if you couldn’t have a little fun?
“Gator?” Bird Dog said hesitantly. “Listen, okay — you’re right. Don’t put in for a crew swap, okay?”
There was no answer.
“Aw, come on,” Bird Dog wheedled. “I promise I’ll cut it out, okay? Don’t make me take another RIO.”
Gator sighed, “Damn it, Bird Dog, when are you going to buy off on the concept that there are two of us in this aircraft? You treat me like I’m some sort of idiot backseat scope dope, somebody who doesn’t matter a damned bit until you’ve got a MiG on your ass. Then you start screaming for vectors and angles, all at once wanting to know where the bad guys are. How do you think that is for me?”
It was Bird Dog’s turn to fall silent. Even after eighteen months of flying with Gator, he’d never really stopped to consider how his actions affected the RIO. Gator was just — Gator, he guessed. His RIO, his backseater, the man he depended on for information that kept his ass out of the sling. When there was combat, that is. Other times, he had to admit, he didn’t stop to think about what his RIO was doing in the backseat.
What a lousy way to make a living, he thought, considering the plight of the RIO. Strapping into a Tomcat, but not getting to do any of the fun parts. Jamming your face up on the radar hood around the scope, twiddling with knobs and buttons instead of experiencing what was probably the closest thing to heaven on earth — flying the all- powerful, awesome, MiG-beating Tomcat.
“You’re right, Gator,” he admitted finally. “You’ve kept me from getting killed a couple of times so far, and I still haven’t treated you right. Sir,” he added belatedly, suddenly remembering just how senior Gator was. The latest results from the Commanders’ Selection Board had just come out, and Gator had been advised that he’d been selected for promotion to commander, as well as for an executive officer tour in a Tomcat squadron. Bird Dog, still two years away from even a deep look at the lieutenant commander’s board, was just a barely ripened nugget compared to the man in his backseat.
“Don’t start with the ‘sir’ shit,” Gator said wearily. “I won’t put it on for another year. But truthfully, Bird Dog, I’m getting tired of this crap. Every other week, you’ve got me standing tall in front of CAG. Enough’s enough.”
Bird Dog nosed the Tomcat over and began an orderly descent back to a reasonable altitude. He leveled off at six thousand feet and put the Tomcat into a gentle orbit over the island. He recognized the tone in Gator’s voice too well. Words were not likely to convince him not to request a crew swap at this point. Only some good, orderly flying, something that demonstrated the teamwork that was supposed to exist between a pilot and a RIO.
“Hold it, I — Bird Dog, take us back around the other direction,” Gator ordered suddenly.
Without questioning his backseater’s directions, Bird Dog snapped the Tomcat sharply around. He waited.
“Those radio transmissions Intel briefed — I thought I caught a sniff of them. Can we get down and take a closer look?”
Bird Dog resisted the temptation to note that only minutes earlier Gator had been complaining about low- altitude flights. Instead, he began executing a search pattern over the small chunk of ice and rock below.
“There it is again,” Gator said. He flipped his microphone over to Tactical and began an earnest conversation with the operations specialist on board Jefferson. Finally, after a few moments, he asked Bird Dog to move back into a higher orbit.
After they leveled off at ten thousand feet, Bird Dog said, “Could you tell me what that was about?”
Gator smiled at the unusually meek tone of voice. “I told you, I got a sniff of that radio frequency they’ve been talking about. And if you will recall, my dear fellow, just yesterday there was a P-3 screaming bloody murder about seeing someone launch a Stinger from this very island. You do remember Stingers, I hope?”
Bird Dog snorted. “How could I not?”
“Well, unless you want to insist on trying to take out one with a Sparrow, I suggest we stay at ten thousand feet. And you keep your old Mark I MOD 0 eyeballs peeled up there. The first sniff we’re gonna have will probably be visual — if we get that much warning.”
Bird Dog shivered, then settled down into a tactical mind set. If there were Stingers in the area, then the last thing he needed to do was be surprised. It would only happen once.
White Wolf pulled the boat up close to Kiska, wincing as he felt the keel scrape along the bottom. The island was just as inhospitable as its western brother. Kiska jutted out of the sea, and its coastline, for the most part, consisted of a sheer plunge down into the black, freezing water. Only a few feet of hard, barren rock survived under water, but it was enough to hold the old boat off from the island.
He motioned to Morning Eagle, who nodded, then leaped from the bow of the ship onto the land, the mooring line trailing behind him. He tossed the circle at the end of the line over a wooden pole, then raised his hands to show White Wolf the task was done.
White Wolf locked the cabin behind him and disembarked, making the leap from boat to shore easily. Should have used the pier, he thought, then dismissed the idea. The only functional pier was almost three miles away, located on the other side of the island. Between the time it would take to moore, fire up his ancient cold-weather Jeep, and motor back over to his home, too much time would have passed. What they’d seen on the island was important — so important that a few minutes might make a difference.
White Wolf tugged on the line once, making sure it was still solid and secure, then settled into a brisk walk toward the structure fifty feet away. At one time, it might have been a simple Quonset hut, but years and the necessity of surviving in the frigid climate had worked modification on it. Now, packed over with ice and snow, the best insulator available, it looked more like an igloo than a conventional structure. The two smaller buildings, housing a generator and some spare parts, were similarly encrusted with snow and ice.
He walked up to the front door, tugged it open, and pulled it shut behind him immediately. Morning Eagle walked off in the direction of the small outbuilding that housed their generator. A few moments later, White Eagle heard the steady rumble of the generator kick in. He flipped a light switch, and the overheads came on. He waited a few minutes, to make sure the power was stable.
Finally, when it appeared that there were going to be none of the unexpected current fluctuations that wreaked havoc on electronic circuitry, he walked over to the far side of the small hut and flipped on a master power switch. Two gray metal cases crackled to life. He patted one of them thoughtfully and smiled. Army equipment, built to last and survive in even these spaces. He ran his finger lightly over the metal equipment property tag riveted to one side. It had been years since he’d last fired this equipment up, too many years.
Or maybe not enough, depending on how you looked at it. He wasn’t even sure if the old frequencies, call signs — and circuit designations that he’d memorized so long ago would still work.
As he waited for the circuits to warm up, he heard the front door open, then slam shut, and felt the brief blast of frigid air circulate in the small space. Morning Eagle walked over to the gear and stood beside him.
“I didn’t think we’d need this again,” Morning Eagle said finally. “But under the circumstances-“
“There are not many choices,” White Eagle said mildly. “We both know they would want to know. Whether or not they’ve had the foresight to continue to monitor this net is up to them. We can only do our part.” He stared at the row of green idiot lights, all brightly assuring him that the gear was still operational. “We won’t know until we try.”
Morning Eagle nodded. “That’s all we can ever do.”
“Sir!” The enlisted technician looked up. “I think you might want to come back here.”
“Can it wait?” Commander Busby asked. He glanced over at the aircrew he was debriefing and shrugged apologetically. He already knew that it couldn’t from the tone in the technician’s voice.
“No, sir,” the enlisted man said grimly. “I think this has probably waited too long,” he added cryptically.
“Which circuit?” Commander Busby asked.
“I think you’d better see for yourself, sir. I’m not sure I believe it myself.”
Lab Rat made his excuses, and moved quickly back toward the top-secret EW surveillance vault. The technician waited at the heavy steel door, holding it open for him.
Lab Rat stepped inside the space, noting the small cluster of EW technicians located near one particular piece of gear. He snapped his head back to stare at the senior enlisted man who’d called to him. “You must be joking.”
