more of the agile, fast fighters before Russia closed the door on foreign
sales. Other sources reported that China was developing her own prototype
advanced fighter, code-named the F-10.
It’s supposed to be years away from being fully operational, Tombstone
thought. But that’s what I thought about the JAST program, too, and I’ve got
two of them sitting on my deck right now. No sure bets on anything these
days.
“This would be the Flanker-C or -1B–those are the two-seater versions,”
an intelligence officer chimed in. “The C version was primarily a trainer,
but it was fully combat capable. The 1B was the fighter-bomber that was
supposed to deploy from their carriers. And Admiral, while the Flanker is
equipped for in-flight refueling, the Chinese have had notoriously little
training in it. If they wanted to come out and take a look-see at us, they’d
probably rather be launching from Vietnam than China’s southern coast. It’s a
hell of a lot closer, and they can get out and take some pictures with their
onboard stores.”
“Let’s not get completely convinced by the tail artwork. A Flanker is a
Flanker, be it Chinese or Vietnamese,” Tombstone said. “Okay, ladies and
gentlemen, let’s play this one like pros. The Flanker–whoever he belongs
to–gets a look as long as he plays nice. But keep that Hornet on him every
second. Something starts looking hinky, I don’t want us scrambling for
cover.”
A whiff of light, clean perfume floated through the air. Tombstone
turned to find the source.
“Good morning, Admiral,” Pamela said, stepping over the knee-knocker
threshold to TFCC. “The Chief of Staff told me I’d find you in here.”
“We’re a little busy right now, Miss Drake,” he said, momentarily
grateful for the subdued red lighting in the operational center. Damn it, he
couldn’t afford to be distracted right now!
“I’ll stay out of the way,” she answered, moving over to an unoccupied
corner of the tiny space.
While his nose quickly became accustomed to the scent of her perfume, and
Pamela was now out of his direct line of sight, Tombstone could feel her in
TFCC. Apart from the normal physical sensations and memories just thinking of
her generated, her presence was doubly uncomfortable with Tomboy flying CAP on
the unknown contact.
As much as he tried to deny it, there was something about the female
aviator that inevitably drew his eyes to her. Tomboy had been his RIO when
Jefferson had faced down the Russians on the Kola Peninsula, and during their
mission over the Polyamyy submarine base. Their Tomcat had taken a hit, and
they’d punched out. Tomboy had come out of it with a broken leg and an
extended hospital stay.
She’d been lucky. Not every female pilot had been, he thought.
Lieutenant Chris “Lobo” Hansen had been shot down on the same mission. The
militia that’d captured her had gang-raped her and left her naked and
shivering, displayed in a wire cage. When the Marines rescued her a few hours
later, she was already deep into psychological and physical shock.
Tombstone had heard from Tomboy that Lobo had completely recovered and
been sent to an instructor’s billet at Top Gun school. There’d been some talk
of barring her from further combat duties, but in the end the Navy did the
right thing. Lobo had finished her tour as an instructor, and had received
orders to VF-95 as the Safety Officer. Whatever else the Navy had learned
from the integration of women into combat squadrons, it was that there was
only one personnel policy that worked–treating each and every aviator as a
professional. Tombstone approved.
He wondered if he’d feel the same if it had been Tomboy who’d undergone
the same experience. Involuntarily, he remembered how her head barely came up
to his wings on his chest, and how her voice sounded over the ICS. A pilot
and regular RIO were always close. During combat, the RIO’s voice merged with
the pilot’s thoughts, until every comment from the backseat sounded like his
own mind. Was that what he was feeling? The traditional psychic bond between
two aviators that depended on each other in the air? Or was it something
else?
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