mockingly stern.
A woman who drives ships for a living. Bird Dog shook his head. How could someone be satisfied with a life in which top speed meant about thirty-five knots? He’d tried to explain to her the sheer glories of naval aviation, the heady exuberance of catapulting off the front of the carrier, the pure joy of flying the world’s finest aircraft, the F14 tomcat, under any and all circumstances, but somehow he had the feeling she’d never really understood. In fact, Callie had displayed a noticeable disdain for the exploits of the F-14 in combat.
Bird Dog crossed the small compartment in two steps and rummaged around in the debris on a small ledge over the sink for his wings. He found them, and jammed the two metal spines on their back through the well-worn holes on his khaki shirt. Well, she’d feel differently once she had her first flight in a Tomcat. He didn’t know yet how or when he’d arrange it, but it would happen. Had to happen, if he were ever going to explain to her why it was so important that he keep flying.
Five minutes after he’d been awakened, Bird Dog slipped quietly out of his compartment and headed for TFCC.
0355 Local (+5 GMT)
TFCC
“Sir, I recommend we put CAP — Combat Air Patrol — up.”
Tomboy’s voice was confident. “We probably won’t need them unless we don’t. Then it’ll be too late.”
Batman frowned. “Any other indications of hostile activity?”
“No, Admiral. I simply think it’s a reasonable precaution.”
Batman nodded. He turned to the officer seated in the right-hand TAO console. “Why didn’t you think of that?”
“I’m sorry, Admiral.” The assigned TAO looked uncomfortable. He had thought of it, but hadn’t felt comfortable interrupting the admiral’s conversation with Tomboy. He shot the small female officer an irked look. It was one thing for her to hang around TFCC, catching up on the changes that had occurred, another entirely for her to trash out her fellow officers in front of the admiral. If Mrs.-Admiral Commander Flynn/Magruder wanted to get along with this staff, she’d better learn to fit in.
“We have two VFA F/A-18s on Alert 15, Admiral,” the TAO continued.
“The Marine pilots are in their Ready Room.”
“They don’t do me much good there, do they? Come on, man, let’s get moving.” Batman turned back to Tomboy.
“Not so long ago, it would have been you and me scrambling for those aircraft, wouldn’t it? I sure do miss it.”
“Anytime you need a backseater, Admiral, you just let me know.” The two exchanged a look of mutual admiration.
400 Local (+5 GMT)
Flight Deck USS Jefferson
Marine Major Frederick “Thor” Hammersmith shivered lightly as he stepped out onto the flight deck and pulled the heavy metal hatch closed behind him. The night was warm, sultry, but the flood of adrenaline that had hit him when the alarm rang in the Ready Room had not yet subsided. The quick five-minute brief in TFCC had done no more than crank it up an extra level.
Around him, the flight deck buzzed with activity. Sailors rolled out of their racks and were now streaming across the deck, visible only in the glare of the giant floodlights mounted on the tower. Green shirts, red shirts, yellow shirts, each color denoting a separate function in the intricate ballet that made up the flight deck operations.
His F/A-18 Hornet was. still parked in the center of the flight deck, a location befitting its assignment as Alert 15 aircraft. A few minutes to run through the checklist and power up, and he could simply taxi straight forward to the catapult.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Pulling Alert 15 was a pain in the ass during training exercises, but this was something real. A MiG-29 shooting down a civilian aircraft what in the hell was that about?
Sure, tensions between the United States and her southern neighbor had ratcheted a notch higher since the U.S. had nationalized some of Cuba’s American-held assets, but that had never disturbed the Navy’s operations in its traditional training ground to the north. And why shoot down a civilian aircraft? Bullshit, that was. Why fight somebody who can’t fight back?
Moments later, he was standing next to his aircraft. He walked around her carefully, checking for loose fittings and undogged compartment access panels. He ran a hand over her nose-wheel gear, checking carefully for any signs of looseness or excessive wear on the tires.
The Marine enlisted technicians who maintained Hornet 301 were fanatics, but it was one thing to take responsibility for an aircraft on the deck, another thing entirely to trust your life to it while getting off of the pointy end of a carrier.
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