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