The young flyer smiled.
“I’ve been itching to put to use those two grueling years of Soviet language studies at the Academy, sir.”
Todd nodded.
“Then let’s give ‘em a jingle. Even without knowing Russian, I’d say that the voice belonging to that plea is damn scared.”
The copilot selected the proper frequency and spoke fluidly into his chin-mounted transmitter.
Thirty seconds later a startled yet clearly relieved response flowed into his headphones. Confidently, he flashed Lieutenant Todd a hearty thumbs-up.
From the tactical data compartment, Mac Arnold listened to the unintelligible transmission and grinned. The Hawkeye was one hell of an aircraft, and he was proud to serve on it. As lady luck would have it, the Russian distress call was picked up at the very limit of their range. Since they were due to swing back to the John F. Kennedy, the carrier they were based on, they had received the transmission just in the nick of time. Fondly, he patted the gray-steeled side of the massive digital panel in front of him. Glancing at the green cathode-ray screens that lined its length, he was again impressed by the sensitivity of the 24foot diameter radome attached to the top of their fuselage.
Not only could it detect a sea-skimming cruise missile over 115 miles distant, track more than 250 targets simultaneously, and control more than 30 air interceptions, it could also detect radio signals at a distance of over 500 miles. Some controllers even said that the APS-125 could monitor all of the commercial air traffic coming in and out of New York City’s three metropolitan airports at the same exact time! Mac always got a kick out of that awesome fact.
To see if he could pick up their bogey’s radar signature, he was just giving the plane’s over-the-horizon system a try when a familiar, trim officer ducked through the forward hatch. The copilot met his nod, then took a seat beside him.
“I’m afraid that we’re going to have you earn your keep today, Mac. I need you to tie in with the Kennedy’s tactical data system. They’ll be sending us some info shortly of the highest priority.”
Mac entered this request into his computer. While they waited for the monitor screen to flash the requested data, Arnold asked, “Is that distress call for real. Lieutenant?”
The copilot hedged his answer.
“It sounds like it, Mac. We’ve got a Tomcat eyeballing them right now.”
“What kind of plane is it?” Arnold pressed.
“She’s an Ilyushin IL-38—one of the Soviets’ big maritime patrol planes. Their primary duty is much like that of our TACAMO C-130, to relay messages to submerged submarines.”
“May I ask what the problem is?” Arnold asked discreetly.
The copilot paused before responding.
“All that I can tell you is that they’ve apparently got a neophyte up there at the controls. The pilot’s dead and there’s less than an hour’s fuel left. We’re bringing the USS Eagle in presently to see about picking up any survivors.
“But if there’s an amateur flying that plane, what good is a destroyer going to do? Do you really think that a novice could ditch that thing in one piece?”
The copilot shrugged.
“If I’ve got anything to say about it, he certainly will. The Kennedy is pulling the specs on the IL-38 right now. They’re going to send up a diagram of the cockpit controls, and then I get to play angel and talk that scared Ivan down.”
“Holy Mother Mary!” Arnold shouted.
“This is better than the movies. All that we have to do now is make certain that we write ourselves a happy ending.”
As he spoke they saw a flash on the monitor. Both aviators watched as the screen began filling with an intricate sketch of the IL-38’s cockpit.
“That’s the miracle of modern computers,” Mac sighed as the copilot cooly studied the diagram.
After patching his headphones into the radio circuit, the lieutenant hit transmit and spoke loudly in perfect Russian.
“Comrade Yakalov, this is Hawkeye One. I’ve got the data that I needed. Now, let’s see about getting you down. First, we’re going to have you head south, so that you’ll be within range of the ship we’re sending out to pick you up. This won’t entail a throttle change, but we are going to have to take you off autopilot. The toggle switch that will accomplish that task is located immediately before you. You’ll find it to the left of the round black ball of your altitude indicator.
After switching the toggle downward, your next task will be to keep your eyes on the compass that is set beneath the altitude ball. To change your heading to due south, we’ll be activating the steering mechanism. When you put your hands on the wheel, do it gently, taking care not to jerk it forward or back.”
Watching the lieutenant convey these directives, Mac Arnold had a new appreciation of not only the E2-C’s equipment, but also of her crew. If there was anyone who could bring that plane down safely, it would be the men and officers of the United States Navy.
Of course, Arnold couldn’t see anything wrong about asking for a little assistance from a higher source. Reaching beneath his T-shirt, he fingered the crucifix that had been handed down in his family generation after generation. To the copilot’s unintelligible discourse, he added a silent prayer of his own.
The Spruance-class destroyer USS Eagle was in the midst of an anti-sub-warfare exercise when it got the call informing them of the approaching IL-38. When notified of their new duty. Captain Robert Powell snapped into action. The gangly Midwesterner hurried from the sonar control compartment set deep in the ship’s hull. Quickly, he climbed two banks of steep metal ladders and entered the combat information center. It was from this vantage point that the rendezvous would be coordinated.
The CIC was a dimly lit space, dominated by a massive plotting table.
Surrounding it were glowing radar screens, chattering teletypes, several radios and dozens of other pieces of sophisticated gear.
Powell moved to a large, edge-lit vertical sheet of clear plastic.
Here he joined his executive officer, who stood before the plotting board with grease pencil in hand.
“What have we got so far, Mr. Morley?”
The XO used a ruler to draw a line from a spot indicating the Eagle’s current position to a location in the Pacific due north of them.
“Radar’s got a good track on the bogey now, sir. Its range is approximately two-eight nautical miles and continuing to close.”
“What’s its altitude?”
“Five thousand and dropping. Skipper.”
Powell responded thoughtfully.
“I didn’t realize it was coming down that fast. Fuel must be getting critical. Let’s scramble our Seasprite and get out there on the double. No telling how that IL-38 is going to handle as it hits the drink.”
Two floors beneath the CIC, the destroyer’s helicopter crew were in the midst of an early dinner when a tone sounded. The pilot went to a nearby intercom.
Air Tactical Officer Gerald Grodsky anxiously shoved another spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy into his mouth as he watched the lieutenant pick up the handset.
“You’d better get moving on that chicken,” Grodsky said to the diver sitting beside him.
“I got a feeling that this chow period’s about to get an abrupt ending.”
“What are you talking about, Grodsky?” the diver asked between sips of hot coffee.
“We did our bit for God and country this morning, during that two-and-a-half-hour ASW sweep.”
Grodsky had been watching the pilot’s expression as he spoke on the phone, and serenely began wrapping up the two chicken breasts that still lay on his plate.
“You’ll soon see, my friend.”
Seconds later, the Hushed figure of the pilot arrived at their table, waving them on excitedly.