Hellfire c-20, page 26
part #20 of Carrier Series
“Keep your distance,” Bird Dog reminded everyone. “Fox three, fox three.” An AMRAAM leaped off his wing, heading for the lead Russian. Bird Dog immediately broke off, accelerated, and ascended. The Russian he had targeted turned back into formation, panicked by the incoming missile and scattering the Backfires like marbles.
One part of Rat’s mind applauded the performance. Another part was panicking. Bird Dog did realize, didn’t he, that he couldn’t shoot his whole load at first encounter? Sure, if you didn’t get by the first missile, then there was no point in worrying about the next one, but you couldn’t expend every countermeasure on the first shot at you. That was a lesson she’d learned early on.
Bird Dog evaded the countermeasures easily, swinging over the top of the second Forger then wheeling back around to take another shot. It was clear he believed there was nothing to worry about, that the Forger in front of him had his complete and total attention. Fastball was supposed to be watching to make sure of it.
The second Forger proved to have a steadier hand. It stood its ground as the missile approached, waiting until the last second then braking hard down in a nearly vertical descent. The missile almost had it, but then was unable to follow. Trying to turn, it lost itself in a compact burst of flares and detonated harmlessly. The Forger lost its tactical awareness, however, and as it turned back to face Bird Dog, it exposed itself vertically to a heat seeker. Fastball, never one to miss an opportunity, snapped, “Bird Dog, break right!” and, at the same second, toggled off a heat seeker. The Tomcat below maneuvered almost instantly, but had Bird Dog been a hair slower or taken time to question Fastball’s command, it would have been a toss-up as to whether the missile took out the Forger or Fastball’s lead.
“Nice shot, Fastball,” Bird Dog said coolly over tactical. Rat cringed. By refusing to admit that he had been in danger, Bird Dog merely compounded the problems with Fastball. And once the two pilots had determined to out-cool each other, there was little a RIO could do to stop them.
The third Forger had not escaped their attention, either. Realizing that both of its companions had been lost, it fell back slightly, and waited for a second Forger to form on him. Then, moving a loose pattern that suggested a lot of experience, the two moved in.
“And here come the big dogs,” Fastball shouted, evidently realizing the same thing. “Bring them on!”
The preferred tactic would be to take on one, then the other, but the Russians were not giving them that choice. The Forgers split apart almost immediately, each one gunning for an individual target.
“Fox one!” Fastball shouted, shooting an AMRAAM. Even as he did so, the ECM blared its warning.
“He’s got us, Fastball,” Rat shouted, her fingers flying over the controls as she pumped out chaff and flares. Not too much, not too little — just right. Her radarscope exploded with a buzz of static as the chaff spread.
The Forger was on them almost instantly, nimbly evading the chaff. He came in again, blasting off another missile then cutting away and circling back up under, like a shark after a swimmer. Rat saw tracers just off their right side, and realized that the Forger was hoping to trap them between the missile, the chaff, and its guns.
Fastball saw it coming, too. He tipped the Tomcat nose down, letting her drop like a rock, and then pulled back hard, kicking into afterburner in a display of raw power that the Forger could never match. In seconds, he was back at altitude, high in behind the Forger. The missile veered off, losing its lock and streaking off toward open sky.
The Forger, not to be outdone, seemed to leap through the air as it followed Fastball up. It couldn’t manage the sheer power of the Tomcat in a climb, but it could cut well inside what its pilot thought was Fastball’s turn. The Forger cut across the arc, intending to intercept them and drop into position behind, firing off the heat seeker to increase the distraction factor.
Fastball swore, and reversed his turn. He pulled up again, flashing the undercarriage of the jet at the Forger, then dove over to drop back in position. The Forger, not realizing what was coming, had once again turned in the vertical, intending to intercept, and had failed to allow for the change in altitude. Once he realized his error, the pilot began maneuvering radically across the sky, cutting a series of hard turns designed to exceed the Tomcat’s envelope. But once again, Fastball saw it coming. He kicked afterburners back in and simply powered his way through a gut-wrenching ascending turn, coming back down behind the Forger again.
The ECM warning went off again, and Rat twisted in her harness, looking for the threat. Meanwhile, Fastball bore down on the helpless Forger, almost psychically guessing which way the other aircraft would turn. Finally, the Forger tried to run one too many times. Tracers streaked across it and seemed to disappear, harmlessly passing through its skin.
Rat knew that was impossible. Everything she knew about the Forger said that its underbelly had additional armor plating on it, enabling it to more effectively and safely support ground operations, but the rest of the fuselage was lightly armored in order not to weigh the aircraft down too much. Consequently, the rounds would do maximum damage.
Evidence to support her conclusion was not long in coming. The Forger twisted in the air, trying to evade the Tomcat. But just as it leveled out, it spun violently to the right, rolling so hard it was almost a blur.
Fastball pulled away hard, clearing the area. As he did, the Forger’s wing snapped off, flying off at an acute angle to the fuselage. Other pieces of gear broke loose, peppering the sky with bits of metal, oil, and debris.
A few seconds later, the inevitable happened. Fuel hit hot metal, flashed past its ignition point, and the Forger exploded.
“Where’s Bird Dog?” Fastball asked, trying to control his voice but clearly breathing hard. Maybe she overestimated his cool, Rat thought, because he sure didn’t sound like a guy who was really enjoying himself.
“Three clock, and low,” she said instantly. One part of her mind was always fixed on lead, tracking his position and maintaining a running picture of where he was relative to Fastball. Not always a RIO’s job, but that was the way it worked when she flew with Fastball.
“Okay.” Fastball dropped the nose of the Tomcat down, then rolled over, searching the sky below them.
“There, just to the right,” Rat said.
“Bird Dog, you okay?” Fastball asked.
It was Bird Dog’s RIO who answered, saying, “Yes, we’re fine, just about — there.” A fireball in front of Bird Dog punctuated the RIO’s self-satisfied pronouncement. “That’s two.”
Immediately, Bird Dog’s Tomcat broke off and began ascending, coming up to meet them. As Bird Dog flashed past them, Fastball fell into position on his wing, following his lead. There was no need for conversation. Both pilots knew exactly what they were doing — picking out the next target.
This time, the Russians were taking fewer chances. Five Forgers broke off to meet them, settling into one group of three and a traditional fighting pair, a configuration that had Rat worried. Funny how your mind got used to seeing just pairs. Now, with one trio joining on them, it was too easy to lose track of one of the players. Not to mention the second pair.
“I’ll take the three,” Bird Dog said. But even as he spoke, the lower pair broke off and gave chase. Bird Dog had no choice but to react. “Stay loose, Fastball,” Bird Dog snapped, a trace of worry in his voice. “I’ll be right back.”
“Not a problem, Dog,” Fastball said. But even as he spoke, Rat could see that there was indeed a problem.
Fastball shoved the Tomcat into afterburner, shoving Rat back hard in her seat. “Ah,” she grunted.
“Altitude,” Fastball said, grunting as well. “Altitude. That’s first.”
“They’re tracking us,” Rat warned. One Forger was directly behind them, falling behind slightly but in perfect position. His playmates were on either side, offset by five thousand yards so that the formation of Tomcat and three-point Forgers looked like a trefoil.
“Sun,” Fastball said, not deigning to explain any further. Not that it was necessary — Rat knew where he was heading. He turned hard and pointed the nose directly into the sun. It glared off the canopy, blinding her. Rat jammed her head down hard against the plastic to block out the light. Fastball probably had his eyes shut by now — the way he was today, she doubted he even needed his eyes in order to fly and fight the aircraft.
“They’ve got a lock,” Rat warned, her fingers tweaking the picture into focus as the gear began its warning time. “Chaff — no flares, not at this angle.”
“Roger. Hold on.” Coming from Fastball, that could mean practically anything. Rat braced herself.
Fastball began a series of violent maneuvers, skipping across the sky like a pebble. The orderly formation of Forgers behind them broke apart slightly as they tried to anticipate his next move, each waiting for the perfect shot. But by forcing them to maneuver, he fouled their fields of fire. And there was one other problem — although she suspected the Forgers hadn’t notice it yet, the Tomcat had slowed its violent maneuvers, and the net effect had been to decrease the distance between the Forgers and the Tomcat to within minimums. They were too close now to fire their missiles.
That didn’t mean they were defenseless. All at once, the air around them was lousy with tracers. For a moment, Rat quailed. Then, seconds before he did it, Rat knew what Fastball intended. She started to object, to warn him not to, that it was too dangerous, but it wouldn’t have done any good.
Just at the point the Forgers began to realize they had a problem, Fastball manually swept the wings forward, deploying his speed brakes and landing gear. The Tomcat reacted as though it had hit a solid object. Its speed slowed abruptly, peeling off knots so quickly that it was inside the stall envelope almost immediately. But as the Tomcat slowed, the Forgers shot past her. Forcing out another two seconds of maneuverability before the Tomcat became aerodynamically unstable, Fastball sprayed the three with gunfire, reversing their situation.
Smoke enveloped two Forgers immediately. The third was apparently untouched. It broke away from the others, afterburner glaring, then, from a safe distance, turned back in on them. Rat could almost sense the other pilot’s fury and determination.
Meanwhile, Fastball was having to cope with the aftereffects of his daring maneuver. The Tomcat was no longer flying. It hung in the air for a second, then, as gravity began to assert its pull, the angle of attack deteriorated. Gravity won, as it always did, and the Tomcat began dropping like a stone, tail first.
Not good. Very not good. Rat wanted to scream, but it would have done no good.
Fastball swept back the control surfaces and punched the afterburner. The thrust was sufficient to rotate the Tomcat in the air, so instead of falling tail first, it was nose down to the ocean. The airframe picked up speed quickly, regaining lift as air flowed over the wings. Within moments, Fastball had built up sufficient airspeed to regain control of the Tomcat.
Too late! The other Forger was now on them, popping off missiles like fireworks. Poor fire control, one part of Rat’s mind noted coolly. Just as bad as the last Forger. Spend everything now, and nothing left for later if you need it.
“Fastball, break right,” Bird Dog’s voice shouted. “I’m on him — break right, dammit!”
Fastball reacted as instinctively and quickly as Bird Dog had earlier, turning so hard that he shed precious airspeed. But stalls can be recovered from. Missile hits can’t.
“Fox one,” Bird Dog shouted. Rat twisted in her seat, staring back at their tail. She saw Bird Dog’s missile coming in at right angles to them, but for a moment she thought it was headed straight for them. But no, Bird Dog had judged the angle quite accurately. The missile was not aimed at the Forger, it was aimed at where the Forger would be in three seconds, which was where Fastball was now. As the aircraft continued on their courses, it worked out just as Bird Dog had planned. The missile pierced the Forger’s flank, and for a moment Rat thought she saw it sticking out from the side. A microsecond later, the warhead detonated, destroying the Forger.
“Nice shot, Bird Dog,” Fastball said, too, too cool.
“Not bad,” Bird Dog acknowledged offhandedly. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”
“Not a problem,” Fastball said. “We managed.”
Rat wanted to scream.
Just then, the Hawkeye came over tactical. “Dolphin lead, assist Packer lead, bearing zero three zero, range ten.”
“Thor? Where’s his wingman?” Bird Dog asked.
“SAR operations under way,” the Hawkeye replied calmly. “You want to discuss this now, or get your ass in gear?”
“I’m on it,” Fastball said immediately.
“No, I’ll—” Bird Dog began, only to be interrupted by the Hawkeye.
“Roger, Fastball. Dolphin lead, remain with flight.” The Hawkeye continued with a rapid summary of the scenario — eleven kills for Dolphin flight, one Tomcat splashed. That left one without a wingman, and it was Bird Dog’s duty to fill in.
“Acknowledged,” Bird Dog said, already turning back toward the rest of his flight. “Fastball, take care of it, and get your ass back here.”
And assist where fastball pulls doors but out of the bacon.
Tomcat 101
1950 local (GMT-9)
One bomber peeled way from the pack, evidently intending to make a run for it on its own. Tombstone changed course and headed directly for it. His blood was running hot, his anger concentrated into every cell. His entire life seemed to depend on killing Russians. Nothing else could ease the pain in his soul.
Suddenly, his international air distress frequency came alive. A low-pitched but definitely female voice snarled, “Damn you, all of you. I’m not going to do it — fuck you!” The transmission cut off as abruptly as it began.
Tombstone’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The aircraft around him disappeared. It was as though he was in suspended animation, trapped lifeless between the ejection seat and the sky. The words pounded in his brain.
She always had a mouth on her. That’s just what she would say. But what were they trying to make her do?
“Tombstone? You okay?” Greene snapped. “Get your head in the game, asshole.”
Tombstone didn’t answer. The voice obliterated his entire world, the words overwhelming them. No, not the words — the voice. Because he was as certain as life itself that Tomboy had been speaking.
“Stony?” the voice said. “I love you.”
“Stony — oh, god. That’s her, isn’t it?” Greene said, his voice weak. “Tombstone, where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Tombstone said, his lips barely moving. He was cold, so cold. Sweat poured off his forehead and his palms were clammy. “She could be anywhere.”
“Stony One, Hawkeye. Be advised that last transmission was from an aircraft. The line of bearing and track put it directly in front of you. Whoever that was, she’s on that bomber.”
I can’t do it. No one would expect me to. I’m already dead — I won’t kill her, too. The stream of consciousness flowed through Tombstone’s mind, confusing him. He waited — for what, he wasn’t certain.
“I won’t do it!” Her voice again, howling her anger and outrage. It was just like her, that indomitable spirit even when confronted with the most unimaginable odds. “Let go of me, you can’t—there!” If he thought he had been cold before, he was mistaken. The savage glee and victory in her cry of triumph froze his very soul.
The sky in front of him shattered into fragments of glass — no, it wasn’t glass. The top of the bomber exploded, sheets of metal peeling back from the fuselage. Small black dots shot out at forty-five-degree angles to the aircraft. The bomber was still airborne, just barely, it’s structural integrity assaulted by the violence of the ejections.
Was she strapped in? She was fighting with them — no, she wasn’t.
Of course she was — Tomboy wouldn’t be that stupid.
Or would she? Would she find a way to grab an ejection handle and yank down, knowing that it would eject everyone except her. Would she ride a dying aircraft down to the surface of the sea, sacrificing herself in order to destroy the aircraft?
“Tomboy!” The howl was ripped from deep inside of him, anguish and protest rolled into one. “No!”
There were eight chutes now, floating down in the air. The bomber itself was wobbling, trying to fly but not able to, its autopilot unable to keep up with the cascading damage and system failures.
“She punched out,” Greene said. “Tombstone, she punched out, she punched out.” Greene repeated the phrase like a mantra, trying to refocus the pilot’s attention. Finally, in response to pleas and threats from his backseater and from the Hawkeye, Tombstone rallied.
“I’m okay.”
“Stone One, you have priority in the pattern. Get your ass on deck.” The stern voice of the admiral echoed over the airwaves. “Pull yourself together, partner. Get that aircraft back down here. Now! We have SAR en route the chutes.”
“Come on, Tombstone,” Jeremy said, his voice gentle but urgent. “Let’s get back to the boat — come on, you can do this with your eyes closed.”
Cold, so cold — dear god, I’ve been there, punched out, not knowing if I’d survive. They said they had eight chutes. She’ll make it. I’m sure she will.
“Come right, course three two zero,” Greene said, his voice firm. “Descend to ten thousand feet.”
Mechanically, Tombstone flew the aircraft. He flew with precision, muscles and mind detached from his intellect and emotions, automatically taking the Tomcat around the marshal stack, lining up on the stern of the carrier, calling the ball, making the adjustments required, and taking his Tomcat in for a perfect three-wire trap. A perfectly executed approach and trap — all done by reflex.
At the moment the plane captain stepped in front of his aircraft and signaled him to reduce power, his world shattered into pieces. Instead of reducing power and taxiing to his spot, Tombstone eased the throttles back. The hard scream of the Tomcat died. The aircraft rolled backward slightly in response to the pull from the three-wire. Tombstone applied his nosewheel brake, waited for the tension to ease off, then retracted the tail hook and popped the canopy.
