Tiger's Claw: A Novel

A few moments later, the Navy-gray Hornet two-seat fighter-bombers appeared out their side windscreens, and they could see the Navy backseaters snapping pictures of the XB-1 with their wingman on the other side.

“She’s a big mutha,” one of the Hornet pilots radioed.

“Show us what she can do,” another said. Cuthbert started a left turn, getting steeper and steeper until they were at ninety degrees bank. The Hornet pilots remained in tight formation as if they were airshow performers.

“Not bad, not bad—for a big ol’ dinosaur,” another crewmember radioed. “What else does the old girl got?”

Cuthbert glanced at Patrick. “What do you think, General?” he asked.

“I think they want to play.” Patrick called up the low-level flight plan again, and Cuthbert kept the turn in until they were headed for the entry point again. Patrick ran the “Before TFR Flight” checklist again, then shook his control stick and said, “I’ve got the aircraft.”

Cuthbert shook his stick in response. “You’ve got the aircraft.”

“How about it, momma?” a Hornet pilot radioed. “Got anything else to show us?”

“They’re probably afraid it’s going to break if they G it up too much,” another chimed in.

“No, we’re just waiting for the right spot,” Patrick radioed back. “Ready, Cutlass?”

“Go fry their butts, sir,” Cuthbert replied, his wide grin hidden by his oxygen mask.

“Here we go,” Patrick said. He swept the wings full aft and moved the throttles up to full military power.

“Well, sweeping the wings is cool, like a great big F-14 Tomcat,” one of the Navy pilots radioed, “and I see she still has a little oompf left in her . . .”

. . . and Patrick hit the “ENGAGE” button on his MFD and started a hard right turn into the low-level corridor.

“Hey! Watch it!” one of the Hornet pilots radioed. “Where in hell are you going?”

“Catch us if you can, girls,” Patrick radioed. The two Hornets had disappeared from sight as the Excalibur began its dramatic plunge toward Earth.

“No sweat, momma,” a Hornet pilot said. “Welder Two, you’re at my three o’clock; join on me in loose fingertip.”

“Two,” the wingman responded.

The two icons on the defensive systems display showed the Hornets merging and moving higher and farther away. Patrick reluctantly had to pull the throttles back to avoid going supersonic in the steep descent. In less than a minute they had descended to two hundred feet aboveground and were again riding the ridges, now traveling closer to seven hundred miles an hour.

“Hornets at seven o’clock high,” Patrick said, scanning his checklist and defensive displays. “TFR system checks.” He strained to check out both side windscreens for terrain. “Hang on, Cutlass,” he said, and he threw the Excalibur in a steep right turn.

“Hornets at six o’clock . . . five . . . four . . . coming back to five o’clock . . .”

“Not for long,” Patrick said. Just before reaching a peak, he threw the Excalibur into a very steep left turn, hugging the peak so closely Cuthbert could see individual cracks on the rocks below.

“You got the dirt, Patrick?” Cuthbert asked a little worriedly.

“I’ve got the dirt, I’ve got the dirt,” Patrick said.

“Hornets at nine o’clock, eight o’clock, moving away . . . now turning back, still at eight o’clock . . .”

“No fair using radar, chums,” Patrick said. He called up another checklist page, this time to activate the Excalibur’s defensive ALQ-293 SPEAR system, then made another tight right-hand turn and skimmed over another rocky ridge. “I’ll just scramble their radars and radios, not take them out completely,” Patrick said. Moments later the icons representing the Hornets disappeared. “Take that, squids.”

“Welder flight, knock it off, knock it off,” the lead Hornet pilot radioed a few moments later, his voice a combination of anxiety and anger. The radio was a mess of squeals, pops, and static—the pilot’s voice was barely recognizable. “Lead is climbing to angels seventeen. Fallon Range Control, Welder One-Seven is canceling MARSA at this time.”

“Welder One-Seven, repeat,” the range controller replied through the jamming. “Did not copy.”

“Fallon Range Control, Welder One-Seven canceling MARSA,” the pilot repeated through the haze of static. Then he said, “Hey, Masters, shut the damned jamming off, dickheads.” Patrick shut down the defensive suite, and the squealing stopped. “Fallon Range Control, how do you copy now?”

“Loud and clear now, Welder,” the controller responded.

“We’re canceling MARSA, squawking normal.”

“Roger, Welder One-Seven. Radar contact, five-seven miles northwest of the field, passing angels thirteen. Your wingman is at your seven o’clock position, four miles, passing through angels eleven. I have negative radar contact on Masters One.”

“That’s because the bastard went low-level while we were in formation!” the lead Hornet pilot replied angrily, “and then he turned on his jammers and shut every radar and radio down for fifty miles in every freakin’ direction!”

“I copy, Welder,” the controller said. “Masters One, are you on frequency?”

“Affirmative, Fallon Control,” Patrick replied. “We’re ten miles south of waypoint Tango on IR-7, passing six thousand climbing to one-six thousand, on the way to range control point JASPER.”

“Still negative radar contact,” the controller said. “You were directed to remain MARSA with Welder flight in the block angels one-seven to two-one.”

“We still own the range and the IR-7 low-level route for another five minutes, Fallon,” Patrick said. “We simply reentered IR-7 and resumed our test flight. If the Hornets couldn’t remain MARSA with us, they should’ve reported that to you and stayed in the block.”

There was a long pause on the frequency, then: “Masters One, contact Fallon Range Operations after landing. You are cleared to point JASPER, climb and maintain angels one-six. Upon reaching JASPER, you are cleared direct to Battle Mountain Airport. Contact Battle Mountain Approach upon reaching JASPER, and after arriving at Battle Mountain, contact Fallon Range Control by telephone,” and the controller read off a phone number.

“Masters One copies all,” Patrick said, adding, “Have a nice day, Welders.”

“Bite me,” came the reply, and the frequency remained silent until they exited the range and switched to civilian air traffic control.

“So, what do you think, Cutlass?” Patrick asked.

“It was awesome!” Cuthbert replied, pulling off his oxygen mask, squirming excitedly in his seat, and clapping his hands. “Man, I’d forgotten how exciting low-level flying is—the heavies haven’t done it in years. Sounds like you might get a spanking from the Navy after you get back for turning on that SPEAR jammer thingy and shutting everything down.”

“They’ll get over it—I’ll let the legal beagles sort it out,” Patrick said, completely unconcerned. “Feel like making the landing, Cutlass?”

“Damn right I do, sir, damn right I do!” Cuthbert said happily. “I feel like a young butter-bar bomber jock again. I’ve got the airplane!” He shook the control stick to indicate he had control of the aircraft, and Patrick shook his stick to acknowledge. “I might miss my flight back to Hawaii, but it was damn well worth it!”

THREE

SOUTH CHINA SEA

THAT SAME TIME

“Who said it looks ugly? I think it’s cute,” U.S. Navy Lieutenant Paula “Cowgirl” Caraway commented as she studied the image on her multifunction display from her station in the aviation warfare section of the P-8 Poseidon reconnaissance plane, based in Hawaii but temporarily deployed to Taiwan. Caraway, a trim, athletic blonde with an almost perpetual smile, was the patrol plane navigator/communications officer, or NAVCOM, aboard the aircraft.