THIRTEEN
The threat warning receiver in the cockpit screamed, indicating that he’d been targeted by fire control radar. Tombstone’s pulse pounded, and he could hear Greene swearing quietly in the back seat.
Had his uncle gotten the message to the
“Home Plate, this is unidentified air contact bearing one eight zero, range twenty miles from you. Be advised that this is a friendly contact — no IFF, but you should have verification on board of our identity.”
“Roger, unidentified contact, we hold you at that position. Say again your identity and interrogative your intentions?” The operation specialist’s voice was suspicious, but was replaced almost immediately by a different voice.
“Unidentified contact, this is Home Plate CO,” indicating that the commanding officer was speaking. “Be advised that we are in receipt of the traffic you mentioned. What assistance do you require?”
“A green deck,” Tombstone said promptly. “And a tanker. Get Rabies up if you can — I need a good one.”
There was a long silence, and Tombstone could only imagine the incredulous conversations taking place on board the carrier. Finally, the captain’s voice returned. “Unidentified contact, are you aware that this is an American aircraft carrier?”
“Do you think I could put this down on a cruiser?” Tombstone snapped. “Of course I know it’s a carrier. Now get me some gas in the air or you’re going to need a helo to get me on board. And believe me, if I have to punch out of this bitch due to lack of fuel, I’m going to be one royally pissed off aviator.”
Another long silence, then, “Roger, we have Texaco aircraft in your area at this time. And, as luck would have it, Commander “Rabies” Grill is the pilot in command. And, unidentified contact…? Is there something we ought to call you, something besides unidentified contact?”
“Sure. Call me Stoney One,” Tombstone said promptly. “Composition one, two souls on board, state one point six, and I’m really getting thirsty up here.”
“Roger, sir,” the operation specialist said, evidently having decided that, unidentified or not, this was something he did know how to do. “Suggest you come left, sir. Texaco is fifteen miles from your location, and he’ll be waiting for you. Oh, and sir, no disrespect, but Commander Grills… well… he asked me to ask you…” the controller’s voice trailed off.
“What?” Tombstone demanded.
“If you know how to do this, sir. Tank, he means. And if you know him personally.”
“Yeah, I can manage it. And tell Rabies that since he’s so concerned about it, I’ll let him sing his latest song during the approach.”
The controller kept the mike open to allow Tombstone to hear him chuckle. “I guess you do know him, sir.”
“All too well.”
“Button three for coordination.”
“I don’t have a button three. How about a frequency?”
“Roger, wait one…” The controller then reeled off the frequency associated with that preset channel on an American aircraft. Then he continued with, “Sir, just out of curiosity — just exactly what is it you’re flying? The deck wants to know for the tension line settings.”
“A MiG-37,” Tombstone replied. “And if you’ve never seen one close-up, I’ll be glad to give you a personal tour once we’re on deck.”
“Roger, copy a MiG-37,” the controller said, his voice as calm as though this were an everyday occurrence. “I will advise Texaco.”
“Hell, don’t mind me,” a familiar voice broke in on the circuit. “Just get your ass on up here before I change my mind about committing unnatural acts. Tanking is bad enough, but doing it for a MiG really sucks.”
Outside of landing at night on the deck of a carrier, few evolutions are as dangerous as tanking. Tombstone had done it so many times in so many American aircraft he thought he could probably do it in his sleep, but he knew the dangers of complacency. And, even though the evolution was familiar, the MiG was still a new aircraft to him. He had less than thirty hours in her, and while he’d grown to appreciate the aircraft’s nimble handling and performance characteristics, tanking with an unfamiliar cockpit configuration would test his skills to the limits.
He already had radar contact on the KS-3 tanker, and a vector from the controller took him right in behind the aircraft. The tanker was trailing the familiar basket and Tombstone settled in low and slightly behind the KS-3.
“Is this who I think it is?” Rabies asked over their private control circuit.
“Probably,” Tombstone answered. “No names, okay?”
“Yeah, right, I got it. What the hell are you doing flying that bitch?”
“Long story, and now is not the time.” Tombstone glanced down at his fuel indicator. “Let’s get this done and we’ll catch up when we’re back on board.”
“Roger. Take it slow. I’ll keep her steady for you.”
One of the advantages of the S-3 airframe as a tanker was it was an exceptionally aerodynamic platform. All the S-3’s series liked to fly and did it easily. They had exceptionally long endurance, and their stable, aerodynamic characteristics made them an excellent choice for tankers.
Tombstone finessed the control surfaces, allowing the MiG to gain altitude almost inch by inch. She was more than glad to accommodate him, and seemed to understand exactly what he was trying to do. When he attained the correct altitude, with his refueling probe lined up on the basket, he tapped the throttles forward ever so slightly.
The MiG bolted forward. Tombstone swore, and pulled back, dropping well behind S-3.
“Easy, big boy,” Rabies warned, and Tombstone could hear the tension in the pilot’s voice. “You got all the time you need to do this right — but no time to do it wrong.”
“Roger, she’s a little too loose on the throttle,” Tombstone acknowledged.
“Try doing it with control surfaces instead,” Rabies suggested. “I saw them doing it at an air show once.”
Still at the correct altitude, Tombstone adjusted the control surfaces and then compensated with the throttle. The MiG slowed noticeably and he tapped the throttles so that he was keeping the correct distance from the tanker. Then he eased off the speed brakes ever so slightly, allowing her to drift forward. The distance between the two aircraft closed slowly.
“That refueling probe — you sure it’ll fit?” Rabies asked.
“I think so. It’s supposed to.”
“All right, let’s do this.”
But it didn’t feel right. The probe was closer to the cockpit than it was on the Tomcat, and was set slightly farther back. He would be perilously close underneath the KS-3.
“They must use a longer tanker probe, and trail the basket back farther,” Tombstone said.
Tombstone slid the MiG forward, almost holding his breath. It looked like he was going in smoothly, but then he heard a
“Off center,” Rabies said. “Slide back a bit and try it again. And, remember, that refueling probe is off to the right a bit, not midline.
Tombstone pulled back slightly, readjusted his speed, and tried again.
The refueling probe slid into the basket smoothly and locked into place. A green light appeared on
