And maybe permanently for Gator. Every time Bird Dog crested a wave,
he scanned the sea around him, looking for the distinctive orange color
that would pinpoint his backseater’s location.
There was no trace of him.
He felt his mind starting to drift, lulled into an odd state of
relaxation by the warm water and the release of tension following his
violent ejection from the aircraft. It felt so odd, to float so
peacefully on the water while to the east the rest of the squadron
still battled off the Cuban aggressors.
He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, a gentle rhythmic
whop-whop that he jerked violently upright in the water, shifting his
gaze from the sea to the air. That was no heartbeat he recognized the
sound all too well, although he’d never heard it from exactly this
angle.
An odd, ungainly insect was hovering mere inches above the water-at
least at first glance that’s what it looked like.
As he refocused himself out of the temporary euphoria that always
followed unexpected survival, the shape resolved itself into the
ungainly figure of the SAR helicopter.
He felt a wild surge of hope, a reorientation toward reality. From
that altitude, he’d have an excellent view of miles and miles of
surrounding ocean. They’d be able to spot Gator immediately.
At least, one part of his mind said, they would if his backseater’s
seat span had deployed properly. And if Gator hadn’t impacted the
canopy on the way out of the aircraft.
And if Bird Dog shoved away the myriad possibilities of what could have
gone wrong with Gator’s egress from the aircraft. It didn’t pay to
think about it not now, not with the helicopter inbound. He hoped if
they saw Gator, they’d vector over and pull his backseater out of the
water first. He watched for any jink in the aircraft’s course, hoping
it would veer away to pursue some other target. But no, it bore
steadily in on him.
Five minutes later, the rescue swimmer plunged into the ocean beside
him. The water was spread out flat around Bird Dog, evidence of the
powerful downdraft from the helicopter’s blades. As he horse-collared
up into the helicopter, Bird Dog was already shouting questions to the
pilot. He fumbled with the catches, flung the rescue device away from
him, and stumbled to the edge of the open hatch. A crew member grabbed
him, slapped a safety line on him.
“You’re not going back into the water. Not after I just hauled you out
of it.”
“Leave me alone.” Bird Dog scanned the water frantically, then darted
to the other side of the cabin and peered out the small window. Miles
of ocean stretched out before him. Blue, solidly blue except for tiny
scraps of white topping the waves.
There was no sign of Gator.
SIXTEEN Wednesday, 03 July 0655 Local (+5 GMT) Washington, D.C. “You’re
out of options. Admiral.” Senator Williams swiveled away from the
tactical display. His presence here in the Joint Chiefs of Staff war
room was unusual, but not unprecedented. As a member of the military
subcommittee, he had access on a need-to-know basis. This, Williams
figured, was the most need-to-know opportunity that had arisen since
the original Cuban Missile Crisis incident.
Admiral Loggins’s voice got tight. “Jesus, you are insane!
Nuclear weapons? And in Cuba? If we use the UAV option, the fallout
alone will have consequences in the United States.”
Williams shook his head. “Not so. If you’ve been listening to the
experts, the chances of radiation reaching American soil are
minimal.”
“I have pilots in the air right now,” Loggins thundered.
“What do your so-called experts say about them? Are they in any
danger? You know as well as I do that the EMP is liable to knock them
all out of the air! I’m not taking that chance not today, not ever.
They don’t deserve that.”
“Hard choices require hard men,” Senator Williams shot back. “You
think it was easy for my predecessors, deciding to leave those POWs in
enemy hands after each war? To sacrifice men and women in combat? Do
you think we’re that heartless?”
And that. Admiral Loggins realized, was essentially the question. Did