recognition codes between the two of them, not when they recognized each other’s voice so easily. He imagined the look of surprise on Batman’s face, could almost see that shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear. Well, there’d be time enough to explain when he got onboard — and that was the first problem.
“You doing okay back there?” he asked over ICS. He glanced in the mirror and saw Jason’s pale, strained face.
“I’m fine. It’s not serious, I swear. Hurts like hell, but it isn’t going to kill me.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not worried about that.” Tombstone tried for more confidence in his voice than he felt. “It’s just that you’re getting my cockpit all fouled up.”
“Yeah.” Jason tried to smile, but was unable to quite pull it off. Tombstone switched back to tactical. “Homeplate, I got a situation up here. You got any deck space?”
“That’s about all I got, as you well know,” Batman answered. “How come you’re not heading for big brother?”
“The circumstances are… ah… a bit difficult,” Tombstone said, not wanting to go into detail over the circuit. No matter how highly classified any radio circuit was, he wasn’t sure enough about any system in the U.S. inventory to make him comfortable discussing this. “How about an arresting wire and catapult? Are those operational?”
“Yes. We just use them for post-maintenance flight checks. You’re serious about this?”
“Dead serious, Batman. Clear me out a spot, will you? I can’t head for big brother for very good reasons. I’ll explain it all what I get down on deck, okay?”
“How do you know they’re not listening in?” Batman asked.
“You remember that radio installed just before you left? Well, if you check with your communications officer, you’ll find Pete has some very special instructions that you know nothing about. Just for situations like this. Now, are we going to stand here talking about old times or are you going to get me some deck space?”
“Give us fifteen minutes — hell, I have to wake up half the civilians. But we’ll be ready for you, Tombstone. We’ll be ready.”
As Tombstone signed off, he glanced again in the back seat. Jason appeared to have nodded off. Before he ended the transmission, he said, “And Homeplate? I’ll need medical assistance right after we get down. My backseater.”
“Roger, Tombstone. We’ll be waiting for you. And unless you lost your touch, you won’t need the safety barrier.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cruiser officers and crew were usually known to be fairly tight-assed, cold professionals when it came to their jobs. But as they watched the number of confirmed kills building on their screens, the captain could hear an undercurrent of muted exclamations and cheers breaking out around the compartment. One of the electronic warfare technicians, commonly known as earthworms, even ran over to give the air tracks supervisor a high five. They both broke away immediately after, looking a bit ashamed of their emotional outbreak, but neither was able to completely hide the grin on his face.
For indeed, the computer had awarded confirmed kills for every missile they’d launched. A second shot on any one target had not been necessary, and all the shots had been well inside parameters. Even the destroyer, with her six missiles total, had each downed the target.
Yes, overall, an impressive record. But even as he joined in the muted celebration, the captain felt a sense of uneasiness sweep over him. Twenty missiles, twenty kills? No misses, no mechanical problems? Sure, maybe — but that hadn’t been his experience with technology. Parts rub, seals go bad, a stray electron hits the wrong beam of light — shit happens. And while he’d be glad to take the twenty missiles — twenty kills record if warranted, something deep inside of him worried.
“Lead aircraft inside their engagement zone,” the TAO announced. “Captain, we have time for four more shots on the far edge of the MEZ, if you want them?”
“Hell, yes, I want them,” the captain said, and this time the cheers in combat rose to audible levels. He watched what had quickly become such a smooth operation as four more missiles were launched.
“Captain — I have aircraft inbound from the north.”
“The north! What the hell?” He listened as his TAO called out the data and began an initial query of the aircraft.
“Looks like one of our fighters, sir. And it’s breaking IFF Mode Four. Whoever it is, it is definitely a friendly. No way I can target.”
“Call the carrier. Ask them if one of their boys is lost. Because he came out of nowhere as far as I could see — down from the Kurile Islands. And,” the TAO continued, a look of worry growing on his face, “he’s headed for the
“Call the carrier, ask him what else is going on. And stand by to take it out.”
Coyote listened to the request for information coming over the circuit, and then turned to his TAO, a puzzled look on his face. “Who the hell is that? Some tanker or something? The Air Force get lost again?”
“I don’t know, sir — but if it’s squawking Mode Four, it’s definitely a friendly.”
Coyote swore quietly. “I’m going to kill some son of a bitch when I get back Stateside. What the hell are they doing, flying in this area without letting me know?”
Suddenly, a familiar voice came over an open, nonencrypted circuit, using designated code names instead of their real identities. “Big Brother, this is Homeplate. Be advised I have a friendly inbound for recovery — no time to generate message traffic or SPINS on it. But we’re taking her on board. I can’t explain anything else, Big Brother — just trust me on this one. Home plate out.”
“Batman!” Coyote roared. “Damn it, tell me what’s going on here.”
But there was silence on the circuit. Coyote turned to his communications officer, frustrated. “Where is he?”
The communications officer shook his head. “
Coyote paced the compartment, barely able to contain himself. The roar inside TFCC was continuous as the air boss and the flight deck crew raced to launch every fighter in the inventory. There was so little time, so little.
As the wave of Chinese aircraft rolled in toward the carrier, the cruiser would attempt to eliminate as many of them as possible. Even the destroyer, operating under the cruiser’s guidance, could attempt to get off a couple of shots with her shorter range missiles while the enemy was inside the missile engagement zone, or MEZ.
But MEZ was a painfully small window of opportunity and within minutes the Chinese aircraft would be in the FEZ, or fighter engagement zone, and that was where the true test of skill, training, equipment and people would take place. American lives would then be on the line as the fighters took them on one by one.
