toward the last seat in the aircraft. As he was midway down the fuselage,
the waiting men suddenly moved. Three men stood up, grabbed him, and threw
him to the deck, pinning him down. He started to struggle, then something
hard hit him on the right side of his head. He lay motionless,
unconscious, on the deck.
Two more of the supposed native forces moved forward, gently easing
their pistols up against the necks of the pilot and copilot. Rogov
approached them and stood midway between the two seats. “Now, the
carrier,” he ordered, in a voice that left no doubt as to what the
consequence of disobedience would be. “Do not touch that,” he said sharply
as the copilot’s hand reached out for the IFF transponder. “I know you
have special codes that will tell the ship that you are under force. Do
not attempt to use them. If necessary, my men can fly this craft
themselves.”
The pilot and copilot exchanged an angry, helpless look, then the
pilot nodded. “Do what the man says, Brian,” he said levelly. The copilot
nodded and returned to reading the preflight checklist in a slightly shaky
voice.
Too bad there’s no checklist for hijacking, the pilot thought grimly,
as he made the routine responses to the checklist items. And there was no
way to let Jefferson know what was happening, not without risking the lives
of the remaining friendlies on board. If there were any others, he added
to himself, wondering if he and the copilot were the only Americans still
left on board the helicopter.
1144 Local
USS Jefferson
“Helo inbound,” the TFCC TAO reported.
Tombstone acknowledged the report with a curt nod. He studied the
friendly aircraft symbol that had just popped up on the display. “Ask them
how many souls on board,” he said. “And ask CDC if they’re going to get
that Tomcat on board before the helo makes its approach. I don’t want a
cluster fuck over this, people.”
“Tomcat Two-oh-one on final now,” the TAO responded instantly. “The
tanker is going to wait until after the helo is on board, then we’ll clear
the decks for her. I think there’re some casualties on the helo, so we’ll
want to get them in as soon as we can, but there’s a good window of time
for Bird Dog to take one pass.”
“That’s all it usually takes him,” Tombstone said.
“Tomcat Two-oh-one.”
“Roger, ball, Tomcat Two-oh-one, five point four, two souls,” Bird Dog
radioed to the landing signals officer, or LSO. Tomcat 201 was one mile
behind the carrier, coming up fast on the broad, blunt stern. His call
indicated he’d seen the meatball, the giant Fresnel lens mounted on the
port side. The intricate combination of lens and lights gave the pilot a
quick visual reference as to whether or not he was on glide path. When he
was making a proper approach, at a safe altitude, the light would glow
green. Too high or too low, and the pilot could see only the red lights.
With the LSO having the final word, and acting as a final safety check and
flight coach, all under the watchful eyes of the air boss, final approach
on a carrier was one of the most carefully monitored flight patterns in the
world.
Not that accidents didn’t happen, Bird Dog thought grimly. Calm down
now, boy, don’t get too excited. Just hit the three-wire, nice and sweet,
like you’ve done a hundred times before.
Of course, experience was no guarantee that nothing would go wrong.
Just two weeks ago, an F/A-18 Hornet pilot hadn’t been paying close enough
attention to the air mass that always churned and bubbled in the wake of
the aircraft carrier. He’d lost concentration, and a sudden downdraft had
caught him unprepared. Still at 140 knots airspeed, he’d smacked his
Hornet straight into the stern of the carrier, crumpling airframe and man
into a twisted mass now resting somewhere on the ocean floor.
Bird Dog shuddered, forcing the picture out of his mind. It happened
to other people, not to him. He felt his concentration quiver, then steady
and become absolute. His world narrowed down to the Fresnel lens, the aft