CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

particular.

“Sir?” the TFCC TAO said, turning to look back at him.

Tombstone flushed. “Nothing,” he muttered, swearing silently. What

the hell was this, voicing the random concerns and thoughts that flitted

through every commander’s mind? Had he been away from real operations for

too long?

“How long until the SAR helicopter arrives?” He asked to cover his

embarrassment.

“One minute, Admiral,” the TAO said crisply. “They should be back on

board in five minutes.” The TAO glanced back at him curiously.

“Very well.” Tombstone willed himself to sit still and concentrate on

the screen. Whatever niggling concerns were in the back of his mind, no

one else seemed to share them.

1112 Local

Tomcat 201

“Got a visual,” Bird Dog said. He pulled back on the throttle,

slowing the Tomcat to rendezvous speed. “A quick plug, a fast drink, and

we’re out of here,” he said over tactical.

“Gee, Bird Dog, you’re a cheap date,” the female copilot of the tanker

quipped. “Might want to do something about that. I hear they’ve got all

sorts of solutions for that sort of male problem these days.”

Gator laughed, while Bird Dog fumbled for a smart-ass reply.

1131 Local

Aflu

The helicopter hovered overhead, kicking up snow and ice in the

downdraft of its powerful rotors. Huerta swore and motioned it up. The

pilot complied, and the draft, only slightly less gusting than the whiteout

storm, abated slightly. “You the guys who called for a ride home?” his

radio crackled. “Where do you want the pickup, here or down on level

ground?”

Huerta glanced up at the helicopter, thinking it through. Of the ten

men around him, all but Morning Eagle were moving around well enough to get

down the slope, even with the clutter of debris that now covered it.

“On the flat,” he decided. He motioned to the men and trotted over.

“Let’s get him down there,” he said, pointing to Morning Eagle. The two

men grunted something unintelligible and started fashioning a rough

structure out of tent fragments and ski poles.

Huerta spared a few moments to appraise their gear. Good solid stuff,

he thought, one part of his mind coldly evaluating its tactical usefulness.

Moments later, Morning Eagle was slung over the stretcher, strapped down by

more torn fragments of tent. “Let’s go,” he ordered. He took point,

leading the small band through a relatively flat part of the debris.

Had he not been so shaken by the avalanche, focused on the mission

ahead, and still suffering a few minor scrapes and bruises by the

bombardment himself, Huerta might have stopped to wonder about the

equipment he’d just seen. And if he had, he might have remembered that the

Inuits who had made the journey over the seas with him had been carrying

outdated Navy equipment, not modern combat gear. And that would have

struck him as strange.

1135 Local

Tomcat 201

“Easy, easy,” Gator cautioned.

“I’m okay,” Bird Dog snapped. And he would be, in just a few minutes,

if he could get his goddamned hands to quit shaking, his gut to stop

twisting into a knot.

Intellectually, he knew it was just the aftereffects of the adrenaline

bleeding out of his system, but the feeling frightened him nonetheless.

And made him angry–how he’d managed to navigate the aircraft through the

near-impossible bombardment mission, only to fall apart during level

flight.

Not that tanking was that easy a task. Aside from a night landing on

a carrier, it was one of the most dangerous and difficult evolutions a

carrier pilot underwent. Approaching another aircraft from behind, slowly

adjusting the airspeed until the two were perfectly matched, and then

plugging the refueling probe of a Tomcat into the small, three-foot basket

trailing out the end of a KA-6 tanker called for steady hands and a cool

head. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, not this close to

another aircraft. Too many collisions took place just at this point.

“Hold it!” Gator said sharply. “Bird Dog, back off and take a look

again. You’re all over the sky, man.”

Bird Dog swore softly. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he insisted.

“You’re not.” Gator’s voice was firm. “Just ease off–let’s try this

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