Finally, at the half-mile point, he got a clear visual on the meatball.
“Oh, shit,” he swore. “Gator, the meatball is down.”
“What? You mean-“
“The last idiot out of the LSO platform turned it off. I’m not getting any indications at all.”
Gator was silent for a moment. “How do you feel about making an IFR approach?” he asked finally.
“I don’t see that I’ve got much option, do I? At least I got some practice recently, over that damned island. Hell, landing on the carrier, at least I can see it.”
“Okay, let’s go for it. They got power on the arresting cables?”
“Yes, the air boss said they were already set for us. I gave him my final weight just a second ago.”
“Let’s do it.”
Tombstone observed the large blue tactical screen in the front of TFCC out of the corner of his eye. He tried to avoid giving Rogov any indication that he was watching closely the events transpiring there. He wished he knew what the hell was going on. He’d seen from the course repeaters that the carrier had changed course, and that the wind over the deck was now acceptable for most landings and takeoffs. Recalling the lessons he’d learned while in the pipeline for commander of the carrier group, he decided that the bridge — or whoever was in control of the ship — must have shifted steering back to after-steering. The bridge itself was clearly under the terrorists control, which he knew not only from what he’d overheard over the radio, but by the rule-of-thumb approach he saw the carrier taking toward good wind.
The symbols on the screen were virtually motionless, the carrier moving so slowly that her track was barely perceptible. Only one other symbol moved — that of a friendly aircraft. He watched it break out of the marshall pattern and head for a holding pattern aft of the ship. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of its next movement — it turned south, slowly approaching the carrier. Surely they couldn’t be — how could they — no, it had to be. Whatever was going on on the rest of the ship, it was clear that somebody had decided to continue flight operations even under the hostage situation.
Tombstone felt a moment of grim pride. It was one of the strengths of naval leadership, the ability to take charge of any disastrous scenario and try to wring tactical advantage from it. He wondered who had the balls to make this call, and resolved that, no matter how it turned out, that man — or woman — was getting a commendation.
Some tiny movement of Tombstone’s eyes must have betrayed him. Rogov turned and stared at the tactical screen. “What is this?” he snapped, finally noticing the small symbol moving toward the aft end of the carrier.
He turned back to Tombstone, outraged. “How did you-“
“I didn’t do anything,” Tombstone responded coldly. “Regardless of how your organization works, my men are trained to take charge. That’s what’s wrong with your whole scenario, Comrade,” he said, giving the last word a heavy inflection. “You may kill me, you may kill everyone in TFCC, but the remaining men and officers will take charge and carry out the mission of this ship.”
Rogov whirled to the three remaining Spetsnaz. “Get up on the deck,” he ordered, pointing at the door. “As soon as that aircraft’s on deck, kill the flight crew and disable the aircraft. Go on, you heard me.”
“But, Colonel-” one of the commandos started to say.
Rogov cut him off. “I will maintain control here.” He raised his weapon, displaying it for the other three. “Regardless of the admiral’s brave words, his crew here will not attempt anything foolish with their admiral’s life at stake. Now go.”
The three commandos left the small compartment at a run, quickly heading for the flight deck.
They burst out onto the tarmac, orienting themselves toward the rear of the carrier. Tomcat 201 was a small speck, quickly growing larger.
“Who the hell is fouling the flight deck?” the air boss shouted. Berkshire peered over the edge of the tower and examined the figures below.
“I don’t know, boss, but I don’t think they’re ours. Our plane captains normally don’t carry machine guns on the flight deck.”
“That bird’s only one mile out. If those fellows start shooting-” He left the sentence unfinished.
Suddenly, an idea occurred to Berkshire. “Boss,” he started hesitantly, then raised his voice. “This is out of my area, but doesn’t the Tomcat have a gun on the front, sort of like a cannon?”
“Yes, it does. But what-ah.” The air boss picked up the microphone to the flight deck circuit. “All hands clear the deck. That’s an order. Now!” He turned to Berkshire. “With any luck, they won’t understand English, or they won’t think it applies to them. Either way, we’ll give that Tomcat a clear field of fire. Now, let me see if I can explain this to the pilot without having him think I’ve gone insane.”
“He wants us to do what?” Gator asked. “A strafing run?”
“That’s what the man said,” Bird Dog responded. “Look, I can see them now. Right next to the island.”
“Bird Dog, you hit one full fuel tank and we’re talking a major conflagration on the flight deck. Then where do we land? Have you thought of that?”
“Then I’ll just have to be sure not to miss,” Bird Dog replied with a good deal more confidence than he actually felt. “I remind you, Gator, you’re talking to the man who can pitch a thousand-pound bomb in an ice storm without a visual. Now just let me show you what I can do with a cannon.”
The commandos crossed over the yellow lines that marked the border of the operating area of the flight deck. They darted aft, staying on the starboard side of the ship, just to the right of the landing aircraft’s projected flight. With less than a minute remaining until the aircraft crossed in front of them, they reached the number three arresting wire, raised their Kalishnikovs, and pegged the Tomcat in their sights.
“The cockpit and the fuel tanks,” the commando ordered. “if the pilot survives, we will teach him a lesson later. For now, we must ensure that the aircraft is completely disabled. Disobedience deserves a harsh lesson.”
On either side of him, his companions nodded. With a target this big, there wasn’t much chance they would miss.
“A few more seconds,” the commando shouted. Thirty knots of wind across the bow blurred his words. “If we can hit him before he’s on deck, we’ll prevent any serious damage to the carrier. But wait until he’s in range.”
“Those little bastards,” Bird Dog muttered. “Gator, something just occurred to me — if I fire at them head-on, I’m risking nailing another bird with a ricochet or a bullet.”
“Well, there just might be a way to avoid that.”
“How?”
“Bird Dog, what are you going to-” The rest of the RIO’s comments were cut off by a sudden hard turn. The G-forces slammed him into the side of his seat, and his vision grayed. He grunted, trying to force the blood back up to his brain and prevent a gray-out.
Bird Dog kicked in the afterburners, pulling the slow-moving Tomcat into a sharp left-hand turn. He dropped the nose slightly, a dangerous maneuver at that low an altitude, but critical to avoiding stall speed. As soon as he felt the Tomcat pick up airspeed, he returned to level flight.
Seconds after that maneuver, he pulled the Tomcat’s nose up sharply, praying that their airspeed was sufficient to sustain flight. Over, over, climbing into a steep Immelmann, Bird Dog drove the F-14 into the air. Finally, as the aircraft reached the apex of its turn, it was almost out of airspeed. It hung motionless for a second at three thousand feet, then nosed over, inverted, back down toward the water. Bird Dog brought every sense to bear on the shuddering aircraft, carefully gauging the exact moment at which he could start pulling out of the steep dive. He didn’t have enough airspeed yet to remain airborne in level flight, but pulling up too soon would just induce a deadly stall. Finally, at the last possible moment, he pulled the aircraft up, barely avoiding the icy sea below.