… bearing from buoy is one-eight-one …”
“Range?” Meade demanded.
“Close … damned close …”
Magruder saw the MAD indicator register a contact. “MAD is active!” he
said sharply. “MAD active!”
“Christ!” Harrison said. “We’re right on top of the guy!
“Got a line from buoy one now,” Curtis said.
“That’s our boy!” Meade said. “Triangulating now.”
“Course is one-seven-five degrees, speed ten, depth two-one-five,” Curtis
reported.
“Range is eight hundred yards,” Meade added a second later. “Man, what a
break!”
“We’ve hooked him,” Harrison said. “But we’ve still gotta nail him.
I’ll circle in for an attack run.”
“Better hurry, Skipper,” Curtis said. “The pings’ve spooked him. I’m
getting changes in speed, target aspect … sounds like he’s diving, too.
Updating …”
“Dropping a fish,” Harrison announced. “Bay doors opening.”
Magruder felt rather than heard the grinding sound of the bomb bay
opening to expose its lethal cargo. The S-3’s internal bay held four Mark 50
lightweight torpedoes, specifically designed for the Navy’s ASW aircraft. As
he heard the sound of the release mechanism dropping one of the torpedoes
Magruder could imagine it falling, its parachute deploying to slow the
weapon’s fall. When it hit the water the torpedo would start its own hunt
with an on-board sonar system.
“Torpedo running,” Meade announced. “I think we have acquisition.”
Magruder closed his eyes. The detached air of the Viking’s crew seemed
unreal to him. Down below the aircraft the torpedo was closing on the Soviet
submarine at a speed of over fifty knots, yet the matter-of-fact voices in the
S-3 cabin might have been discussing sports scores for all the emotion they
expressed. This was a new kind of war for Tombstone Magruder. A war he
wasn’t sure he’d ever really understand.
0926 hours Zulu (0926 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“Help me out, John-Boy,” Coyote said, trying to keep the edge of tension
out of his voice. “Come on, man, you’ve got to have something for me!”
Viper Squadron was spread out in a loose formation, angling north and
west at fifteen thousand feet. The carrier was far behind them now, the
Russian bombers somewhere ahead and down on the deck. It was clear now that
they were heading for the coast of Iceland and not the Jefferson’s battle
group, but that didn’t diminish the threat they posed. They could still
double back.
And right now spotting the enemy was no easy task.
“This jamming’s just too damned thick, Coyote,” Nichols complained. “All
I’m getting is fuzz.”
“Well, keep on it,” Coyote snapped.
He regretted his tone at once. He was letting things get to him again,
losing control of his temper. That, he thought bitterly, was a sure way to
get shot out of the sky. All other things being equal, it was the aviator who
kept his cool and made the fewest mistakes who got home in one piece.
But today he couldn’t seem to keep a tight rein on his feelings. There
was no one cause, no one solution, and that was the real problem. Too many
emotions were distracting him.
There was fear, of course. No carrier pilot left the flight deck without
knowing fear, no matter what sort of facade they presented to the outside
world. In a combat situation, as in a night landing, the “pucker factor” was
that much worse, but it was something an aviator learned to handle. Coyote
had probably come closer to death than anyone in the squadron. He’d been shot
down in the Sea of Japan, and had cradled his dead RIO in his arms as he
awaited the SAR helo that never showed up. The North Koreans had threatened
him with execution, and wounded him in the leg during an escape attempt. And
there had been plenty of tight moments in the skies over the Indian Ocean as
well.
Coyote could have dealt with the fear alone. But today there were other
things on his mind. The confrontation with Magruder, for instance … and the
close scrutiny he felt from CAG. The captain seemed determined to find fault
with Viper Squadron and its commanding officer, and the extra pressure to
perform was the last thing Coyote needed right now. And on top of that