“Roger, ball, Tomcat Two-oh-one, five point four, two souls,” Bird Dog radioed to the landing signals officer, or LSO. Tomcat 201 was one mile behind the carrier, coming up fast on the broad, blunt stern. His call indicated he’d seen the meatball, the giant Fresnel lens mounted on the port side. The intricate combination of lens and lights gave the pilot a quick visual reference as to whether or not he was on glide path. When he was making a proper approach, at a safe altitude, the light would glow green. Too high or too low, and the pilot could see only the red lights. With the LSO having the final word, and acting as a final safety check and flight coach, all under the watchful eyes of the air boss, final approach on a carrier was one of the most carefully monitored flight patterns in the world.
Not that accidents didn’t happen, Bird Dog thought grimly. Calm down now, boy, don’t get too excited. Just hit the three-wire, nice and sweet, like you’ve done a hundred times before.
Of course, experience was no guarantee that nothing would go wrong. Just two weeks ago, an F/A-18 Hornet pilot hadn’t been paying close enough attention to the air mass that always churned and bubbled in the wake of the aircraft carrier. He’d lost concentration, and a sudden downdraft had caught him unprepared. Still at 140 knots airspeed, he’d smacked his Hornet straight into the stern of the carrier, crumpling airframe and man into a twisted mass now resting somewhere on the ocean floor.
Bird Dog shuddered, forcing the picture out of his mind. It happened to other people, not to him. He felt his concentration quiver, then steady and become absolute. His world narrowed down to the Fresnel lens, the aft end of the carrier, and the quiet, soothing voice of the LSO in his ear.
“A little more altitude, altitude, coming on in, you’ve got it,” the LSO said, chanting his familiar refrain of orders and encouragement.
Even without the LSO’s comments, Bird Dog knew he had it nailed. He felt the Tomcat grab for the deck, heard the squeal of rubber meeting nonskid, and had just a moment to wonder at how gentle first contact had been when the tailhook caught the arresting wire.
“Three-wire,” Gator crowed from the backseat. “Knew you could do it!”
Bird Dog slammed the throttle forward to full military power, a normal precaution against the tailhook bouncing free from the wire. Only after the arresting wire had brought him to full stop, and he received a signal from the plane captain, did he throttle back, carefully backing out of the arresting wire, raising his tailhook, and taxiing forward. He followed the directions of the Yellow Shirt and brought the jet to a stop near the waist catapult.
“Stay in your aircraft, Two-oh-one,” he heard the air boss order.
He swiveled around to look back at Gator. “What the hell?”
“We’re bringing in a helo, casualties on board,” the air boss continued, ignoring the comment Bird Dog had inadvertently transmitted over the flight deck circuit. “You did a good job up there — sit tight for a few minutes and let us get the injured out of the way, then you can exit the aircraft.”
Bird Dog twisted further away and saw a helicopter on final approach to the carrier. It was heading for spot three, midway down the long deck in the spot closest to the island. He sighed, turned back to face forward, and slumped in his seat. The events of the last several hours were finally catching up with him. He shut his eyes and relived it for a moment, seeing again the landscape disappearing in a white, furious cloud, feeling again the uncanny sense of certainty and direction he’d gotten just off of the IP. It was magic when it all worked out, no doubt about it, though how he’d ever pulled it off, he’d never know.
“Bird Dog, I-” Gator cleared his throat. “What I said earlier, about trading you in for another pilot. I didn’t mean it, you know.”
Bird Dog hid his grin. Let Gator be the one twisting on the spit for once. No point in making it easy for him. “I don’t know, Gator,” he said doubtfully. “it sounded to me like you meant it. Maybe I ought to think about finding a new RIO, one who’s got some confidence in my airmanship.”
“Anybody who can make the attack you made today, well, I’ll fly with you anytime, Bird Dog. I mean it.”
Bird Dog turned around in his seat again and eyed his RIO straight on. Gator had already unsnapped his mask and shoved his helmet back on his head. A few curls of dark brown hair escaped from the front of it. His face was shiny with sweat and probably felt as grimy as Bird Dog’s did.
Bird Dog performed a contortion, managing to reach a hand into the backseat. “We’re a team, Gator. And you ever try to bail on me again, I’m going to punch you out by yourself over hostile territory.”
“I won’t do it.” The pilot stared straight ahead, hands and feet moving reflexively to keep the helicopter in level flight. “I’m not gonna be the first pilot in naval aviation history to land terrorists on board a carrier.”
Rogov took his own weapon and placed the muzzle against the pilot’s temple. “Are you that eager to die?” he demanded.
The pilot was pale and sweating, and the helicopter started to bob erratically.
“Easy, Jim,” the copilot said, putting his hands and feet on the controls and taking over. “Just do what the man says.”
The pilot shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “I won’t. And you shouldn’t, either.” The muzzle at the right side of his head prevented him from looking at the copilot.
Crack! The single shot from the 9mm was clearly audible over the interior noise of the helicopter. The pilot slumped forward, then sideways, banging against the controls. The man standing behind him reached over, unfastened the harness, and yanked the body out. Blood streamed from the head wound, splashing on the commandos as they dragged him away from the controls.
Rogov turned to the copilot. No words were necessary.
The copilot fought for control of the helicopter, trying to correct, then over-correcting, the motion induced by the pilot’s last clutch at the instruments. Twenty seconds later, with the helicopter once again in level flight, he’d arrived at his decision. “Okay,” he said quietly, his words inaudible but his meaning somehow reaching Rogov. “I’ll take you in.”
The helicopter heeled around and headed for the carrier. The radio squawked as the operations specialist anxiously queried the helo. The air boss had noted its erratic motion in the skies and demanded an explanation.
“Tell them it’s nothing; the pilot had a moment of vertigo,” Rogov suggested. He made it an order by motioning with the pistol. The copilot complied, trying to compensate for the PIO — pilot-induced oscillation — resulting from his trembling hands. He felt sweat bead up on his forehead, then trickle down his face.
Two minutes later, the helo hovered neatly over spot three. At the signal from the LSO, it settled gently to the deck.
The moment it touched down, Spetsnaz poured out of the open hatchway, catching the flight deck crew and medical team by surprise. They brushed past their rescuers, heading for the nearest hatch into the island. By the time the air boss could scream an angry question, and the flight deck crew could react, the first commando had already descended two ladders. The others were fast on his heels.
The terrorists descended two ladders and took a sharp right, a left, and another right. The lead commando paused, getting his bearings. Yes, this was the Flag Passageway, the dark blue tile gleaming as he remembered it from his tours. “That way,” he snapped in his native tongue, pointing to the right. Twenty paces down the corridor was the door to the Flag Mess, which opened into a rabbit warren of compartments including the admiral’s cabin, the admiral’s conference room, and the TFCC beyond. If this ship was anything like the ones he’d visited before, none of the connecting doors would be locked.
The commandos pounded down the corridor, cut through the Wardroom, startling two lieutenant commanders who’d stopped in for a cup of coffee. A replay of a Padres baseball game was playing on the VCR, and one officer dozed quietly in a corner.
After a quick look at their collars, the commando determined that none of them was the quarry he sought. He burst into the admiral’s cabin, checked the private bedroom, then immediately headed for TFCC. By this time, alarms were beginning to sound, putting the ship on general quarters. Intruder alert, intruder alert, the 1-MC blared.
The first alarm caught Tombstone by surprise. His head snapped up, and he whirled toward the entrance of TFCC. Two operations specialists were already moving toward it; one recently abandoning his post at the JOTS terminal to secure the area.
