Not that Coyote hadn’t done a damned fine job of working his way over to the extraction point, he remembered. He might even have made it the entire way alone. They’d never know for sure, and as far as Sikes was concerned, Admiral Wayne would never have to worry about this SEAL team. The day he’d checked on board, Admiral Wayne had made it damned clear that he remembered the SEALs that had pulled Coyote’s butt out of the fire.
So if Admiral Wayne wanted to know who the Radio Shack junkies were on some piece of rock and ice in the middle of the ocean, Sikes was damned happy to go find out.
“Another one,” Morning Eagle announced.
White Wolf looked up from the radio, concern furrowing his broad, smooth face. “Two days, two sets of invaders.” He shook his head, straining to catch the high-pitched squeal of a powerful outboard motor in the distance.
“More Russians?” Morning Eagle asked.
“Does it matter?”
The younger man nodded his agreement. The alien mainlanders, with their hurried, strange ways and their lack of understanding of the islands, were as foreign to the Inuits as the Russians were. It made little difference to the natives of the island chain which set of masters claimed dominion over their territory. The harsh environment was their first taskmaster, the scrabble to remain alive in these hostile surroundings a more constant threat than the political ambitions of those from warmer climates. Voting in the white man’s political system or bowing to the peremptory dictates of a Russian comrade had little effect on that.
“The Americans will come. I’m certain of it,” White Wolf said finally. “And if they don’t-” He shrugged, indicating that no matter what, the tribe would continue.
“You called them.” The younger man looked questioningly at his elder. “Why?”
The older man stared at the horizon, listening as the sound of the quickly approaching engine deepened to a fierce growl. “Many years ago, there was a man,” he said reflectively. “The mainlanders — you know what I’ve said about them.” He cast a sidelong glance at the younger man to make sure he was paying attention.
The young man nodded. “Not to trust them. That we were no more than enslaved tribes to them.”
White Wolf nodded. “Yes, that’s true for most of them. But I made a promise to one man — a man I found I could trust — so many years ago. A promise, it’s a sacred thing. You give your word, that’s the most that you have to give any other man. Do you understand?”
Morning Eagle looked doubtful. “I suppose so. Even to a white man, a man’s word counts for something. But what did you promise?”
“He came to my house, he ate my food. He was polite, respectful,” the older man said, not evading the question but laying the foundation for its answer. “He asked me to keep watch. I told him I would.”
The bare bones of the story did not satisfy the younger man. “But who was he? And why did you give him your word?”
“He was a lieutenant commander then,” the man said, rolling the English words for rank around in his mouth as though they were not entirely comfortable to pronounce. “It was so many years ago, but I remember him. His name was Magruder.”
Bird Dog turned the aircraft north, heading on the outbound leg of the chainsaw defense pattern. To the east and west, other aircraft provided surveillance in those areas. South of all three, near the battle group, an E-2C Hawkeye radar surveillance aircraft coordinated the CAP pattern.
“Where the hell is he?” Bird Dog muttered. “For the last five days, that modified Bear has been overhead at just about this time.”
“Hold your horses,” Gator said. “He’ll be here when he gets here. Besides, I don’t know that’s something to be wishing for.”
“And why the hell not?” Bird Dog said angrily. “All these damned surveillance patrols, no one ever did a damned thing to him. Then for no reason at all, he decides to take a shot at a P-3. Well, if he wants to play rough, just let him try it with us. I’m loaded for Bear, that’s for certain.” He touched the weapons selector switch on the stick. “Though I’d give up those Phoenix birds any day for a couple more Sidewinders, especially against a Bear.”
The Phoenix missile was the Tomcat’s most potent long-range standoff weapon. Capable of intercept speeds of up to Mach 5, the Phoenix had an independent seeker head that could lock on and track a target at ranges of up to one hundred and twenty-five miles. Its major weakness was that it required continuing illumination of the target from the Tomcat, putting serious constraints on Bird Dog’s maneuverability and ability to evade. However, even with its history of guidance problems, the Phoenix had one strong point — it forced the enemy onto the defensive immediately, disrupting any tactical formations and allowing the American aircraft to take the offensive. A Phoenix missile graced the outboard weapons station on either side.
Just inboard of that, Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles were nestled up onto the hard points of the Tomcat undercarriage. Both were fire-and-forget weapons, the Sparrow relying on radar designation from the Tomcat and the Sidewinder using a heat-seeking sensor head to guide it to the hot exhaust streams from a fighter. Both were short-range, knife-fight weapons, and were preferred by most pilots over the more cumbersome Phoenix.
“He’s gonna get a Sidewinder up his ass,” Bird Dog said. “First sniff you get of him, he’s dead meat.”
Gator sighed. “Why are you such an idiot? You know damned well we’re not authorized weapons free. If that P-3 had gone down, maybe. But since he didn’t, we need clearance from Jefferson to fire unless it’s self-defense.”
“I’m feeling mighty self-defensive about now.”
“You’ll feel it even more when you’re standing in front of that long green table trying to explain why you shot down a reconnaissance aircraft,” Gator pointed out.
“Like they don’t have to explain why they shot at our P-3, but I have to explain shooting at them?” Bird Dog demanded.
“You got it, shipmate. You take a shot without my concurrence and I’m not backing you up. Not this time.”
Bird Dog heard the real annoyance in the RIO’s voice. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “I’m a big boy — I understand the rules.”
As the Tomcat reached the end of its northern leg, Bird Dog used a hard rudder to pull her into a sharp, ascending turn. “On station,” he said.
“Fine. Listen, Bird Dog, I know you think I’m some sort of wimp,” the RIO continued, his tone softer. “But out here on the pointy end of the spear, we’re not just a couple of hotshot fighter jocks spoiling for a fight. We’re a continuation of diplomacy by other means.”
“Your War College shit makes a lot more sense when we’re on the deck,” Bird Dog responded. “A lot of good philosophy does to me. I’d rather have a solid radar contact. Speaking of which — anything in the area?”
“I think I probably would have mentioned it to you if there were,” Gator responded tartly. “What, you think I’m back here as some sort of a zampolit? I got news for you, Bird Dog. Some time at the War College is just what you need to get some perspective on things.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take an extra year on the bombing range over War College any day.”
“Looks like you might have your chance.” Gator’s voice had gone hard and cold. “Radar contact, bearing zero one zero, range forty miles, speed four hundred knots.”
“You got IFF?” Bird Dog asked, inquiring about the status of the international friend or foe transponder carried on most military aircraft as he broke out of the turn and headed along the vector Gator had reported.