“Yep. Five-hundred-feet separation, just like we briefed. You’re in solid. Okay, starting the approach,” Gator said briskly. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’re out of here. Just follow Batman on in.”
“You got any indication of target designation?” Bird Dog asked.
“No, not yet. Still too far away. And look at the time — Batman’s running a few minutes early.”
“Well, we could grab some altitude and orbit for a while,” Bird Dog said, “but I don’t fancy charging through those clouds any more than I have to. And neither does he.”
Both men knew that the moisture-laden clouds seriously increased the danger of icing on the wings. While the deicing gear on the Tomcat was fairly decent, it had never been designed to cope with frigid temperatures like these, or with multiple passes through arctic clouds. As far as they were concerned, it was just another chance for things to go wrong.
“Best not,” Gator said finally. “Let’s settle in a pattern out here, far enough to be out of visual range. That’ll have to do for now. Besides, we haven’t detected any radar sweeps coming off the island. I’m willing to bet as long as we’re out of visual range, we’re safe.”
“You got it, partner,” Bird Dog responded. He ascended to fifteen thousand feet and began a right-hand orbit, carefully keeping an eye on the approaching clouds. “They get much closer, and we’ll have problems,” he remarked.
Gator grunted. “We should be inbound by then.”
They left unspoken the possibility of having to abort the mission. True, the admiral had made it plain that it was Batman’s call. Neither crew was to pointlessly risk the safety of the multimillion-dollar aircraft and its highly trained crew of two if there were no chance of accomplishing their objective. However, it would be a cold day in hell — Bird Dog smiled grimly at the appropriate metaphor — before either of the two would willingly break off.
“How’s she flying?” Gator said, more to break the silence than out of any real curiosity.
“Heavy as a pig,” Bird Dog answered. “I hate playing bomb cat.”
The versatile F-14 Tomcat had been designed as both a fighter and bomber aircraft. During the days when the A-6 and A-7 aircraft were in use in the fleet, practicing the arcane skills of bombing had been largely a matter of form. However, as the older attack aircraft were phased out, and the newer F/A-18 Hornet entered the fleet, the Tomcat community found itself under serious attack. After ironing out some minor avionics glitches, Tomcat squadrons aggressively attacked the problem of becoming as proficient in ground-to-air attacks as they were in aerial combat. Within a couple of years, they were matching every test of accuracy and reliability neck for neck with the Hornet. Indeed, carrier battle group commanders preferred Tomcats over the Hornet, since the latter aircraft’s payload and endurance was seriously limited. The Tomcat, while a much larger spotting problem on the deck, generally proved itself more than worth the extra space, based on its capacity for ordnance.
Of course, Bird Dog reflected, it was tough to tangle with a Hornet. The smaller aircraft had a maneuverability and weight-to-power factor that made it a tough target for any Tomcat. Still, they managed to hold their own as well there. If you could outlast a Hornet, sooner or later he’d have to leave to go gas up.
And when you’ve got an opponent like a MiG, with their higher fuel endurance, the Tomcat was the only choice. Like it had been in the Spratlys. While the Hornets had covered their asses from time to time there, in the end the Tomcat had proven victor of the skies.
“Okay, time,” Gator announced. “Batman’s starting his run in. He says it looks like it’s clearing up around the island. You vector on down and get on his ass just like we briefed, Bird Dog.”
“Hell, he’s the bird dog on this mission,” the pilot grumbled. “I’m just batting cleanup.”
“You mix any metaphors you want as long as you get me back to the boat,” his RIO answered.
1000 Local
West End, Aflu
“Commander, I think you’d better come here,” the senior Spetsnaz commander said.
“Problem?” Rogov paused from inventorying the stores, and walked over to the small group of worried commandos. “What?”
“Listen.” The commando thrust his hand-held radio toward Rogov. “Started five minutes ago.” He turned up the volume on the radio.
Rogov shook his head. “I don’t hear anything except static.”
“That is the problem, exactly. Someone is trying to jam our communications.”
“Jamming? But how-” Rogov whirled around and glared at the SEAL still held captive at the end of the cavern. “I see,” he said, his voice more calm.
“It appears to be a static source. It hasn’t changed in intensity, and it’s still strongest from a single direction.”
“So what can you do about it?”
The commando shrugged. “There are no choices. There are intruders on the island, and we’ve lost communications. My standing orders are for my patrols to take cover in the event that something such as this should happen. I suspect they even now have our entrance under surveillance, and are prepared to kill anyone that approaches that door.”
“You find this transponder,” Rogov said harshly. So close, so close to success, and now this. Unreasoning rage boiled in his stomach, making its way slowly to his head. “Find the men who brought this and kill them. Do you understand?”
The same unnerving smile Rogov had seen on the submarine returned. “It’s what we do best, Colonel,” he said, looking eager.
1015 Local
Aflu
Huerta looked up at the sky. “An hour, you think?” As much as he’d like to believe that, it didn’t seem possible. Gusting williwaw winds were already pounding the thin shelters, screaming through every tiny crack between the two sections mated to form a fragile barrier against the environment. He’d risked one peek outside, for what it was worth. Now more than the horizon had disappeared — all he could see was blinding snow and ice pelting him in the face, banging against the two flaps tied together to form the door to the shelter. The other clamshell shelter, only four feet away, was invisible. There was no chance that they were moving anytime soon.
“Maybe not soon,” Morning Eagle said, unconsciously echoing the SEAL’s thoughts. “Sometimes these blow over quickly.”
“And other times?” the SEAL demanded.
Morning Eagle shrugged. The SEAL felt rising frustration, which he stifled.
Truly, there was no help for it. The storm would end when it ended — not a moment sooner. Giving the young Inuit an ass-chewing for underestimating its duration would do no good. After all, they would have gone ahead with the mission anyway, even if they’d had an accurate weather forecast. No way they were leaving the boss behind — no way.
The SEAL rummaged in one pocket of his parka, finally found what he was looking for. He extracted two high-calorie protein bars, and offered one to the Inuit. The other waxed covering was dull army green, and the bar itself tasted like it would match the protective wrapper. “Beats whale blubber,” the SEAL offered.
The Inuit unwrapped his bar, studied it, sniffed it, and then took a small, tentative bite. He chewed for a moment thoughtfully, and an odd expression, half apology, half disgust, rose in his eyes. “Not by much,” he said, then swallowed hard.
1020 Local
Tomcat 201
“The weather’s not holding,” Bird Dog said, in a singsong tone of voice. “Although why I expected anything different, I’ll never know. How much time do we have left?”
“Three minutes,” Gator answered. “That is, if you think we can make it.”
“Oh, we’ll make it in all right,” Bird Dog said grimly. He pulled the Tomcat out of its orbit and pointed its nose toward the island. The eastern half of the small outcropping was already obscured by the storm. The clouds had advanced at least halfway across the rocky cliffs that were their destination. “Let me know the moment you have a lock on
the lasers.”
“Right.”
As they approached the island, winds buffeted the Tomcat, tossing the ungainly, heavily laden jet in the skies in a seemingly random pattern. Bird Dog swore softly, and focused his concentration on his controls. He tried to feel the jet, to anticipate her movements, and to correct for the sudden and sickening drops in altitude. This close in, it wouldn’t do. At the altitude at which they were going to have to be, a sudden downdraft could be deadly.
“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” Gator said calmly, his voice a reassuring presence in the decreasing visibility and increasingly violent movement of the cockpit. Bird Dog didn’t answer, instead concentrating on the wildly roller-coastering motion of the aircraft.
One hundred feet above the churning ocean, Bird Dog watched the island rush toward him with terrifying swiftness. His hair-trigger reflexes shouted warnings, screaming at him to pull up, pull up. He waited, knowing in just a few seconds he would, pulling the Tomcat into its parabolic maneuver that would toss the weapons precisely toward the laser-designated point. Ahead of him, he saw the ass end of the JAST bird.
“Two more miles.” He tensed, readying himself for the final maneuver.
Suddenly, his targeting gear screamed warnings. The churning clouds to the north had finally made a quick dash over the island, completely obscuring the small red points of light aimed on the rift.
“Shit! We’re icing,” he heard Batman snarl over tactical. “That damned deicing kit — it was giving us some problems on the deck, but I thought they’d gotten it corrected. Bird Dog, it gets any worse and we’ll have to abort. I can’t take this bird in like this.”
Bird Dog swore violently and made a lightning-fast decision.
Too much was riding on this mission. The safety of the team on the ground, the fate of the captured men, and indeed, America’s first response to an incursion on her territory. He stared ahead at the point where the target had been before it was obscured by blowing clouds of ice and fog, memorizing its location, praying that the hours of training over Chocolate Mountain would pay off. He screened out the loud protests and questions from Gator, knowing that in a few seconds the RIO would look up and see his dilemma. It wasn’t impossible to get the bombs on target without the laser designator. Just very, very difficult, as decades of strike warfare in earlier wars had proved. It took good reflexes, a superb sense of direction, and an instinctive ability to calculate the myriad factors that went into a launch. Airspeed, altitude, effect of gravity on the missiles, and the safest direction to exit the target area. He felt his gut churn. That was the critical part, at least for the two aviators in Tomcat 201. Getting clear of the spewing debris, rock, and ice before it could FOD one of the turbofan engines was critical.
Forty-five seconds remaining. He squinted, ignoring the sweat breaking out on his forehead, rolling down into his eyes and stinging. In front of him, the JAST aircraft broke off its attack run and turned back toward the carrier.
1021 Local
Aflu
“There he is!” Morning Eagle pointed at the sky. The Tomcat was a tiny black dot, skimming over the ocean, blending in with the dark, blue-black, whitecapped waves.
“Too low,” Huerta said. He shook his head. “He’ll have to abort — there’s no way he can do it.”
Morning Eagle stared at the aircraft, which was now large enough that he could make out its features. The sleek, backswept wings, the double bubble of the canopy perched almost too far up on the aircraft, its sleek, aerodynamically sound nose. And the weapons, the most important part of the aircraft for his purposes today. He stared at the undercarriage, which looked bulky and ungainly. The two huge bombs, flanked by the smaller air-to-air missiles, hung down below it like some phallic symbol.
“Look out!” Huerta shouted. He took two steps forward, grabbed Morning Eagle, and pulled him back away from the rift. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
Morning Eagle blinked, startled out of his fascinated reverie of the deadly aircraft. He whirled, following Huerta, and took five steps forward before the world disappeared in a blinding whirl of white.
1022 Local
Tomcat 201
“Bird Dog! You get the hell out of there!” he heard Batman snap. “You don’t have a solid fix on the target. You miss, and you hit friendly forces. Break off; we’ll try again when the weather clears.”
“Can’t,” Bird Dog said tersely. “I’ve got a solid lock on this — I can feel it.” He tried desperately to regain his fix on the target, momentarily distracted by the sight of white-clad figures scurrying away from his impact point.
Damn it all, what the hell did they think they were doing? he thought angrily. Couldn’t someone have briefed them? The SEAL should know better at least than to stand that close to an IP. Even with advanced avionics and pinpoint targeting, there was still an error of five to ten feet built into launch calculations. Even under the best circumstances — and these were hardly those — there was a good chance he’d miss the exact spot at the rift. He shook his head angrily.
There was no help for it now — he was too heavy and too low to recover. In order to gain altitude quickly and clear the worst of the peaks, he had to get rid of the bombs. And it made no sense to jettison them harmlessly, not this close to the IP. He concentrated, bearing down on the target.
1023 Local
Aflu
“Whiteout,” Morning Eagle screamed. He swung his arms wildly, felt them hit something, and pulled it toward him. Huerta grasped at him like a drowning man. With a firm grip on each other, they dropped to the ground, lessening their wind profile.
Huerta heard Morning Eagle shout something, the words unintelligible, swept away by the gale-force winds. He shook his head, then realized Morning Eagle couldn’t see the gesture. He reached for the other man’s hand and held it up, pointing it in the direction of the aircraft.
And the rest of their team — they’d been well back from the rift, he remembered, reviewing the last scene he’d been able to see clearly in his mind. With a little bit of luck, and some decent piloting, they’d be safe as well.
The laser designators. For a moment, he felt a flash of real fear, remembering how close the Tomcat had been when he’d last seen it. He turned his head, looking in the direction of the rift. There was nothing there except a solid white wall of flying ice crystals in the snow. Frustration replaced fear, as he realized the laser targeting information would no longer be visible to the pilot.
Absent skill, there was always luck. The chief SEAL started to pray.
Tomcat 201
“You’re never gonna make it, Bird Dog,” Gator said, his voice insistent. “Dump ‘em.”
Bird Dog shook his head, not bothering to answer. Concentrating on the spot where he’d last seen the targeting data took every ounce of concentration he had. He flipped the ICS switch off, locking out Gator’s voice completely. They’d either make it or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing Gator could tell him in the interim to change the odds either way.
Five … four … three … two … NOW. Bird Dog toggled the weapons release switch and felt the hard thump of ordnance leaving the undercarriage as the bombs dropped free. He wrenched the Tomcat up into a sharp climb, already feeling the difference that the loss in weight made, climbing for altitude as hard as he dared push the Tomcat. The sleek jet shook as it approached the stall envelope. Bird Dog dropped the nose slightly, hoping it was enough. He spared one glance at the altimeter — three thousand feet — and then cut the Tomcat hard to the right, praying he cleared the tallest spires.
Aflu
The hard thunder of military engines at full afterburner cut through the high-pitched scream of the wind. It was a sound at least as much felt as heard, a deep, bone-jarring growl and rumble that cut through viscera and skin alike, settling into the bones with a comforting aftertaste.
He made it, the Chief SEAL thought, marveling. How many pilots could have pulled that off? For a moment, a deep surge of
pride replaced the fear and anxiety he’d felt watching the aircraft approach. Damn, some days it was good to be an American. If he ever got out of this, he was going to do his damnedest to make sure that pilot got a commendation.
Suddenly, the ground underneath him exploded, shaking and rolling like the worst earthquake he’d ever experienced in California. He gasped and threw himself flat on the ground, no longer caring whether he lost contact with Morning Eagle’s hand. The hard ice surface rose up underneath him, smashing him in the face, and he felt the delicate bones in the bridge of his nose splinter. A falling rock bashed him in the leg, settling over his lower right shin and ankle. The SEAL screamed, feeling the wind whip away the sound as soon as it left his mouth. He clamped his mouth shut as icy air surged into his mouth, straight down his air passageway, and chilled his lungs. Stupid to survive the actual strike and then be killed by ice crystals forming in his lungs, he thought grimly, falling back on years of training and experience to override survival instincts. He clung to the ground for dear life and waited.
1028 Local
Tomcat 201
Bird Dog leveled off at eleven thousand feet, and suddenly started shaking. He was safe; he was safe. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how doubtful he’d been that they’d make it.
Below them, the whiteout whipped violently, obscuring sea and island alike. The noise, however, had faded as the aircraft had climbed. Finally, he noticed an odd noise in the cockpit. It took him a moment to puzzle it out. Then an involuntary grin cracked his face. He reached over and flipped on the ICS switch.
“-and if you ever pull this bullshit again, I’m not going to wait for a court-martial, I’m going to personally-” Gator’s voice was saying.
Bird Dog cut him off. “Cool your jets, Gator, we made it.” He moved the yoke back and forth experimentally, testing his control over the Tomcat to reassure himself. “See?”
Gator’s voice broke off. “And just what the hell did you think you were doing, making a blind approach in the middle of a storm cell?” the RIO demanded. “You should have broken off like Batman said.”
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