whitecapped with foam. Not enough.
The Tomcat was almost in level flight now, but still descending as its
inertia carried it forward. Gator stared in silent horror, knowing
that nothing he could say or do could change the aerodynamic equation
now being worked out between the airframe and the atmosphere. Either
Bird Dog had judged it right, or he hadn’t. Either way. Gator was out
of the loop.
He shut his eyes, not wanting to watch, then opened them immediately.
As soon as he quit looking, every nerve ending in his body seemed to
become preternaturally alive, extending out past the skin of the
aircraft to feel the warm, hungry sea below him. Better the demons he
could see than those he couldn’t.
Finally, fifteen feet above the waves, the Tomcat pulled out of its
steep dive. Gator felt a slight shudder, and wondered if the reckless
pilot in front of him had nicked the surface of the ocean with the tail
of the Tomcat. Still, the reassuring roar of both engines reassured
him that nothing was wrong with their propulsion. He felt relief flood
him, and waited for the moment when Bird Dog would start grabbing
altitude again.
It didn’t happen. The Tomcat streaked on northward, still fifteen to
twenty feet above the waves. Gator remained silent, not wanting to
cause the slightest distraction to the incredible concentration such
low-level flying required. He stared at his radar scope, willing the
missile away from them.
“Flares. Chaff.” Bird Dog’s voice was almost mechanical.
Gator automatically punched the buttons, watching in wonderment over
the fact that his hands still knew what to do while his mind stared at
the sea. He felt the gentle thumps on me airframe as the two
countermeasure packages shot out from the undercarriage, and wondered
what the hell good they would do. They were so close to the sea, both
were likely to hit the water before the missile following had any
chance to acquire them.
Just as the first thump shook the aircraft. Bird Dog wrenched the
Tomcat into a tight roll. The countermeasures, housed on the underside
of the aircraft, shot into the air, detonating one hundred feet above
the water.
The ocean was now only twenty feet above his head, as sky and water
reversed themselves in his perspective. He experienced a moment of
vertigo and a sudden tensing in his stomach. God, puking now, upside
down it would have been funny if it hadn’t been so serious.
As the last of the countermeasures left the aircraft. Bird Dog rolled
the Tomcat upright again and pulled back on the yoke. Gator felt the
indescribably delicious sensation of moving away from the water,
watching it recede until the hundred feet above it that Bird Dog
appeared to settle on felt like a vast safety margin. In other
circumstances it would have been far too low for his tastes, but now it
seemed like the ultimate in safety.
As the aircraft regained altitude, the hard blip of the missile
reappeared on his radar screen. It was now only five hundred feet
behind him, far too close for another try at countermeasures. Or maybe
it wasn’t. He tried to remember the exact parameters of the
countermeasures, calculated the possible maximum speed of the missile,
and was still frantically thinking about it when he heard Bird Dog
order another set.
Again, his fingers seemed to know what to do by themselves. He studied
the scope. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the missile’s trace on
the radar disappeared.
Another, more amorphous bloom popped up, and seconds later he heard an
explosion behind him.
“What the hell was that?” Bird Dog said.
“You know what it was.” Inexplicably, Gator was now angry beyond all
measure. “That fishing boat your low-level stunt decoyed the missile
right into it.”
“It was an air-to-air missile not an air-to-surface missile,” Bird Dog
said hurriedly. “It shouldn’t acquire a surface ship. No way.”
“How the hell do you know? It shouldn’t have run as long as it did
either. Comes in low, acquires the next best target after us, and some
sailor is fish bait now. How are you going to like explaining that to