For the first time in some minutes, Coyote was again aware of the deep-throated rumble of an engine in the distance. Numb with cold and exhaustion, with one arm still thrown across Mardi Gras's chest, he fumbled with his free hand for a flare. His radio squawked, the words thin and indistinct. He couldn't reach it, not and still hold onto Mardi. No matter. They sounded close now. They'd see his smoke. The rumble was too throaty and deep to be jet engines. It was more like the heavy thud-thud-thud of a helo. Hell, that was fast work. If the SAR helo could pull them from the drink in time, they might still do something for Mardi back on board the Jeff.
By feel, he found the end of the flare for day use and twisted savagely at the cap. Red smoke spilled from the end, boiling across the water in a thick, churning cloud. With the last of his strength, he waved the smoke marker back and forth. Where was the helo? The engine noise was much closer now… and behind him.
'They'll have us back aboard Jeff in no time, Vince!' he told his RIO. Clinging to the man's body, he twisted around so that he could watch the helicopter's approach.
The shock of recognition brought bile to his throat. It was not a helicopter approaching him with the deep- throated growl of triple diesels, but the angled gray bow of a missile boat. The turreted, automatic 30-mm gun on the forward deck, the huge, blunt canisters on either side housing Styx anti-ship missiles identified the craft as a Soviet-built Osa 1.
The flag whipping from its mast was North Korean.
Coyote clung tighter to Mardi Gras's body, still unwilling to accept his friend's death, unwilling to accept the gray specter which was drawing closer now on throbbing, idling engines. North Korean seamen were lining the Osa's rail, AKM rifles pointed directly at Coyote.
'Oh, Vince,' he said softly. 'We are in one hell of a world of shit.'
'Rodeo Leader, Charlie now.' The voice of Jefferson's Air Boss sounded over Tombstone's earphones, signaling him to leave his holding pattern ahead of the carrier. He brought the stick over, dropping the Tomcat into a 4-G turn. He throttled back until the further engines were barely idling and popped the speed brakes to slow the craft. At 300 knots, the F-14's computer decided to slide the wings forward.
Normally, Tomcat pilots overrode the automatics and kept the wings folded back, holding that a wings- forward position made them look like a goose as they went into the break. This time, though, Tombstone left the wings forward. He was angry and he was worried, and somehow the aviator's concern with looking good on the landing simply didn't seem as important as it did normally.
'We are now in goose mode,' Snowball said from the backseat. 'Training wheels activated.'
Tombstone ignored him and concentrated on the turn. His left hand flicked the control to lower his landing gear. At 230 knots he dropped the wing flaps, slowing the aircraft still further as he maintained the turn. His eyes flicked to the console. Rate of descent… 600 feet per minute. Turning at 22' angle-of-bank. Range from the ship now three-quarters of a mile. He was coming up on Jefferson's wake now, sweeping out of the turn and lining up with her flight deck from astern. The carrier was plowing northeast into the wind at twenty knots. The swells had gotten stiffer in the last half hour, and Tombstone caught a glimpse of white spray bursting over Jefferson's bow. From here he could make out the squat tower of the ship's Fresnel landing system, the 'meatball' on the carrier's port side which let him judge his glide slope.
He called the ball. 'Tomcat Two-oh-five ? Six point four, ball.' That told Jefferson's landing signals officer ? the LSO ? that he had the meatball lined up, and that he had sixty-four hundred pounds of fuel on board. He'd not taken a full load from the KA-6D, since he needed only enough to get back to the ship. Excess fuel would have to be dumped before landing anyway.
'Roger ball,' the LSO replied over his headset. 'Deck going down. Power on.'
In these rough seas, Jefferson's deck was heaving up and down, changing altitude beneath Tombstone's wheels by ten feet with the passage of every wave. The LSO's warning let him increase speed enough during the last second of his approach to keep from touching down short on the deck. Tombstone caught his breath and held it. It was in these critical seconds that the LSO would wave him off if he'd screwed it up.
Large as she was, Jefferson never looked tinier to Tombstone than when he was dropping toward her deck for a trap. The deck was rising now to meet him… fast… faster. As the wheels touched steel he shoved the throttles forward; if his tail-hook missed the arresting wire, he needed full power for a 'bolter' ? a touch-and-go that would send him off the forward deck and around for a second pass.
The hook caught hold with a savage jolt that flung Tombstone against his shoulder harness. 'Good trap!' he heard over his radio, as he brought the throttles back and the whine of the engines dropped in pitch. Ahead of his aircraft, a yellow-shirted deck director waved a pair of wands, guiding him onto his taxi pass. He backed the F-14 slightly to spit out the wire, then folded the Tomcat's wings and crept forward, following the yellow shirt.
He'd already killed the engines in the designated space when he realized something was different. As the F- 14's canopy raised up and he pulled the oxygen mask clear of his face, he saw that there were more men than usual gathering about the aircraft… and more were arriving second by second. Normally, the color-coded crewmen seemed segregated, each with their own kind, but now purple-shirted fuel handlers mingled with red-shirted ordnancemen, shoulder to shoulder with green-shirted hook and catapult men, safety monitors and corpsmen in white, crew captains in brown. The noise which assaulted his ears as he unfastened his harness and hitched himself up was deafening. Chief Walters, 205's crew chief, unfolded the ladder from the Tomcat's side and was there to congratulate Tombstone as he stepped from the cockpit and onto the deck. 'Welcome home, sir! Number one job! Number one!'
'Thanks, Gabe.'
The crowd was all around him, pounding him on his back. A red-shirted ordnanceman beamed up at him. 'We got us a MiG, didn't we, Commander?'
'We sure did,' Tombstone replied. He tried to grin and failed. He felt keen disappointment. He'd just experienced what every peacetime Navy aviator dreamed of, engaging MiGs air-to-air and scoring a kill, but worry about Coyote and Mardi Gras dampened his joy.
Besides, Coyote had made a kill as well.
But the enthusiasm of the flight deck crew was wildly contagious. Those men regarded the MiG kills as no less theirs than his. He found himself laughing despite the pain as he and Snowball were hoisted high and carried in triumphant procession toward the carrier's island.
If only Coyote and Mardi could have been there to share it.
'Admiral on deck,' a seaman barked out, as Magruder stepped across the hatch combing and into the glassed-in brightness of Primary Flight Control. Captain Fitzgerald was there, the inevitable blue ball cap with Jefferson's name and number inscribed on it low over his eyes, an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. He was looking through the windows aft, watching the flight deck where a rainbow of colored shirts was closing in on the pilot and RIO who had just made their trap.
Fitzgerald turned and met Magruder's eyes. 'Your boy's done well for himself, Admiral. A goddamned hero.'
'That he has, Captain.' Inwardly, he wondered what he should say… or should not say. More than ever, Magruder questioned the wisdom of allowing Matthew to be stationed aboard this carrier, out of all the carriers in the Navy.
He knew Matthew had the same questions. Having an admiral for an uncle could cause more problems than it was worth.
'You look worried, Admiral. What's the gouge?'
Magruder sighed. Better to say it right out. 'I've already talked to CAG. Backstop is RTB. And the carrier group is to stay put for the time being.'
Captain Fitzgerald was silent for a long moment. Behind him, through the Pried-Fly windows, Magruder could see one of Jefferson's angels, a rescue chopper holding station half a mile off to port. That was routine during launch and landing ops, a safety net against the chance that a plane might have to ditch. So many flight op procedures were designed to safeguard the men who launched, flew, and recovered the carrier's planes, to give them the best possible chance of returning from a mission alive.
Magruder's words might well have just condemned Coyote and Mardi Gras to death. He couldn't escape that
