“It’s a post maintenance check flight,” Flasher noted calmly, “not a tryout for the shuttle program, sir.” The enlisted technician’s voice was just barely tart.
Thor toggled his mike and let the OS hear him laughing.
“I know, I know. Someday I’m going to strap a backseat on this baby and let you see what you’ve been missing, Flasher.”
“I’d like that just fine,” the AIC said immediately. “Just fine.” The words were slow, and rich with a southern drawl.
“But you keep this up, sir, somebody’s gonna be noticing.
You know?”
“Okay, okay,” Thor muttered. He shoved the yoke forward slightly, dropping the Hornet’s nose down from straight vertical. “That better?”
“Almost, sir. Now you just look like a helicopter on the scope, instead of a balloon.”
“You find me a balloon with this much armament on it and I’ll ride backseat on you.” He eased the Hornet forward farther, into level flight. “Okay, Flasher, I’m heading back to the pattern. You happy now that you’ve destroyed my fun?”
“Fun’s not over yet, sir.” The operations specialist sounded amused.
“Your tower flower just called down and said you’re short one formation flight this month. He’d like you to get it over with now.”
Thor groaned. “With who?” Flying close formation with another Hornet was a routine qualification for all pilots, but it was not his idea of fun. Traveling a little under Mach 1 that close to another airplane required a pilot’s constant attention, not only on his instruments, but on the eight thousand pounds of flying metal just yards away. No screwing around, no unexpected maneuvers, just a careful ballet between two giant dragonflies.
“Fly in with the Tomcat, sir. Tomcat Two-zero-eight is airborne for formation flight in five mikes. You’ve got time to scamper over and get a drink, then back to Marshall to join on him.”
“Who’s flying her?” Thor demanded. If anything was worse than a formation flight, it was working with a Tomcat.
While the F-14 had an extended range and could carry more armament than a Hornet, it was markedly less nimble. It was, he reflected, not a damn sight much better than driving a surface ship. He shuddered at the thought.
“Staff wienie, sir. Call sign Bird Dog. That okay?”
Thor grinned. “Sure, send the young lad on up. We’ll let him get a look at a real aircraft.”
Thor heard muffled voices just below audibility come out of the headset. Finally, the operations specialist came back on the air.
“Tomcat Two-zero-eight will be on button three for coordination. And, sir, he asked me to tell you that you’d better suck on some fuel before he gets up there. He doesn’t want to be waiting outside the rest room for you every five minutes. He said,” and Thor could hear the smile in the OS’s voice, “that you should’ve gone before you left home.”
Flight Deck, USS Jefferson “You ready?” Bird Dog asked. He twisted in his seat to look back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Commander Charlie “Gator” Cummings, his backseat radar intercept officer.
“Just like old times, huh?”
“I don’t know how the hell I let you talk me into this,” Gator muttered. “It’s not like I have to get five traps a week to stay current.”
“Come on, you know you love it. Besides, no one else wants to fly with me.” Bird Dog’s voice took on a plaintive note. “They think I’m getting rusty.”
“You are. That’s why you’re scheduled for PAM flights every week.”
Gator’s voice was tart. “And I’m not so sure that playing grab-ass with a sponge of MiGs is my definition of a FAM flight.”
“I’m entitled I’m on staff,” Bird Dog responded.
“Jesus, don’t you think I’d fly every second if I could? But somebody’s gotta keep the big picture around here.”
Gator snorted. “You?”
“Yeah, me. What, you think that’s funny? Considering that the Cubans have gone from a couple of lookie-loo surveillance flights every day to full-scale combat patrols, I don’t find anything at all amusing about the situation.”
“Considering I was teaching you to fly not three years ago, I damned sure do. When I first met you, you were as raw and fresh-caught as Skeeter Harmon was a little while ago,” Gator snapped, referring to the young pilot who’d been their wingman cruise before last. Skeeter was currently attending Top Gun school, honing the combat skills he’d learned on their last Med cruise. “Now all at once you’re a military genius?”
Bird Dog sighed and turned back to face forward. He ran through his prelaunch routine automatically, consciously tensing and untensing his muscles, giving his ejection seat harness one last tug to make sure it was secure. Was he that rusty? No, he didn’t think so. And he’d never been as raw as Skeeter the young black pilot might have shot down a missile in flight, but so what? Bird Dog had more time in the cockpit than Skeeter had in the chow line.
Still, the notable lack of enthusiasm among the RIOs on staff had irked him. “Just like riding a bicycle,” he muttered.
“No it’s not,” Gator said sharply. “And if you think it is, you just let me out at the next stop.”
Bird Dog signaled to the yellow shirt on the flight deck and tensed himself for the catapult shot. “It’s damn sure not.
You can’t do this on a bicycle.” He snapped off a salute and waited.
The Tomcat jolted, started rolling forward slowly, and quickly gathered speed. About 150 feet later, it was hurtling down the flight deck at 134 knots. Bird Dog heard Gator’s sharp intake of breath and grinned.
His backseater always had been a nervous Nellie on cat shots, even on routine flights. And if he couldn’t answer a simple question about whether or not he was ready, then he deserved what he got.
Seconds later, the aircraft shot off the pointy end and Bird Dog felt the familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach and his ass floating away from the seat as the Tomcat lost altitude.
The sea rushed up at him, smooth and glassy.
His balls contracted as a small flash of terror shivered through him.
The first few microseconds after launch, this fight for altitude and safety, were every pilot’s worst nightmare. If Jefferson lost steam pressure unexpectedly on the catapult shot, the Tomcat would dribble off into the ocean. A soft cat shot meant dead aircrews. Moments later, he felt the G-forces press him back into his seat as the Tomcat clawed for altitude.
“Good shot,” he announced. “Airborne once more.”
Behind him, he heard Gator groan.
“Button three for coordination with tanker,” Rasher said.
“Roger. Got a visual on him. Making my approach.” Thor eased back on the throttles, slowing the Hornet’s forward speed imperceptibly. Of all the evolutions a carrier pilot had to master, refueling in midair was one of the most dangerous, second in his nightmares only to landing on the carrier deck at night during a storm.
“Hey there, Thor,” the female KA6 tanker pilot’s voice echoed in his ear. “You dirty-winged?”
“Hell, no. This is a PMFC, not CAP. Why, you want me to kill somebody for you, sweetheart?”
“Maybe later, big boy. It’s just that there’s a cluster-fuck of MiGs milling about smartly in the middle of Tanker Alley. Thought we might sneak off somewhere that we could be alone for a while.”
Thor grinned at the lascivious note in the other pilot’s voice. The Marine Corps forced him to be politically correct on the ground. In his estimation, the paranoia that overreacting politicians generated did more to harm the morale of both men and women than it helped. This was more like it-the good-natured banter between two pilots who respected each other. “I’ll follow you anywhere. Striker,” he said, using her call sign instead of her name. “You
