CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

asked.

“Over there.” The Marine pointed toward the far end of the airstrip.

A Harrier was making its gently eerie approach, coasting through the air at

a speed too low to believe. If it had not been for the turbofans on her

undercarriage angled downward, she would have crashed–her forward speed

was insufficient to maintain stable flight.

Tombstone paused and watched the aircraft settle gently on the ground.

He could see from the movement of the grass surrounding the tarmac the

force of the downdraft. It had to be, to keep that much metal airborne, he

thought, but somehow, reading about downdraft in manuals never compared to

seeing the actual thing. Anyone underneath the fighter would have been

seriously injured or killed by the hurricane-force winds it generated

downward.

“She’s a real beauty, isn’t she, sir?” the Major asked appreciatively.

“Just look at her. The finest fighting aircraft ever built for a Marine.”

He glanced at Tombstone’s insignia. “Not that the Navy doesn’t have some

real fine aircraft itself,” he continued generously. However, it was

obvious from the expression on his face that the Tomcat or Hornet ran a

distant second to his treasured Harrier.

“I thought you said this bird was ready,” Tombstone commented.

“Doesn’t look too ready to me, since it’s not even on the ground.”

“Oh, that’s not the one we’re flying. Ours is parked next to Flight

Ops.” The Marine grinned broadly.

“Ours?” Tombstone asked.

“Yes, Admiral.” The Marine saluted sharply again. “Major Joe

Killington, at your service, Admiral. Always glad to help out a fellow

aviator when we can. Especially in getting onto a boat your aircraft can’t

reach.”

Tombstone groaned. Surely, he thought, there must be some right

granted to an admiral by Congress not to be harassed by the Marine Corps.

The prospect of spending hours airborne fielding such comments by the major

irked him.

A trace of his thoughts evidently showed in his face. The Marine

major snapped to attention. “Whenever the Admiral is ready, sir,” he said

politely. “And we are happy to be of service, Admiral. All one fighting

force–that’s the way we see it.”

Tombstone nodded abruptly. “Get me to my gear, Major,” he said. “I

imagine we’ll have plenty of time to discuss the relative merits of your

service and the Navy.” He looked pointedly at the insignia on the Marine

major’s collar. “Not that it will be much of a contest.”

The Marine major braced, eyes pointed directly forward and locked on

the horizon. “I’m certain the admiral can enlighten me if my views are out

of order.”

Finally, Tombstone relented. After all, this was one argument the

major could never win. And it had nothing to do with Tomcats, Hornets, or

Harriers–it had to do with the quick collar count that had just occurred.

Stars won out over gold oak leaves, no matter what the service.

Tombstone turned toward Flight Operations and slapped the Marine Corps

major on the shoulder. “Come on, son,” he said mildly. “I think you’ve

got some flying to do. I’ve never been up in one of your birds–it’ll be a

pleasure to get a look at it.”

“Yes, sir.” The major took off at a trot toward his aircraft.

“How far can this thing go?” Pamela Drake asked. She pointed to the

battered commercial helicopter sitting out on the tarmac.

The pilot shrugged. “Far enough, if I put on the additional fuel

tanks. We could get you to Juneau, no problem, ma’am.”

“Juneau, huh?” She looked him over carefully. “Were you in the

Navy?”

A look of disgust crossed the pilot’s face. “No, ma’am, not hardly.

The Marines.” He pointed at the battered helicopter. “Taught me my trade,

they did, flying helicopters off of amphibious assault ships. After a

couple of tours, I got out, joined the Reserves, and bought this puppy with

the money I’d saved up. Slap a couple of missiles on her and she’d be just

as good as anything they’re flying in the Corps today.”

“Amphibious assault ships, huh?” Pamela looked thoughtful. “You’re

not in the Reserves or anything right now, are you?”

“No, ma’am.” The pilot grinned. “Not many Reserve units drilling out

this far. I do mostly scouting for commercial fishing vessels, some

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