Lieutenant j.g. Peter Costello, call sign “Hitman,” parked his F-14 off
Bayerly’s starboard wing.
“Hey, Made It,” Bayerly’s RIO said over the ICS. “Word from Sierra
Bravo Four-six. Sharpshooter is refueled and on the way.”
“About damn time,” Made It replied. “Only danger we’re likely to face
is being bored to death.”
Lieutenant “Kid” Stratton, his backseater, chuckled. “So we’ll give the
hero his turn on the boonie patrol. I could use a shower and a cup of
coffee.”
Bayerly didn’t answer. Tombstone Magruder and the fuss that had been
made over him since Wonsan was rapidly becoming a sore point with Made
It.
Where the Jefferson’s other aviators joked and bantered about Magruder’s
name in the headlines, the press conferences, and all the rest, for
Bayerly it was all simply a bitter reminder that his own career was
nearly at an end.
“Magruder can go-”
“Hold it,” Kid interrupted. “Something from Sierra Bravo.”
“Let’s hear it.”
There was a click as the RIO piped the radio call through to Bayerly.
Sierra Bravo Four-six was one of Jefferson’s E-2C Hawkeye radar
surveillance planes. A so-called “force multiplier,” a Hawkeye
increased the efficiency of American Naval aircraft by detecting targets
at ranges far beyond the reach of the Tomcat’s own AWG-9 radar, and by
coordinating widely scattered warplanes both on routine patrol and
during combat.
“Cowboy, this is Sierra Bravo Four-six,” the Hawkeye observer’s voice
was saying. “We have unidentified bogie, bearing three-five-zero from
your position, range five-two miles. Can you confirm sighting, over?”
There was an anxious moment’s silence. “Can’t find ’em, Made It,”
Stratton said. “They’re lost in the clutter. Must be pretty low.”
Made It opened the radio channel. “Sierra Bravo, this is Cowboy Leader.
No joy on your sighting. Repeat, no joy. Over.” This was ridiculous.
If the Hawkeye wanted them to sort targets from the reflected returns
off the mountains, they’d have to grant permission to go below the hard
deck. At this rate, they wouldn’t spot any bogies until the targets
were right on top of them.
“Cowboy, Sierra Bravo. Bogie may be Burmese incursion That air space.
Homeplate requests visual confirmation, repeat, visual. Come to new
course, three-four-five. Over.”
“We copy, Sierra Bravo.” He brought the stick over, watching the
compass heading slip through the numbers until the Tomcat was on the
indicated bearing. His left hand nudged the throttle forward and the
F-14 picked up speed. Hitman Costello’s aircraft paced him.
“Yo! Got them,” Stratton said. “Two bogies, bearing three-five-one,
range forty. Shit, that’s across the green line, Made It. You think
they’re Burmese?”
The green line was shorthand for the That-Burmese border. “Probably a
couple of That recon planes that got lost,” Made It replied. “Sierra
Bravo Four-six, this is Cowboy. We have the bogies and are going to
buster.”
Together, the Tomcats surged forward, closing rapidly now with the two
unknowns. Bayerly eyed the jungle unrolling beneath the belly of his
F-14.
They were flying over That territory now, but farther north, somewhere
among those ravines and jungle-covered hills, lay the Shan District of
eastern Burma. The green line was clear enough on the map, but
political realities were less obvious in the real world. At ten
thousand feet there was nothing to distinguish country from country.
Bayerly opened the tactical channel. “Cowboy Leader to Cowboy Two,” he
said. “You’ve got overmatch, Hitman. Hang back.”
“Affirm, Made It. Watch your hard deck.”
Costello’s F-14 broke right and cut power. In seconds, Bayerly’s
aircraft was far ahead.
“Bogies still coming,” Stratton said. “Hey, Made It? They’re not
squawking. I’ve got IFF on a couple of That F-5s down on the deck, but
not a beep from the bogies.”
“We’ll be able to get our primaries on ’em pretty quick,” Bayerly
replied. “Primaries” was aviator’s slang for eyes and instincts. “We
should be in eyeball range any time now.”
“There are the friendlies. Ten o’clock low.”
Bayerly looked in the indicated direction. Two That F-5 Freedom
Fighters were flying parallel to the Tomcat’s northerly course three
thousand feet below and half a mile ahead, lean, dagger-slim, and
deadly.
“Got ’em.” He searched ahead, toward the north. Movement caught his
eye, a pair of black specks just above the forest canopy. “Tally-ho!”