“Damn it. Tombstone oh, all right. But you’ll need a backseater.”
Batman’s eyes looked unfocused as he considered the roster of naval flight officers on his staff.
“I’ll go,” a quiet, feminine voice said. Both men turned and stared at the small figure standing a foot away from them.
“Eavesdropping, Commander?” Batman said harshly.
“Not a good way to get off to a good start with your new battle group commander.”
She met his angry gaze levelly. “No, it’s not. Just about as bad a way as letting a three-star admiral fly off this boat without the best damned backseater available going with him. Do you know what happens to this grandiose plan if he gets shot down and killed? All of this self-serving bullshit is for nothing and you’re left facing the long green table.”
“Better to be judged by three than carried by six,” Batman said.
“Better if neither happens. If Tombstone’s taking a Tomcat on a strike or recon mission, I’m going with him.
We’ve flown together before, and I know how he thinks. I might be able to keep him alive when no one else can.” Her voice was firm and insistent.
“Following that logic, I ought to be on his wing,” Batman countered.
“The admiral already shot down that idea,” she pointed out. “And he’s absolutely right your place is here with the battle group. Not for me.
I haven’t relieved Henry yet, so I’ve got no formal role in this battle. My place as prospective executive officer is anywhere I’m needed. And right now, that’s in the backseat of his Tomcat.” She turned to Tombstone and shot him a withering glare. With all due respect Admiral, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard you come up with. Sir.”
“You’re not going,” Tombstone said. “End of discussion.”
“Why?” she shot back. “Because I’m your wife? Damn it, Admiral Tombstone I was a helluva fine RIO before I ever met you, and I’ll be a damned fine one after you retire.
But there’s one thing I won’t be, not at this age a widow.
So if you’ve got good reasons for taking this flight yourself, you can just count me in. You got that? Sir?” She made a visible effort to rein in the temper that went with her fiery red hair.
The two admirals looked at each other, each slightly surprised to find that he’d been outflanked by the diminutive commander. Finally, acceding to the inevitable. Tombstone shrugged. Batman scowled.
“Well?” Tombstone asked.
“Do I get my aircraft?”
Batman nodded. “And my favorite RIO, as well. Take care of her, you old son of a bitch. I’ll kill you myself if she gets hurt.”
Tomboy snorted. “If you’ve both just about run the gamut of your testosterone-laden self-recriminations, could we get on with it? I’ve got a mission to brief.” She turned smartly, then looked back. “I’ll be in the Ready Room when you’re ready to go. Admiral. I suppose you can still find the way by yourself?”
“And I thought the Cubans were getting good at outmaneuvering me,” Tombstone said wonderingly.
“I need to talk to you alone,” Batman said abruptly. He pointedly looked away from Tomboy, who shrugged and left immediately.
“What was that about?” Tombstone asked.
“Just something she doesn’t need to know about-hell, I wouldn’t tell you except that you outrank me and you’re going to be on the front lines out there. It’s about Arsenal.
She’s carrying UAVs unmanned aerial vehicles.”
Tombstone was stunned. “Since when?”
“Since my last tour in D.C. I’ve still got sources there, Stoney. I heard about it from a shipmate who took the time to hunt me down last time I was there. They’re playing this Arsenal program so close to the chest that need-to-know evidently doesn’t even include me. But you can count on itshe’s got them on board.”
UAVs one of the cheapest, most cost-effective assets in development.
Tombstone had seen a few test films, had been impressed by the weaponeering and intelligence potential in them. Yet sadly, the program languished. Despite its tremendous benefits to all the services, there simply wasn’t enough money involved to garner the political support to keep it funded.
At least not most of it. Evidently someone in Washington drew enough water to get them put on board the USS Arsenal.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tombstone said. “Though I don’t know that it’ll make any difference right now.”
Bird Dog was only two hundred feet above the ground, screaming across the landscape at 450 knots. The pucker factor involved in low-level operations was second only to trapping on the carrier at night, and particularly so when dawn had not even started to make its first appearance over in the east. Luckily he knew from studying the maps that there were no obstructions on their ingress route, and as long as he stayed on course and at altitude, he should be over his target without encountering a hard, immovable object. Like a mountain. Or a building. Either one of those was guaranteed to ruin an aviator’s day, along with the more minor hazards, less visible but equally deadly, of electrical lines and television antennas.
“Ten seconds,” Gator said. “On course, on altitude steady, steady.”
The comments were unnecessary but reassuring. Bird Dog glanced down at the target track indicator on his heads-up display, followed the red pip displayed there. He could see himself that he was making a perfect approach on the target. The only problem, as far as he could see, was the inbound raid of MiG-29s. And those wouldn’t be much of a problem as soon as he dumped the ordnance on his wings.
“Five seconds,” Gator announced with all the emotional involvement of a stockbroker reporting an inactive share.
“Four, three, two now, now.”
Bird Dog had already shifted the weapons selector switch to the appropriate station. He toggled it sharply and felt the Tomcat jolt upward as a pair of five-hundred-pound bombs left the wings. His airspeed picked up immediately, as did his altitude. Bird Dog slammed the throttles forward, cut sharply to his right, and kicked in the afterburners. The increase in thrust slammed him back against his seat, and he heard a sharp, involuntary gasp from Gator. Bird dog grunted and tensed his stomach muscles, forcing blood out of his torso and into his head to insure he kept consciousness during the high-G maneuver. It wasn’t his preferred way to leave a target sure, get away smartly, but this insane coupling of maneuvering and speed brought its own dangers. Graying out right now, less than five hundred feet above land, would be fatal. There was no room for error.
Still, there was no other option. With the MiGs inbound in a classical high-low combat formation spread, the Tomcat flight had to gain altitude. And fast. It would be an easier task for its lighter Hornet brethren, but the Tomcats would be the mainstay of any extended ACM.
After the bombing run, heavily laden and traveling close to the ground, the Hornets would be burning fuel at an incredible rate. He figured they had no more than twenty minutes on station in ACM and violent maneuvering before they’d have to vector back to the carrier to tank.
As formidable as the light aircraft were in ACM, easily outclassing the MiG in turning radius and maneuverability, their short legs were too often a fatal weakness.
Bird Dog watched the altimeter spool up past angels two.
He eased out of the turn and felt the aircraft begin to gain altitude even more quickly. Finally, at ten thousand feet, he cut the afterburners and eased back to military power.
His wingman. Short Mahoney, was lagging behind. Bird Dog orbited, waiting for him to catch up.
“Six minutes,” Gator announced in the same tone of voice he’d used to count down the bomb drop. “Within Phoenix range now.”