“Copy, Leader.”
Tombstone slid the F-14 into a left-hand barrel roll while CAG was still speaking, going inverted and following his starboard wing over in a long, sideways fall that bottomed out at 27,000 feet. Ahead, the KA-6D tanker plowed toward the horizon at a steady 250 knots.
“Tango X-ray One-one,” he called. “Viper Two-oh-one. Coming in for some of your basic I&I.”
“Affirmative, Two-oh-one. Come on in. We’re sweet, hot, and willing.”
I&I, intercourse and intoxication, was the Navy man’s reworking of the more traditional R&R. Much of the slang and banter associated with air-to-air refueling carried a strongly sexual content, for obvious reasons. Sweet meant they had fuel.
The KA-6D was a conventional A-6 Intruder converted into a fuel tanker, a “Texaco” in Navy jargon. With 500-gallon drop tanks slung beneath wings and fuselage plus what was carried on board, it could transfer up to 21,000 pounds of fuel — over 3,200 gallons — to other aircraft. As Tombstone approached the tanker from the rear, the tanker extended a fifty-foot boom from its belly, a slender hose tipped by a basket that resembled an iron mesh shuttlecock.
Tombstone pulled a selector switch and the Tomcat’s fuel probe swung out of the right side of the nose with a small whine of hydraulics. He eased the F-14 forward until the broomstick-thick snout of the probe stabilized about six feet behind the trailing basket. Turbulence buffeted the F-14 and its small target.
At this range, the tanker loomed overhead, an enormous gray whale precariously suspended just beyond the canopy. Tombstone needed every ounce of concentration to keep the F-14 steady, easing the aircraft gently forward, countering the rumbling vibration of the tanker’s slipstream. Since he had to concentrate on the other aircraft only yards away, his RIO watched the relative positions of probe and basket and gave him the instructions to drive the plug home.
“Left a tad,” Marusko said over the ICS. Tombstone corrected gently, still concentrating on the tanker. “And up. Three feet. Looking good …”
Tombstone was sweating beneath his oxygen mask and helmet, despite the cool, dry air in the cockpit. Air- to-air refueling was a routine part of any patrol, with the aircraft topping off their tanks after they’d catapulted from the deck and reached cruising altitude. The procedure was not nearly as nerve-racking as, say, landing on the deck of an aircraft carrier in a heavy sea at night … but there was a definite pucker factor involved in the maneuver that had very little leeway for error. Tombstone could feel his heart beating faster as he studied the relative positions of the two aircraft and the slowly closing gap between them. Both planes were traveling now at 375 knots, and the rate of closure was down to less than a foot per second. Sweat blurred his vision … “Back out!” Marusko shouted. “Abort! Abort!”
Tombstone tried to correct … too late. One hundred pounds of iron basket smashed into the canopy like a sledgehammer. The noise was so loud, so sharp, that for a second Tombstone thought the cockpit had been blown. The Tomcat shuddered again as the basket rebounded, then snapped back into the aircraft’s side with a jarring thump. The danger was as sharp as it was sudden. The loose basket could easily splinter the F-14’s canopy or get sucked down an intake and shred turbofan blades, engine, and fuel lines.
“Damn it, Stoney,” Marusko shouted again. “Back out!”
Tombstone’s thumb was already nudging the thumb-wheel on his stick to raise his lift-control spoilers, dumping some of his plane’s lift. The Tomcat sank several feet, as the basket skittered above the canopy and threatened to rap the F-14 on the port side as well. Gently, Tombstone dropped the throttles back a notch, letting the tanker slip farther away. “Sorry about that, Tango X-ray,” he said. “Bitch got away from me.”
“No sweat, Two-oh-one. Have another go.”
Carefully, he urged the Tomcat up and forward once more, positioning himself six feet behind the recalcitrant basket. He braced himself, took a deep breath, and willed his aircraft ahead.
“Looks good,” Marusko said. “Four feet … two … no!” The Tomcat’s refueling probe struck the rim of the basket, sending it dancing aside.
“Abort!”
“Shit!” The basket swung back and hit the probe, then bumped and clattered across the canopy inches above his head. Tombstone eased back again.
“Let’s clear out and let Batman have a shot,” Marusko said.
“Rog.” Tombstone let the Tomcat continue to slide astern of the tanker, until he had room to pull away to port. “Viper Two, Leader. You chase the damned thing for a while.”
“Right, Tombstone.” Tomcat 216 edged forward, taking 201’s place astern of the Texaco. “Okay, Tango X-ray One-one, this is Tomcat Two-one-six.
Let’s show those old men how it’s done. Spread ‘em!”
“Come ahead, Two-one-six.”
From a hundred feet astern and to the left, Tombstone watched as Batman’s refueling probe slid smoothly into the basket. Automatic locks snapped home when the basket had been driven forward six feet. “That’s contact,” Batman said. “Gimme a thousand of high-test.”
“Capture confirmed,” the tanker pilot replied. “She’s coming.”
It was an odd sight. The Tomcat was seven feet longer than the KA-6D and had a much larger wing area, especially now with the variable-geometry wings swung forward to improve lift and handling at low speed. Size and the twin tail fins made the F-14 look far more massive than the tanker, though in fact the fully loaded takeoff weight of both aircraft was about the same, thirty tons. To Tombstone, the sight of a Tomcat refueling from a KA-6 always reminded him of a big dog nosing a smaller dog’s tail.
He took the time to force relaxation into his arms, his hands. He felt weak, as though his hands were shaking, though when he held one gloved fist up it was rock steady. What was wrong with him?
“You okay, Stoney?” Marusko asked from the backseat.
“Yeah, CAG. No problem.”
But there was a problem, and Tombstone knew what it was … or rather, who. The thought of Pamela came unbidden, a flash of memory, an image of her the last time he’d seen her in Bangkok. That had been two months ago, just after the coup attempt that had nearly overthrown the government of Thailand and involved Carrier Battle Group 14 in a short, sharp air and ground action against rebel forces.
Pamela Drake was an ACN News reporter who had been covering the turmoil in Bangkok. Tombstone had gotten to know her pretty well during the crisis, well enough that they’d managed to fall in love with each other.
She was back in Washington now, but her letters had been coming with each COD mail delivery to the Jefferson, and Tombstone, never much of a correspondent, had answered them all … all but the last two.
“Tango X-Ray One-one, this is Two-one-six.” Batman’s voice sounded steady over the radio. “Best lay we ever had. Slam, bam, and thank you, ma’am.”
“Our pleasure, Batman,” the tanker captain replied. His dry chuckle rasped in Tombstone’s headset. “Two- oh-one, Tango X-ray One-one. How’s it looking for you now, Stoney?”
Tombstone’s eyes scanned his instrument panel one last time. He’d been concerned that the impact of the basket might have damaged his fuel probe, but there were no signs of fuel or hydraulic leaks, no warning telltales on his caution advisory board.
“Green all the way,” he replied. He took a deep breath. “Two-oh-one, in for another take.”
“You know what they say, Tombstone,” Batman said over the headset. “Just try to imagine hair around it.”
“Roger.” The basket neared his canopy once more, closer … closer … Tombstone felt a tremor and glanced down. His hand was shaking now.
Damn, he thought. Not now! Not now! Teeth grinding, he fought down the feeling of weakness, blinked through the sweat that pricked at his eyes. He focused his concentration on the belly of the KA-6, aware of the basket’s jostling dance just beyond the canopy’s right front side out of the corner of his eye.
“Three feet, Stoney,” Marusko said, his voice emotionless. “Two feet.
You’re right in the groove, guy. Left … left a bit more … Keep it coming …”
The refueling probe speared the basket dead center, with a thump and a jolt as the catches snapped home. “Two-oh-one, contact,” Tombstone said. He snapped up the switches that opened the F-14’s tanks. “Ready to receive.”
