CARRIER 6: COUNTDOWN By Keith Douglass

carried revolvers, but Tombstone had always favored the satisfying heft

of the M-1911A1. The big .45 automatic was virtually a relic now,

replaced years before as the Navy’s standard-issue sidearm by the 9mm

Beretta, but still carried by some personnel who felt that the Colt was

more reliable.

Not that a pistol would do them a hell of a lot of good. They were

almost certainly behind enemy lines. Tombstone had two seven-round

magazines, one in the pistol, the other in a flight suit pocket.

Fourteen shots …

against MVD troops or Naval Infantry with full-auto assault rifles.

Still, it was something. Drawing and checking the weapon, he dragged

the slide back, chambering a round, then flicked up the safety. “Cocked

and locked” now, he hurried toward Tomboy’s chute.

1330 hours

Intruder 504

Over the Kola Inlet

“Okay, Navy. You’re clear to land, south-to-north. There’s only one

runway so you shouldn’t get lost.”

“Thanks, Marine,” Willis replied. “Have a corpsman standing by. My

B/N’s pretty badly shot up.”

“That’s a roger.”

It had been sheer luck that he’d found the place, a Russian airstrip on

the coast overrun by the Marines a few hours earlier. They’d been using

it as an advance base for their Harriers and Hornets, but they’d cleared

it now as an emergency runway for the incoming Navy Intruder.

Sunshine groaned. The blood on her face was bright, bright red.

“Sunshine? Sunshine, you hear me?”

No response. Oh, God, don’t let her die!

The vibration was getting worse, and he wasn’t getting any response from

his right-side flaps. When he flipped the landing-gear switch, he

didn’t get any response there either. Shit! His wheels were stuck up.

He’d have to belly in.

The Marines were sending out a radio beacon for him to home on. He

could see the airstrip now, a single runway on the brown tundra, next to

a handful of buildings. Smoke stained the sky to the east. There was

still fighting going on out there.

His altimeter was reading 650 now. The air controller had already told

him that the base he was angling toward was at an altitude of 275 feet,

so the ground was sweeping past his belly just 375 feet below. Easing

back on the throttle, he kept the Intruder’s nose high, balanced just

ahead of a stall, dropping now at a thousand feet per minute … lower

… lower …

The runway expanded in front of him with breath-taking speed. He tried

the air brakes–no good–and the flaps again–still nothing–and cut the

throttles back to nothing, and then he was over the runway and dropping

like a stone. His tail struck first with a sound of rasping metal …

and then the Intruder’s keel struck tarmac, tortured steel and aluminum

shrieking, and he was battling the controls, trying to keep sliding in a

straight line, but his right wing was coming around anyway, and he was

out of control, sliding, sliding, sliding down the runway as flames

exploded behind him like the wake of a powerboat.

Stopped! With a final lurch, the Intruder halted, its nose tipped into

a rubble-filled crater, smoke boiling away from the aircraft’s engines.

He hit the canopy release, praying that it would work, and it did. Then

he was fumbling with his own harness and with Sunshine’s. The aircraft

was on fire, and he had to get the two of them out!

“That’s okay, Mac,” a gravel voice said beside him. Hands grasped his

arms, pulling him from his seat. Fire extinguishers shooshed and hissed

as Marines hosed down the flames. “We’ll get your buddy.”

“Get her out! Get her out! She’s hurt bad!”

“Her? Oh, Christ …”

“Quit staring, Mike,” another Marine snapped. “Lend a hand!”

“Easy there. Get her into the Stokes.”

“For God’s sake, take it easy with her,” Willis said. “Best fuckin’ B/N

I ever had …”

His legs gave way as he stepped onto the tarmac. He never did remember

being helped away from the plane.

1340 hours

Near Sayda Guba

The Kola Peninsula

Tombstone saw both the parachute and the man and broke into a run, the

heavy Colt clutched in his hand. The guy wore a camo uniform but had a

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