nagged to be understood. He let his thoughts linger on it for a
moment, on how he’d met her on board Jefferson during a cruise, how
they’d gradually come to know and respect each other, first as aviators
and then as lovers. And on the impact she had made on his life, in
marked contrast to that of Miss Pamela Drake. What had he ever done to
deserve such a wonderful woman? A superb, giving lover, tender and
supportive spouse, and dynamite bulldog tactical officer in the air if
he’d made up his own wish list of what he wanted in a wife, he would
have sold Tomboy far short.
But her voice … he pushed the thought aside, and concentrated on the
land coming into view ahead. By now, the sun was nearly half visible
over the horizon, and streaks of rose and orange striped almost the
entire sky. Night was no longer a protecting cloak.
As the minutes passed. Tombstone could feel the tension mount in the
cockpit. It was a familiar sensation, but still fraught with all the
fear and anxiety that going into combat always brought. He and Tomboy
had been here before, done this time after time together, both over the
Spratlys and the Aleutian Islands. Why should this occasion be any
different? It wasn’t, he suspected; it was just the fact of their
marriage that made it seem odd.
An odd silence hung in the cockpit as well, unalleviated by any
tactical chatter from the secured radio or communication with other
pilots. According to the radar, the furball to the southeast was still
in frantic action, American pilots chasing the nimble MiGs across the
sky, periodic flashes of increased radar detection indicating that
another airplane had exploded into a massively reflexive ball.
American or Cuban there was no way to tell until the flash settled down
and Tomboy could verify whether Or not the surviving blip showed IFF
transmission.
As far as he could tell, it looked like the Americans were winning. An
EMP would change that, knocking both the American and Cuban aircraft
out of the sky more effectively than the smartest air-to-air weapon in
either inventory.
“Tombstone. I think I’ve got it.” Tomboy’s voice sounded forced, but
calm. “Look out at zero-nine-zero; see if you can see anything. It’s
an intermittent blip on radar. Could be the UAV.”
Tombstone turned his head right and stared into the rising sun. Just
occulting in front of it was a small, dark blip, barely more visible
than a pinprick. The UAV he was almost sure of it. It was all the
wrong shape, had all the wrong movements for a fighter aircraft. “I’ve
got it. Yes, I think that’s it.”
“Good. I hold it inbound toward the same target area.
Speed Mach one-point-two, altitude five thousand feet.”
Tombstone nodded. That matched his visual identification. “So
Batman’s going in with it.”
“Maybe. Remember, he’s still holding us on radar as well.
Did you secure the IFF?”
“No. So he’s at least got that to break our radar blip out of the
pack. He knows where we are, and he knows his newest play toy is
headed dead for us. This is one decision I can’t make for him.”
“Feet dry,” Tomboy announced, refocusing him on the mission. Tombstone
nosed the Tomcat down, heading for the deck. He’d make his initial run
at five hundred feet, see what intelligence he could gain from his
first pass. Then, time permitting and depending on what Batman did
with the UAV, he’d vector back in on a bombing run.
The command post was reportedly located under twenty feet of dirt, but
the five-hundred-pounders at least had a chance of damaging it. Maybe
fatally. It was better than losing all the aircraft currently airborne
to EMP if the UAV held the warhead he suspected it did.
“Two minutes,” Tomboy said. She suggested a tiny course correction,
which Tombstone promptly adopted.
Again, the odd silence descended on the cockpit. With nothing else to
do except watch for antiaircraft fire and wonder if some prehistoric
idiot armed with a Stinger would be sitting on a hill waiting for
them.
Tombstone found odd pictures flashing into his mind. Tomboy, the first