by a twist of the Nidelva River and squeezed between hills to the south and
the fjord waters to the north.
Coyote flew four miles above the city. With Tomcat 201 so badly smashed
it had been shoved over the side, he was flying “Deuce double-nuts,” the CAG
bird usually reserved for the air wing commander. It didn’t seem likely that
Tombstone was going to be doing much flying. The poor guy had been buried in
Jefferson’s Air Ops ever since his return from Bergen the day before and
showed no signs of coming up for air.
Flexing his gloved hand on the Tomcat’s stick, Coyote savored the feel of
raw power throbbing through the aircraft’s seat, the feel of the harness
pressing against his torso and shoulders, the weight of mask and helmet on his
head. Those sensations stirred him, reminders that he was alive. Alive …
He was afraid. There was no denying now that simple fact. He’d felt the
fear early that morning during the mission briefing in the Viper Squadron
ready room, felt it even more keenly as he’d walked out to the line and
clambered into the F-14’s cockpit. He knew the symptoms. He’d seen them
often enough in other aviators, men who’d lost the edge, who’d faced Death …
and flinched.
When he’d gone in to see Tombstone, that afternoon after the dogfight
with the MiGs, he’d been ready then to turn in his wings. He’d come so damned
close first when a Fulcrum had sent cannon shells sleeting through his Tomcat,
then when he’d lost control of the faltering aircraft and sent it slamming
into Jefferson’s deck.
He should have died. John-Boy Nichols had died, and there seemed to be
no good reason why the RIO was dead and Coyote was not.
Coyote knew he was operating now on borrowed time. He’d been shot down
once in enemy action, captured, and wounded during an escape, not the sort of
experience a man could shrug off. He’d come even closer the other day in the
dogfight, and in the near-disaster of his landing. Each time he launched from
the Jefferson’s deck he was tossing the dice with his life as the wager.
Sooner or later his luck was going to desert him.
Julie …
Get hold of yourself, Grant, he told himself savagely. That brush with
combat statistics a few days ago has you royally screwed up in the head. But
he couldn’t get Julie out of his mind. He wanted to see her again, to be with
her. And Julie Marie. A kid needed her father, not a name on a wall
somewhere, or a picture in a scrapbook.
Trying to break the morbid train of thought, he looked out first one side
of the cockpit, then the other. His wingman hung in position off his right
wing, Tomcat 209 piloted by Lieutenant Randy “Trapper” Martin. Below, vapor
trails scratched white lines across the dark waters of the fjord, a flight of
Norwegian F-16s out of Trondheim.
The front lines were close here. There were Russians at Namsos, a few
miles beyond the northern end of Trondheimfjord, and the battle-lines might be
closer still. Soviet forces crossing from Sweden were at Kopper forty-five
miles to the east. The situation was fluid, the latest news of enemy
positions usually out of date by the time Jefferson’s people heard it, but a
fight was shaping up at Trondheim, as the enemy pressed in from two
directions. Those F-16s might well be deploying for an attack on the Russian
lines. The remnants of the Norwegian air force had been hurling themselves at
the enemy for the past several days in an almost suicidal frenzy, blasting
narrow mountain roadways, bombing enemy columns, and challenging the Soviets’
mastery of the skies. Jefferson’s air wing would have long since been
overwhelmed by the Russian superiority of numbers had it not been for them.
Unfortunately, the Norwegians were outnumbered at least ten to one. The
aircraft aboard Jefferson–two squadrons of Tomcats, two of Hornets, two of
A-6 Intruders, and the rest–would not be enough to turn the tide.
Something else, something more was needed.
“Cowboy One-one, this is Delta Tango One,” a voice crackled over his