look at the facts. They haven’t fired at our aircraft up to now-”
“-just our ships, and an occasional shot at an S-3,” Batman interrupted.
“-and the shot at the Vincennes might have been kicked off by the
Vincennes playing grab-ass with her fire control radar. We have some strong
indications that they’re doing targeting exercises, data links between the
fighters and the submarines, but no real indications that they’re prepared to
forcibly eject us from the South China Sea.”
“Not that they could,” Batman added.
“The fastest way to get us out of here is going to be to apply political
pressure on the United States. And you’re right about the force part of it.
Even if they wanted to, I doubt that they could do much more than make life
uncomfortable for us for a few days. Not much matches the firepower we carry
with us.”
“So we try to avoid cooperating with their plan and force them to tip
their hand to their neighbors?” Batman asked. “Shit, Stoney, doesn’t sound
like much fun to me!”
“It’s not. Particularly for the E-2. But if you’ve got any other ideas,
speak up.” Tombstone regarded his old wingman fondly. “Didn’t think so.”
0930 local (Zulu -7)
Tomcat 205
How long had he been staring at the horizon? Bird Dog shook his head and
resumed his scan. Complacency about routine CAP missions killed aviators.
“You still awake up there?” Gator asked. “We’re only thirty minutes into
this mission.”
“Who do you think’s flying? Santa Claus?” Bird Dog snapped.
“Just asking, buddy, that’s all. You looked rough during the brief.”
“I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.”
More than just a little, if he were truthful with himself. He’d tossed
in his rack for four hours, succeeding in doing nothing except getting the
sheets tangled and sweaty. When he’d finally fallen asleep, it hadn’t been
much better than being awake. Alvarez haunted his dreams, a silent, screaming
phantom swirling around his cockpit. He’d been on a mission, some sort of
bombing run, and every time he turned onto the final vector for the drop,
Alvarez appeared. In the dream, somehow the airman had been blown onto the
front of the aircraft instead of being chewed up by the engines. He clung
there like a June bug on a car, plastered to the canopy by the force of the
catapult shot and the wind. Those eyes, pleading, tears filling them without
ever spilling over onto his cheeks, the mouth open in a silent entreaty.
Bird Dog had startled awake, still shaking from the vision. For a few
minutes, he’d been filled with incredible rage at the dead airman. He hadn’t
meant for his brakes to fail, or for Alvarez to ignore normal flight deck
safety precautions. It hadn’t been his fault, it hadn’t!
“Let’s just get through this mission, Gator,” Bird Dog said quietly.
Arguing with his RIO suddenly seemed like the last thing he wanted to do
today.
“Okay. But when we get back on deck, I think we’re going to have a long
talk,” Gator said finally. Bird Dog recognized the tone. Gator would let it
slide for now, but back on deck he’d assert his seniority and his privileged
status as Bird Dog’s backseater to pry into his pilot’s head. While Gator had
been in the aircraft when the accident had occurred, he hadn’t been the pilot,
and both men knew it. No amount of reassurance that it’d been an accident
would bring the dead airman back. Or, Bird Dog suspected, prevent the
nightmares from returning. He wondered if he’d be seeing Airman Alvarez in
his dreams for the rest of his life.
“Strangers, bearing 245, range 120 miles,” the OS on the carrier said
suddenly. “Tomcat 205, intercept and VID.”
“Roger. We’ll want to tank in about an hour, though,” Gator said. It
was unlikely that the OS would forget to check their fuel state, but it never
hurt to remind them. “Any IFF?”
“Negative IFF. Speed five hundred knots, rapid rate of climb. Based on
the egress point, could be Flankers coming out off the coast again. Or MiGs,
for a change of pace.”
“Any other info?” Bird Dog asked.