Not only was this assignment operationally uninteresting, but it also put a crimp in his personal life. During his time on Jefferson, he’d finally broken off his long-term engagement to ACN reporter Pamela Drake. It had been partly due to the realization that neither one was willing to give and take enough with their career priorities to make it work. Additionally, Pamela had been increasingly uncomfortable with the more dangerous aspects of his chosen career. It was all right for her to go flitting off to the most dangerous combat areas of the world to report her stories, but the idea of Tombstone launching off the carrier to take on adversary air over the Spratly Islands was more than she could take. They’d ended it just as Tombstone was realizing his attraction to one of the hottest female aviators in the Navy.
He felt his mouth curl up in a smile, an expression that would have surprised most of the officers who’d worked with him in the last twenty years. Lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn, “Tomboy” to the rest of the squadron. The name suited her, although it didn’t adequately describe the more delicious aspects of the petite, redheaded female naval flight officer. While they had both been assigned to the Jefferson, a relationship had been impossible. Tombstone had been in command of Carrier Battle Group 14, while Tomboy was a RIO (radar intercept officer) in VF-95, a Tomcat squadron on board. Faced with the possibility that his tactical decisions would put her in danger, and knowing the Navy’s strict policy against fraternization, they had finally come to an agreement to put everything on hold until they’d both transferred off the ship. The possibility of Washington, D.C., tours for both of them had been exciting. But now Tombstone took a deep breath. A lousy operational assignment and separation from Tomboy seemed to be in his future. Last month, Tomboy had received notification that she had been selected for the test pilot program in Patuxent, Maryland. Pax River — the big brass ring for every naval aviator, flying the latest in tactical and surveillance aircraft, getting to see the future of naval aviation up close and personal. As much as it hurt, he knew he couldn’t have asked Tomboy to pass up that opportunity. He wouldn’t have himself, had it been offered.
Knowing it was the right thing to do didn’t make it any easier, though. They’d carved out two weeks together, and spent them in Puerto Vallarta, on the Pacific coast of southern Mexico. He smirked, thinking about the comments his colleagues had made when he’d come back from vacation with hardly a sunburn. If they only knew how much of their lovemaking had been at Tomboy’s instigation!
The speaker crackled to life again. “If you look out the port window, you might be able to see that we’ve got company,” the pilot’s voice said, a determined casualness masking what must be mounting tension in the cockpit. “It doesn’t happen often anymore, but the Soviets — excuse me, the Russians — still decide to send their Bears out to play with us from time to time. One joined on us about twenty miles back. He’s edging in a little closer than I’d like under the circumstances, but there’s not a whole helluva lot we can do about it right now. I’ll keep you posted.”
Tombstone craned his neck and stared out into the thick cotton-candy cloud cover. Slightly behind the C-130, he could make out an occasional silvery flash of light, behind them and above them. The Bear, solidly in place behind the C-130 in a perfect killing position.
Why would a Russian Bear aircraft find tracking a C-130 transport down to an almost deserted naval base of such critical interest? Tombstone felt his gut tighten and the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his instinctive reaction to the possibility of airborne danger. Something wasn’t right. What, he couldn’t say just yet, but every tactical instinct in his body was screaming warnings.
Most variants of the long-range turboprop aircraft were reconnaissance aircraft, configured for antisubmarine warfare (ASW) or electronic surveillance, with their only offensive weaponry three pairs of 23mm NR-23 guns in remotely activated dorsal and ventral turrets. While the guns were generally thought to be primarily for defense, even those weapons could pose a deadly danger to the unarmed aircraft he was in. Additionally, and far more worrisome, both the Bear-H and — G versions carried long-range air-to-surface cruise missiles.
He unbuckled his seat belt, raised one hand at the flight engineer who stood up to order him back to his seat, and went forward. He identified himself through the closed door, and stepped into the small cockpit.
“What kind of Bear?” he asked immediately.
The pilot glanced at the copilot, who was staring back aft, searching for the contact. “He’s not certain, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of a large ventral pod. If he’s right, that makes it a Bear-J.”
The copilot looked away from his binoculars for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I saw it, Admiral.”
“A Bear-J. Now what the hell would it be doing out here?” Tombstone said, puzzled.
The Bear-J was the Russians’ version of the U.S. Navy’s EA-6A and EC-130Q TACAMO aircraft. It possessed VLF — very low frequency — communications gear that enabled it to stay in contact with national command authorities and missile submarines from almost anywhere in the world. The ventral pod housed the kilometers-long trailing wire communications antenna. The aircraft was slightly over 162 feet long, with a wingspan several feet larger than that. In addition to its guns, the Bear-J could also carry the largest air-launched missiles in the CIS inventory, and sported outsize, extremely fine resolution radars.
“Have you told anyone about this?” Tombstone asked.
“Your people already know. And Jefferson — she’s on station for the Greenpeace monitoring mission.” The pilot couldn’t entirely keep an offended note out of his voice. “Admiral, we’re five minutes out from Adak.” The pilot motioned toward the extra fold-down seat in the cockpit. “If you’d like to stay, we’d be pleased to have you in the cockpit for the landing.”
As long as I park my butt before you have to order me to and I quit second-guessing you, Tombstone thought, a sliver of wry humor cutting through his concern over the Bear. The only thing worse would be if you had to explain how I got smashed up when the landing got rough. He took the hint and strapped in, turning sideways and craning his head around to look forward. He might be three grades senior to the pilot, but as long as they were in the air the pilot had command of the aircraft and was responsible for the safety of the passengers. And that included keeping senior officers from getting themselves hurt.
The copilot reported that the Bear was now maintaining position two miles behind them. He then abandoned his binoculars and resumed the prelanding checklist that the Bear had interrupted.
Flying this close together in marginal weather was a foolishness Tombstone would have never permitted in his own air wing. Not unless the tactical situation were critical.
Maybe this tour would be as interesting as his uncle had promised, after all.
Ten minutes later, the fighter was orbiting above the radar contact’s position, barely two thousand yards above the ocean. Bird Dog could see the rough chop of the waves, the massive shape of a whale moving below them, the clear sky — and nothing else.
“Where the hell did it go?” Bird Dog asked.
“Damned if I know. But it was there before.”
Bird Dog heard the frustration in Gator’s voice. “Well, maybe it was a submarine,” he said skeptically. “I suppose it’s possible. But I’d bet on the fellow down there.” He watched the whale surface, flip a tail at the aircraft, then dive.