bombers were out of Murmansk. They had flown around the Scandinavian peninsula, down through the Iceland-U.K. gap, and then another twenty-five hundred miles south. After hours on station they would return to the Soviet Union or fly on to Cuba.
“Scan the camera, Toad.”
In a few seconds Tarkington said, “Got him. This guy is behind the leader. A little farther away, so he’s off the lead’s right side.”
“Okay. Go back to the leader.”
As the camera panned sky, the cross hairs on Jake’s heads-up display, the HUD, also moved. But squint as he might, the bombers were still too far away to see. The camera settled in on the first plane. Jake corrected his heading.
At fifteen miles he could see the leader under the HUD cross hairs. At eight miles he came out of burner and pulled the nose up, allowing the gentle climb to bleed off his airspeed. Had this been a shooting interception, he would have launched his missiles long ago.
At five miles he gestured to his wingman, sweeping his open hand in a chopping motion to the right, then kissed off the wingman by touching his oxygen mask and sweeping his hand away, splaying his fingers. The other pilot gave him a thumbs-up and turned away to the right. He would join on the second Bear.
Two miles from the bomber Jake said, “Burn ’em, Toad.” The RIO turned his radar to transmit. Jake knew the bomber crew would hear the fighter’s radar on their ECM equipment, which no doubt they had turned up to maximum sensitivity. At this range the noise should sear their eardrums. And the crew would know that if this had been a wartime intercept, they would be dead.
The F-14 climbed rapidly toward the stern quarter of the bomber, Jake reducing power to decelerate to equal airspeed. He turned to the big plane’s heading and joined up just below and behind it. The bomber was the color of polished aluminum, a silver gray, with a red star on the tail and under one wing. Jake could see the gunner in the tailgun compartment looking out the window. The barrels of the 23-millimeter twin tail guns were pointed aft and up, at the limit of the gimbals. They didn’t move, Jake noticed, which was nice. The two governments had promised each other that their servicemen wouldn’t point weapons during these encounters, since the person on the wrong end of the weapon tended to get nervous and jittery and had a weapon of his own. But it was a long way from the diplomatic conference table to the skies over the Atlantic and Pacific.
Jake turned right and came up alongside the bomber’s right wing. He could now see into the copilot’s side of the Bear’s cockpit. The copilot was staring across the hundred feet of empty air that separated them.
“Just stay here, CAG,” Toad said. “I’m getting pictures.” In the rearview mirror Jake saw Toad focusing a 35 -millimeter camera.
In the cockpit of the Bear a camera was being pointed this way. “They’re taking our picture, too,” Jake said.
“Not to sweat, sir. I have the sign against the canopy.” Jake knew the sign Toad was referring to. Printed in block letters on an eight-by-ten-inch piece of white cardboard was the word “Hello.” Under it in letters equally large was the word “Asshole.”
When Toad had six shots of this side of the bomber, Jake dropped below the plane and Toad kept snapping. Then they photographed the left side of the plane and the top, ending up back on the right side, where Toad finished out the roll. These pictures would be studied by the Air Intelligence officers for indications of modifications or new capabilities.
By the time Toad was finished with the camera, the other F-14 was joined on Jake’s right wing. Jake knew the RIO of that plane was busy photographing his fighter against the bomber. One of these pictures would probably be released by the navy to the wire services in the States.
“Okay, CAG,” Toad said. “Our guy’s all done. I’ll just flip Ivan the terrible bird and we can be on our way anytime.”
“You’ve got real class, Tarkington.”
“They expect it, sir. They’d feel cheated if we didn’t give them the Hawaiian good luck sign.” Toad solemnly raised a middle finger aloft as Jake lowered the Tomcat’s nose and dove away.
2
The USS
In twos and threes and fours, sailors in civilian clothes wandered the streets of the downtown and the Casbah, snapping photos of the people and the buildings and each other and crowding the downtown bars, which were relatively abundant in spite of the fact that Morocco is a Moslem nation. Fortunately, downtown Tangiers had been built by the French, a thirsty lot, and the pragmatic Arabs were willing to tolerate the sinful behavior of the unbelievers as long as it was profitable.
In the “international bars” barefoot belly dancers slithered suggestively. The sailors didn’t stay long with beer at the equivalent of four U.S. dollars a glass, but when they saw the belly dancers they knew they were a long way from Norfolk, and from Tulsa, Sioux Falls, and Uniontown and all the other places they had so recently left behind. Properly primed, they explored the streets and loudly enjoyed the respite from shipboard routine. The more adventurous sought out the prostitutes in the side streets. Veiled women and swarthy men watched the parade in silence while their offspring gouged the foreigners unmercifully for leather purses, baskets, and other “genuine” souvenirs. All things considered, the sailors and their money were welcomed to Tangiers with open arms.
Just before sunset the Air France flight from Paris touched down at the local airport. One of the passengers was a reporter-photographer from
The journalist, a portly gentleman in his fifties, took a taxi from the airport and directed the driver to a modest hotel that catered to French businessmen. He registered at the desk, accompanied his bags to his rooms, and returned to the lobby a quarter of an hour later. After an aperitif in the small hotel bar, he walked two blocks to a restaurant he apparently knew from prior visits to Tangiers. There he drank half a bottle of wine and ate a prodigious expense-account dinner. He paid his bill with French francs. He stopped in the hotel bar for a nightcap.
Within minutes an attractive young woman in an expensive Paris frock entered and seated herself in a darkened corner of the room away from the bar. Her hair looked as if it had been coiffed in a French salon. She had a trim, modest figure, which her colorful dress showed to advantage, and the shapely, muscular legs of a professional dancer or athlete. She ordered absinthe in unaccented French and lit a cigarette.
Her gaze met the journalist’s several times but she offered no encouragement, or at least none which caught the bartender’s eye. When it became apparent she was not waiting for an escort, the reporter took his drink and approached her table. He seated himself in seconds. The couple talked for almost twenty minutes and laughed on several occasions. There were only two other men in the bar, both of whom were apparently French businessmen; they discussed sales quotas and prices the entire time they were there. Around 11:30—the bartender was not sure of the time — the reporter and the lady left together. The reporter left French francs on the table sufficient to cover the price of the drinks and a modest tip. At midnight the two businessmen departed and the bartender closed up.
The following morning the
