Both of us were getting low on fuel. What we'd really like to do was head back in over land and nail the bastard who'd fired those missiles at an innocent, harmless E-2. If they wanted to fight, why hadn't they taken on one of us, somebody who had the maneuverability to at least stand a fighting chance? But no, they'd taken out the one bird in the sky that was more an ungainly seagull than a tactical aircraft.
And the one that could do them the most harm. Why were they objecting to the E-2's presence in their skies? In other words, what did Snoopy see that they didn't want him to?
"We're spooling up two F/A-18's now," the controller back on the carrier said, as though he'd managed to read my thoughts from a distance of fifty miles. "As soon as they're airborne, we'll recover you."
"Roger."
Skeeter and I fell into the starboard marshal, waiting our turn. As we spiraled around in our assigned spots, I keyed the mike and called the carrier one last time. "What are those Hornets loaded out with?"
"Ground weapons," was the short, satisfied reply. "And we're just waiting for clearance."
Fine. If I couldn't take the SAM site out myself, then at least we were doing something. Doing something this time, instead of doing what my father's generation had done, concentrating firepower on truck parks and POL sites. We needed to hit these bastards hard, where it could hurt them, where they knew exactly why we were doing it. As far as we were concerned, that SAM site would be toast.
I let Skeeter take a plug at the tanker first. As I hung back waiting my turn, it was easy to see that he was shaken up. Not that he would have admitted it, but it showed in his approach on the KA-6 tanker. Skeeter, normally the rock-steady precision flyer, was all over the sky. It took him three tries to plug the tanker, and even then he had one breakaway before he managed to suck down five thousand pounds. When he finally pulled away, I could tell from the tanker pilot's voice that he'd just about had enough of playing patty-cake with Tomcats.
"C'mon in, Bird Dog," Leslie "Loon" Luna said. He was normally the most unflappable of tanker pilots, but now his voice was short. I had a feeling we wouldn't be trading dirty jokes over the tanking frequency this time.
"On my way." I slid the aircraft forward slowly, eased into position, then, keeping my eyes on the lights around the basket, slid the probe home with a firm thunk.
"Good seal," Loon reported. "Ready to begin transfer."
I sucked down a quick five thousand pounds, glad I could at least manage to do this right.
Good eyesight and fast reflexes aren't enough to make a fighter pilot. You need something more ― the ability to compartmentalize your mind, to shut out everything else in the world once you step into that cockpit. My wife, my dog, none of that matters when you have that many pounds of airframe wrapped around you, enormous firepower on your wings, and a guy in the backseat who's depending on you. It doesn't matter ― it can't. Not if you're going to do your job right.
Like I knew what that was about. As I pulled away from the tanker, some tiny wall broke, and I saw again the bloody black fireball that was all that remained of the E-2. The Tomcat wobbled a bit as though she sensed my guts moving in different directions. Gator cleared his throat, then said, "You okay, buddy?"
"I'm fine." The words came out harder than I meant them to, but Jesus ― what did Gator expect? Yeah, he'd seen the same things I had. But it hadn't been his fault. It was mine, completely and solely.
If only I had sent Skeeter off after that third missile. I'd been so certain that I could get it myself.
Too certain? I shoved the thought away, leaving it for another time. One when I wasn't trying to get a bird back on deck.
"Nice plug," Gator offered. I recognized that for what it was, a little cheerleading from a backseater who thought the guy up front might be shaken up. Two years ago, when we'd first started flying together, it might have worked. It almost did this time too, especially coming from Gator, whose voice I knew as well as any man's on earth.
"Piece of cake, yeah," I said, trying to simulate the appropriate response so he'd go away and be happy. "Yeah, I sure can fly those tankers."
"All you have to do is get us back on deck now, Bird Dog," Gator said. I could hear the careful note in his voice, the one that treaded around the edges of an argument. No matter how strongly he felt about me ― hell, I wasn't even sure he would ever want to fly with me again, not after today ― he would never bring it up right before a trap. Not when he wanted every bit of my attention focused on the pitching, heaving deck below us, and the thin wires that ran perpendicular to my flight path.
Skeeter and I settled in to the starboard marshal pattern and waited for the call. We were operating on visual now, moving automatically into our next place in the pattern and waiting for our chance to roll out.
Finally, I was up. I went first, leaving Skeeter still in the pattern waiting for his turn.
I started my approach, and at two miles out I was rock-steady on glide path. The LSO voice ― Landing Signals Officer ― was just as soothing and encouraging as Gator's had been. Clearly, he knew what had happened, and he was prepared to talk a shaken aviator back down onto deck as gently as possible.
"Tomcat 201, call the ball."
Like I could miss it. In this weather, the Fresnel lens was a lock, clear and brilliant on the port side of the carrier's ass.
"Roger, ball," I acknowledged, and followed with a report of my fuel state and number of people on board. Someday, just for the hell of it, I was gonna say three souls and see if anyone caught it.
I came in smooth, clean, adding a little power just as we came over the end of the ship.
It was one of the best traps I ever made, smooth, clean, and solid on the three-wire. Heck, if I'd had another hundred feet, I wouldn't have needed the damn wire at all.
So maybe that's an overstatement. Even the best carrier aircraft landing is a controlled crash, a violent intersection of aircraft and flight deck that throws you forward in the straps and rattles your teeth. It's not something you want to try with a full bladder. I felt the tailhook catch, and slammed the throttle forward to full military power. Standard procedure, in case the hook skips over the wire ― called a kiddie trap, because the aircraft then looks like a kiddie's toy bouncing down the flight deck ― or in case something else goes wrong.
If you do have a problem, you have enough forward speed and lift to get back off the deck. Then you go round, go back into the marshal, and take another pass at the deck.
I waited for the yellow shirt's sign that it was safe to power down, then throttled back to taxi speed. We backed slightly and I lifted the hook, clearing the wire, then followed the yellow shirt's hand directions into the spot. The nose wheel's steering gear felt a little rough ― I made a mental note to gripe it when I signed the aircraft back in.
Once on the spot, I spooled the engines down and started my pre-shutdown checklist. Gator sang out his portions, and we finished quickly.
Behind me, I could hear the high scream, like a tornado inbound, of the next aircraft coming down over the deck. Skeeter, probably ― he'd been right behind me in pattern and should be next on deck.
I turned slightly and craned my neck to watch the ass end of the carrier. The youngster came in high and fast, almost seeming to ignore the LSO's increasingly frantic insistence that he power back. He caught the one-wire ― but just barely. He was nose-high, and I saw the aircraft's nose slam down with an impact that must have been brutal.
"What the hell's going on with him," I said, half aloud and half to myself. "He's not the one who blew it today."
Gator leaned forward and tapped me gently on the shoulder. "Later, Bird Dog. Let's get this aircraft shut down first."