two.”
Tombstone followed the directions of the plane captain and taxied to his spot. The handler elected to place him with the Hornets. Tombstone powered down the engines. The crowd around him stood back, wary. Finally, as a wide-eyed plane captain scrambled up the boarding ladder, Tombstone popped the canopy back. Fresh air rushed over him, cool and welcoming. He smiled, as the plane captain said, “Welcome aboard the USS
Before Tombstone was even out of sight of the MiG, Lab Rat had his people swarming over her. They took pictures, made measurements, and Tombstone could tell they were itching to completely disassemble the entire aircraft.
“Don’t do anything that will disable it,” he warned, as a safety observer led him toward the island. “It’s not ours — not yet.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Lab Rat reassured him. “They’re not allowed to touch anything that moves.”
“I mean the avionics as well,” Tombstones said, scrutinizing Lab Rat carefully. “You know what I mean, Commander. Don’t down my bird.”
“Promise, sir,” Lab Rat said.
Not completely satisfied, but unwilling to stand watch on the aircraft himself every second of the day, Tombstone let the white shirt lead him away.
As he walked down the so-familiar passageways, Tombstone felt wave after wave of nostalgia wash over him. It was here that he started his career so many decades ago as a nugget aviator, served as CAG, and later as commander of the battle group, the billet Coyote now held.
His escort took him straight into flag spaces, and people he passed in the passageways stopped, then turned to stare, their jaws dropping. Many of them recognized him, and seemed to understand that he did not want to be acknowledged. But they still cleared space for him just as though he were still an admiral, and he heard a few quiet comments of “Good trap, Admiral,” as he passed by.
He walked into the conference room, then back through it into TFCC. Coyote was watching the screen, asking questions and shouting orders as he watched the battles progress. He paused just long enough to slap Tombstone on the back, then turned his attention back to the screen.
“I’m not even sure you have a security clearance, old buddy,” Coyote said. “But if you’ve got any suggestions or comments, speak up. The president wants us to deal with this and deal with it now.” Coyote shook his head wonderingly. “I’ve never seen such a strong directive. So I sent in the SEALs to deal with as many of the missile launchers and antiair weapons as I could. We’re taking on the MiGs at the same time and trying to prevent a second squadron from reinforcing them.”
Tombstone shook his head, watching the scenario unfold. To the north of Bermuda, half the air wings fighters were decimating the remaining Russian MiGs. The Aegis was standing by in case the missiles were launched. Coyote was providing voice updates to the National Command Center every thirty seconds.
Coyote swore quietly. He turned to Tombstone, anger in his eyes. “It’s the damned mobile antiair platforms,” he said. “The Russians are sticking close to shore, and backing off to lead us in closer.”
“You got anything airborne with HARMs?” Tombstone asked, referring to the antiradiation missiles. HARMs were intended to destroy enemy radars. They homed in on radar signals and the later versions of the missile could even remember where the radar was, even if it was shut down immediately.
“No. Strictly antiair load outs. I’m having two loaded out right now, but it will be another fifteen minutes before they launch. But they’ve got long-range antiair launchers on the island. I don’t think we can get close enough to target them before they can target us.” He shook his head, glaring at the screen. “But the real priority is the missiles. If they make it past the Aegis, the East Coast is in deep shit. The cruisers along the coast are deployed to take them out on final, but there’re no guarantees they can take them, either.”
Suddenly, an idea occurred to Tombstone. It was outrageous, completely outrageous — but it just might work. He waited for break in the action, and grabbed Coyote by the arm. “Have you got any really, really smart weapons and intelligence people?”
“Of course.” Coyote didn’t take his gaze off the screen. “What do you want them for?”
“See if they can jury rig those HARMs on the MiG. I might be able to get in closer and faster than they can — I’ll have the transponder on and I’ll show up on their radar as a friendly. I can be on top of them before they know what hits them.”
Coyote looked at him, doubt on his face. “Never work. The avionics are—”
“Are stolen from us,” Tombstone finished, remembering the lecture his instructor pilot had given him on the avionics. Even hard points, the fixtures on the wing to which the Russian missiles attached, were strictly American specs. “It’ll work — I know it will. It’s worth a shot.”
Coyote thought for a moment, which seemed like an eternity in the fast-paced environment in TFCC. “If nothing else, you could launch as an antiair platform,” he agreed cautiously. “Come up behind them, even up the odds.”
“Yes. Give me two HARMs, the rest antiair.”
Coyote shook his head, still not certain he believed what they were discussing. “Can you even launch that bird off the cat?”
Tombstone nodded. “More borrowed technology. Rather than building their own catapult systems from scratch, the Russians studied ours. They’re completely interchangeable.”
Coyote turned to a chief. “Pass the word for Lieutenant Commander Gurring and Chief Harding. I want them up here on the double.” He turned back to Tombstone. “Those are your men. If anybody can do it, they can.”
Bird Dog had called in every favor he could in order to have himself included in the air combat mission. Sure, the land attack group would see plenty of action, but it wasn’t the kind that he preferred. Give him a fight against a MiG any day, to dumping iron on stationary targets. When the flight schedule was posted, though, he was in for a disappointment. He turned to the CO and pointed at the offending line item. “What’s this?”
Commander Gator Cummings, the commanding officer and a RIO, peered at the offending item over the top of his reading glasses. “It’s you and Shaughnessy. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t fly with her,” Bird Dog said, feeling his temper start to rise. “I thought I made that pretty clear.”
Gator shut his eyes for a moment as though replaying the conversation in his mind, and finally said, “Yes. Yes, I believe you did.”
“Then what’s this assignment? I don’t want her on my wing. She’s too — too hotheaded.”
At that, Gator roared with laughter. He turned to the rest of the pilots, who were milling about, checking their gear and talking excitedly among themselves. “Hey, listen to this. Bird Dog thinks Shaughnessy is hotheaded.” A wave of guffaws and rude comments swept across the ready room, as every pilot chimed in.
Bird Dog thought someone was too hotheaded? Well, it was about time he knew what it was like to be on the other side of things for change.
“Hey, I’ll swap,” one of the pilots said. “He could have Boomer — I’ll take Shaughnessy any day.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Boomer snapped. Boomer was a lieutenant on his second cruise and had already earned a reputation for being an extremely cautious pilot. “You got a problem with the way I fly?”
The first pilot slapped him on the back. “Naw, not a bit. It’s just that Bird Dog wants a conscientious wingman, and well, you fit the bill, don’t you think?”
“Prudent,” Boomer insisted. “Prudent, that’s all. I like to make sure of my shots.” From around the room, other offers to swap wingmen with Bird Dog were called out.
Finally, Gator held his hand up. “Pipe down, everybody. They’ll be no swapping — the flight schedule stands as written.”
“Why?” Bird Dog asked, aware that he was starting to whine. “I don’t see why I should have to—”
“Follow orders like anyone else?” Gator snapped. A sudden silence descended on the ready room. “What makes you think you’re entitled to your choice of wingman? You think that maybe, just maybe, I might know better than you what’s best for this squadron?”
“But I—” Bird Dog started, and Gator waved him off.
“Try looking in the mirror sometime, asshole. Half the time, you’d see Shaughnessy’s face staring back. The
