Thor’s Hornet smashed through the thin clouds like his namesake’s hammer. The clouds streamed over the canopy, blinding him for a moment like a shroud. Then, as he continued to ascend, they peeled off in sheets and then thin strands that disappeared as he rose above him.
“One zero two, on station.” Thor announced his arrival at the position indicated for the Hornet sponge, and waited. Every ten seconds, another Hornet was rippling off the deck below him, and the air would soon be thick with the small, nimble fighters. A quick tank, topping off his fuel, and then they would form up their wing and head out to meet the Russians.
That the odds were heavily stacked in the Russians’ favor didn’t bother him. Hell, they were used to being outnumbered, weren’t they? If it had been a fair fight, the Navy could have handled it on their own.
The waves of Russian fighters and bombers showed on his HUD as small red symbols. They were still some distance out from the carrier, far enough not to be a problem. Then even as he watched, they edged closer, covering the airspace at what seemed to be a snail’s pace but was just a reflection of the expanded range of the screen.
“One zero three, on station.” A flurry of tail numbers followed, each pilot confirming as he joined on the sponge. Thor listened with only half his attention as he maneuvered his Hornet up behind the Air Force tanker, intent on topping up his tanks. Soon the others would be taking their turns, slipping in smoothly for a top up before they re-formed.
Finally, they were done. “Devil dogs, on me. Make every shot count,” Thor ordered. He peeled away from the sponge formation, and Hornets lined up in ascending altitude behind him, forming a classic attack V. Each one was locked in place as though held there by an invisible ruler, the formation’s impeccable precision a reflection of their skills. That wouldn’t last long.
“Okay, listen up,” Thor ordered. “No plan survives first contact with the enemy. Except this one. On my order, call your target, break off, and take some Russians out. Simple enough. You get low on fuel or Winchester, talk to the Hawkeye and get a vector clear. Other than that, stay on them until they’re gone. By the time we leave, I want to see nice, sweet clear blue sky with nothing in it but Hornets and Tomcats. Any questions?”
A chorus of yells and cheers, punctuated by the traditional
After the normal, heart-stopping moment when the Tomcat seemed to hang in the air just forward of the carrier, they were airborne. Tombstone poured the power on, ascending rapidly, and headed for the Tomcat sponge. Fifteen Tomcats were already there, with eleven more expected. But their plans for the engagement weren’t Tombstone’s, and he intended to do all he could to even the odds. Tombstone headed north.
“One zero one, interrogative your intentions,” a puzzled voice said from the Hawkeye. “We seem to have a processing malfunction of some sort. I hold
Tombstone cut him off by squelching the radio signal. “Roger, Hawkeye, I know what you’re seeing. Guys, there’s no reason for concern. Just keep track of us and our flight.” Tombstone hoped desperately the Hawkeye understood what he was getting at. The communications circuits were supposedly secure, but the last thing he needed was some Russian with the daily codes who had enough smarts to figure out that everyone was seeing a damn sight more aircraft in the air than had actually launched. “We will
There was a long silence on the net, and a few questions from the other fighters, which were quickly squelched by the flight leader. Some of them had tumbled to what was up and were making sure their slower shipmates did not queer the deal. Tombstone could imagine the discussion going on inside the Hawkeye, as forty aircraft appeared to be spaced evenly around what they had seen was one contact launching. But the Hawkeye’s mission commanders were smart folks, and they would figure it out pretty quickly.
That was a bitch, wasn’t it, he thought as he waited for the Hawkeye’s response. You could no longer count on secure circuits being secure, not after Walker’s treason had rocked the entire security establishment to its roots.
“Roger, one zero one. Understand your intentions for your flight. Good timing, Stony.” The Hawkeye’s voice was decidedly nonchalant, signaling that the mission commander had the picture now.
“Roger, Hawkeye. Break, Stone flight, Stone leader. On me as lead.” Tombstone immediately put his Tomcat into a hard turn to the north, easing out of it slowly as though giving the rest of his flight time to form up. All around him, the other Tomcats were watching, now well aware that what looked like forty aircraft on their radar was a single airframe.
“We have to stay out of visual range,” Tombstone said to Jeremy. “If they get a visual honest, the game is up.”
“Already on it,” Jeremy said, his voice slightly ruffled. “There.” With a click, he sent a copy of his recommended flight plan to Tombstone’s HUD. “That should keep us well out of visual range and give us room to go buster if we have to get away from them.”
“Looks good.” Tombstone refrained from saying that his backseater was turning out to be a hell of a RIO. He knew quite well that Jeremy would not have taken it as a compliment. “I figure if we can draw them off at least one hundred and fifty miles to the north, the cruiser and the rest of the airwing can do some serious damage.”
“Yeah, that should work,” Jeremy said, his voice entirely neutral.
The entire point of the plan was to pull enough fighters out of the main formation to even the odds. But what neither one said, although both were thinking it, was that if the Russian Backfires caught up to them, they would have more problems than just blowing the deception. Because then the odds would be forty to one, and even Tombstone wasn’t so sure he could handle those.
Tombstone caught a glint of sunlight on metal to the east. With a sinking heart, he realized that the game was up. If they could see the Backfires, then the Backfires could see them and they could see that instead of forty Tomcats crowded into this airspace, there was only one.
The high-pitched
“Here come the players,” Jeremy shouted.
“No, wait!” Tombstone ordered. “They’re too far away — we don’t have enough countermeasures to deal with them all. We’ll have to wait until they all get closer, count on one massive clump of flares and chaff for all of them.”
“Two more,” Jeremy answered, his voice showing the first hint of fear. “Tombstone, that’s five — no, six missiles inbound!”
Tombstone put the Tomcat nose over, heading for the ejection envelope. They were too high to survive punching out. As he descended, his thoughts raced.
But somehow, as many times as he had made this decision about aircraft and other crews, it was of no consolation when it was his own head on the block.
Tomboy. His thoughts lingered on her, a hard yearning flooding his body. How had he survived so long without her? Was that really her in the intell photos or was he just deceiving himself. And what would be the odds that he could go on without her? If she were truly gone, then there was precious little to hold him here, was there?
