“Surface the ship, aye.” A thin trickle of blood ran out of the corner of the chief’s mouth. “Planeman, surface the ship.”
A groan arose from the planesman’s position. The sailor was leaning sideways in his straps, struggling to sit up straight and reach for the planes controls, but clearly disoriented and confused. Forsythe crawled across the deck to him, used the man’s chair to pull himself into a standing position, and leaned over him, bearing all his weight on his left leg. He grabbed the controls and yanked back, putting Seawolf into a climb.
“Depth?” Forsythe asked, studying the indicators.
“Ninety feet, sir,” the chief answered. “But I’m not certain that—”
Suddenly, they both felt it, the change in the weight and inertia of a submarine that is no longer completely submerged. Forsythe restored the controls to neutral position and made his way to the center of the compartment to the periscope. It still operated, although with a noisy squeal as it extruded from its housing. He spun it around and looked back the way that they had come.
At first, he could see nothing. He thought the periscope was broken, a cracked lens or something. Then he realized that what he was seeing was fire. Fire, water, and steam obscuring the picture, making it difficult to make out any details.
“We did it,” he said, then all at once felt every bit of adrenaline vanish from his system. He hung on to the periscope to keep himself upright. “We did it.” The torpedoes that had been following them had hit the three Russian transports. Even if they’d been trying to follow the Seawolf’s maneuvers, the torpedoes couldn’t have maneuvered to avoid them.
Forsythe leaned against the bulkhead. The blackness was back, eating at the edges of his consciousness, inviting him, enticing him, and he fought against it. There was still too much to do, too much to…
Forsythe crumpled and slipped to the deck. The chief watched, and turned to the planesman who was now completely conscious.
“Benson, take us down. Real slow. We are a feather drifting down through the water. I want to sit us on the bottom and stay at quiet ship. Then, we’ll wait here until the captain comes around and tells us what to do.” The chief glanced around the control room and saw heads nodding in agreement. The ship settled gently to the bottom of the sea. They waited.
THIRTEEN
The threat warning receiver in the cockpit screamed, indicating that he’d been targeted by fire control radar. Tombstone’s pulse pounded, and he could hear Greene swearing quietly in the back seat.
Had his uncle gotten the message to the Jefferson? Did it get lost somehow aboard ship before the right parties got it? And did somebody remember to tell the cruiser? Hell of a thing to get shot down by friendly fire.
“Home Plate, this is unidentified air contact bearing one eight zero, range twenty miles from you. Be advised that this is a friendly contact — no IFF, but you should have verification on board of our identity.”
“Roger, unidentified contact, we hold you at that position. Say again your identity and interrogative your intentions?” The operation specialist’s voice was suspicious, but was replaced almost immediately by a different voice.
“Unidentified contact, this is Home Plate CO,” indicating that the commanding officer was speaking. “Be advised that we are in receipt of the traffic you mentioned. What assistance do you require?”
“A green deck,” Tombstone said promptly. “And a tanker. Get Rabies up if you can — I need a good one.”
There was a long silence, and Tombstone could only imagine the incredulous conversations taking place on board the carrier. Finally, the captain’s voice returned. “Unidentified contact, are you aware that this is an American aircraft carrier?”
“Do you think I could put this down on a cruiser?” Tombstone snapped. “Of course I know it’s a carrier. Now get me some gas in the air or you’re going to need a helo to get me on board. And believe me, if I have to punch out of this bitch due to lack of fuel, I’m going to be one royally pissed off aviator.”
Another long silence, then, “Roger, we have Texaco aircraft in your area at this time. And, as luck would have it, Commander “Rabies” Grill is the pilot in command. And, unidentified contact…? Is there something we ought to call you, something besides unidentified contact?”
“Sure. Call me Stoney One,” Tombstone said promptly. “Composition one, two souls on board, state one point six, and I’m really getting thirsty up here.”
“Roger, sir,” the operation specialist said, evidently having decided that, unidentified or not, this was something he did know how to do. “Suggest you come left, sir. Texaco is fifteen miles from your location, and he’ll be waiting for you. Oh, and sir, no disrespect, but Commander Grills… well… he asked me to ask you…” the controller’s voice trailed off.
“What?” Tombstone demanded.
“If you know how to do this, sir. Tank, he means. And if you know him personally.”
“Yeah, I can manage it. And tell Rabies that since he’s so concerned about it, I’ll let him sing his latest song during the approach.”
The controller kept the mike open to allow Tombstone to hear him chuckle. “I guess you do know him, sir.”
“All too well.”
“Button three for coordination.”
“I don’t have a button three. How about a frequency?”
“Roger, wait one…” The controller then reeled off the frequency associated with that preset channel on an American aircraft. Then he continued with, “Sir, just out of curiosity — just exactly what is it you’re flying? The deck wants to know for the tension line settings.”
“A MiG-37,” Tombstone replied. “And if you’ve never seen one close-up, I’ll be glad to give you a personal tour once we’re on deck.”
“Roger, copy a MiG-37,” the controller said, his voice as calm as though this were an everyday occurrence. “I will advise Texaco.”
“Hell, don’t mind me,” a familiar voice broke in on the circuit. “Just get your ass on up here before I change my mind about committing unnatural acts. Tanking is bad enough, but doing it for a MiG really sucks.”
Outside of landing at night on the deck of a carrier, few evolutions are as dangerous as tanking. Tombstone had done it so many times in so many American aircraft he thought he could probably do it in his sleep, but he knew the dangers of complacency. And, even though the evolution was familiar, the MiG was still a new aircraft to him. He had less than thirty hours in her, and while he’d grown to appreciate the aircraft’s nimble handling and performance characteristics, tanking with an unfamiliar cockpit configuration would test his skills to the limits.
He already had radar contact on the KS-3 tanker, and a vector from the controller took him right in behind the aircraft. The tanker was trailing the familiar basket and Tombstone settled in low and slightly behind the KS-3.
“Is this who I think it is?” Rabies asked over their private control circuit.
“Probably,” Tombstone answered. “No names, okay?”
“Yeah, right, I got it. What the hell are you doing flying that bitch?”
“Long story, and now is not the time.” Tombstone glanced down at his fuel indicator. “Let’s get this done and we’ll catch up when we’re back on board.”
“Roger. Take it slow. I’ll keep her steady for you.”