Bird Dog reminded him. “Remember? That damned old Soviet tank, sitting
all by itself out on that rock in the middle of the ocean. And those poor
guys–whenever I think I have it rough on the carrier, I remember those two
guys sittin’ on top of the tank, about six feet above the waves.”
“I remember the Stinger missiles,” Gator responded. “Though it took
me a while to convince you that you ought to be thinking about them, too.”
“I’ve got a visual on them. Let’s slow down a little, mark on top for
a few minutes and take some pictures.”
“‘Kay. I’m ready,” Gator said.
Bird Dog took manual control of the mechanism controlling the
sweep-back wings on his aircraft. Normally, he would allow the computer to
select the appropriate position–swept back along the fuselage for power
and speed, or extended to provide maximum lift for getting airborne. The
awkward configuration of the extended wing structure was what gave the
Tomcat its affectionate nickname of “Turkey.”
“Two hundred knots–that’s about as slow as I want to go,” Bird Dog
said. “Stall speed is only a hundred and forty knots at this weight.”
“You sure as hell better keep us airborne, shipmate, because that
water ain’t that inviting. Survival time is about fifteen seconds.”
Bird Dog put the Tomcat into a gentle arc, two hundred feet above the
ship ahead of them. “Now, don’t you go worryin’, Gator. I got you back
last time, didn’t I?”
Gator muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.
“Besides, there’s no way those Greenpeace boats are carrying
Stingers,” Bird Dog continued. “I mean, what the hell–what would that do
for their image as peaceful ecologists?”
“They care about endangered bobcats, not Tomcats.”
Bird Dog sighed. “Let’s just take the pictures and get out of here.
I want to do a few barrel rolls and some acrobatics on the way back to the
ship.”
“Just stay away from that damned cruiser this time, okay? I put up
with that all last cruise, and I’m not going to do that again. Gets old,
standing tall in front of CAG and explaining why I let the junior
lieutenant driving my bird pretend to be an incoming missile for an Aegis
cruiser.”
“Sure got their attention, though, didn’t it?” Bird Dog chuckled.
“You RIOs have no idea of how to have fun.”
Bird Dog put the Tomcat into a lazy port turn, increasing the angle of
bank so he could get a good look at the ship below them. The convened
fishing trawler was skirting the edge of the fog bank, plowing heavily
through the rough seas. While the churning yaw and pitch looked damned
dangerous, the SS Serenity’s deep draft let her bite through confused
swells that would have capsized a much larger vessel.
The boat looked well-maintained and neat, from what he could see.
There was no debris littering the deck, where lines and rope lay neatly
coiled. A thin coating of ice over the superstructure and weather decks
reflected the sun, occasionally generating a bright, painful flash of
light. Its hull was green, its railing and fixtures painted white. A
rainbow graced the starboard bow. From one mast a Greenpeace ecological
flag flapped briskly in the wind. No one was visible on deck–not
surprising, considering the weather. Bird Dog dropped the aircraft down to
150 feet and peered at the glass-enclosed bridge. He thought he could pick
out two figures moving inside.
“You finished?” he asked Gator.
“One more shot. There, I’ve got it. Let’s head for home.”
“Your wish is my command,” Bird Dog answered. He let the Tomcat roll
around the final arc of the circle, then broke off the turn to vector back
toward the aircraft carrier, now out of sight. “I’ll let Mother know we’re
headed home.” He keyed the tactical circuit. “Homeplate, this is Tomcat
Two-oh-one, inbound.”
“Roger, Tomcat Two-oh-one. Say state?” the operations specialist, or
OS, on the other end asked.
Bird Dog glanced down at the fuel gauge. “We’re fine, homeplate. Six
thousand pounds.”
“Roger, Two-oh-one. Tanker airborne in ten mikes,” the operator
replied. “I hold you on radar now.”
Bird Dog switched off the tactical circuit and keyed the ICS, the