“Cowboy One-one, charlie now.”
“Roger,” Coyote replied. “Cowboy One-one, coming in.”
The horizon canted sharply as Coyote dropped into a starboard turn.
Normally, the Marshall Stack was located within twenty miles of the carrier.
This time, however, it was located well away from the Jefferson, over forty
miles to the east. Airspace inside the fjord was limited, and the battle
group’s commanders did not want the high level of air activity to give away
the carrier’s precise location.
Vziiderey airport, located on a small island north of the port city of
Alesund, provided a measure of cover. All airfields in the region had been
taken over by the military, and any unusual air traffic in the area noticed by
the Russians might be attributed to Norwegian F16s or F105s. The Norwegian
interceptors that were turning the tide of the air battle over Trondheim had
come principally from Vziideriy.
He leveled out heading east, a course that took him across a scattering
of islands near the port city of Alesund, and just south of the airport. Two
aircraft crossed the Tomcat’s path a thousand feet below–F105 Freedom
Fighters by the sharp-nosed, angular look of them. Descending slowly, he went
feet dry over the small port of Sovik, crossed a rolling patchwork of farms
and forests, then emerged over the Romsdalfjord. The island of Otroy lay to
the north. Coyote could see the lean, gray shapes of the Shiloh and the
Winslow in the lee of the headland. Ahead, where the fjord’s waters narrowed
between steeply rising banks, Jefferson lay at anchor, bow-on.
Passing the carrier two miles off her port side, he could see the toy
shape of the Angel One helo hovering between him and the carrier. An A6 was
just crossing Jefferson’s roundoff, descending toward its controlled crash on
the number-three wire. It had to be one of the Intruders from the raid on the
Russian carrier group up north.
Coyote wondered if they’d managed to hit anything.
“Goin’ to goose mode,” Teejay said from the backseat. The Tomcat’s
computer was extending the aircraft’s wings as airspeed dropped below 280
knots.
Coyote let it ride. The narrow confines of the fjord left no room for
error, and there were unpredictable crosswinds and down-drafts off those crags
and rocky cliffs.
Navigating the final turn less than a mile off Jefferson’s stern, Coyote
reached out with his mind, sensing the aircraft–flaps and rubber and
ailerons. He slapped a switch and felt the thump of the gear locking, felt
the sudden extra drag. Wheels down.
“Cowboy One-one, call the ball.”
“Tomcat Two-zero-zero, three-point-eight, ball.”
“Roger ball. Deck steady. Bring her on in, Coyote.”
The last time he’d tried this …
No, it wouldn’t do to think about the last time. There was only now, and
that, Coyote realized, was what had been getting him into trouble before. He
realized that, at some undefined point during the past hours, he’d arrived at
a decision. He was going to leave the Navy, and soon. As soon as he could
arrange it, in fact, once this current crisis was past. He’d danced with
Death too often in the past.
Coyote felt a tremendous peace in his decision. When he’d considered
leaving the Navy before, that evening when he’d gone up to the CAG office to
see Tombstone, he’d been driven there, chased by fear and his own guilt at
being afraid. All of that was gone now.
He was still afraid. Hell, who wouldn’t be? Crash-landing Tomcats on
postage-stamp-sized aircraft carriers in the middle of a war was dangerous;
the chances that he would be killed were very, very good. But now the
pressure was off. He’d keep on doing what he was doing because he did it very
well and because his shipmates were counting on him, just as he counted on
them. And if he survived, he would go home to Julie and Julie Marie and pick
up–well, it wouldn’t be the life he’d had with her before, because he’d been
an aviator longer than he’d been married. No, they would all start over.
Meanwhile he would do what he had to do, free of the fear that had
threatened to paralyze him the last time he’d guided twenty tons of aircraft