and popped the air brakes. For an instant, Tombstone looked into the other man's face…
Then he pulled the F-14 hard to the left, sliding in behind the MiG so close that the Tomcat bucked and rumbled in the other plane's jet wash. Tombstone knew he would have only a second before the other pilot went into a break. He let the gun reticle drift across the MiG's hull, squeezing the trigger as the target filled his sights.
Cannon fire hammered into the MiG from less than fifty yards away, gouging chunks of hull metal. Tracers seemed to sink into the MiG, walking up the fuselage.
The MiG was already burning, already starting to come apart as the deadly rain of high-speed cannon fire found the cockpit. The wings seemed to crumple in toward the hull, and then the entire plane was engulfed by flames. Tombstone's Tomcat bumped and shook as it rode through the fireball.
He watched the wreckage trail fire all the way to the ground.
Slowly, Sergeant Peters rose to his feet. There was absolute silence on the dock as U.S. Marines and Russians, in twos and threes, began getting up, looking at one another sheepishly. The thunder had receded. Long seconds passed before they realized that the near-miss blast had not been a bomb at all, but a Tomcat cutting in its afterburners less than five hundred feet overhead.
The nearest Russian marine stood slowly less than ten feet away. The front of his white trousers was wet. As he moved, Peters realized his own camo fatigue pants were wet too. The Russian looked at himself, then at Peters. Another long moment passed, and the Russian began to laugh.
The Marine joined in.
Within the next few minutes, a dialogue of sorts was worked out. After a hurried consultation, it was discovered that Private Greeley had brought along a strictly unauthorized item of equipment, a much-worn copy of Playboy tucked into his rucksack. The Russians obviously were interested in a trade; Greeley was convinced to part with his contraband in exchange for a Russian Naval cap… and the sergeant's promise to see him hauled before the skipper at mast for carrying contraband if he didn't go along with this new and promising turn in intercultural relations.
The Russians offered the Americans vodka and bread; the Marines offered them MREs. Meals, Ready to Eat ? plastic packages of dehydrated food ? were widely regarded by Marines as neither ready to eat nor meals, a poor substitute indeed for the canned C-rations they replaced. There was a spirited discussion over whether that particular gift would make the Russians mad. Peters broke the impasse by walking over to the Russian Marine and opening one of his MRE pouches.
The Russian looked puzzled as he sampled it. 'Shtoh eta?'
Peters didn't understand the words, but the question in the tone and in the man's face was clear enough. He smiled. 'Apricots.'
'Ah-bree-kods…?'
'Try 'em,' Peters said, grinning. 'You'll love 'em!'
At least the Soviet Marine wasn't a tank driver. Peters didn't think the apricot curse applied to ships.
'Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five,' Tombstone said. He was holding the Tomcat level at four thousand feet, flying slowly east across the coast north of Wonsan. 'Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five. Come in, please.'
He was just beginning to wonder if his radio was out too when he heard the crisp, all-business voice of Commander Barnes. 'Two-oh-five, this is Homeplate. Be advised you have friendlies entering your area. Watch you don't score an own goal.'
'Glad to hear it, Homeplate.' He paused to examine the sky.
'It looks like the locals don't want to play anymore.'
'Copy, Tombstone. That's good news.'
'Listen, Homeplate, does that mean your flight deck is open for business?'
'That's affirmative, Two-oh-five. We started launching five minutes ago. We sent the call out, but I guess you were too busy to hear us.'
'Roger that.' He checked his instruments again. He was losing fuel… fast. His hydraulic pressure was falling as well, and his left engine was running hot. 'Homeplate, I'm calling an emergency.'
'Copy, Two-oh-five. What is your situation, over?'
He ran down the list of warning indicators. The most serious problem was fuel. At the rate he was losing it, he would be going dry in another fifteen minutes. Coming in for a trap on Jefferson shouldn't be too hard; his ILS appeared to be out but he'd be able to come in by eyeball, no sweat. The loss of hydraulic pressure was a nagging worry, though. He might not be able to get his landing gear down… and if he did, the gear might not hold when he slammed into the deck.
'Two-oh-five,' Barnes said. 'Suggest you approach Homeplate and eject. We have an angel standing by.'
'Concur, Homeplate. I-' He heard a groan and felt his heart skip a beat. The ICS was on, and he was hearing sounds from the back seat! 'Wait one, Homeplate!' Tombstone turned, trying to see his RIO. 'Snowball! Snowball, are you there?'
He saw movement in the rearview mirror, caught a glimpse of Snowball's face, a mask of blood beneath his helmet. 'It… hurts.'
'Homeplate, this is Two-oh-five.'
'Go ahead, Tombstone. What do you have?'
'Homeplate, I thought my RIO was dead. He's not. He's alive! Can't tell his condition, but he's hurt pretty bad.'
'Ah… copy, Tombstone. Wait one.'
'Snowy? Can you hear me back there?'
'Tombstone!' The voice was weak, and Tombstone heard a wet gurgle behind each breath his RIO took. 'Tombstone… it hurts!'
'That's good, buddy! If it hurts, you're still in there kicking. Stay with me, son! We're on our way back to the Jeff!'
'Tombstone… I don't…'
'Stay with me, Dwight! Where do you hurt?'
There was no answer, but Tombstone could still hear the ragged breathing. If they were forced to eject, if Snowball's neck or back or head were broken, if he had a rib poking through a lung… damn it! Ejecting from a damaged bird was dangerous at the best of times. If you were injured, your chances of survival went way, way down.
Under it all was the nagging realization that Snowball was in the backseat now because Tombstone had landed on him two days ago. Snowy had been ready to quit, and if he had, he'd be safe and whole on the carrier right now.
Of course, someone else would be in the backseat instead. It seemed that there was little purpose in trying to second-guess the universe.
'Tomcat Two-oh-five, this is Homeplate.'
'Two-oh-five.'
'Tombstone, do you think your RIO can eject? Over.'
'Negative! Negative! We cannot eject!'
'Okay, Tombstone. Listen up. The Captain's rigging the barricade. You are clear for a straight-on approach. The Air Boss will talk you in, over.'
'Roger that, Homeplate.' He took in a deep breath. 'I'm coming in.'
'And I'm right here with you,' another voice cut in.
'Batman! Where are you?'
'On your five and low, Boss. Looks to me like you're bleeding.'
'Roger that.' The hydraulic fluid in Tomcats had an additive which colored it red, making it easier to detect leaks. 'Hydraulic pressure is way down.'
