“Now.”
“Fox Two.” The Tomcat rolled to the right as the other Sparrow leaped off the wing. “Now give me a vector up his ass. Next shot’s a Sidewinder right up his exhaust pipe.
“Intercept two miles behind — come right to zero-two-zero. Three minutes.”
Bird Dog twisted the Tomcat around in the air and put the aircraft into a steep rate of descent. “Got a visual,” he reported, staring at the tiny black spot against the sea. “On the missiles, too.”
“Tracking, tracking — aw, shit! Fucking sea clutter, shipmate. Lost lock on both missiles. You’re going to have to get him with the Sidewinder.”
“Sidewinder, my ass,” Bird Dog muttered. “I’ll ram this little bastard if I have to. No damned turboprop’s wiggling away from me. How the hell would I ever live it down in the Ready Room?”
“Altitude,” Gator warned. “Fly the aircraft first, shoot weapons second.”
Bird Dog eased the Tomcat out of the steep dive, letting his airspeed bleed off.
And still the Bear descended, finally arresting its dive just fifty feet above the water. He heard Gator mutter, “Jesus, even Bird Dog’s not that crazy.”
The massive command-and-control aircraft seemed to skim just above the tops of the waves, looking more like a hovercraft than an airplane. Bird Dog approached from the rear, still descending, hunting for the perfect altitude to allow the Sidewinder to lock onto the Bear’s exhaust. Finally, he heard the distinctive warble from the weapon, telling him it had acquired a targeting heat source.
“Got lock,” he announced, then thumbed the weapon off of the rail. The missile, carrying an annular blast warhead with perforated metal rods in it, barely twitched the Tomcat as it ignited.
Bird Dog watched the missile’s tail flare, quickly kicking the Sidewinder up to its Mach 2 terminal velocity. It warbled once, then headed straight for the Bear’s exhaust.
Then the unthinkable happened. The Bear, clearly aware that it was being targeted with a heat-seeking missile, dipped even lower toward the water. Bird Dog saw the pilot jerk the nose hard up, risking a stall but counting on ground effect to substitute for lift. As the nose came up, the rest of the aircraft teetered back down. The port engine and wing smashed through a wave, spewing black smoke instead of hot exhaust as it emerged.
The Sidewinder wobbled again, evidently confused by the loss of the infrared source it’d been homing on. The perturbation increased, and the flight path of the stark white missile wandered around the dark ocean below.
“The other engine, the other engine,” Bird Dog screamed. He started swearing.
“Come on, come on, baby,” he heard Gator crooning.
Neither threats nor encouragement worked. The starboard engine, still burning hot and bright, was hidden from the missile by the Bear’s wavering attitude. The Sidewinder fizzled, then wandered off toward the horizon, intrigued by the one decent heat source it could sense — the sun.
“You’ve got one left,” Gator said.
“Bastard’s too low,” Bird Dog said. “God, who would have thought? I’ve heard of a COD smashing through waves after a cat shot, but never anything as big as that Bear.”
“Take the shot,” Gator urged. “He can’t pull that stunt again — both port engines are out. He’ll never make it back to wherever he came from if he loses another one.”
“And we won’t make it if we run into something else up here,” Bird Dog pointed out. “He’s low and slow, Gator. I’m going to take him with guns.”
“And you’re not going to need those? Same principle applies.”
“Less likely to need them than that Sidewinder. Besides, he’s an easy target on two engines. His airspeed has already fallen off to three hundred knots.”
“Okay, okay,” Gator said. “I’m getting more and more nervous about being out here. Just get that bastard before his submarine buddy decides to have a go at the carrier.”
“Lining it up now.” Bird Dog brought the Tomcat around in a hard port turn, cutting away from and then back toward the Bear for a beam shot. The 675-round M61A1 20mm Vulcan multibarrel cannon — hell, it might not be as flashy as a Sidewinder, but one or two rounds into a critical hydraulics line or a fuel tank would work just as well.
Tomcat 201 bore down on the stricken Bear, and Bird Dog carefully lined up his shot, leading the Bear by a few hundred feet. Let the aircraft fly through the pattern, make him part of the firing solution. Slow and easy, slow and … “Break right, break right,” Gator howled over ICS. “Now!”
Bird Dog acted immediately, snapping the Tomcat into a hard roll away from the target before he’d even gotten off one short burst. “What, what?” he screamed.
“Submarine’s surfacing. Look over to your left. You recognize that cute little bit of gear on its sail?”
“Like I’ve got eyes on the tailpipes? Listen, I was a little busy up here-“
“And that’s why I was watching elsewhere. Since you cant see it now, let me describe it for you. A small radar unfolding from the sail, a black box just aft of it — sound familiar?”
Bird Dog felt cold. On his last cruise, he and Gator had almost been shot down by one of the first deployed antiair systems on a submarine. “And that Bear was leading us right into his kill zone, just like we were saying.”
“The only thing good in the whole equation is that the Bear is too low to be holding radar contact on Jefferson. He can talk to that sewer pipe below him, but all he’s got is old info.”
“But that might be enough — hold on, I’m going back around for that Sidewinder shot. We don’t have a choice on this now, not a smart one.”
“Get low,” Gator suggested. “He’s not going to Pull that jet-ski impersonation on you again.”
“Concur.” Bird Dog descended back down to five hundred feet, carefully staying three miles away from the submarine. “He’s going to have to overfly, then come right or left to turn and come back over him.” Bird Dog kicked into afterburner range, felt the Tomcat leap forward and shove him back in the seat. “Suppose we just meet him down at the end of his racetrack?”
The Tomcat overshot his prey, then pulled up into a tight starboard orbit three miles in front of the Bear. Two minutes later, as the Bear started its turn back toward its guardian submarine, Bird Dog toggled the last Sidewinder off of the wing from an altitude of two hundred feet.
The missile had less than one mile to go to reach its target. Even if the Bear had had some other tactic in mind, there was no time. Bird Dog saw the Bear frantically ejecting flares and chaff, hoping to decoy the Sidewinder, but the missile flew a perfect profile straight into the engines beckoning so loudly in the infrared spectrum. Bird Dog yanked the Tomcat up just as the Bear disintegrated into a flaming mass of metal and machinery. “Scratch one Bear,” Gator said. “Good shot.”
“Do me a favor, Gator. Just one — I’ll never ask anything of you again.”
“What?”
“Let’s just tell the boat that the missiles fell off the damned wings or something. I’m never going to live it down if the skipper finds out I shot a full load at that damned Bear.”
“Let’s go find us some gas. I’ll think about it.”
Bird Dog groaned.
CHAPTER 15
Bird Dog plugged and sucked on the tanker uneventfully. The sight of fuel gauges indicating a full load gave him a definite sense of comfort. At loitering speed, that bought them at least four hours in which to decide what to do. By that time, hopefully the carrier would have gotten the terrorist situation under control. Absent any other good plan, Bird Dog headed for the starboard marshall stack, entering it at the standard altitude and commencing to orbit.
“That submarine would explain a good deal about the carrier’s cooperation with those terrorists,” Gator said.
