a screwup, and you just hoped and prayed that it occurred early enough that you could take it into consideration before you committed on target.
“Thirty seconds. Your dot, sir,” Jason said.
“Take it, Jason. I need to keep my eyes on what’s going on around us.”
“My dot, aye.” Jason selected and released the antiship weapons, and Tombstone felt the Tomcat jolt up as first one and then the other of the heavy antiship missiles left his wings. “New target to you, sir.”
“Your dot, Jason,” Tombstone said. He kept his gaze moving around horizon, searching for the first faint trace of a contrail or jet exhaust that would indicate an enemy fighter. But there was nothing on radar and nothing in the sky, either, as far as he could tell. The greatest threat was from the ground troops. “IP in five seconds… four… three… two… one,” Jason said, and then he toggled off the antipersonnel weapons. That left Tombstone with only three AMRAAM antiair missiles left on his wings.
“Break left, break left,” Jason said. “We’re out of here.”
Tombstone swung the now-lighter Tomcat around the left, kicking in the afterburners as he did so. With enemy fighters just fifteen minutes out, he was in complete agreement with Big Eyes. He wanted to be long gone before they were in range for a visual.
“Say goodnight, Gracie,” Big Eyes announced, and again their communication circuits, radar screens, and everything else that operated in the electromagnetic spectrum was overwhelmed with static.
“Man, I never thought I’d be so relieved to have no radar,” Jason said.
“Yes, me too. Now let’s get the hell out of Dodge, find Texaco, and head for home.
“Yes, I think that’s a — shit!”
“I see it,” Tombstone said, and stared down at the offending temperature gauge. With all his attention focused on the sky, he had committed the first major sin of any naval aviator. He had not kept up his scan, and while he wasn’t looking, the exhaust temperature indicator for the right engine had crept steadily upward. Now the needle quivered just below the red area, as though undecided as to whether to creep up even higher.
“Don’t do it, please, don’t do it,” Jason said quietly, as though through sheer force of will power he could force the engine to cool down.
“They’re built to a heavy tolerance factor,” Tombstone said. “At least fifty percent over normal temps before you even have to start sweating, and another twenty-five percent after that before the engine is in danger.”
“You certain about that, sir?”
“Oh yes, I’m certain.” With a pang, he remembered just how he had come to learn that particular fact about the Tomcat. It had been during Tomboy’s early days as a test pilot, when her time was consumed by memorizing the facts and figures that constituted the normal operating envelope for the Tomcat. She had to know every fuel consumption curve, every speed versus angle of attack diagram and then every safety margin built in, just so she could try to push the envelope out just a little bit.
Tombstone’s decades of experience in compartmentalizing his thoughts kicked in. He shoved away the thoughts of Tomboy, feeling not the slightest bit of regret as he did so, and concentrated on trying to stay alive. She would have understood, if anyone would.
“Options?” Tombstone asked, although they both knew exactly what the choices were.
“Japan or the
“Our first mission and we blow our cover,” Tombstone said. “Not a good deal.”
“Very much not a good deal. But I’m not sure that that engine’s going to make it all the way back up to Adak, are you?”
“Maybe… no. No, it won’t,” Tombstone admitted.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. The
“
“Yes, sure, but she’s a supply depot, not an operational carrier,” Jason protested. Even as he spoke, he was thumbing through the laminated plastic cards, looking for the communications index.
“Oh, I’m willing to bet she’s a good deal more than that,” Tombstone said fiercely. “Batman’s in command, and you can bet your ass whatever capabilities she had when she left port, she’s exceeded them by now. He’s put her through her paces, fixed everything that could be fixed, and I’m willing to bet that his first priority was restoring at least some of her flight deck capabilities.”
“Here it is.” Green reeled off the frequency and Tombstone punched them into the communications panel.
Then, with intense feeling of fierce pride, he said, “Homeplate, this is Stoney. I got a problem. Over.”
TWENTY-SIX
Batman paced the compartment, an angry, fearsome presence. TFCC was minimally manned, little more than a radio watch. Yet he could not avoid the compulsion to be here when anything was happening. He paced the small compartment just as he had in the old days, agitated, trying to think of some way he could help, something he could do.
But there was nothing. After all, what was
Still, why did it have to be
Suddenly, a new voice came over. “Homeplate, meet me on…” and the voice reeled off a frequency, asking him to reconfigure his secure gear to listen on that channel.
Batman turn to his TAO, or what passed for one on the
“New channel assignment, I guess?”
Batman felt the overwhelming sense of frustration. Not only was he not permitted to be in the conflict, he was now not even allowed to listen to it. “Do it,” he snarled.
“Roger, sir.” The TAO made the arrangements for the frequency change, and then turned to him, a puzzled look on his face. “Admiral, that voice sound familiar to you?”
Batman played it back in his mind. A smile started across his face. “Yes. Yes, it sure as hell did.”
As a light went on indicating that the channel assignment had been changed, Batman picked up the mike, and said, “Stoney, this is Homeplate. Go ahead. Over.”
Tombstone smiled at the sound of his old wingman’s voice. There would never need to be call signs or
