Christmas Day?” Bird Dog asked for the third time.
“You ought to be out here, shipmate,” Lieutenant Commander Charlie “Gator” Cummings said wearily from the backseat. “Me — I’m senior to most of the other NFOs in the squadron. If I weren’t stuck with such a junior pilot for a partner, I’d still be in my rack sleeping off that huge meal last night.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that line’s getting real old,” Bird Dog snapped. “You think it’s fun being a lieutenant?”
“You think it’s fun flying with one?”
Bird Dog sighed. There was no way he could win this argument. Gator was right — the junior members of the squadron did pull the worst duty on the ship.
“Whales,” he said out loud. “I joined the Navy to fly against MiGs, not to stand by to buzz Greenpeace boats.”
“Would have thought you’d gotten enough of that on our last cruise.”
“That was something, wasn’t it?” Bird Dog said reflectively. “MiG-29s, F-11 Chinese fighters — hell, that’s the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on.”
And it had been. On their last cruise, his first deployment on board a carrier as a full-fledged naval aviator, the USS Jefferson had intervened in a nasty eastern Asian squabble over oil rights to the Spratly Islands. The North Koreans and the Chinese had teamed up to conduct an impressive exercise in operational deception. The Chinese had attacked and destroyed several of their own base camps perched on the tiny rocks and shoals that made up the Spratly Islands, hoping to convince the rest of the Pacific Rim nations that the United States was behind the aggression. Fortunately, Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder, “Tombstone” to his fellow aviators, had figured it out, and managed to put together a coalition of fighter squadrons from the other nations to expose and repel the Chinese marauders.
“Bet Tombstone is freezing his ass off right about now, too,” Bird Dog said. “ALASKCOM — colder’n hell up there, too, isn’t it?”
“I’ve got a radar paint on the Greenpeace boats,” Gator announced. “Should be about fifty miles ahead of US.”
“Well, let’s go give them their daily taste Of naval aviation. Probably the most fun they have while they’re out here in this godforsaken ocean.”
Bird Dog yanked the F-14 into a sharp turn.
“Hey, was that really necessary?” Gator asked sharply, grunting as he Performed the M-1 maneuver, designed to force blood into the extremities of an aviator during high-G operations. The sudden turn had caught him by surprise, and his vision had started to gray out at the edges.
“Sorry. Just trying to remind you what it’s like to be tactical.”
“Yeah, well, we’re sure as hell not going to need it against a Greenpeace boat.”
“That’s what we thought about that tank in the Spratlys, isn’t it?” Bird Dog reminded him. “Remember? That damned old Soviet tank, sitting all by itself out on that rock in the middle of the ocean. And those poor guys — whenever I think I have it rough on the carrier, I remember those two guys sittin’ on top of the tank, about six feet above the waves.”
“I remember the Stinger missiles,” Gator responded. “Though it took me a while to convince you that you ought to be thinking about them, too.”
“I’ve got a visual on them. Let’s slow down a little, mark on top for a few minutes and take some pictures.”
“‘Kay. I’m ready,” Gator said.
Bird Dog took manual control of the mechanism controlling the sweep-back wings on his aircraft. Normally, he would allow the computer to select the appropriate position — swept back along the fuselage for power and speed, or extended to provide maximum lift for getting airborne. The awkward configuration of the extended wing structure was what gave the Tomcat its affectionate nickname of “Turkey.”
“Two hundred knots — that’s about as slow as I want to go,” Bird Dog said. “Stall speed is only a hundred and forty knots at this weight.”
“You sure as hell better keep us airborne, shipmate, because that water ain’t that inviting. Survival time is about fifteen seconds.”
Bird Dog put the Tomcat into a gentle arc, two hundred feet above the ship ahead of them. “Now, don’t you go worryin’, Gator. I got you back last time, didn’t I?”
Gator muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.
“Besides, there’s no way those Greenpeace boats are carrying Stingers,” Bird Dog continued. “I mean, what the hell — what would that do for their image as peaceful ecologists?”
“They care about endangered bobcats, not Tomcats.”
Bird Dog sighed. “Let’s just take the pictures and get out of here. I want to do a few barrel rolls and some acrobatics on the way back to the ship.”
“Just stay away from that damned cruiser this time, okay? I put up with that all last cruise, and I’m not going to do that again. Gets old, standing tall in front of CAG and explaining why I let the junior lieutenant driving my bird pretend to be an incoming missile for an Aegis cruiser.”
“Sure got their attention, though, didn’t it?” Bird Dog chuckled. “You RIOs have no idea of how to have fun.”
Bird Dog put the Tomcat into a lazy port turn, increasing the angle of bank so he could get a good look at the ship below them. The convened fishing trawler was skirting the edge of the fog bank, plowing heavily through the rough seas. While the churning yaw and pitch looked damned dangerous, the SS Serenity’s deep draft let her bite through confused swells that would have capsized a much larger vessel.
The boat looked well-maintained and neat, from what he could see. There was no debris littering the deck, where lines and rope lay neatly coiled. A thin coating of ice over the superstructure and weather decks reflected the sun, occasionally generating a bright, painful flash of light. Its hull was green, its railing and fixtures painted white. A rainbow graced the starboard bow. From one mast a Greenpeace ecological flag flapped briskly in the wind. No one was visible on deck — not surprising, considering the weather. Bird Dog dropped the aircraft down to 150 feet and peered at the glass-enclosed bridge. He thought he could pick out two figures moving inside.
“You finished?” he asked Gator.
“One more shot. There, I’ve got it. Let’s head for home.”
“Your wish is my command,” Bird Dog answered. He let the Tomcat roll around the final arc of the circle, then broke off the turn to vector back toward the aircraft carrier, now out of sight. “I’ll let Mother know we’re headed home.” He keyed the tactical circuit. “Homeplate, this is Tomcat Two-oh-one, inbound.”
“Roger, Tomcat Two-oh-one. Say state?” the operations specialist, or OS, on the other end asked.
Bird Dog glanced down at the fuel gauge. “We’re fine, homeplate. Six thousand pounds.”
“Roger, Two-oh-one. Tanker airborne in ten mikes,” the operator replied. “I hold you on radar now.”
Bird Dog switched off the tactical circuit and keyed the ICS, the interior communications switch. “Nice to know they have such confidence in my ability to get back on board,” he said to Gator.
“Don’t take it personal,” the RIO replied. “The last thing we want to happen is to get low on gas out here. Not much place to bingo.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got plenty of fuel for two passes at the boat. What, they don’t think my track record’s so hot?”
He heard his RIO sigh. “They’ve launched a tanker for every returning flight in the last two days, asshole. If you think you’re such hot shit, maybe I’d better find me another pilot. Nothing kills air crews faster than over- confidence.”
“Well, when was the last time I did anything except get on board first time and catch the three-wire?” Bird Dog argued. “I’m just saying, it’s a normal-“
“Wait, what’s that?” Gator said.
“What?”
“Radar contact — way down to the south, maybe a hundred miles. It wasn’t there before,” Gator said, a note of excitement coloring his usual professional monotone.
“Probably another fishing boat. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t there before. Now it’s solid. You know what that means.”
