direction.' He jerked his head sideways, indicating the flag bridge. 'I'll be topside, waiting for Washington to make up their goddamned minds.' He patted for the omnipresent pipe resting in the pocket of his khaki uniform shirt and rolled his eyes toward the overhead. 'God only knows what'll happen when those bureaucratic bastards put their oar in. Call me if there's a change.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
The admiral appeared to be carrying a weight slung across his shoulders as he turned away, and in that moment Marusko decided that he wouldn't exchange places with Pops Magruder for anything on God's green earth. Sometimes, the price was just too damn high.
Lieutenant Edward Everett Wayne, call sign 'Batman,' shifted in his seat, trying to work the cramp out from under his left shoulder blade. He'd been on Alert Five ? sitting in the cockpit of his F-14, ready to launch from Jeff's number two catapult on five minutes' notice ? for the past hour and a half.
His point of view from twelve feet up gave him a splendid panorama of the carrier's flight deck, of the other three Tomcats set and ready for launch, of the crewmen in their color-coded shirts milling about in what looked like confusion but was actually a precisely choreographed ballet. Beyond, endless gray ocean merged with soot-gray overcast. Up there above that lowering ceiling was air and light and the golden glory freedom of airborne speed… he wanted to go!
Batman twisted far enough around to the right so that he could glimpse Jefferson's Pried-Fly, the glassed-in structure overlooking the carrier's flight deck from high up along the inboard side of the island. The shadowy figures glimpsed there gave no indication that launch was imminent or even that they would launch at all.
His RIO grinned at him past the tangle of cables and equipment separating their ejection seats. Lieutenant Kenneth Blake's helmet was decorated with stars and bore his call sign, 'Malibu,' picked out in red. 'Holy hemorrhoids, Batman,' the RIO said, bantering. 'I think I'd rather be surfing.'
Batman Wayne chuckled. 'I just wish they'd get this show on the road!'
As if in answer, his radio headset crackled in his helmet. 'Backstop, Backstop, this is CAG. Time to wake up out there and earn your pay. Immediate launch. You are clear for engine start.'
About damn time, Batman thought, fastening his mask across his face. 'Roger, CAG. Let's go for it. Starting engines.'
The Tomcat's port engine thundered to life, followed a moment later by the starboard. Outside, the deck crew completed their last-minute checks. 'AWG 9 light is out, circuit breakers OK.'
A green shirt standing off the port side of the aircraft held up a signboard on which he'd scrawled the numerals 66,000, and Batman nodded confirmation. The exchange was crucial, since the catapult officer had to make certain the catapult was set to deliver steam enough to hurl 66,000 pounds of Tomcat and fuel to a take-off speed of one hundred seventy miles an hour. A pair of red shirts scooted from beneath the wings after a final check of the ordnance slung there.
Batman grasped the stick, moving it forward, backward, left, and right, murmuring the traditional 'Father, Son, Holy Ghost' mnemonic as he did so. Next he moved the rudder pedals with his feet, first left, then right, finishing the litany with 'Amen.' Outside, a pair of yellow shirts watched the aircraft's control surfaces and signaled thumbs up. Everything was working properly.
'All set, Malibu?'
'We've got the green light. Go for it!'
Batman glanced back over his right shoulder at the carrier's flight deck island. The green light there showed he was clear for launch. The voice in his headphones confirmed it. 'Backstop Leader, you are go for launch. Good- bye and good luck.'
'Copy, Homeplate.' He opened the throttle to full afterburner, dumping torrents of raw fuel into the twin infernos in the aircraft's tail. He saluted the yellow-shirted launch officer, confirmation that they were ready to go. The launch officer gave a final all-round check, then executed a ballet-perfect gesture, leaning over and to the side, one leg extended, touching the deck with his hand. Somewhere out of sight, a catapult officer's finger came down on a red button, releasing an avalanche of steam against a huge piston buried beneath the flight deck.
A giant's hand closed over Batman's face and chest, squeezing. He kept himself hunched forward, the better to keep his eyes on his instruments in the critical first seconds of launch. His eyes felt flattened in their sockets. The sharp rattle of wheels on steel below blended with the shriek of engines behind as sound, sight, and sensation were compressed into a single, nerve-jarring event. They hurtled forward and sailed an instant later into comparative silence, a gentle feeling of sinking as the acceleration which had slammed the Tomcat from zero to one-seventy in two seconds flat died.
'Good shot!' Batman radioed, announcing that he had control of the aircraft and was airborne. The Tomcat seemed to hang in midair off the Jefferson's bow for one dizzying instant, then began to pick up speed. The shock of the catapult's launch was replaced by the gentler surge of acceleration as the fighter began to climb.
Voices buzzed over his headset, announcing a second Tomcat airborne, then a third, then a fourth. Air Ops began feeding him vector information. Batman noted the figures, but automatically, without real interest. His attention, his heart was on the sky as the Jefferson's bow dwindled astern and the universe became nothing but sea and sky and airplane. His Tomcat was moving now, wings folding back along her flanks as she leaped toward the cloud deck, plunging into the leaden, prison-wall barrier between him and the crystal blue beyond. It turned dark, and then he was bursting through into morning light, free of the ship, free of the world, hurtling north toward Mach 1.
Tombstone eased back slightly on the stick, bringing his nose up as gray water whipped past a scant hundred feet beneath his feet. This should be the place.
He glanced to starboard at Coyote, who shook his head and gave an elaborate shrug. They'd reached their destination but the spook ship was nowhere to be seen.
'Anything, Snowball?'
'Clutter, Tombstone. Damn, lousy clutter. I think they're jamming us!'
'Easy does it, son,' he said. He didn't like the urgent shiver that edged his RIO's voice. 'Everything's green.'
'Yeah, but it's getting' worse, Mr. Magruder! I don't think-'
'Try to get through it. Ho, Coyote!'
'Copy, Tombstone.'
'Coming right to triple zero.'
'Triple zero it is. Mind the sharp corners.'
'Tango Seven-niner, this is Rodeo,' he called. 'On target and no joy. Bogie dope! What can you give us, over?'
'Rodeo, this is Tango Seven-niner. We're picking up heavy jamming, broad band. Suggest new heading, one-eight-zero.'
'Rog, one-eight-zero. You copy that, Coyote?'
'Back the other way. Lead the way, Boss.'
'Here we go.' They began their turn. 'Tango Seven-niner, this is Rodeo. Confirm ROEs, over.'
There was a pause as his question was relayed back to the CBG, which by now was below Tombstone's radio horizon. The ROE ? Rules of Engagement ? for his patrol had been set for Hotel-Two: fire only if fired upon. It was the worst possible situation for a fighter going into possible combat since it meant the other guy had a free first shot.
His compass reading steadied on one-eight-zero, due south. He could hear the rasp of Snowball's heavy, rapid breathing in his headset. 'Right, Snowball. Keep your eyes peeled now for-'
'Skipper!' Snowball's call was a ragged burst of noise over the intercom. 'I got 'em! I got 'em!'
'What…?'
'Bandits, Mr. Magruder!' His voice was urgent. 'MiGs! MiGs! MiGs!'
