“All right, this time is for real,” Tombstone announced as he veered away from the carrier once again. “I’m taking bets on the three wire.”
“You’re on,” the LSO said promptly. “I bet two sliders that you nail the three wire.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Tombstone warned.
The aircraft felt right, so very right. He knew with a sudden surge of confidence that there would be absolutely no problem with the trap, that he would nail the three wire cleanly, easily, righteously.
“A little high, sir. Down just a bit,” the LSO coached. “That’s right, that’s right, looking good,” he continued, as Tombstone bled off the speed slightly. “Watch your speed, sir — not as much needed in the smaller bird.”
Tombstone increased his speed slightly and corrected his course as the MiG veered in the bubble. The LSO was right. The lighter aircraft could land a bit faster than a Tomcat could, and had less of a margin for error in minimum airspeed.
“You’re right a bit, sir. That’s it, that’s it — right on path right on altitude. Bring her on in, looking good,” the reassuring patter from the LSO provided Tombstone with instantaneous updates on how he was doing. He glanced one last time at the Fresnel lens, at the bright green glow, a friendly welcoming sight, and then fixed his gaze on the deck. He was committed now.
All at once, the carrier loomed up at them, massive and inhospitable. It was always at this moment in any landing that he was convinced, just for a microsecond, that he wasn’t going to make it. And it passed just as quickly as it always did.
“Power back, power back,” the LSO said, as he came over the flight deck. “Now!”
Tombstone pulled throttles back, and let the MiG slam down on the tarmac. “Full power,” the LSO ordered, and Tombstone slammed the throttles forward again.
For one terrifying moment, he thought he had missed all four wires. Or perhaps the tail hook had been down — no, the LSO would have seen that and warned him. Then, he felt the neck-snapping jolt that threw him forward against his ejection seat straps, and the MiG slammed to a halt. For the next several seconds, it strained against the arresting wires, engines burning at full power, ready for take off again should the wire snap.
Then a plane captain stepped up front him and signaled for him to reduce power. Tombstone eased back on the throttles until the engines were barely idling. He backed up slightly, then retracted the tail hook. “Good job, Stoney One,” the LSO said. “I’ll see you in the dirty shirt mess. We got a lot of folks who owe us a slider or two.”
Tombstone followed the directions of the plane captain and taxied to his spot. The handler elected to place him with the Hornets. Tombstone powered down the engines. The crowd around him stood back, wary. Finally, as a wide-eyed plane captain scrambled up the boarding ladder, Tombstone popped the canopy back. Fresh air rushed over him, cool and welcoming. He smiled, as the plane captain said, “Welcome aboard the USS Jefferson, sir.”
Before Tombstone was even out of sight of the MiG, Lab Rat had his people swarming over her. They took pictures, made measurements, and Tombstone could tell they were itching to completely disassemble the entire aircraft.
“Don’t do anything that will disable it,” he warned, as a safety observer led him toward the island. “It’s not ours — not yet.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Lab Rat reassured him. “They’re not allowed to touch anything that moves.”
“I mean the avionics as well,” Tombstones said, scrutinizing Lab Rat carefully. “You know what I mean, Commander. Don’t down my bird.”
“Promise, sir,” Lab Rat said.
Not completely satisfied, but unwilling to stand watch on the aircraft himself every second of the day, Tombstone let the white shirt lead him away.
As he walked down the so-familiar passageways, Tombstone felt wave after wave of nostalgia wash over him. It was here that he started his career so many decades ago as a nugget aviator, served as CAG, and later as commander of the battle group, the billet Coyote now held.
His escort took him straight into flag spaces, and people he passed in the passageways stopped, then turned to stare, their jaws dropping. Many of them recognized him, and seemed to understand that he did not want to be acknowledged. But they still cleared space for him just as though he were still an admiral, and he heard a few quiet comments of “Good trap, Admiral,” as he passed by.
He walked into the conference room, then back through it into TFCC. Coyote was watching the screen, asking questions and shouting orders as he watched the battles progress. He paused just long enough to slap Tombstone on the back, then turned his attention back to the screen.
“I’m not even sure you have a security clearance, old buddy,” Coyote said. “But if you’ve got any suggestions or comments, speak up. The president wants us to deal with this and deal with it now.” Coyote shook his head wonderingly. “I’ve never seen such a strong directive. So I sent in the SEALs to deal with as many of the missile launchers and antiair weapons as I could. We’re taking on the MiGs at the same time and trying to prevent a second squadron from reinforcing them.”
Tombstone shook his head, watching the scenario unfold. To the north of Bermuda, half the air wings fighters were decimating the remaining Russian MiGs. The Aegis was standing by in case the missiles were launched. Coyote was providing voice updates to the National Command Center every thirty seconds.
Coyote swore quietly. He turned to Tombstone, anger in his eyes. “It’s the damned mobile antiair platforms,” he said. “The Russians are sticking close to shore, and backing off to lead us in closer.”
“You got anything airborne with HARMs?” Tombstone asked, referring to the antiradiation missiles. HARMs were intended to destroy enemy radars. They homed in on radar signals and the later versions of the missile could even remember where the radar was, even if it was shut down immediately.
“No. Strictly antiair load outs. I’m having two loaded out right now, but it will be another fifteen minutes before they launch. But they’ve got long-range antiair launchers on the island. I don’t think we can get close enough to target them before they can target us.” He shook his head, glaring at the screen. “But the real priority is the missiles. If they make it past the Aegis, the East Coast is in deep shit. The cruisers along the coast are deployed to take them out on final, but there’re no guarantees they can take them, either.”
Suddenly, an idea occurred to Tombstone. It was outrageous, completely outrageous — but it just might work. He waited for break in the action, and grabbed Coyote by the arm. “Have you got any really, really smart weapons and intelligence people?”
“Of course.” Coyote didn’t take his gaze off the screen. “What do you want them for?”
“See if they can jury rig those HARMs on the MiG. I might be able to get in closer and faster than they can — I’ll have the transponder on and I’ll show up on their radar as a friendly. I can be on top of them before they know what hits them.”
Coyote looked at him, doubt on his face. “Never work. The avionics are—”
“Are stolen from us,” Tombstone finished, remembering the lecture his instructor pilot had given him on the avionics. Even hard points, the fixtures on the wing to which the Russian missiles attached, were strictly American specs. “It’ll work — I know it will. It’s worth a shot.”