CARRIER 10: ARSENAL By: Keith Douglass

routine flights. And if he couldn’t answer a simple question about

whether or not he was ready, then he deserved what he got.

Seconds later, the aircraft shot off the pointy end and Bird Dog felt

the familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach and his ass floating away

from the seat as the Tomcat lost altitude.

The sea rushed up at him, smooth and glassy.

His balls contracted as a small flash of terror shivered through him.

The first few microseconds after launch, this fight for altitude and

safety, were every pilot’s worst nightmare. If Jefferson lost steam

pressure unexpectedly on the catapult shot, the Tomcat would dribble

off into the ocean. A soft cat shot meant dead aircrews. Moments

later, he felt the G-forces press him back into his seat as the Tomcat

clawed for altitude.

“Good shot,” he announced. “Airborne once more.”

Behind him, he heard Gator groan.

1206 Local (+5 GMT) Hornet 301

“Button three for coordination with tanker,” Rasher said.

“Roger. Got a visual on him. Making my approach.” Thor eased back on

the throttles, slowing the Hornet’s forward speed imperceptibly. Of

all the evolutions a carrier pilot had to master, refueling in midair

was one of the most dangerous, second in his nightmares only to landing

on the carrier deck at night during a storm.

“Hey there, Thor,” the female KA6 tanker pilot’s voice echoed in his

ear. “You dirty-winged?”

“Hell, no. This is a PMFC, not CAP. Why, you want me to kill somebody

for you, sweetheart?”

“Maybe later, big boy. It’s just that there’s a cluster-fuck of MiGs

milling about smartly in the middle of Tanker Alley. Thought we might

sneak off somewhere that we could be alone for a while.”

Thor grinned at the lascivious note in the other pilot’s voice. The

Marine Corps forced him to be politically correct on the ground. In

his estimation, the paranoia that overreacting politicians generated

did more to harm the morale of both men and women than it helped. This

was more like it-the good-natured banter between two pilots who

respected each other. “I’ll follow you anywhere. Striker,” he said,

using her call sign instead of her name. “You got some particular dark

and secluded corner in mind?”

Striker rapped out a quick series of vectors defining a piece of

airspace well away from the MiG herd. She led the way, with Thor

darting around her in his faster fighter. Ten minutes later, they were

in clear airspace.

“Now, how can I make you happy, Thor?” Striker asked finally.

“Five thousand pounds will do it. Burned up some on afterburner, and I

need some legs to play patty-cake with a turkey,” he added, using the

common aviator’s nickname for the Tomcat.

“Cozy on up to momma. Marine. I gots what you be needing.”

Thor focused on the drogue extended in front of him from the back of

the KA6. The basket bobbed and weaved in the air as it streamed out

behind the other aircraft. “Steady, steady,” he muttered, talking

himself through the approach.

If the Tomcat pilots thought tanking was tough, let them try it in a

Hornet without a RIO to act as safety observer for them.

He watched the drogue grow larger and bled off a few more knots of

airspeed. “There,” Thor said, satisfied. He tapped the throttle

forward and increased speed just enough to thump gently forward into

the drogue, seating his probe firmly inside the refueling apparatus.

“Got it first time.”

“Good seal,” Striker agreed. “Ready to pump.”

“Receiving,” Thor reported. “And Striker, it’s only polite to ask was

it good for you, too?” He grinned and waited for the rude reply he

knew he deserved, all the while watching the fuel transfer indicators

for signs of trouble.

The insistent beeping of his ALR-87 threat warning receiver filled the

cockpit. Thor’s head snapped up and he scanned the sky, urgently

trying to find the source of the fire control radar illuminating his

Hornet.

“Settle down back there,” Striker snapped. “What do you think you’re ”

“Emergency breakaway!” Thor throttled the Hornet back, jerking out of

the basket. Raw fuel streamed out of the drogue before the tanker’s

back-pressure sensors terminated the flow. “Striker, get the hell back

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