launching aircraft. The checkers, men in white jerseys and with
black-and-white checked helmets, were especially evident as they combed
each aircraft for downgrudges, open access panels, and loose weapons. In
the background, over a communications channel, Tombstone could hear the
Air Boss bellowing radio orders from his crows’-nest perch up in
Pri-Fly. From the sound of it, there’d been a fault in the “mouse” worn
by one of the plane directors, the distinctive earphone headset also
affectionately called a Mickey Mouse, and the director hadn’t noticed
yet that he was off the air. That was another bit of human error. Every
man who had one was supposed to frequently check his personal radio. It
took several moments to get another deck officer with a mouse on to go
over and physically grab the man and alert him to the equipment failure.
How many more were going to die before this thing was done, either from
enemy action or from damned, stupid carelessness born of grinding,
bone-weary exhaustion?
Maybe I’ve just seen too damned much of this, he thought. Pamela had
been after him to give it up for a long time, though recently they’d
managed to arrive at a kind of uneasy truce between his dedication to
his career and their love for each other. Damn, maybe she’d been right
all along.
Right now he felt tired–not physically, though that was certainly a
part of it, but exhausted in spirit, in his mind. He was tired to the
very core of his being, but unlike those teenagers still hard at work
full-out on the deck with no sleep, he was ready to pack it in. He
thought of the faces of the men and women of Viper Squadron earlier,
when he’d told them that they’d be flying shotgun for the Intruders this
afternoon. Slider and some of the others had looked like they were
ready to mutiny there for a moment … but by the time he’d gotten past
the initial resistance and started filling them in on their mission, the
newer hands had actually looked eager, rousing from their exhaustive
torpor, positively glowing when they heard they’d be spearheading an
attack wave into Russian territory.
Well, he could remember feeling the same way himself once, when he’d
been assigned a challenging or exacting mission. But that was a hell of
a long time ago.
Had he made a mistake, ordering the Air Boss to expedite the cleanup on
the waist cats? That tired hookup man had merely killed himself and
delayed the launch schedule; if Jefferson’s CAG screwed up, a lot of
people would die.
He didn’t like the heavy, clammy feeling that thought carried with it.
The Hornet was ready. The deck director gave the aviator a thumb’s-up,
and the man in the aircraft saluted. The director whirled, dropped to
one knee, touched the deck, pointed ahead …
… and the Hornet screamed off the catapult on a line of steam,
dipping slightly as it cleared the bow, then rising steadily into the
blue afternoon sky, its landing gear folding neatly away.
Tombstone had made his decision. There was no turning back now.
1724 hours
Intruder 504
Approaching the Kola Peninsula
In tight formation with two other Intruders and a Prowler ECM aircraft,
the A-6 boomed low across the water, low enough that salt spray pattered
across its windscreen. It was as though they were flying through fog or
a light rain, with the windshield wiper ineffectually batting away at
the moisture almost as quickly as it collected.
Willis ignored the water, keeping his eyes glued instead to the glowing
screen of his Kaiser AVA-1 Visual Display Indicator as he concentrated
on keeping his heading and his altitude precise. At an altitude of 100
feet and at a speed of 550 knots, there was no margin for error.
He still felt uncomfortable with Sunshine at his side. Damn it, if she
screwed the pooch on this one …
Not that she’d screwed up so far. But there was always a first time,
and this was when a mistake would get them both killed. Glancing up, he
caught the blur of a gray shoreline coming up fast, half-glimpsed
through the swish-swish of the wiper. His VDI showed the coast, painted