Island Warriors

outside of normal operating range, but still increasing. The left temperature data showed no change.

“Shouldn’t Big Eyes know about that?” Jason asked.

“I thought about that. But there’s not much he can do about it, is there?” Tombstone said gently, counting on Jason’s experience and general levelheadedness to keep him from panic.

“No, I guess not. If we have to, we can always bingo to Japan. They won’t refuse us landing rights.”

At least right now, they won’t. But there’s no telling, not if we’re outbound from a bombing mission. But Tombstone did not voice the thought and instead agreed, “Yeah, and the United States is in the area as well.”

“There’s the tanker.” Greene said. “One o’clock, low.”

I remember when my eyes were that sharp. “Got him,” Tombstone said, when he finally saw the tiny speck in the air. He corrected his course slightly.

Due to the jamming, the final refueling was conducted without radio communications. Tombstone had practiced the procedure many times before, and the tanker was obviously prepared for them.

“Eight minutes,” Tombstone said. He concentrated his attention ahead of them for the island. If their inertia navigation system was operating correctly, it should be dead ahead.

“They’ve got to know something is happening,” Jason said. “I mean, you don’t get your entire electromagnetic spectrum blanked out for nothing.”

“They might know something, but they won’t be able to find us. Not unless they get real lucky and get a visual. And mind you, I’m not ruling that out — they’ve got to be worried about this operation going down.”

“There it is,” Greene announced, peering around Tombstone’s ejection seat to look out of the windscreen. “I got it.”

“Roger, I got the island.” Tombstone’s radar screen was still a massive static. “Commencing final. Let’s hope those ships haven’t moved.”

He tipped the Tomcat over into a steep dive, and felt the acceleration shove him back into his seat. He tensed his muscles and grunted, performing the M1 maneuver designed to keep blood flowing to the brain during high G-force situations. He could hear Jason’s breathing over the ICS, and knew he was performing the same maneuver. His G-suit automatically inflated as it sensed the increase in G-forces, forcing blood of out of his legs and into his torso. The bands around his arms constricted as well, but any discomfort was quickly washed away by the adrenaline.

“There they are,” Tombstone said, and he made a slight course correction. Ahead of him, just to the right, were three tiny specs of flat gray on the ocean. At altitude, they had appeared to be simply wave tops, but as he descended, their outlines became more and more distinct.

“They’re on-loading!” Jason said. “Look, small boats!”

On closer examination, Tombstone could see the small craft cutting wakes perpendicular to the whitecaps as the landing craft ferried men and equipment from shore to the transports.

“They’re not approaching — the coastline must be too rugged here. Maybe rocks, maybe something else. But you can be damned sure that they know where the good beaches are to the south. They’ll have to, so they can move so fast that the Japanese won’t have a clue what hit them.”

“No fire control radar, Tombstone,” Greene said unhappily. “Big Eye’s cutting it close.”

“He knows the schedule — he’s checking on us,” Tombstone said with more confidence than he felt.

The antiship missiles under his wings were virtually useless without his radar to guide them in on their targets. Oh, sure, he could try a manual line of bearing shot, but the probability of kill went way down.

“Three minutes,” Jason called out.

Now Tombstone could see the activity on the rocky shore. There was a mass of movement, both of troop formations and individuals straggling about singly. Nearest to the beach, there was an orderly queue, as men and equipment waited their turn on the landing craft. Further inland, there was still confusion, as the troops tried to find their proper place in line.

Although amphibious assault looked like a sudden, violent disgorging of everything at once, in truth it was as carefully orchestrated as flight deck operations. The details of who went ashore first — and thus, who was embarked last — occupied the nightmares of more than one amphibious operations planner. There was nothing worse than having your ground troops off first, followed by your long-range artillery. The enemy forces would simply decimate the men first without the artillery there to make them keep their heads down.

“Two minutes, Tombstone — Mom, I mean.” Jason’s joke was an attempt to break the tension. If the radar didn’t clear, then they would have to make a pass and come around again. And every second that they remained overhead increased the chances of a mobile antiair installation or other weapon getting off a lucky shot.

Tombstone heard a sharp plink. “Small arms fire.” The Tomcat could take a lot of damage, as long as the rounds missed the hydraulic signs and fuel tanks.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jason said. “I don’t want to be around when they…” Just then, a sharp crack echoed to the cockpit, and a shudder ran through the Tomcat. Jason screamed.

“Jason!” Tombstone shouted. “Where are you hit?”

“Arm. Straight through,” Jason said through clenched teeth. “Right through the bicep.”

“How bad is it?” Tombstone asked, a sick feeling starting in his gut.

“Lots of blood, but it punched straight through the muscle.” Tombstone could hear the strain in his voice. “Damned small cockpit. I’m putting on a direct pressure bandage. That will slow it down some. It hurts like hell, but it ain’t going to kill me.”

“Descending on final,” Tombstone said calmly. At some point during any mission, you simply had to decide whether or not you were going to trust everyone else to do their jobs as well as you were doing yours. If you guessed wrong, you wound up dead.

In a normal operation, that trust was normally built up by repeated training and constant familiarity with each other’s operations. By the end of battle group workups, everyone in the battle group pretty much knew who the weak sisters were and who could be counted on to do what they were supposed to be doing. Even such minor details as a ship’s station-keeping ability was factored into the equation.

But now, there was no experience to fall back on. It was just a matter of trust. Trust in the Air Force, and trust in his uncle.

So far, everything had gone right. That alone was enough to worry him.

“Ninety seconds,” Jason announced. “Sir, we’ve got to consider the possibility of an abort.”

“No abort,” Tombstone said. “Worst-case, we come around for another pass.” And I hope to hell it doesn’t come down to that. Because I’ve got a very, very bad feeling about this.

“Roger, copy,” Jason said, his voice taking on the impassive tone of a man who has decided to place his life in the hands of his pilot. “Based on visual, recommend you come right two degrees for better alignment.”

“Roger, concur.” Tombstone made the minor course correction, his eyes moving rapidly over his instruments, back out to the beach in front of him, and then to check the sky around him for contacts.

The transports were now clearly visible, and he could make out the details of their superstructure. The flat flight decks had movement all over them, and he thought he could see people turning to stare and point at him. They must hear the Tomcat by now, and the more experienced among them would immediately recognize the throaty growl of the Navy’s most potent fighter.

“Sixty seconds,” Jason announced. “On altitude, on speed. Looking good, sir.”

Just as Jason finished speaking, the radar screen fuzzed out completely, then went dead. He could hear Jason swearing in the back seat.

“Circuit breaker,” Tombstone said, just as Jason restored power to the screen. Solid green fuzz for a few seconds, but then the static quickly resolved into individual contacts. He could hear buzz of chatter over tactical as well, and then heard a familiar voice.

Batman, is that you? I hope so, old friend. Because if I’m in trouble, at least I know you’re in the area and you’ll do everything you can to get to me.

“All right, triple nickels, you got sixty seconds of clear air. Get in, get out, because the picture’s going to shit again after that. You want to be long gone before anybody’s in a position to… ah, shit. Triple nickel, you are voted off the island, estimated departure in ten miles.”

Tombstone groaned. It had all gone too smoothly so far, entirely too smoothly. There was always going to be