“Well, it’s too bad she didn’t have a better flight lead.” Quick turned and stalked off, leaving him alone in the dark.
Slammer felt as if the earth around him had been scorched. But she was right. If he had been a better flight lead, Robin would be here today. Maybe waiting for him upstairs. Maybe standing by his side telling Quick how it really was. He slid down the wall till his butt hit the ground and sat hunched against his pulsating house. Two conversations tonight and neither had gone remotely well. He was glad he was paid to shoot things and not talk people off ledges.
He dropped his head into his hands. Three years had passed and memories of Robin refused to leave him at peace for very long. Five foot-five with her flight boots on. Shoulder length red hair and freckles, with an easy smile and a cutting wit. He could finally admit it to himself—the only girl he’d ever loved. He hoped for the hundred-millionth time that she’d known. He certainly never told her. They were squadron mates and close friends. She and JT had lived by his side in every port for a year. They’d flown together a hundred times. But he had made sure he and Robin were never in the same room alone. He didn’t want her to have to fight the inevitable whispers and rumors. They wouldn’t have been much of a problem for him, but she would have suffered.
He’d always thought there would be a chance later. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night from a dream where they were laughing together, a dream so real it carved a new scoop in the pit of his stomach when the blinding light of reality blasted her away again. He would try desperately to fall back asleep, back into the dream. To see where things could have gone. To do what he should have done—hold her hand, brush the hair from her eyes, sneak a kiss, fall into bed. But it never worked. He wasn’t able to jump back in time to the good parts or reengineer the future, even in a dream. The nights that he relived the guilt and remorse were as confusing as they were painful. Because he knew he had done the right thing. Hadn’t he?
The Navy Times printed articles every month about some disgraced officer getting booted for not keeping his pants on. He wasn’t that kind of guy. But sometimes he wished he might have been. In those cold, dark, lonely hours between seeing her face so clearly he could remember every contour, until the welcome relief of dawn, his mind wormed its way into a dark place. If they’d hooked up, broken the rules, would she have lived? Maybe they would be together right now, farming or selling something, whatever real people did for a living. Maybe they’d have settled down, even started a family. Maybe, but he wasn’t that guy.
He pressed his fingertips hard into his eye sockets, trying in vain to suppress the memories of that day. A brilliant blue afternoon, a hundred and fifty miles at sea off a dusty desert shore. Flying another useless, boring Combat Air Patrol because some idiot was afraid the rebels had gotten fighter planes. The four of them cutting each other up on the back radio with stupid jokes, loaded to the gills with missiles and bullets, drilling holes in the sky for three fruitless hours. Three hours of their lives they’d never get back. Until, like plate glass shattering in a bank lobby, everything changed.
“Shield flight, Banger. Hot vector north.” The message crackled over the secure radio channel from the E-2. “Two Su-30s, one hundred miles. They’re headed for the boat. No shit this time. BUSTER!”
Ninety-five miles to the north, two Flankers painted in desert camouflage and armed with anti-ship missiles had crossed the shoreline at twenty-five hundred feet accelerating through Mach 1.5 in full afterburner.
He had been jolted wide awake, tightening his lap belt and scrambling to respond to the pop-up threat. He answered Banger with a calm he didn’t feel. “Shield One copies. Shields commit.” He banked aggressively to the intercept heading and plugged in full afterburner. Robin rolled out alongside, about a mile and a half abeam. It was the moment they had waited their entire lives for.
His pulse pushed into the yellow zone. The Flankers were making a dash for the aircraft carrier USS Lincoln, two hundred miles on their nose. He and Robin were on a cutoff vector. They were in mad pursuit to intercept the Flankers before they could reach launch parameters for the ship-killers.
JT transmitted from the back, “Shield One, contact, Bullseye three-three-zero, two-point-five. Hot. Fast.” Looking at his Heads-Up-Display, Slammer saw the combined closure rate at nearly 2,000 knots. He’d known, whatever the outcome, it would all be over in about a hundred seconds.
Banger responded instantly, “That’s your target. Red and Free!”
Slammer took over at this point. None of them had actually done this before—real missiles, real bandits. But they’d trained for it a thousand times. “Shields, only one chance for a shot. Sort near-far,” Slammer transmitted.
He heard Robin answer, “Shield Two, sorted. Master Arm on.”
He had murmured “Atta girl,” into his mask as he raised the red spring-loaded guard, flicking his own Master Arm switch to the ON position. The two AMRAAM missiles on each fighter were now poised, ready to be released, ignited, and sent downrange.
In the span of a few breaths they were in range. SHOOT cues blinked in Slammer’s Heads-Up-Display and without pausing, he mashed the red trigger once; then released and shot again. “Shield One, Fox three, two ship.”
“Shield Two, Fox three…Second Fox three.” The four missiles streaked off the launch rails and out of sight like enraged hunting dogs off their leashes.
JT shouted over the radio, “Single bandit turning our way! The other…” he paused, waiting for the picture to settle. “…continuing for the ship.” The Su-30s had sensed the Rhino radars. One had pressed on for the Lincoln as the other turned to face Slammer and Robin. That was the one Slammer had targeted, which meant that his missiles now had less distance to travel than Robin’s.
Slammer jumped as his radar warning systems sounded high warbling alarms. The Flanker had just launched missiles at them. It was now a race to see whose would hit first. Slammer knew they had launched earlier, but the Flanker was much faster. That speed endowed the enemy’s missiles a significant advantage, which meant they might strike the Rhinos before the American missiles tore the Flanker to shreds.
A moment later JT yelled, “Shield One Pitbull near arm, single group!” Their AMRAAMs were now in autonomous mode. They were close enough to go active, to guide themselves to the Flanker without help from his radar.
“Shields out left, now.” He slammed the stick to the left, aborting his intercept. Every instant their planes continued toward the Flanker increased the probability the enemy missile would blow them from the sky. Again, the calmness in his voice belied the storm in his brain. His fighter turned on a wingtip and he pulled as hard as he could while he thumbed yet another switch on the throttle, pumping out dozens of bundles of chaff countermeasures.
Halfway through his turn, he looked over his shoulder. Robin was pressing on toward the threat, ignoring his command. Blood pounded in his ears, fighting G forces he gasped with a raspy breath. “Dammit, Robin! Abort NOW!”
Her jet slammed into a high G turn. Vapor trails streamed off the wingtips as the fighter strained under eight times the force of gravity.
Slammer had heard her grunting through the G forces, “They’re active! I’m out!”
He watched in relief as her fighter turned toward safety, her chaff bundles blooming into clouds of radar-confounding shredded aluminum—a nearly imperceptible trail tracing her escape. He’d resumed his pull as a swell of excitement threatened to burst his chest. They’d done it. Holy shit, they’d done it!
But out of the corner of his vision, squeezed narrow by the strain against the Gs, he had spotted a faint trail of smoke. Like a bolt from a wrathful god it reached out and struck Robin midway through her turn to safety. Faster than his mind could comprehend, Shield Two evaporated into a tumbling, fragmenting metallic cloud, followed instantly by a ball of dirty orange flame that flared and faded as quickly as it had blossomed.
Slammer squeezed his eyes shut. On instinct alone he rolle
d the plane out on the escape heading. As the Gs receded he leaned his helmet back onto the headrest, crushing his eyelids closed even harder, trying to delete the scene of flaming metal debris that played at hyper pace across his retina like an insane loop of horrible film.
But the darkness couldn’t protect him from hearing. The voice of Banger bored straight into his brain. “Nice shots, Slammer and Robin. Splash two Flankers! Hell of a job.” Clearly Shield Two’s explosion hadn’t yet registered on the E-2’s screen. She lived for a few seconds longer, as a computer-generated blip between radar sweeps, before fading away entirely.
As he sat against his house, he knew that despite their friendship, and though he had never said anything, Robin had sensed his feelings about women in combat, even confronted him once. Since her death, he was stuck in a different insane, horrible loop. One second he would believe she had overcompensated, recklessly trying to change his mind through her bravado. And the next he would flip back, certain she had failed, becoming paralyzed in the face of adversity, and thus his opinion of girl pilots been spot on all along. The fact that he would never know left him without peace. Did she freeze up in the moment of truth, incapable of handling the pressure? Or did she ignore his command and brave the danger in a deadly attempt to prove herself to him? She had not had grace under pressure. Or had she? And so it went, over and over. He felt the earth spin underneath him and he rolled to the side and vomited into the bushes.
Chapter 18
03 July
Dajin Island, Guangzhou Military Region, China
Special Forces Unit—“South Blade”
The commando finished his morning swim with a ride through the surf. He blinked the water from his eyes and spotted General Yongsheng standing at the foamy reach of the waves. The General was shaking his shiny black boots, trying in vain, no doubt, to preserve them from the dirty sand on the remote island a stone’s throw from mainland China. The breeze from the spinning helicopter thirty meters behind barely ruffled his slicked black hair. The General was not especially famous for his patience, so the commando moved as quickly as he could through the retreating waters and soft sand, breathing deeply from his intense workout. He came to a stop with a deep bow.
“How are you Biédòngduì?” General Yongsheng asked solicitously.
“I am well, Sir,” the commando replied, still bent over to show his respect. He dripped sea water in a pool uncomfortably close to the General’s boots.
“At ease.” The commando straightened, meeting the General’s eyes. “I have another very important task for you. The centerpiece of our little shadow theater. This one is far too sensitive to discuss over even the most secure cellular phones.” The commando nodded once. “You must be ready to depart in one week. It is a long journey, though not so distant. It is not so complicated as it may seem at first. But let us discuss the details here, where my helicopter makes just the correct amount of noise.”
Chapter 19
08 July
USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)
Roughly 100NM west-southwest of San Diego, California
Crash. Slammer turned his back as the Hornet collided with the flight deck, bracing against the roiling exhaust blasting his back from a couple of hundred feet away. He ducked behind the metal deflector and peered through the thick glass window to ensure that the hook was firmly seated in the wire before turning his attention back to the sky behind the Reagan, scanning for the next arrival. The plane in the wires bellowed like a dragon, screaming and belching hot gasses in protest at its arrest from flight. The sound pierced the protective yellow foamies he’d jammed deep into his ears and the roar traveled across the metal flight deck up his legs and rumbled in his gut. It was one of the best sensations he knew.
It was Carrier Qualification day—and night—for all the newbies from the various training squadrons scattered throughout the country. Every other month thirty or so aspiring Navy fighter pilots would throw themselves at the ship, hoping to surpass this last, greatest hurdle. Six LSOs manned the platform, two from each of the F-18 training squadrons. Slammer and Truck were backing up the Marines until it was time for their Gladiators to arrive. All of the LSOs were dressed identically—camo pants and steel-toed flight boots, white cotton mock-turtleneck flight deck jerseys and a white float-coat, the float-coats being what would keep them bobbing on the surface in the event they were blown over the side and plunged sixty feet into the ocean. From the neck down the LSOs resembled the hundreds of other flight deck personnel scurrying about topside, different colored coats and jerseys representing their respective roles. Yellow for the flight deck directors, brown for the plane captains, red for ordnanceman, purple for fuelers, green for maintainers, and so on. But above the neck the similarities ended. Somehow, in the bloody 100-year history of carrier crashes, mishaps, fires, explosions, snapped wires, flying debris and other life-ending hazards, the community of Landing Signal Officers managed to avoid the unstylish and bulky cranial headgear, awkward Mickey Mouse hearing protection and ski goggle safety glasses that all others were forced to suffer. The men and women who wore the white jerseys, signifying safety personnel, wore little yellow foamies to preserve their hearing and Ray-Bans to shield their eyes while their hair whipped about freely in the ever present wind.
The Hornet that had just trapped cut its throttles abruptly, finally convinced it was safely stopped on the steel. Slammer’s eyes were on the next plane rolling into the groove three-quarters of a mile astern, 325 feet above the foamy white wake, but he was keenly aware of the dance taking place behind him. The pilot in the wires was scrambling to keep pace with the rapid fire hand signals coming his way, impatiently flashed by a twenty-year-old flight deck director. The student’s brain was still in the air, replaying the last pass over and over, trying to calculate how well he had flown. Trying not to think about the fact there were only ten chances to achieve a qualifying grade. Trying to compartmentalize the hopes and fears and desperation into a remote corner of his mind so he could remember what his next urgent steps were with enough time to clear the landing area for the following victim. In a matter of seconds he would raise his flaps, unlock and fold his wings and keep his feet away from the brakes as the arresting wire tugged him back a few feet to disentangle itself from his hook. Then, as the next plane was seconds away from landing, he would raise his hook and add power to make a right turn, taxiing from the landing area only to get in line for the catapult to launch him into the skies so he could do it all again.
As soon as the plane was clear of the painted red and white foul-line marking the boundary of the landing area, the deck status light in front of the LSO platform would change from red to green; foul to clear.
As long as the light was red, he and his five LSO partners held their right arms high above their heads as a physical reminder the deck was still foul. Held aloft in those right hands they each grasped a Pickle Switch which, if squeezed, would wave-off the approaching plane with a barrage of flashing red warning lights. Once the deck status light turned green the LSOs would drop their arms to their sides in unison, index fingers still curled around the Pickle Switch in case things went sour. Their left hands held the radio handsets, which looked like old WWII Bakelite telephones, up to their ears, fingers poised on the mic switch ready to transmit safety instructions or wisdom, or just a little sugar-call—those encouraging transmissions from the LSOs that attempted to fix a deviation before it became too gross—to sweeten the pass.
Through the handset he heard, “One-oh-six, Hornet ball, six-point-oh.” The LSO for the Marine squadron answered immediately, “Roger ball, Hornet.”
He glanced at the video screen at the front of the platform that displayed the view from the camera embedded in the centerline of the flight deck. The Hornet was aligned with the crosshairs on the screen but drifting left. He heard the Marine LSO purr, “Little right for lineup,” and the pilot corrected to center instantly. The group of six turned their heads in unison as the Hornet flashed past th
em, the wingtip barely ten feet from their Ray-Bans, and smashed into the deck. The hook snagged the 3-wire as it dragged across and as one they braced for the blast of swirling exhaust.
Truck nudged him and they both looked up as two of their Rhinos settled into the holding pattern 2,000 feet above them. They were up next. He glanced at his watch. Showtime in fifteen minutes.
Twenty miles away Quick and Dingle were scanning the horizon for the Reagan. The Texan’s drawl piped in through her headset with a hint of polite exasperation, “I swear it’s right on the nose.” It was a clear day but the wind was high and it whipped up a fine sea mist blurring the line between sea and sky.
Her chest was tight. “I’ve got nothing. You sure you know how to use that radar?”
“No, I’m not. You sure you don’t need glasses? It’s only the biggest damn warship in the world. Ten miles now, at our eleven o’clock.”
She crosschecked her altitude to ensure she was at 2,000 feet and scanned the horizon. There it was, a faint gray hulk just barely visible on the slate blue of the Pacific. She could hear her heart beating in her ears. Damn, she was going to have to settle down. “Tally, eleven o’clock.”
“’Bout time. Anyone else here with us?” She knew Dingle was keeping her in the game with his questions, and tore her eyes from the ship to scan the skies at their altitude.
“Thanks, Dingle. I’ve got visual three more.” She sequenced herself into the pattern orbiting the carrier, keeping an equal space between the planes in front of them and behind.
She and Dingle craned their heads as they passed over the ship, scanning the flight deck. A Hornet was touching down just as another was launched from the bow catapult. She was already tuned to the tower frequency and they heard the Marine LSO call over the radio, “Bolter, bolter!” The Hornet had missed all the wires and leapt back into the sky, turning slightly to fall in trail of a plane that had just launched.
Lions of the Sky Page 17
