Hellfire

Smoke enveloped two Forgers immediately. The third was apparently untouched. It broke away from the others, afterburner glaring, then, from a safe distance, turned back in on them. Rat could almost sense the other pilot’s fury and determination.

Meanwhile, Fastball was having to cope with the aftereffects of his daring maneuver. The Tomcat was no longer flying. It hung in the air for a second, then, as gravity began to assert its pull, the angle of attack deteriorated. Gravity won, as it always did, and the Tomcat began dropping like a stone, tail first.

Not good. Very not good. Rat wanted to scream, but it would have done no good.

Fastball swept back the control surfaces and punched the afterburner. The thrust was sufficient to rotate the Tomcat in the air, so instead of falling tail first, it was nose down to the ocean. The airframe picked up speed quickly, regaining lift as air flowed over the wings. Within moments, Fastball had built up sufficient airspeed to regain control of the Tomcat.

Too late! The other Forger was now on them, popping off missiles like fireworks. Poor fire control, one part of Rat’s mind noted coolly. Just as bad as the last Forger. Spend everything now, and nothing left for later if you need it.

“Fastball, break right,” Bird Dog’s voice shouted. “I’m on him — break right, dammit!”

Fastball reacted as instinctively and quickly as Bird Dog had earlier, turning so hard that he shed precious airspeed. But stalls can be recovered from. Missile hits can’t.

“Fox one,” Bird Dog shouted. Rat twisted in her seat, staring back at their tail. She saw Bird Dog’s missile coming in at right angles to them, but for a moment she thought it was headed straight for them. But no, Bird Dog had judged the angle quite accurately. The missile was not aimed at the Forger, it was aimed at where the Forger would be in three seconds, which was where Fastball was now. As the aircraft continued on their courses, it worked out just as Bird Dog had planned. The missile pierced the Forger’s flank, and for a moment Rat thought she saw it sticking out from the side. A microsecond later, the warhead detonated, destroying the Forger.

“Nice shot, Bird Dog,” Fastball said, too, too cool.

“Not bad,” Bird Dog acknowledged offhandedly. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

“Not a problem,” Fastball said. “We managed.”

Rat wanted to scream.

Just then, the Hawkeye came over tactical. “Dolphin lead, assist Packer lead, bearing zero three zero, range ten.”

“Thor? Where’s his wingman?” Bird Dog asked.

“SAR operations under way,” the Hawkeye replied calmly. “You want to discuss this now, or get your ass in gear?”

“I’m on it,” Fastball said immediately.

“No, I’ll—” Bird Dog began, only to be interrupted by the Hawkeye.

“Roger, Fastball. Dolphin lead, remain with flight.” The Hawkeye continued with a rapid summary of the scenario — eleven kills for Dolphin flight, one Tomcat splashed. That left one without a wingman, and it was Bird Dog’s duty to fill in.

“Acknowledged,” Bird Dog said, already turning back toward the rest of his flight. “Fastball, take care of it, and get your ass back here.”

And assist where fastball pulls doors but out of the bacon.

Tomcat 101

1950 local (GMT-9)

One bomber peeled way from the pack, evidently intending to make a run for it on its own. Tombstone changed course and headed directly for it. His blood was running hot, his anger concentrated into every cell. His entire life seemed to depend on killing Russians. Nothing else could ease the pain in his soul.

Suddenly, his international air distress frequency came alive. A low-pitched but definitely female voice snarled, “Damn you, all of you. I’m not going to do it — fuck you!” The transmission cut off as abruptly as it began.

Tombstone’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The aircraft around him disappeared. It was as though he was in suspended animation, trapped lifeless between the ejection seat and the sky. The words pounded in his brain.

She always had a mouth on her. That’s just what she would say. But what were they trying to make her do?

“Tombstone? You okay?” Greene snapped. “Get your head in the game, asshole.”

Tombstone didn’t answer. The voice obliterated his entire world, the words overwhelming them. No, not the words — the voice. Because he was as certain as life itself that Tomboy had been speaking.

“Stony?” the voice said. “I love you.”

“Stony — oh, god. That’s her, isn’t it?” Greene said, his voice weak. “Tombstone, where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Tombstone said, his lips barely moving. He was cold, so cold. Sweat poured off his forehead and his palms were clammy. “She could be anywhere.”

“Stony One, Hawkeye. Be advised that last transmission was from an aircraft. The line of bearing and track put it directly in front of you. Whoever that was, she’s on that bomber.”

I can’t do it. No one would expect me to. I’m already dead — I won’t kill her, too. The stream of consciousness flowed through Tombstone’s mind, confusing him. He waited — for what, he wasn’t certain.

“I won’t do it!” Her voice again, howling her anger and outrage. It was just like her, that indomitable spirit even when confronted with the most unimaginable odds. “Let go of me, you can’t—there! ” If he thought he had been cold before, he was mistaken. The savage glee and victory in her cry of triumph froze his very soul.

The sky in front of him shattered into fragments of glass — no, it wasn’t glass. The top of the bomber exploded, sheets of metal peeling back from the fuselage. Small black dots shot out at forty-five-degree angles to the aircraft. The bomber was still airborne, just barely, it’s structural integrity assaulted by the violence of the ejections.

Was she strapped in? She was fighting with them — no, she wasn’t.

Of course she was — Tomboy wouldn’t be that stupid.

Or would she? Would she find a way to grab an ejection handle and yank down, knowing that it would eject everyone except her. Would she ride a dying aircraft down to the surface of the sea, sacrificing herself in order to destroy the aircraft?

“Tomboy!” The howl was ripped from deep inside of him, anguish and protest rolled into one. “No!”

There were eight chutes now, floating down in the air. The bomber itself was wobbling, trying to fly but not able to, its autopilot unable to keep up with the cascading damage and system failures.

“She punched out,” Greene said. “Tombstone, she punched out, she punched out.” Greene repeated the phrase like a mantra, trying to refocus the pilot’s attention. Finally, in response to pleas and threats from his backseater and from the Hawkeye, Tombstone rallied.

“I’m okay.”

“Stone One, you have priority in the pattern. Get your ass on deck.” The stern voice of the admiral echoed over the airwaves. “Pull yourself together, partner. Get that aircraft back down here. Now! We have SAR en route the chutes.”

“Come on, Tombstone,” Jeremy said, his voice gentle but urgent. “Let’s get back to the boat — come on, you can do this with your eyes closed.”

Cold, so cold — dear god, I’ve been there, punched out, not knowing if I’d survive. They said they had eight chutes. She’ll make it. I’m sure she will.

“Come right, course three two zero,” Greene said, his voice firm. “Descend to ten thousand feet.”

Mechanically, Tombstone flew the aircraft. He flew with precision, muscles and mind detached from his intellect and emotions, automatically taking the Tomcat around the marshal stack, lining up on the stern of the carrier, calling the ball, making the adjustments required, and taking his Tomcat in for a perfect three-wire trap. A perfectly executed approach and trap — all done by reflex.

At the moment the plane captain stepped in front of his aircraft and signaled him to reduce power, his world