American soil seems to be a hell of an unneighborly thing to do. Not to
mention shooting at our P3 aircraft.”
The Tomcat was circling at seven thousand feet, monitoring the
progress of the paratroopers down to the ice. They blended quickly with
the landscape, and were invisible after they landed to the aircraft above.
“Hell, I wish we had some Rockeyes,” Bird Dog said, referring to the
ground munitions missile that carried a payload of tiny bomblets that
exploded on the ground. They were the weapons of choice for use against
enemy troops.
“You think you’re gonna get permission to drop bombs on U.S. soil?”
Gator demanded. “Think, man, think! For once in your life, just consider
the consequences.”
“We drop bombs on American soil at the range,” Bird Dog argued.
“What, you want us to sit up here and watch these bastards invade?”
“And just who the hell are they, do you think?” Gator snapped. “What
insignia did you see on that aircraft they jumped out of?”
“You know who they are.”
“When are you going to understand that your gut-level instinct isn’t
enough, not in today’s world, Bird Dog. You’ve got no proof that that was
a Russian aircraft–nothing at all. No transponder, no aircraft insignia,
no Russian being spoken on International Air Distress–IAD. Just how do
you think we’re going to look?”
“They shot at our aircraft. What more do you want?” Bird Dog
exploded. “Am I the only one in this battle group that’s getting tired of
every terrorist in the world taking a shot at American troops?”
Gator’s voice turned colder than Bird Dog had ever heard it before.
“If you can’t get it through your thick skull that we follow orders first,
then you’d best find some other way to make a living. This isn’t about
barrel rolls and Immelmanns, you asshole. This is about a very nasty
situation and a world the rest of the country thinks is at peace. Hold
it-” he said suddenly. “Mother’s talking.”
Bird Dog leaned forward against his ejection harness, feeling the
straps cut into his shoulders. The pain gave him the feeling that he was
doing something, which he desperately needed right now. The sight of
invaders tromping across American soil–American soil, even if it was ice
and frost and rime–touched some fundamental core of his being. It was one
thing to watch the Chinese invade the Spratlys, the Russians take on the
Norwegians, or any one of a number of nations attack a neighbor, but this
was different. Different for him, at least. Along with the cool iciness
and pounding adrenaline he had come to expect in battle, he felt an outrage
so strong as to border on rage. Invaders, tromping across American
soil–the battle group had to do something.
“Get a trail on that transport,” Gator said finally. “High and
behind, in position for a shot. But weapons tight right now–unless it’s
in self-defense, you don’t even think about touching the weapons switch.
You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Bird Dog snapped. He jerked the Tomcat back,
standing her on her tail and screaming up to altitude. Over the ICS, he
heard Gator gasp, and then the harsh grunt of the M1 maneuver. Bird Dog’s
face twisted. Served his RIO right if he felt a little uncomfortable. Who
the hell was he, anyway, taking an amphibious landing so casually? What
did he think this was, the Spratlys?
“Cut this shit out,” Gator finally grunted.
“Cut what out, shipmate?” Bird Dog snapped. “You told me to gain
altitude–I gained altitude. And if you and the rest of the pussies on
that carrier had any balls, you’d let me do something about this.”
USS Jefferson
Batman stared at the tactical symbol on the large screen display,
watching the hostile contact turn north and head away from the Aleutian
chain. “That fighter jock is sure about this?” he asked. “Who’s in
Two-oh-one, anyway?”
“Yes, Admiral, they sounded certain. It’s Gator and Bird Dog from
VF95,” the TAO answered. He turned and gave the admiral a questioning look
as he heard a sharp snort behind him.
“Bird Dog,” Batman muttered. “I should’ve known. Anytime something
starts happening, that youngster’s in the middle of it. Damnedest luck.”