kind, possibly a tank.
He gentled his F-14 slightly to the left, watching the column of
vehicles swell behind his gun reticle, then squeezed the trigger,
sending a hail of 20mm shells slashing into dirt, machines, and men.
1151 hours
Air Ops
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“Shotgun Two-two, this is Home Plate. Two-two, this is Home Plate.
Respond, please.”
Tombstone’s knuckles tightened around the microphone as he continued to
stare at the radar display above the console in front of him. It was
cluttered with aircraft, friendlies and hostiles. Russian planes had
been coming up from every air base in the Kola Peninsula, and the
American aircraft were fighting for their lives.
Striker had broken formation, was circling the area where Shotgun
One-four had gone down. Damn it, why wouldn’t he respond?
“Shotgun Two-two, Home Plate. Come in, please.”
1153 hours
Tomcat 211, Shotgun 2/2
He’d lost sight of the chute. Chris–it had to have been Chris!–must
be on the ground now.
He felt a small stab at the thought, then dismissed it. He scarcely
knew Chris’s RIO, McVey. It wasn’t that he wanted the guy dead … but
please, God, let Chris be alive and in one piece!
“Shotgun Two-two, Home Plate.” That was CAG’s voice. “Two-two, come in,
please.”
“Ah, listen, Striker,” K-Bar said from the back seat. “Don’t you think
we ought to respond?”
“Screw ’em,” Striker said. “We got radio difficulty.”
“Oh. Right.” K-Bar chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve been having all kinds of
problems with this set.”
“Just so you don’t have any trouble tuning in on the SAR frequency.”
“Roger that. I’m listening, but there’s nothing yet.”
“Well, keep on it, damn it!”
Shit. He was angry at himself for his own conflicting emotions, angry
for disobeying orders, scared to death that Chris might be dead, and
here he was taking it out on K-Bar by snapping the guy’s head off. He
tightened the F-14’s turn, scanning the ground for more Russian troops.
Several vehicles were burning on the road below, but others were still
closing on the area where the chute had gone down.
There was the chute, blowing free across the ground! And had that been
a lone figure he’d glimpsed running through a patch of snow?
Damn it, they needed a SAR flight in here, and right now!
“Home Plate, Home Plate,” he called. “This is Shotgun Two-two. I’ve
got a man on the ground, repeat, man on the ground. I don’t think she’s
hurt-”
“Striker! I’ve got her on the SAR!”
“Let me hear!”
“… on the ground, about eight miles southeast of Sayda Guba. This is
Lobo, calling Mayday, Mayday-”
“Chris!” he cut in. “Chris! This is Steve!”
“Steve! What are you doing here?”
“Looking after you, babe. Listen. I’ll stay with you until a SAR
chopper can reach you. Keep your head down. There are some bad guys
about two miles south of you, and they looked real mad last time I got a
close look.”
“Christ, Steve! Get out of here!”
“Not a chance. Now find yourself a ditch and stay down!” He’d just
glimpsed several more Russian vehicles to the south. Joy sang in the
back of his mind. Chris was alive!
He brought the Tomcat into a long, flat trajectory, lining up for
another strafing run.
1154 hours
Air Ops
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“How about it, Jim?” Tombstone asked the Operations Officer. He’d heard
Striker talking to someone on the ground and inferred that it must be
Hanson, though her SAR radio didn’t have the range for him to pick up
what she’d said.
“Can we get a Search and Rescue helo out that far?”
“Not a chance, CAG. We can call the Marines. Maybe they can send
something out from Red Beach. They’re close enough.”
“Do it, then.” He raised the microphone again. “Shotgun Two-two,
Two-two, this is Home Plate. RTB. I say again, return to base!” The
hostiles were closing in, and one lone Tomcat wouldn’t stand a chance by
itself.
“Shotgun Two-two, this is Home Plate. Respond!”
1154 hours
Near Sayda Guba
Chris was on her knees on a low rise on the ground, staring toward the
south. Even without binoculars, she easily recognized the squat,