“Got ’em, boss.”
“He’s in trouble. Music, get a lock on that Fulcrum
“Working on it!” Music fiddled with his gear then a tone rang out over their headsets. “Got em. Dot’s yours, Bird Dog.”
“Waiting…” he watched the MiG weaving for position on Fastball’s Tomcat.
“He got him! Bird Dog got him!” Fastball shouted.
Rat swiveled her head from side to side trying to padlock. Things were happening at such a frantic pace. Even with her training, she was fighting to keep her situational awareness. “Jesus, where’d he go… wait, got ’em. Hammer One, Two’s blower out with a MiG at our three.”
“Rat! MiG twelve o’clock low, climbing!”
“I’m on the northern MiG. He’s at our three… turning… he’s in guns range…
Fastball fought his sluggish stick, jerking his Tomcat from side to side in a jinking maneuver. “Spanking the pony,” he used to jokingly refer to that in the RAG. Suddenly, with his life on the line, he didn’t feel much like joking. He was using every trick in his book and quickly discovered that may be he wasn’t quite as “hot” a pilot as he had thought. Maybe he should have listened to his RIO. This MiG had him and his only hope was his lead, who was still too far away. It was a setup and she had seen it coming.
“Come on!” Bird Dog cried out. “Get a lock, Music!”
“Lock!” The tone rose sharply.
“Hammer Two, break left on mark three… two… one.
“Fox One!” He fired, not waiting for a reply.
Fastball heard an
“He’ll blow right by!”
“He’ll shoot us!”
“He’s firing!”
“Rat, were done, get ready to eject!”
“No, not yet!”
“Get ready to…”
“Splash one Fulcrum, southbound at angels fourteen,” Bird Dog called. “Music, where’s the bandits?”
“Heading east. They’re leaving.”
“Thank God.” Bird Dog sighed.
Johnnie waited a moment for Fastball to respond, but he said nothing. He hadn’t said a thing since the dogfight ended. Finally, she checked her gauge. “Oh my God. Hammer One, state is three point nine. We are
“Roger, making it happen.”
She switched to the ICS. “Fastball, I told you to watch your state. You stayed in burners way too long. We’ll be lucky to make it back to the tanker.”
He didn’t respond.
“
“Not now, Rat. Save it for the boat.”
SEVEN
Admiral Wayne paced in the small compartment, too annoyed to stay in his elevated leatherette chair. The attack on his two CAP made no sense, no sense at all. Why would the Iranians start something now?
“Answers, people. I need answers,” he said into the silence broken only by the calls from the tanker as the fuel-low Tomcats chivvied in line. “What just happened up there? And more importantly — why?”
Lab Rat watched the admiral pace. “Sir, I think… that is, Chief Armstrong agrees with me… well… it may have something to do with the construction taking place in Iran.”
Batman paused. “The photos you showed me before?”
“We initially classified it as something else, but the look this morning caught a convoy of trucks with heavy equipment headed into the area.”
“Where? Show me again,” the admiral ordered.
Lab Rat held out a sheaf of photos.
“In the conference room,” the admiral said. “Red light’s too hard.”
Lab Rat followed the admiral into the conference room located just off TFCC. Batman spread the photos out on the table, and the intelligence officer walked the admiral through their analysis. When he finished, the admiral said, “Okay, so they’re building an airstrip. But why jump us now? What sense does that make?”
“No answers, sir. But the two are related somehow — I can feel it.”
“Find out,” the admiral ordered. “And make it fast, Lab Rat. I got a feeling that we don’t have much time.”
“Rabies” Grill held the KS-3 tanker at a steady course and speed as the fuel-starved Tomcat made its approach. The rigid basket streamed out behind the aircraft, a small but critical target for the approaching fighter.
“Come on, Fastball,” Rabies said. “You done this a thousand times before, buddy. Just snuggle on up here right now, come on, you got it…” Rabies kept up a calm, confident chatter as he coached the younger pilot in on the basket.
But now wasn’t the time to talk about it. There’d be plenty of time to assign blame later, after they got this stupid nugget and his starved Tomcat back on the deck.
“You’re looking good, good, real good,” Rabies said as he watched the approach. “Just a hair lower, mate, that’s it.”
A hair, hell. That damned idiot was bouncing around the sky like a yo-yo. They’d be lucky if he plugged it on the first pass.
But he had to, didn’t he? Fuel state almost at the flameout point — just two snorts less of fuel, and that Tomcat was about to be just another hunk of metal on the ocean floor. Hell, if he were a RIO, he would have
