“Two missiles, range four miles!” his RIO called. “Can’t shake ’em!”
Tombstone saw the blips closing on his own VDI, saw the rapid pulse of the console missile-warning light. He rammed
ARMAGEDDON MODE
81
the throttles forward, sending the Tomcat’s heavy engines into Zone Five as he turned to face the slightly nearer of the two threats.
“Three miles! Two . . . !”
“Hit the chaff!” He felt the chaff canisters firing, then hauled the Tomcat back until it was standing on its tail. Stars wheeled across the sky through Tombstone’s HUD, unspeakably clear and close as die F-14 climbed past thirty thousand feet.
“We lost one!” Dixie yelled. His excitement was shrill, exuberant. “Number two climbing to meet us. Range three miles!”
Tombstone dragged the stick over and back, flipping the Tomcat onto its back, then righting it with a brutal half-twist. As the nose came up, his HUD targeting diamond tagged the oncoming enemy fighter that had fired the second Apex. He thumbed the switch on his stick. There was no time now for confirmation. Only survival . . .
“Going for Sidewinder!” The HUD display showed target lock.
“Gotcha!” He squeezed the trigger and the Sidewinder dropped from its rail, trailing flame into the darkness. “Fox two! Fox two!”
Tombstone pulled the Tomcat into a snap roll that twisted it toward the sea. At the last moment, he saw the exhaust of the oncoming missile, an evil-looking pinprick of yellow light arcing toward him through the night.
“He’s breaking! Tombstone! He’s breaking!” Dixie’s cry brought a relief-driven gust of air from Tombstone’s lungs. By firing a Sidewinder at the otfier pilot, he’d forced his opponent to turn, breaking the MiG’s radar lock on the Tomcat. And when the approaching missile lost its semi-active guidance lock . . .
“Second missile missed!” Dixie called. “God damn, Tombstone! You know how to push it to the edge!”
A moment later, a flash of white light pulsed against the night. The Sidewinder had found its target.
“Grand slam!” Dixie called. “Victor Tango, splash one! Splash one!”
Only then did Tombstone realize that he’d technically violated
82 Keflh Dougtess
the ROEs. He’d been fired at, but he’d not received confirmation from Jefferson for weapons release.
The hell with it, Tombstone thought. It’s time to turn and burn. . . .
2020 hows, 24 March
dC, U.S.S. Thomas JWferson
Vaughn felt cold . , . cold . . . with the icy knowledge that events were now totally beyond his control. When that Tomcat pilot fired without waiting for a weapons-free confirmation, he’d crossed a boundary for the whole damned battle group.
He swallowed, working to stay calm, working to control the gnawing rasp in his stomach. This mess wasn’t his fault. But would Washington understand that?
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Damn it, who fired first?”
“Hard to make out, sir,” an enlisted rating said. He was relaying radio messages and radar scans transmitted through the circling Hawkeye. The air battle was taking place at the very limit of the E-2C’s range, and information was fragmentary, the picture fuzzy. Confused bursts of noise and bits of conversation came over the loudspeaker mounted high on CICs bulkhead, allowing the tense officers and men standing in the red-lit room to listen in on the unfolding fight.
“Splash one! Splash one.'”
The men in CIC broke into a ragged cheer at that. Vaughn scowled. Despite all he’d been able to do, a dogfight had begun. Transfixed, he stared at the radar feed from the airborne Hawkeye. There was little to be seen, the smear of clouds associated with a weather front to die east, and a tangle of slow-moving blips where the dogfight was taking place between Bombay and the convoy.
“If I may suggest, Admiral,” Bames said. “We should get some more guns into the area, fast. Before the enemy gets any closer.”
“We have two more F-14s on BARCAP east of the carrier,” Marusko pointed out.’ ‘And two more on Alert Five. We’ve got an honest-to-God furball up there, and our boys are going to need some help.”
ARMAGEDDON MODE 83
So there it was. The decision that, either way, would be the mistake the buzzards in Washington would pounce on, once they caught the scent of blood. The order he was about to give might well be the crowning achievement of his career … or the end of it.