want any gossip cluttering the circuit. 'Billy, go high! I can't get turned around ? yeah.'
'Break hard right, Fred. On my mark ? now.'
'Fox three, Fox three.'
'Jesus, did you see ? where the-'
I heard six quick engagements, followed by six triumphant cries of 'splash, splash.'
And one of ours.
'Oh Jesus, they got it. Chutes, chutes ? no chutes. They didn't make it.'
The exploding fireball off to my right was one of my own squadron mates, a man that I'd served with since my first cruise. I'd known him well, spent many long hours with him in the ready room or in a sleazy bar on liberty solving the problems of the world over a couple of pitchers of beer.
'Bird Dog, head for the deck.' Gator was almost screaming now.
I put my Tomcat into a steep vertical dive without even asking why. When your RIO sounds like that, you don't want to know first.
The Tomcat rolled violently to starboard, buffeted by the force of the missile passing close overhead. I almost wet my pants. It was so close I could make out the small aerodynamic fins of its body, see the deadly, sleek warhead mounted on the missile. It arrowed straight away, headed for another target. Along its flight path, Tomcats were jinking and diving, others jockeying for position on it. 'Splash two!'
'Yeah, I got it ? Jesus, there's another one. Chopper, get him off my ass. C'mon, man ? c'mon, c'mon ? thanks.'
'Home Plate, where's that backup?' I demanded. I'd put the call in for the all alert aircraft as soon as I'd seen the MiGs, and they still hadn't shown up.
'Hang in there, Viper Flight,' the voice on the other end of the circuit said grimly. 'Gonna take a few minutes ? you've got to hold the line.'
'What the hell is the problem!' I said, keeping my visual scan up trying to keep my ass from getting fried. 'Just what the fuck is the problem?'
'FOD on the flight deck. Red Deck for now.'
'Then pick it the fuck up,' I screamed at the AIC. 'Jesus, don't you realize what's-'
'Ramp strike, Viper Flight,' the AIC said, cutting me off. His voice was cold with anger. 'Don't you think we know what the hell we're doing?'
Ramp strike ? too low on approach and too gutsy to take a wave-off. There would be pieces of pilot and aircraft smashed on the stern of the ship with flaming debris scattered down the entire flight deck. Who had it been?
I had no time to reflect on the possible identity of the ramp strike. Another flight of MiGs was rising up from the trees, adding another six airframes to the battle. Almost as many as we'd already shot down.
'Viper Flight, fall back and regroup,' I ordered finally. The furball was getting too dispersed, a bad time- distance problem for providing support to each other. You don't want to be in too tight ? you need a little elbow room ? but you also want to have somebody delouse your six when it's necessary. Somebody besides your wingman.
Most of the Tomcats broke off their engagement and scampered out to our predetermined point. The MiGs followed them, and the Tomcats jinked wildly to avoid allowing them a perfect tail shot.
We pulled it back together and re-engaged. Gator fed me a third target, and I debated a moment whether to take it with a Sparrow or a Sidewinder. Finally, I selected the Sparrow, since the Sidewinder was truly my last weapon of choice. This MiG was a beauty, painted with something special that made it glint in the sunlight like raw gold. An odd, very distinctive undertone to its paint, one that did nothing for its low-observability characteristics.
But then again, maybe he wanted to be noticed. If so, then I'd just oblige him.
I tickled off the Sparrow, made the Fox call, then spiraled up to gain altitude. Altitude is safety. You can trade it for speed, which gives you increased maneuverability. Then things got nasty. Real nasty.
'SAM site,' Gator said. 'To the north. Bearing three two zero.'
'Where the fuck are all these SAM sites coming from?' I asked. 'Jesus, those intelligence guys don't know shit.'
'Your turn, lead.' Skeeter's voice was tight and controlled on the tactical circuit. 'He's on me, Bird Dog, he's on me.'
I snapped my head around to see what was happening out the back. Gator chimed in with an explanation. 'Below us, about two thousand feet. Three o'clock. You got it?'
I did. Sun glinted off the wings of the two aircraft as they dodged and parried at low altitude. They were low, too low ? I swore quietly. How had Skeeter let himself get suckered into a low-altitude fight with the lighter, more maneuverable MiG? 'Viper Flight, this is Home Plate. Friendlies inbound flight of four Hornets.' The controller's voice off the carrier was clipped. 'Watch out for 'em, fellows ? they're the cavalry.'
The cavalry. Yeah, like the Hornets were going to save our ass this time. They always thought they were on the front line, when in truth they were getting into this fight long after my Tomcats got it stirred up. Still, they carried air-to-air missiles, and I was getting damned low on them at this point.
'Need some help there, Skeeter?' The cheerful Texas twang grated across my nerves as it always did. 'I'm inbound on your six ? wait for it. I'll give you a break.'
Of all the Marines to show up on station, it had to be Thor. Major Frederick Hammersmith, if you want his real name. The prototype for all Marine pilots ? I'd seen him drop down on the brutally hot tarmac to crank out fifty push-ups before getting into his aircraft just to piss the Air Boss off. Given half a chance, he'd probably carry a knife clenched between his teeth while in flight.
Still, there was no denying his help would be welcome about now. Not that I'd ever admit it to him. But the lighter Hornet, while it didn't have the staying power of my own dear Tomcat, had some advantages in a fight with a MiG. Since it was smaller, with a higher thrust-to-wing-area ratio, the Hornet was a scampery little bastard, able to cut inside arcs and turns in a way that the Tomcat couldn't. Besides that, it has LERX ? Leading Edge Root Extensions. These give it an extended range of angle of attack above and beyond sixty degrees, which is about what we're limited to. Also, it has a high-tech retrofitted fence running along the LERX that generates the right airflow patterns to reduce metal fatigue on its tail assembly.
'Come on in, Thor,' Skeeter said. I could hear the relief in his voice. Like what ? he thought I wouldn't be there? I was already headed for the deck, trying to pick him out from the gaggle of other Tomcat pilots who'd let themselves get suckered. Too many ? far too many.
'Wait for it, buddy,' Thor said. I could see his Hornet now, the small, agile form of his two-seater night-attack variant arrowing in from the direction of the carrier. 'Almost there ? get ready ? now! Break right, Skeeter. Hard right.'
My confusion over which set of aircraft was Skeeter and his MiG was immediately cleared up. I saw an F-14 break hard right, the maneuver almost immediately duplicated by the MiG on his six in perfect firing position.
Almost.
Skeeter made the bright move of taking on some altitude at the same time he was turning, thus increasing his separation from the doomed MiG. The F-14 was almost on top of him now, seemingly being reeled in by some invisible fishing line trailing off the MiG's ass.
A slight twitch, a puff of smoke, then the heat-seeking Sidewinder blinking in the sunshine like a beacon.
The missile sought out the MiG's tailpipe like it was mother's milk. It streaked inbound, dead on target and never wavering, then the two images merged into one. The silver shape of the MiG was replaced immediately by a blossoming, ugly black and red fireball.
'That one's mine.' Thor's voice was calm and confident. 'Any other problems I can solve for you turkey jockeys?'
'Thanks, Thor,' Skeeter said. I almost puked.
More Hornets were arriving on station, calling out their tallyhos and missile shots almost as soon as they were on station. I started getting calls from my own flight on a separate circuit, early indications that they were getting low on fuel or that they were Winchestered ? out of weapons. The Winchesters I sent back immediately ? there was absolutely nothing they could do out here except for a lucky shot with their twenty-millimeter Vulcan Gatling-type guns fitted on the left sides. The guns are bitching when you can take the shot, but even most knife
