'Yeah, I got a problem! How long are we supposed to keep pumping at this pace?'
'We can't keep going like this, CAG,' Mustang Davis put in. 'The squadron's beat.'
Chris held her breath, wondering just how close to mutiny the squadron might be. If everyone in the squadron just refused to fly…
Tombstone kept his eyes on Slider. 'You want to stand down, Slider?
Turn in your wings?'
Slider paled. 'No, CAG.'
'I don't want one man or woman up there who can't take the strain. If you can't take the heat, Arrenberger, I want to know it.'
'I can handle it.'
'What about the rest of you people? I'll fly this mission by myself if I have to.'
Chris joined with the others in a low-voiced murmur that filled the compartment. 'We can do it, CAG.'
'We're okay, Tombstone.'
'We're with you, CAG.'
Tombstone waited a moment, hands on hips. Then he nodded. 'Okay.
That's the way professionals handle it. I know you're tired. We're all tired, right down to the thin ragged edge. But Washington thinks this one is damned important. Today, it's up to us to start hammering away at the northern Kola defenses. Tomorrow morning, it'll be the Marines' turn.'
That got their attention, Chris thought. There wasn't a sound in the compartment now, save the faint, faraway boom of a catapult launch.
'So, let's look at the mission profile,' Tombstone continued. 'You can expect heavy triple-A and SAM fire. The Hornets will be tasked with opening a corridor through for the Intruders, but we all know that they're going to miss a hell of a lot. The Russians will keep lots of their stuff in reserve, switched off so they can surprise us later. With luck, though, their local fighter defenses will have been whittled down a bit by the actions of the past couple of days. Our satellite reconnaissance of their bases shows they're pretty weak in aircraft. But don't let yourselves get complacent. There're sure to be several regiments of Soviet Frontal Aviation still on tap, hidden somewhere in camouflaged casements, and you can expect them to throw everything they have against us.
'We've got the first watch. By tomorrow morning, the Marines will be going ashore. They'll be covered by the Tomcat squadrons off the Nimitz, and by their own Harriers. You should be able to stand down then, or at least take a little breather.' He hesitated, then gave a haggard grin. 'At least, we can hope so.'
Chris had never seen the CAG looking this beat. Judging from the condition of his khaki uniform, he must have been up all night… and probably most of the previous few nights as well. Did the man have a breaking point?
Tombstone continued with the briefing, laying out the specifics of VF-95's part in the mission. The first elements of the raid would start launching within the hour, and VAQ-143's Prowlers, armed with HARM and Tacit Rainbow antiradar missiles, would make their turn toward the Russian coast at 1715 hours, launching at stand-off distance to begin clearing the way for the squadrons to follow. Mixed flights of Tomcats, Hornets, and Intruders would fly through the radar-blind corridor, accompanied by Prowlers providing ECM cover and flying 'close enough to the ground to sandblast your bellies,' as Tombstone put it. Each flight would be vectored in by Hawkeyes orbiting offshore, which would also warn them of enemy aircraft in the vicinity.
Combat. Lobo shook her head. She was going to be flying into combat.
Oh, she'd had her fill of combat flying CAP over the carrier group during the past few days. They'd all had. Somehow, though, the thought of taking the fight to the enemy, attacking him over his own territory, was intensely exciting, exciting enough to banish her fatigue in a warm flush of adrenaline.
Both of her kills so far had been at a range of ninety miles; hell, she hadn't even pushed the button. Vader McVey had done that, trackin the targets and launching the big Phoenix missiles when he had a lock. That engagement with the Fulcrum had been scary, but anticlimactic; the MiG had just tagged her with his radar when Slider and Blue Grass dropped in on the bad guy's six.
There'd been a confused few moments of high-G maneuvers… and then the MiG was dead and she and McVey were in the clear. And the cruise missiles they'd downed could hardly shoot back.
Chris loved the idea of danger, though she'd kept her feelings carefully hidden throughout her Navy career. Hot-dogs and thrill-seekers never made it far as aviators. But ? she could admit it now ? it was the danger that had led her to try bungee jumping and rock climbing back when she was a teenager, then flying, and skydiving after that. She'd joined the Navy when she heard the Navy was accepting female aviators. To learn how to fly jets…
Now she was flying jets, F-14 Tomcats, and she loved it. But the thought of hitting the Russians inside their own territory left her feeling warm and weak, her heart hammering inside her chest.
This was why she'd worked and trained and fought to become a Navy aviator!
'Okay, people,' Tombstone said, ending his briefing. 'You know your jobs. Fly safe, stick close with your wingmen, and don't be heroes. We don't care about you, but your airplanes are extremely expensive pieces of equipment. Your plane captains will have your heads if you get them dinged up. So bring 'em back! And God fly with you all!
'That is all.'
'Attention on deck!'
He strode from the room, and Chris wondered why he looked so grim. This was what every naval aviator spent his or her whole life training for, this moment.
She joined the others as they crowded up toward the front of the room, examining the Kola Peninsula map and asking questions of Coyote. Her aircraft, she saw, would be covering an Intruder strike against SAM batteries just west of Polyamyy.
CHAPTER 21
'God damn it, Ski! What the hell do you mean, 'downgrudged'?'
Lieutenant Commander Frank Marinaro was livid, and for one moment, Joyce Flynn thought the man was going to slam his flight helmet to the deck in anger and frustration.
Tomboy Flynn, Nightmare Marinaro, and their plane captain, Chief Michael Cynowski, were standing at the port-side edge of the flight deck forward of the island. Several of VF-95's Tomcats were parked there, folded wings almost touching, their maintenance crews readying them for launch.
'Sorry, Commander,' Cynowski said. He had to shout to make himself heard above the scream of jet engines, the air-hammer racket of the buffers. He wore a plane captain's brown jersey, and a bulky Mickey helmet. 'Your AWG-Nine's burned out. Looks like a coolant switch fault, most likely. We'll have to swap it out, and that's gonna take time.'
'How much time?'
'What?'
'I said how much fucking time!'
'Sir, I just don't have the manpower right now!' Cynowski held up the clipboard in his hand. 'My boys've been goin' round the clock here for longer'n I like to think. Hell, we've got their scheds juggled between-'
'Damn it, Ski, I don't want to hear your sob story! How long before Two-oh-four is back on the line?'
Cynowski's face hardened. 'Not until we secure from flight quarters.
Sir. Two days… and that's if the brass stays off our backs!'
Nightmare was the coolest, steadiest aviator Tomboy knew, but at the moment he looked like he was going to lose that cool completely. She could understand his anger. Right now, there were no spare Tomcats aboard save for the CAG bird, and it would take time to bring Two-double-nuts to the ready.
It looked like Nightmare and Tomboy were going to be staying put while the squadron launched without them.
