1500 Feet over Aflu
“Bird Dog, you stupid idiot, do you have the slightest notion of what
the concept ‘airspace’ implies?” Gator asked. “Because if you don’t, now
would be a very good time to listen to your RIO.”
“Airspace? You want airspace? Then how about this.” Bird Dog
slammed the throttles forward and hauled back on the control yolk,
wrenching the Tomcat into a steep climb. “Just exactly how much airspace
do you want, my friend?” he asked sarcastically, straining to force the
words out against the G-forces. “Just tell me when there’s enough.”
“Asshole,” Gator said. “I suppose you thought one hundred feet off
the deck was good enough for government work?”
“Skipper said to get a good look at the island, didn’t he? And I
wouldn’t want to miss that precious little Greenpeace boat, would I?” Bird
Dog shot back angrily. “How the hell am I supposed to see anything if we
don’t get up close and personal with the ground and the water?”
“Skipper knows damned well that you don’t have terrain-following radar
in this bird,” Gator said, his voice tart. “At one hundred feet, you have
absolutely no room for error. If we hit a flameout, a bad drink of fuel,
you’ve got no room to recover.”
“Then you ought to be real happy about now,” Bird Dog said. He let
the aircraft continue on through 38,000 feet, finally pulling out of the
steep climb as the Tomcat started to complain about the attack angle. The
aircraft shivered slightly as she fought against gravity, shedding airspeed
and approaching the edge of her stall envelope. As the very first tremors
that indicated approaching stall speed shook the aircraft, Bird Dog dropped
his rate of climb and slowly resumed level flight.
“Hell, can’t you ever compromise?” Gator asked bitterly. “You forget
who’s on your side, Bird Dog. Me. The guy who stuck with you through the
Spratlys, the guy who climbs into the backseat of this goddamned Tomcat
every day with you, and the one who has to keep answering questions from
CAG and the admiral about why I can’t keep you under control. You want a
new RIO? Fine, you got it. As soon as we get back to the boat, I’ll ask
for a crew swap.”
Bird Dog considered his RIO’s words. Gator sure sounded pissed off.
True, he played smart ass with the balls to the wall climb, and he had to
admit, one hundred feet was a little outside the envelope. Still, he’d
been flying safe, hadn’t he? They were both still alive, weren’t they?
And just what exactly was the point of being a fighter pilot if you
couldn’t have a little fun?
“Gator?” Bird Dog said hesitantly. “Listen, okay–you’re right.
Don’t put in for a crew swap, okay?”
There was no answer.
“Aw, come on,” Bird Dog wheedled. “I promise I’ll cut it out, okay?
Don’t make me take another RIO.”
Gator sighed, “Damn it, Bird Dog, when are you going to buy off on the
concept that there are two of us in this aircraft? You treat me like I’m
some sort of idiot backseat scope dope, somebody who doesn’t matter a
damned bit until you’ve got a MiG on your ass. Then you start screaming
for vectors and angles, all at once wanting to know where the bad guys are.
How do you think that is for me?”
It was Bird Dog’s turn to fall silent. Even after eighteen months of
flying with Gator, he’d never really stopped to consider how his actions
affected the RIO. Gator was just–Gator, he guessed. His RIO, his
backseater, the man he depended on for information that kept his ass out of
the sling. When there was combat, that is. Other times, he had to admit,
he didn’t stop to think about what his RIO was doing in the backseat.
What a lousy way to make a living, he thought, considering the plight
of the RIO. Strapping into a Tomcat, but not getting to do any of the fun
parts. Jamming your face up on the radar hood around the scope, twiddling
with knobs and buttons instead of experiencing what was probably the
closest thing to heaven on earth–flying the all-powerful, awesome,