wrong movements for a fighter aircraft. “I’ve got it. Yes, I think that’s it.”
“Good. I hold it inbound toward the same target area.
Speed Mach one-point-two, altitude five thousand feet.”
Tombstone nodded. That matched his visual identification. “So Batman’s going in with it.”
“Maybe. Remember, he’s still holding us on radar as well.
Did you secure the IFF?”
“No. So he’s at least got that to break our radar blip out of the pack. He knows where we are, and he knows his newest play toy is headed dead for us. This is one decision I can’t make for him.”
“Feet dry,” Tomboy announced, refocusing him on the mission. Tombstone nosed the Tomcat down, heading for the deck. He’d make his initial run at five hundred feet, see what intelligence he could gain from his first pass. Then, time permitting and depending on what Batman did with the UAV, he’d vector back in on a bombing run.
The command post was reportedly located under twenty feet of dirt, but the five-hundred-pounders at least had a chance of damaging it. Maybe fatally. It was better than losing all the aircraft currently airborne to EMP if the UAV held the warhead he suspected it did.
“Two minutes,” Tomboy said. She suggested a tiny course correction, which Tombstone promptly adopted.
Again, the odd silence descended on the cockpit. With nothing else to do except watch for antiaircraft fire and wonder if some prehistoric idiot armed with a Stinger would be sitting on a hill waiting for them.
Tombstone found odd pictures flashing into his mind. Tomboy, the first time he’d seen her, climbing into an aircraft. Her face at their wedding, brilliantly radiant. And later. Tomboy in bed, the small, voluptuous frame responding to his every touch, her passion rising to meet and, exceed his. He shook his head, let his mind linger one last time on the lush curves and smooth swells of her body, and then”Tomboy?
You’re not pregnant, are you?” There was horror in the voice, as much as he hated to have it there. If she were, and she hadn’t told him, then flying this mission was perhaps the most foolhardy thing she had ever done in her life. Her condition would require an evaluation by a flight surgeon before she could remain in flight status.
“No, you idiot, of course I’m not pregnant. What in the world gave you that idea?” Tomboy’s voice was lightly amused. “Jesus, Tombstone get your head in the game.”
“Okay, I just wanted to never mind.” Now was not the time; then again, there might never be a decent time to discuss it, not after the blunder he’d just made with his new bride. “Where did you say that UAV was?”
“There.” Tomboy inserted a special target designator in his heads-up display. “Our only chance to keep Batman from using the UAV is to go after the target ourselves. You know that, I know that. Let’s get moving.” Her crisp tone of voice brooked no argument.
Tombstone corrected his course and bore in on the Cuban naval base.
“Trouble,” Tomboy announced calmly. “Stoney, I’m getting targeting indications from the carrier. I think they’re talking to our little unmanned friend over there. Now if I see there it goes. It’s changing course, Stoney, climbing, getting some altitude.”
“How far behind us is it?” he asked.
‘Ten miles now.”
He shook his head. Not enough time. Air distance, in this case, though in the arcane geometry of the sky, time, and distance seemed to merge into a single lethal pucker factor.
How much fuel did the UAV have left on board? Would it be able to accelerate to a max cruising speed of Mach 3, or would it have to choose a more fuel-efficient speed?
That depended on how long it had already been in the air, and whether he’d be required to make any other moves to avoid detection. Two other factors he didn’t know.
Damn it. Batman, you could have told me. It might have given me an edge might even have talked me out of this last-ditch effort. As it stands now, I have no choice about it.
If I can stop you from making a possible nuclear strike on Cuba, I have to. The EMP-we’ll kill more of our own pilots than the Cubans can.
“You know, there’s one other possibility,” his backseater said. “This UAV may not even be under Batman’s control.
Remember the arguments on installing that remote targeting and firing option on the Arsenal ship? Sure, they would have needed some cooperation from Arsenal to launch UAV, but what if all targeting and deployment control is directly under JCS now? Arsenal may have some relay communications gear or some other way to override, but I doubt it. That’s what the politicos would have wanted direct control over the missiles once they’re launched. That turns the whole carrier battle group into just a remote control weapons launch platform, doesn’t it? Next thing you know, they’ll be able to fly an F-14 off the deck with the pilot sitting in it like a monkey. I don’t like this one little bit.”
Tombstone considered the matter. “It’s possible, I suppose.” Even as he admitted it. Tomboy’s explanation seemed more and more probable.
“If Batman’s not controlling it, you can bet he’ll be on the circuit telling JCS we’re inbound on the target. Might make them abort the launch.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Tomboy answered. “The hard way.”
The water was almost blood temperature. It soothed his strained muscles like a hot tub, coaxing the pain and soreness out of his back and legs. Bird Dog gradually relaxed into the flotation device, letting it carry his weight.
It was over now for him at least for this battle.
And maybe permanently for Gator. Every time Bird Dog crested a wave, he scanned the sea around him, looking for the distinctive orange color that would pinpoint his backseater’s location.
There was no trace of him.
He felt his mind starting to drift, lulled into an odd state of relaxation by the warm water and the release of tension following his violent ejection from the aircraft. It felt so odd, to float so peacefully on the water while to the east the rest of the squadron still battled off the Cuban aggressors.
He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, a gentle rhythmic whop-whop that he jerked violently upright in the water, shifting his gaze from the sea to the air. That was no heartbeat he recognized the sound all too well, although he’d never heard it from exactly this angle.
An odd, ungainly insect was hovering mere inches above the water-at least at first glance that’s what it looked like.
As he refocused himself out of the temporary euphoria that always followed unexpected survival, the shape resolved itself into the ungainly figure of the SAR helicopter.
He felt a wild surge of hope, a reorientation toward reality. From that altitude, he’d have an excellent view of miles and miles of surrounding ocean. They’d be able to spot Gator immediately.
At least, one part of his mind said, they would if his backseater’s seat span had deployed properly. And if Gator hadn’t impacted the canopy on the way out of the aircraft.
And if Bird Dog shoved away the myriad possibilities of what could have gone wrong with Gator’s egress from the aircraft. It didn’t pay to think about it not now, not with the helicopter inbound. He hoped if they saw Gator, they’d vector over and pull his backseater out of the water first. He watched for any jink in the aircraft’s course, hoping it would veer away to pursue some other target. But no, it bore steadily in on him.
Five minutes later, the rescue swimmer plunged into the ocean beside him. The water was spread out flat around Bird Dog, evidence of the powerful downdraft from the helicopter’s blades. As he horse-collared up into the helicopter, Bird Dog was already shouting questions to the pilot. He fumbled with the catches, flung the rescue device away from him, and stumbled to the edge of the open hatch. A crew member grabbed him, slapped a safety line on him.
“You’re not going back into the water. Not after I just hauled you out of it.”
“Leave me alone.” Bird Dog scanned the water frantically, then darted to the other side of the cabin and peered out the small window. Miles of ocean stretched out before him. Blue, solidly blue except for tiny scraps of white topping the waves.
There was no sign of Gator.
