starting to dread the return haul.”
“Yeah, well. It always takes more time on the way out, don’t you think?”
“Anyway, let’s give it a try,” Tombstone said. “Go on, rack out for thirty minutes. I’ll wake you up.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice.” Within a few minutes, Jason’s breathing was slow and regular. Tombstone wondered if he’d be able to nod off as easily when his turn came.
He glanced at the radar screen again, and saw a few commercial flights on their way across the ocean, but nothing out of the ordinary. The tactical circuit was silent, but he had no doubt that the AWACS was still monitoring their progress, so that must mean there were no problems. And it was another two hours to the next refueling.
That’s the way it was, wasn’t it? Hours of boredom leavened only by moments of sheer terror. Some things never changed.
When Jason’s thirty minutes were up, Tombstone said, “Rise and shine, buddy.”
No response from the back. He glanced in his mirror and saw the younger pilot’s chest rising and falling.
Surely he didn’t turn his radio off? He wouldn’t — aw, hell. “Wake-up!” Tombstone shouted.
Still no response from Jason.
“Jason, wake-up!” Tombstone shouted, after he’d jerked his own 02 mask off. “You asshole — wake up!” Tombstone followed with a string of curses that he hadn’t used in quite some time, and was rewarded by the slightest movement from the unconscious figure in his back seat.
“Mom?” a sleepy voice croaked. “Is it time for school?”
“You listen to me, young man. You get up right this second,” Tombstone said in high-pitched voice, his gaze locked on the mirror.
Jason bolted upright, a look of confusion on his face. Then a red flush crept up his cheeks.
In the front seat, Tombstone howled. “Oh, man, what I wouldn’t give to be in a squadron right now,” Tombstone chortled. “But since we’re a squadron of two, I’m going to assume responsibility. I don’t care what your call sign was before, you’re now Schoolboy.”
Jason muttered something too low to be heard, and Tombstone said, “What’s that? Speak up, Schoolboy.”
“If I’m Schoolboy, guess that that makes you Mommy dearest.” Jason sniggered. “Yeah, I like that. No more Tombstone — you’re Mommy from now on.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Tombstone retorted. “Not if you ever want a shot at the front seat.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what my mom used to say.”
“Triple nickels, this is Big Eyes,” the AWACS said suddenly over tactical. They both jumped. “Be advised that there’s additional activity taking place at Six Flags. No launches, just warnings and indications.” Six Flags was the code word for the nearest Russian air base.
Jason groaned. “Just what we need.”
“Doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with us,” Tombstone said. But it did — someone on the ground somewhere had taken note of a tanker in the air, and the small, virtually insignificant radar speck headed south and west. Taken note of it, and decided to do something about it. And while there might not be Russian fighters airborne right now, there would be if Tombstone continued heading south.
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Big Eyes continued. “And I’m about to pull one of them out now. You’re going to get degradation on all your comm circuits, radars, and ECM indicators. If you got anything to tell me, make it snappy. I’ll give you ten seconds.”
“We have anything to tell them, Mommy?”
“Shut the hell up. No, I don’t. You?”
“The right engine is running a little hot,” Jason said. “Nothing to worry about now — well within specs. It’s just that the temperature started to rise slowly over the last two hours.”
“Yeah, I know. But there’s nothing to tell Big Eyes about yet. It’s not like he can do anything about it, anyway.”
“Roger, concur.”
“Five seconds,” Big Eyes said. He continued counting down, and just as he reached zero, Tombstone had a flash of insight. “Turn down your radio volume — way low,” he ordered. He reached out and switched his down.
“What the hell is that contact?” Coyote asked. He pointed out the offending radar blip, marked as a neutral aircraft, but headed toward the Russian Islands. “Anybody know?”
Bird Dog shook his head. “No answer to a call up on distress frequencies, sir. But by its flight profile, it looks like a fighter.”
“I’m not taking any chances right now,” Coyote snapped. “Break off two Tomcats to fly CAP directly over
“What about that Chinese surface action group?” Bird Dog asked.
“They moved yet?”
“No, sir. But they’re within missile range now.”
“Watch ’em. The second one of those bastards so much as sneezes, I want missiles on them like stink on shit, and I don’t give a damn what the United Nations says,” Coyote said.
Suddenly, the radio came to life. Goforth, the liaison on the
Suddenly, the tactical screen flared into life. The seemingly random disposition of Chinese surface ships resolved into a classic amphibious operations and antiair formation. At the same time, the airspace along the coast of China was suddenly lousy with air contacts. The staff stared in horror as wave upon wave of Chinese fighters went feet wet. Half of the formation turned slightly north and headed for the island of Taiwan. The others bore down directly on the USS
Goforth’s questions hung in the air, as the majority of the staff concentrated on the incoming waves of Chinese fighter aircraft. The speaker was a cacophony of voices as the E-2 directed fighters to individual engagements and maintained the overall picture on the fur ball now developing to the east.
Ho glanced around desperately, aware that no one was answering. Why not? The answer was clear to him — the lives of the people onboard
Ho approached the admiral, anger surging under the calm he forced on his face. He waited to be recognized, as would be appropriate in his own culture, but no one even acknowledged his presence.
He cleared his throat. No one even looked in his direction.
Finally, he spoke, his voice coming out harsh. “Admiral, my captain — he has asked for instructions.” He waited.
Coyote was still deep in conversation with the commanding officer of the Viking squadron. “Get two more tankers ready to launch — and no, I don’t want to see Rabies on the flight schedule for that. You know what we’re up against — put him on the submarine. He’s the best we’ve got.”
Ho Kung-Sun tried again. “Admiral. The
Coyote was turning to his air operations officer. “You have to cover for the AWACS. I don’t want to lose another one. Gas in the air is going to be the limiting factor. Refueling is our top priority.”
“Admiral!” Surprising even himself, but his fury knowing no bounds, Ho Kung-Sun reached out to touch Coyote on the arm.
