"Skeeter, you have to-"
The Mig broke off suddenly, pulling up sharply and almost stalling, then accelerating away in level flight. I swore, jerked back on the yoke, and rolled out as well. But sixty thousand pounds of Tomcat, even with five hundred and sixty-five square feet of wing area, is not near as maneuverable as a Mig-3 1. He had time to cut a hole in the sky and come back around to be directly overhead before I saw level flight.
"The little bastard--let's see if he can keep up with this!" I swung the Tomcat around and went back into a steep, bone-rattling climb.
"No point in it now," Sheila said, disgust heavy in her voice. "Do you realize what you just did? Skeeter, you idiot--why don't you ever listen to me?"
"What the hell do you mean?"
Admiral Magruder's voice over tactical answered the question for me.
"Tomcat 101, RTB."
"Return to base? What the hell for?" I asked, tactfully keeping my finger off the Transmit button.
Sheila answered immediately, "Don't you listen to the briefs? We had a seven thousand altitude restriction, you idiot. He suckered you, big time. And you followed him right down, right to the edge of the envelope.
He had time to pull out before he broke seven thousand feet--you didn't.
Six thousand nine hundred and forty-five feet--you lose." "No fair!" I said. "We got off two Sidewinders before we reached-"
"You broke the altitude restriction--you were dead before the missiles left your wing," Sheila said wearily. "Quit arguing and answer the admiral, Skeeter." I paused a second, collecting my thoughts. The admiral's voice came over tactical again. "Tomcat 101--acknowledge last transmission.
RTB-now!"
Finally, I toggled the mike. "RTB-roger, wilco." I didn't bother to ask why. The admiral knew--and now, so did I.
We were only twenty minutes out from the base, but it seemed to take forever to get back there. The air was cold and clear, perfect flying weather, but somehow I was enjoying it a hell of a lot less than normal.
It was the same Tomcat curled around me, a metal shell that felt like my second home. The reassuring thrum of the turbofan engines, the familiar heads-up display that almost felt like a part of me--none of that had changed. It was still the most powerful fighter ever built, a hell of a lot better than the Mig-31. The aircraft hadn't failed--I had.
There was no use trying to blame it on Sheila, or bemoaning the fact that the Mig pilot had a guy on the ground feeding him information and keeping him from breaking through the artificial barriers set up for our engagement. The GCI concept is wrong, way wrong. Fighter pilots have to be free to operate in wolf packs, choosing their own targets and defining their own engagements. The time lag between aircraft and the guy on the ground is just too great to make for effective combat. Then how come I'd lost this engagement?
It wasn't real. If it had been real, that Mig would have been dead.
But real didn't matter--not now. We'd set out to prove a particular point and I'd screwed it up by not paying attention to my altitude. Sure, Sheila might have been a little bit louder in warning me, or even the admiral could have spoken up--no, no use trying to find somewhere else to fit the blame. Flying the aircraft was my responsibility, and mine alone.
Sheila had her hands full with the radar and targeting at that point, and even though she'd started to warn me about the altitude, it wasn't her fault.
Out to the north, I could see a thin, oddly colored line on the horizon. At this altitude, I had an excellent view of the coastline, the array of military bases and commercial points along it. The supertankers, massive and imposing close up, were smaller than matchsticks.
And there was the Jefferson, way off, barely visible to the naked eye although we were holding her position solid in the link. I let my hands rest easily on the control and steered out toward her. The sea round her was a dark, angry gray, forbidding and menacing. Ice was already fouling the water around the shoreline, creeping out gradually as the calm seas did nothing to prevent its formation. In closer to land than Jefferson I could see two other surface ships, probably the icebreakers we'd been briefed on earlier. It would be their job to insure that Jefferson had clean water around her and didn't get mired in the ice. An aircraft carrier is tough, but the hull simply isn't built to withstand the massive pressure that an ice float can bring to bear on man-made metal.
The dark line on the horizon was growing thicker now, and I saw an odd shot of white spark through it. I toggled my ICS. "You see that? Looks like we've got some weather blowing in."
"Yeah, looks like." Sheila's voice was calm and noncommittal. "I guess they know it on the ground."
I shook my head. "They should, if they've got the same weather prediction capabilities that the United States has. Do they?"
"How should I know?"
"Well, I better let them know when we get back down during debrief.
We're supposed to be flying every day for the next couple of weeks, but if that shit rolls in there's not a chance in hell of us getting up tomorrow.
Too bad."
"Well, maybe they'll take us on a sight-seeing tour."
"Wonderful. Just what I joined the Navy for." I couldn't keep up the light banter, pretending that nothing had happened back there. "Sheila--I blew it. Sorry, buddy."
There was a vague note of amusement in her voice when she answered.
"What, Skeeter apologizing? You practicing up for what you're going to say to the admiral? Because if you are, let me tell you that I don't think that's going to cut it."
"I'm not apologizing, I just- Hell, I guess I am. I should have been watching the altitude more closely."
Just then, the air traffic controller's voice came on, directing me to a new vector for approach on the base. I lined up on the radial he indicated and glanced down at my altimeter. "Funny, they're starting our approach out this high."
"Tomcat 101, request you maintain angels seven on inbound radial.
Currently show you at angels eight." "Angels eight?" I said out loud. I glanced back down at the altimeter. We were at eight thousand five hundred feet according to my altimeter. What the-?
"Altitude--Skeeter, check your altimeter settings. Now!" Sheila said.
I clicked on the mike. "Request revised altimeter setting for Arkhangelsk," I said.
The altimeter is one of those funny little instruments onboard an aircraft that will get you killed as fast as a missile. One of the first things you do on approach to a new airfield is reset the altimeter according to your charts. If you leave the altimeter set on, say, San Diego--basically at sea level--and you try to land at an airfield significantly above sea level, you'll discover the ground far sooner than you expect to.
I'd reset the altimeter according to our charts during our approach on Arkhangelsk. The numbers came back to my mind--twenty-nine forty-nine. I glanced down at the setting. It read twenty-nine sixty.
I started swearing, while I flipped the numbers back to the right setting for Arkhangelsk. "Damn it, somebody's been in here--Sheila, they tampered with our altimeter!"
"That explains it," she said, her dawning comprehension clear in her voice. "Skeeter, I didn't want to say anything. Your ego's big enough as it is, but I've never known you to keep up that lousy of an instrument scan. It's not your fault you were below altitude--somebody tampered with the altimeter. It was reading well above seven thousand feet when you were actually below seven thousand feet." "I should have checked it," I said.
"We both should have."
"That sneaky bastard," I muttered. "Not enough that he tries to trip me, but playing with a man's altimeter can get somebody killed." Summaries that I'd read of too many aircraft mishaps flashed through my mind.
Altimeter mistakes and lousy weather were responsible for too many pilots auguring into the side of a mountain. That I'd failed to catch that error pissed me off. "Wait till the admiral hears about this." "Are you really going to tell him?" Sheila asked quietly.
"You put y
ourself on report for that."
I shook my head, realizing that I was in a no-win situation. If I kicked up a stink about the altered altimeter, Admiral Magruder would know I'd screwed up on my preflight. Additionally, it would sound like I was whining. I couldn't prove that the Russians had tinkered with it, and I'd just look like a sore loser.
"What do you think?" I asked finally.
"We keep quiet and eat this one," Sheila said promptly.
"But now that we know, we double-check it next time. The altimeter, and everything else, including the fuel. Real, real, carefully. And then we kick some Russian ass."
"I'd like that," I said when she'd finished, rather gratified at her vengeful tone of voice. "I'd really, really like that."
"Skeeter, level flight--no maneuvering!" Sheila said suddenly. "Don't twitch a muscle." "Why?" I asked, although I obeyed her command immediately.
"It's that little bastard Mig. Looks like he wants to play some games." Her voice was grim.
I craned my neck back around to see. I saw him immediately, the Mig-31, barreling down out of the sky toward me in a steep dive. He pulled up in front of me, maybe half a mile ahead, waggled his wings from side to side for a moment, then executed a series of flawless barrel rolls. He pulled out of that smoothly, gracefully, dived under me then reappeared on the other side, looping around and around me like some sort of insane porpoise.
I swore quietly. "He wants to see aerobatics, does he? Well, let me just show him-" "Not a twitch, Skeeter," Sheila warned again. "You don't know what he's doing. Two aircraft pulling unbriefed maneuvers in the same airspace is a guarantee that something's going to get fucked."
I kept on swearing, knowing she was right. Bad enough that the little Mig bastard was rubbing it in, but if I started pulling the same shit to show him what a Tomcat could really do, our chances of a mishap increased dramatically. So for now it was straight and level, vectoring back into the air base with my new altimeter setting and planning my revenge.
From inside a Tomcat, a Russian airfield feels pretty much like an American one. Easier to land on than an aircraft carrier, and international standardization of airfield markings and directions indicators makes getting around fairly straightforward. A white truck with follow-me lights was waiting to direct us to our assigned spot. Sheila and I ran the shutdown checklist quickly, but by the time we were finished, the admiral was already waiting for me just off the flight line.
I popped out a sharp salute and waited for the blast that was sure to come. To my surprise, Tombstone just stared levelly at me. "Admiral, about what happened up there," I began, and then let my voice trail off as I realized he wasn't looking for answers. I had the uneasy feeling this was going to be a one-way conversation. Just then, Sheila stepped forward.
She saluted, then touched Gator lightly on the elbow and drew him off to the side for some RIO-to-RIO talk, leaving me alone with the admiral.
"Good move, Skeeter," the admiral said finally. "I liked the way you suckered him into revealing more about his performance capabilities. I don't think we've ever seen a Mig pull that dramatic of a maneuver before."
"What? You mean you think I-"
The admiral cut me off before I had a chance to dig myself even deeper. "Exactly the sort of intelligence we're here to gather," he murmured, motioning me to follow him back to the air control terminal.
"Good work." I followed him, too stunned by his comments to start explaining. Was it possible that the admiral thought I'd really planned that maneuver just for that purpose? Or was he just offering me up a face-saving excuse?
And what did Sheila have to talk to the other RIO about that was so urgent? The altimeter, probably. While she might not want me making excuses to the admiral for my mistakes--hell, it wasn't excuse, it was reason!--she'd probably want to make sure that the admiral's own RIO double-checked their own altimeter before their first flight. Fool us once, shame on us; fool us twice--I let the thought go, oddly reassured by the admiral's explanation.
Even if it weren't true.
The Russians' version of a bachelor officers quarters were no great shakes. It was more spartan than anything I'd run into in the United States Navy. Damn near as uninhabitable as my own compartment onboard Jefferson. Before the modifications we'd made, I mean. Over a period of months onboard a carrier, you get around to customizing your compartment so it's not quite as bleak. My roommates and I had come up with a TV, a VCR, and a bitchin' stereo system that routinely drove the people next to us batty.
The Russian BOQ room was more like a cell. It held a narrow, uncomfortable cot and a chair. That was it. The head facilities were down the hall. Two showers, and I didn't hold out much for a good supply of hot water, judging from how grimy they looked. There were windows to the outside, no curtains or blinds, and I could already feel the cold radiating in through the thin, single-paned window. The shower curtains in the head looked slightly mildewed, and the toilet bowl was rimmed with rust stains inside.
I changed, sponged off the sweat as best I could, and got ready for the evening meal. The admiral had said it would be a formal affair, and I wasn't looking forward to it.
At the prearranged time, an escort picked us up to go to the banquet in the Russian officers club. Sheila, I was surprised to see, was tricked out in her skirt and heels. I was in my dress blues, the two stripes on my dress blue sleeves outnumbered by her two and a half.
We slipped into the overcrowded, stuffy room like we owned it. It was packed with Russians, all in what I figured were probably their best dress uniforms. There were aguillettes, medals dangling, and more brass than I'd ever seen in one place before. After the debacle of earlier that day, I felt like everyone was staring at me. Not only was I the most junior of just about anybody around, I was the one who'd screwed the pooch.
Or at least I was supposed to think I was. For now, Sheila and I were going to let them think that they had us fooled.
"I know something," I heard a female voice slightly behind me say. I turned to find a woman, a civilian by her dress, standing just behind me looking up at me. She was noticeably shorter than I was, her head barely reaching my shoulder level. Long auburn hair flamed in a crown on her head, spilling down her back in luxurious curls. Her eyes were brown, large and doe-like, and she stared at me with a look that was somewhere between lust and amusement. "About the flight today, I mean." She spoke English well, with only a slight trace of an accent.
I smiled at her. "A lot of people know a lot about today," I said.
"We haven't had the pleasure. Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon." I extended my hand.
"Anna Doysta," she answered, slipping her small, cool hand into mine.
Despite her slight size, she gripped my hand with surprising strength. "Of course, I know who you are. We all do. I was hoping for an opportunity to meet with you tonight." Her smile broadened, as though to leave no doubt about what she meant.
I laughed despite myself. "My pleasure, Anna," I said agreeably. "I suspect you'll be the high point of my evening, as well." I waved my hand at the assembled gaggle of officers and civilians. "And just where do you fit in to this operation?"
I was already sure I knew. She was charming, and certainly beautiful, and within the space of a few seconds had managed to stroke my ego in a way that few American women did. Certainly not Sheila Kennedy, my all too capable RIO and running mate.
But how foolish did the Russians think I was? I knew who Anna worked for, even if she would never admit it. This was the very sort of thing we'd been cautioned against by Lab Rat, an approach by an attractive member of the opposite sex while we were in Russia.
"But you must know what I do," she said, her tone of voice playful and amused, as though letting me in on a big secret. "They've talked to you, yes? I am a spy, of course." She gave a gentle, lilting laugh, as though to belie the seriousness of her answer. "At least, I am employed as one.
Although there are very little opportunities for spying these days, at least in the last f
ive years. I had hoped for a more glamorous career, but unfortunately my area of expertise is primarily agricultural. You know, finding out deep, dark secrets about Ukrainian wheat production, the Turkish soybean crop." She waved her hand in a small, dismissing motion.
"Not what I expected when I joined the KGB."
"You're very up front about it," I stammered, trying to get my balance. I knew it, she knew it---but to admit it just like that?
Glasnost and peristroika had gone a whole hell of a lot further than I ever imagined.
"Tonight, I am off duty," she said, her voice firm. "No spying--and I do not know enough about aircraft or airplanes to do a very good job of it, anyway. So shall we enjoy the evening? How are you finding your time in Russia?"
"Not what I had planned so far," I admitted. There was something completely and entirely disarming about her, a spy who admitted she was one. Especially a spy that looked like she did. "I didn't do so hot today."
She nodded. "I heard." She took a step closer and laid one hand on the crook of my arm. "You must be very, very careful," she said, speaking quietly. "I'm a very good spy--at least, in my area. I hear the others talk. When you go back to your aircraft, please check carefully this equipment called an altimeter." She stumbled slightly over the word, as though she'd never used it in conversation before. "You went too low, but I do not think it was entirely your fault." She glanced over at an assembled gaggle of Russian pilots. I could tell they were pilots from this distance, watching the arm movements as they reenacted the day's engagement for each other. "They do not like to lose--not for any reason.
It was not your fault you were outside of the envelope." Again, her words sounded slightly awkward, as though she were unused to talking aviation or using the terminology of the trade. That, more than her self-proclaimed declaration that she was an agricultural spy, reassured me.
"What makes you say that?" I asked. I glanced over to see where Sheila was, wondering if I ought to get her in on this. But she was preoccupied with an American attache officer. The diplomatic corps had turned out en masse for this function. They'll do anything for free booze.
Carrier 13 - Brink of War Page 8
