back to the controls in front of him, refreshing his memory.
It had been a while since he’d been in the high-tech cockpit of an
F/A-18. His personal flying favorite had always been the Tomcat, but as
Deputy CAG he’d been expected to be familiar with all of the aircraft under
his command. Two weeks ago, he’d largely been flying S-3 Vikings, and before
that he’d been getting in plenty of hours with A-6 Intruders, EA-6 Prowlers,
and E-2C Hawkeyes.
But he’d flown Hornets before and loved the nimble, high-tech, dual-role
aircraft. The “office” was one of the most advanced in the air, featuring
HOTAS–Hands-On Throttle And Stick–technology and three multifunctional
displays, or MFDs. There were almost no traditional instruments on the
console, save for some backups tucked away at the bottom of the panel.
Necessary flight data was presented on computer displays. One screen was the
Combined Map/Electronic Display, or COMED, which projected radar information
and other data against a moving electronic map. All of the displays could be
changed at the touch of a menu button. If his memory needed jogging, there
was even a built-in vocal warning, a soothing female voice to tell him that he
was low on fuel or had neglected to raise his landing gear.
A Hornet-driving friend of Tombstone’s had once said that the F/A-18 was
so advanced it almost made it possible for one man to run the thing; unlike
the Tomcat, which had a RIO in the backseat to handle communications, radar,
and some of the weapons, the Hornet had only a single occupant. That wasn’t
so bad in a dogfight, but an air-to-ground attack could get pretty hairy when
one man had to fly the aircraft and target and release the warload as well.
But as Tombstone saluted the ground crew and brought the engines to life,
he knew that the Hornet represented a truly remarkable symbiosis of Man and
Machine. The old fighter pilot’s expression “strapping on an airplane” took
on new meaning in a Hornet. Tombstone was the airplane, its control surfaces
and weapons extensions of his brain, no less than his hands and feet.
“Dragon Leader, this is Camelot” sounded in his headset. “Come in,
Dragon.”
“Dragon copies. Go ahead.”
Dragon, the code name for those of the CVW-20 aircraft–almost all of
Jefferson’s air wing–that were now transferred ashore, scattered among four
different air bases. Tombstone had been overseeing the shuttling of those
planes from Jefferson’s flight deck to Norwegian airfields just recaptured
from the Soviets all morning. Glancing through his canopy, he could see other
F/A-18s arrayed by the Narvik tower. His own Hornet, the modex number newly
repainted to give him a “CAG bird” number of 300, was ready to roll.
“Dragon, we have bandits in the air, bearing three-five-five, our
position, range three-zero miles. The party is about to begin.”
“Roger that, Camelot. Dragon is on the way.” He shifted frequencies.
“Dragon, Dragon, this is Dragon Leader. The sword is drawn. Repeat, the
sword is drawn.” As he spoke, his hand gentled the HOTAS throttle grip under
his left hand forward, and the thrust from his twin GE turbofans built to a
thundering, shuddering roar.
His command, relayed to every aircraft in the wing either directly or
through the E-2C Hawkeyes code-named Bifrost, set forty aircraft moving.
Others, the F-14 Tomcats of VF-97, were already in the air, flying CAP above
the battle group as it steamed out of the fjord to engage the enemy. At
Narvik, Tombstone was leading eight Hornets of VFA-161–the Javelins–plus six
surviving Intruders of VA84–the Blue Rangers–into the air. The remaining
squadrons had been posted to the airstrip at Evanskjaer, close to the Marine
beaches; to Andoya among the Vesterigens; and to Bodo, captured only hours ago
by a heliborne Marine Regimental Landing Team.
“Tower, this is Dragon Leader,” he called. “Request permission to roll.”
“Dragon Leader, Narvik Air Control. You are clear for takeoff. Wind
one-eight at zero-one-zero. Good luck, Navy.”
“Thank you, Marines. Keep the beer cold. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Roger that, Navy. But if you miss the bastards, you’re buying.”
His eyes scanned the runway ahead, so strangely different from his usual
view, a pitching deck with sea and sky seeming close enough to touch. The