lessening their wind profile.
Huerta heard Morning Eagle shout something, the words unintelligible,
swept away by the gale-force winds. He shook his head, then realized
Morning Eagle couldn’t see the gesture. He reached for the other man’s
hand and held it up, pointing it in the direction of the aircraft.
And the rest of their team–they’d been well back from the rift, he
remembered, reviewing the last scene he’d been able to see clearly in his
mind. With a little bit of luck, and some decent piloting, they’d be safe
as well.
The laser designators. For a moment, he felt a flash of real fear,
remembering how close the Tomcat had been when he’d last seen it. He
turned his head, looking in the direction of the rift. There was nothing
there except a solid white wall of flying ice crystals in the snow.
Frustration replaced fear, as he realized the laser targeting information
would no longer be visible to the pilot.
Absent skill, there was always luck. The chief SEAL started to pray.
Tomcat 201
“You’re never gonna make it, Bird Dog,” Gator said, his voice
insistent. “Dump ’em.”
Bird Dog shook his head, not bothering to answer. Concentrating on
the spot where he’d last seen the targeting data took every ounce of
concentration he had. He flipped the ICS switch off, locking out Gator’s
voice completely. They’d either make it or they wouldn’t, and there was
nothing Gator could tell him in the interim to change the odds either way.
Five … four … three … two … NOW. Bird Dog toggled the
weapons release switch and felt the hard thump of ordnance leaving the
undercarriage as the bombs dropped free. He wrenched the Tomcat up into a
sharp climb, already feeling the difference that the loss in weight made,
climbing for altitude as hard as he dared push the Tomcat. The sleek jet
shook as it approached the stall envelope. Bird Dog dropped the nose
slightly, hoping it was enough. He spared one glance at the
altimeter–three thousand feet–and then cut the Tomcat hard to the right,
praying he cleared the tallest spires.
Aflu
The hard thunder of military engines at full afterburner cut through
the high-pitched scream of the wind. It was a sound at least as much felt
as heard, a deep, bone-jarring growl and rumble that cut through viscera
and skin alike, settling into the bones with a comforting aftertaste.
He made it, the Chief SEAL thought, marveling. How many pilots could
have pulled that off? For a moment, a deep surge of pride replaced the
fear and anxiety he’d felt watching the aircraft approach. Damn, some days
it was good to be an American. If he ever got out of this, he was going to
do his damnedest to make sure that pilot got a commendation.
Suddenly, the ground underneath him exploded, shaking and rolling like
the worst earthquake he’d ever experienced in California. He gasped and
threw himself flat on the ground, no longer caring whether he lost contact
with Morning Eagle’s hand. The hard ice surface rose up underneath him,
smashing him in the face, and he felt the delicate bones in the bridge of
his nose splinter. A falling rock bashed him in the leg, settling over his
lower right shin and ankle. The SEAL screamed, feeling the wind whip away
the sound as soon as it left his mouth. He clamped his mouth shut as icy
air surged into his mouth, straight down his air passageway, and chilled
his lungs. Stupid to survive the actual strike and then be killed by ice
crystals forming in his lungs, he thought grimly, falling back on years of
training and experience to override survival instincts. He clung to the
ground for dear life and waited.
1028 Local
Tomcat 201
Bird Dog leveled off at eleven thousand feet, and suddenly started
shaking. He was safe; he was safe. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized
how doubtful he’d been that they’d make it.
Below them, the whiteout whipped violently, obscuring sea and island
alike. The noise, however, had faded as the aircraft had climbed.
Finally, he noticed an odd noise in the cockpit. It took him a moment to