MiG-beating Tomcat.
“You’re right, Gator,” he admitted finally. “You’ve kept me from
getting killed a couple of times so far, and I still haven’t treated you
right. Sir,” he added belatedly, suddenly remembering just how senior
Gator was. The latest results from the Commanders’ Selection Board had
just come out, and Gator had been advised that he’d been selected for
promotion to commander, as well as for an executive officer tour in a
Tomcat squadron. Bird Dog, still two years away from even a deep look at
the lieutenant commander’s board, was just a barely ripened nugget compared
to the man in his backseat.
“Don’t start with the ‘sir’ shit,” Gator said wearily. “I won’t put
it on for another year. But truthfully, Bird Dog, I’m getting tired of
this crap. Every other week, you’ve got me standing tall in front of CAG.
Enough’s enough.”
Bird Dog nosed the Tomcat over and began an orderly descent back to a
reasonable altitude. He leveled off at six thousand feet and put the
Tomcat into a gentle orbit over the island. He recognized the tone in
Gator’s voice too well. Words were not likely to convince him not to
request a crew swap at this point. Only some good, orderly flying,
something that demonstrated the teamwork that was supposed to exist between
a pilot and a RIO.
“Hold it, I–Bird Dog, take us back around the other direction,” Gator
ordered suddenly.
Without questioning his backseater’s directions, Bird Dog snapped the
Tomcat sharply around. He waited.
“Those radio transmissions Intel briefed–I thought I caught a sniff
of them. Can we get down and take a closer look?”
Bird Dog resisted the temptation to note that only minutes earlier
Gator had been complaining about low-altitude flights. Instead, he began
executing a search pattern over the small chunk of ice and rock below.
“There it is again,” Gator said. He flipped his microphone over to
Tactical and began an earnest conversation with the operations specialist
on board Jefferson. Finally, after a few moments, he asked Bird Dog to
move back into a higher orbit.
After they leveled off at ten thousand feet, Bird Dog said, “Could you
tell me what that was about?”
Gator smiled at the unusually meek tone of voice. “I told you, I got
a sniff of that radio frequency they’ve been talking about. And if you
will recall, my dear fellow, just yesterday there was a P-3 screaming
bloody murder about seeing someone launch a Stinger from this very island.
You do remember Stingers, I hope?”
Bird Dog snorted. “How could I not?”
“Well, unless you want to insist on trying to take out one with a
Sparrow, I suggest we stay at ten thousand feet. And you keep your old
Mark I MOD 0 eyeballs peeled up there. The first sniff we’re gonna have
will probably be visual–if we get that much warning.”
Bird Dog shivered, then settled down into a tactical mind set. If
there were Stingers in the area, then the last thing he needed to do was be
surprised. It would only happen once.
1700 Local
Kiska, Aleutian Islands
White Wolf pulled the boat up close to Kiska, wincing as he felt the
keel scrape along the bottom. The island was just as inhospitable as its
western brother. Kiska jutted out of the sea, and its coastline, for the
most part, consisted of a sheer plunge down into the black, freezing water.
Only a few feet of hard, barren rock survived under water, but it was
enough to hold the old boat off from the island.
He motioned to Morning Eagle, who nodded, then leaped from the bow of
the ship onto the land, the mooring line trailing behind him. He tossed
the circle at the end of the line over a wooden pole, then raised his hands
to show White Wolf the task was done.
White Wolf locked the cabin behind him and disembarked, making the
leap from boat to shore easily. Should have used the pier, he thought,
then dismissed the idea. The only functional pier was almost three miles
away, located on the other side of the island. Between the time it would
take to moore, fire up his ancient cold-weather Jeep, and motor back over