The Mediterranean. He gazed down at the clear blue waters, always looking for that unexpected flash of light that indicated a protruding snorkel tube, an amorphous shape just below the surface of the ocean that would reveal a submarine running submerged and shallow. The Mediterranean was a submarine hunter’s worst nightmare for water, and Rabies loved it for that.
The enclosed sea was divided into two distinct thermal layers, in one of the oddest arrangements of any ocean in the world. The top layer was warm and salty, and flowed toward the mouth of the Mediterranean. Deep beneath it, a second layer replenished the Med, cold, less salty ocean water rushing in to replace that lost through evaporation and outflow. The difference between the two vertical currents could produce odd acoustic effects, and an inexperienced crew could easily lose their prey in the shifting sound channels.
“Just another hour on station,” Rabies said cheerfully. “Our reliefs are probably taking a last piss call as we speak.”
“Don’t talk about that,” Harness groaned. “I hate those damned piddle packs.”
The rest of the crew chimed in in agreement. Of all the hardships of flying a long-endurance ASW aircraft, the lack of an adequate relief tube was among the most significant. While some tactical aircraft had a tube built directly into the airframe venting to the outside, the S-3 aviators had to be content with a device that most resembled a hot-water bottle.
The “piddle packs” had been banned by Rabies based on an entirely understandable accident two missions earlier involving a too-exuberant change of altitude by the pilot that was not coordinated with Petty Officer Harness’s more personalized maneuvers in the backseat.
“I’d even take the pack right now.” Harness’s voice sounded strained. He heard Rabies rooting around in the forward part of the aircraft, and moments later the dreaded clear plastic pack was passed back to him.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“Tomcat 308, you have strangers inbound.” The laconic voice of the TACCO in the E-2C Hawkeye orbiting ten thousand feet above them was calm. “Vector zero-four-zero to intercept and VID.”
“What the? Sentry, this is 308. We’re on a checkout flight. What about onstation CAP?”
“Four aircraft inbound,” the Hawkeye replied. “Both CAP currently on station are already en route. Request you break off current training operations and join them.”
There was no mistaking the note of command now in the E-2C TACCO’s voice.
“Okay, Skeeter.” The XO’s voice was determinedly calm. “You want to show me what this aircraft can doyou’ve got your chance. Good thing you’ve got the best RIO in the squadron,” he continued.
“We’re going on an intercept?”
“Looks like it. Here, here’s your fly-to point.” The XO transmitted the coordinates of the station he wanted his pilot to take. “Get hot, Skeeter. Training mission’s over.”
“Roger, copy.”
Skeeter slewed the Tomcat around into a tight port turn. They were currently at Angels 11eleven thousand feetand had been drilling on a scissors maneuver, the tactic preferred by the light Falcon against a heavier aircraft. The XO had just been reviewing the breakout points and counters with him when the call from the Hawkeye came in.
“I hope you were paying attention,” the XO said. “I’m going to be a little bit busy back here, but I’ll coach you through it when I can.”
“Not a problem, XO.”
Skeeter felt a surging buoyant feeling of confidence. What had Admiral Magruder saidthat he’d give him a chance?
Well, if more of those assholes who’d shot up the flagship were inbound, they’d find they were facing an entirely different Skeeter. This time, he was in his platform of choice, one that he knew as well as his own bedroom.
The Tomcat was an extension of his skin, a natural marriage of man and machine so intimate as to defy complete description. No one who had never flown in a Tomcat could fully understand how it felt to him, how it reacted to his demands and requests almost before he could translate them into action, how he and the aircraft seemed to meld into one beinga deadly, potent, unified force.
“I’m ready,” he repeated, this time out loud. “Let’s go kick some Turkish ass.”
“Ah, there you are.” The pilot glanced at the heads-up display and identified the third fighter inbound on their flight. “Four of us, three of youyes, I think these odds will be fair.”
“Red Three, break right and intercept new bogey.” The flight leader’s voice cut through his contemplation of the new contact. “Stick to the Rules of Engagementno incidents this time. But if the Americans wish to play hard, we may show them what we’re truly capable of.”
The pilot turned his aircraft slightly toward the south and accelerated to Mach 1.5. At that speed, he was traveling fifteen miles every minute, closing on the incoming aircraft at breakneck speed. The radar-warning receiver squealed one short alarm. He glanced at it, assessing the data instantly. “Tomcatyes.” The signature of the AWG9 radar was unmistakable. “Are you as reckless and aggressive as your squadron mate was? Shooting at our aircraft with no provocation other than he was near your ship? We will see if you find a prepared fighter pilot as easy a prey.”
He could see from the speed leader that the Tomcat was accelerating as well, quickly moving to match his speed. Their combined closure speed was now in excess of 1800 miles per hour, and the powerful Tomcat had a slight advantage. The Falcon, while lighter and more maneuverable, simply could not keep up with the sustained speed of bursts of the Tomcat if it involved an altitude change. “This time, we will fight my game.”
“Steady, steady,” the XO murmured from the backseat. “He hasn’t done anything yet, Skeeter. Don’t toggle one off until I tell you.”
Skeeter clicked the mike twice in acknowledgment. His earlier burst of ebullience was fading. This was his second time under attack this week, and he was determined to acquit himself more honorably than he had aboard La Salle. Despite the XO’s warning, he moved the weapons-selector switch to the Phoenix position. When the XO deemed it necessaryhe would be ready.
“You have not targeted me yet,” the pilot said softly. “Are you afraid? Do you know what vengeance I am about to extract from you?”
He adjusted the Falcon’s course minutely to bring it directly head-on to the Tomcat. “Be careful, you may get more than you bargained for.”
“Sir, he’s within Phoenix range.” Skeeter heard his voice skid slightly up at the end of the sentence. “Recommend we-“
“No. Not yet.” The XO’s voice was firm. “It’s bad, we’re not making it worse. They may not be out here for us.”
“Not here for us?” Skeeter asked. “Sir, it’s a Falcon.”
“I’m aware of that. After all, I’ve got the ESM gear back here. But you’re not paying attentiondidn’t you hear that last contact report? The submarine?”
“Yes, butoh. Targeting profile.”
“Exactly. These bad boys may not be here for us. They may simply be providing position updates to that submarine, vectoring it in closer to the ship. And the submarine’s not our problemthe Viking’s turned it over to the helos. They’ve got him pinned down right now, bouncing him from sonar dome to sonar dome like he’s a badmitton bird. Until he shakes them, he’s not going to feel comfortable coming up to data-link with those fighters. Besides, we’re still inside the inner missile engagement envelope.”