pursuit. Repeat, break off and RTB.”
Return to base? Bayerly shook himself. He was sorely tempted to fire.
But no, his career was in a tailspin already. A stunt like that would
make him crash and burn for sure.
“Shit!” Bayerly snapped. Savagely, he yanked back on the stick, hauling
the F-14 vertical as he cut in his afterburners and clawed for the sky.
The MiG continued to race toward the north, dwindling into the haze on
the horizon. At ten thousand feet Bayerly leveled off, bringing the
Tomcat around to a southerly heading. He could see Magruder’s plane
loitering in the distance, Wayne and Costello circling beyond that. The
realization that he’d pursued the enemy MiG miles into Burmese territory
hit him like an icy wave.
Quickly, he checked the sky around his Tomcat, but it was empty of
hostile aircraft.
“Where’s the guy on our tail?”
“Tombstone brushed him off, man,” Stratton said. The RIO sounded
shaken.
“That bandit’s heading out of Dodge at Mach 1.”
Bayerly groaned inwardly. Magruder again. That made it worse. He
pushed the throttles forward, going to buster.
The air battle, such as it was, had ended.
1411 hours, 14 January
Tomcat 201
“Cowboy Leader, Sharpshooter.” Tombstone was angry. Bayerly had
deliberately violated the ROEs on two points … three if you counted
mixing it up with the intruder aircraft in the first place. “What the
hell were you playing at?”
“Get off my six, Magruder,” Bayerly’s voice replied. “I’m not in the
mood.” A short string of profanity followed, harsh and biting.
“Whoa there, don’t go ballistic on us, Made It,” Tombstone said. “You’re
way out of line!”
“Tell it to your damned uncle, hero,” Bayerly snapped. The words
carried suppressed fury, and his voice nearly broke. “I’ve had it with
all of you bastards!”
Tombstone opened his mouth to deliver a burning reply, then stopped.
Something was riding the other aviator, and until Tombstone knew what it
was, he wasn’t going to push. He didn’t know Bayerly that well, but he
could tell that the man was on edge, more than could be explained by
post-combat jitters.
The CO of the VF-97 War Eagles was a big, bluff man given to occasional
bursts of temper, but he was a competent pilot. He wouldn’t have been
given a squadron skipper’s slot if he wasn’t.
In any case, the other skipper was not under his command, and the
tactical frequency was not the place to chew out another pilot. The
whole matter would have to rest until they got back to the carrier.
Then the voice of the Air Officer back aboard Jefferson broke in on the
tactical net. “This is Homeplate. Ninety-nine aircraft, RTB. I say
again, ninety-nine aircraft, RTB.”
The radio call “ninety-nine aircraft” referred to all of the carrier’s
airborne planes. “That’s it,” Batman said. “They’re calling us back to
the bird farm.”
That wasn’t surprising, Tombstone thought. Not after the incident he’d
just witnessed, an incident tracked on the Hawkeye’s long-range radar.
Bayerly was not going to need his report to get himself hung.
But the man’s attitude still puzzled Tombstone. Crossing a border in
hot pursuit of a MiG he could understand. In combat, nothing existed
save your plane and your opponent’s plane, and the adrenaline rush of
battle could wipe everything else from your mind.
It was the acid … the pain in Bayerly’s voice that bothered him, that
and the crack about his uncle. Made It had seemed withdrawn for the
past few weeks, worried presumably, by something he’d not shared with
the other men in the wing. For the first time, Tombstone wondered if
the other aviator’s personal problems were interfering with his flying.
Navy aviators joked about living on the edge, referring to that wild mix
of speed, bravado, and arrogance which characterized the life of the
typical fighter pilot … at least in the perceptions of Hollywood and
the public.
They did not talk about going past the edge, about losing the
self-assurance which alone let them put their lives on the line day
after day, week after week.
Had Bayerly just lost it? With a trap coming up, they might all be
about to find out.