puzzle it out. Then an involuntary grin cracked his face. He reached over
and flipped on the ICS switch.
“-and if you ever pull this bullshit again, I’m not going to wait for
a court-martial, I’m going to personally-” Gator’s voice was saying.
Bird Dog cut him off. “Cool your jets, Gator, we made it.” He moved
the yoke back and forth experimentally, testing his control over the Tomcat
to reassure himself. “See?”
Gator’s voice broke off. “And just what the hell did you think you
were doing, making a blind approach in the middle of a storm cell?” the RIO
demanded. “You should have broken off like Batman said.”
“Not a chance. Those men were depending on us.”
He heard Gator sigh. “Well, I guess they were at that,” the RIO said
finally. “How close do you think you got?” he continued, his
professionalism overriding what must have been a terrifying ride for the
backseater.
“Pretty damned close, I think,” Bird Dog said. He felt a sudden surge
of joy. “Damned close. In fact, it felt like it went spot-on.”
“It’s not like we can fly over and do a BDA–A bomb damage
assessment,” the RIO said. “But from what I could see from back here, it
looked good to me, too. Let’s get back to the boat and wait for the
weather to chill out.”
“Bad choice of words,” Bird Dog responded. He put the Tomcat in a
gentle curve, the motion seeming unusually cautious after the wild maneuver
he’d just pulled off.
“You icing?” Gator said anxiously.
Bird Dog glanced at his instruments, then out the window at the wing.
“Looks like a little–but not enough to hurt us, now that we’re out of the
storm. The deicers will take care of it.”
“You’re damned lucky you’ve got me back here, you know that?” Gator
said.
“Oh, really? Why is that?” Bird Dog answered, as he laid in a level
course for the carrier.
“Because any other backseater in his right mind would’ve filled his
shorts about two minutes ago,” Gator said, amusement in his voice. “It’d
serve you right, flying in a stinking cockpit for a couple of months. They
never can get the smell out.”
“I guess there’s always something to be grateful for,” Bird Dog
answered. “Now, let’s just hope we did the job on the ground,” he
continued, his voice suddenly sober.
Aflu
The Cossack commando barely had time to glance up as the Tomcat
screamed in over the barren landscape, only fifty feet above him. He swore
reflexively, and dived for the ground. The low, ominous rumble of the
engines reverberated through his body. He buried his hands under his arms
and waited.
The initial blast tossed him two feet off the icy surface of the
island; gravity slammed him back down hard enough to knock the wind out of
him. He gasped, trying to breathe, and finally drew a deep, shuddering
lungful of air.
The noise hit him again first. He wondered for a moment whether the
Tomcat had come around to make a second run on the cliffs. He looked up,
trying to focus on the landscape in front of him.
To his horrified eyes, it looked like a wave. Something he’d see in
the warmer coast waters of the Black Sea, a phenomenon that belonged
somewhere other than this desolate, forsaken island. The land curled
slightly at the top, leaning over the rest of the cliff, increasing its
similarity to an ocean breaker.
The commando shouted, his words already lost in the massive cacophony
of forty thousand tons of avalanche. Two seconds later, the massive wall
of ice and snow cut off his words. Forever.
1031 Local
Aflu
The ground played trampoline for almost three minutes before the
violent motion subsided into a series of sharp jolts. At the same time,
the wind dropped perceptibly, though the searing blindness of the whiteout
remained. Huerta kept his eyes firmly shut, guarding delicate tissues with
one hand over his face. The other flailed about him, searching for Morning
Eagle.
Finally, after a series of gentle rumbles no more than 4.0 on the
Richter scale, Huerta took a chance and stood up. His feet swayed under