30 Miles North of Cuba Thor yanked back hard on the yoke, shoving the throttles forward to full afterburners in the same moment. The Hornet responded almost before he’d completed the move, pitching nose up in the sky and standing on her tail. Gravity worked with the force of the afterburners to shove him back in his seat, pinning him against the lumbar support panel with five Gs of force. Thor felt the flesh pull back from his face, try to creep around back to his neck, and smiled.
God, there was nothing like it! Open sky, plenty of fuel, and a Hornet strapped to your as sit didn’t get any better than this.
He shut his eyes for the briefest second, letting the thundering waves of noise wash over him. The afterburners were fully engaged now, adding the peculiar, deep-throated roar of their fire to the normal, solid, reassuring howl of the engines. He enjoyed the brief sensation of danger with his eyes shut, then looked quickly back down at the altimeter.
“Bet that’ll make them sit up and take notice,” he said out loud, noting that his instruments indicated an SOG-speed over ground of zero.
“You check that altitude, boys, and you’ll see what a Hornet can do.
Straight up, no forward movement. Now that’s a fighter.”
Sure enough, the voice of the operations specialist from Jefferson sounded anxious in his left ear. “Hornet Threezero-one, say state?”
The routine inquiry into his fuel status masked the real question: Now, just what the hell are you doing. Hornet 301?
“Eight thousand pounds,” Thor said, forcing the words out of his throat. He grunted and tensed his abdominal muscles, driving blood from his extremities back up into his brain. “I’m fine. Flasher,” he said, using the air intercept controller’s nickname. “Don’t worry about me just puttin’ her through her paces.”
“It’s a post maintenance check flight,” Flasher noted calmly, “not a tryout for the shuttle program, sir.” The enlisted technician’s voice was just barely tart.
Thor toggled his mike and let the OS hear him laughing.
“I know, I know. Someday I’m going to strap a backseat on this baby and let you see what you’ve been missing, Flasher.”
“I’d like that just fine,” the AIC said immediately. “Just fine.” The words were slow, and rich with a southern drawl.
“But you keep this up, sir, somebody’s gonna be noticing.
You know?”
“Okay, okay,” Thor muttered. He shoved the yoke forward slightly, dropping the Hornet’s nose down from straight vertical. “That better?”
“Almost, sir. Now you just look like a helicopter on the scope, instead of a balloon.”
“You find me a balloon with this much armament on it and I’ll ride backseat on you.” He eased the Hornet forward farther, into level flight. “Okay, Flasher, I’m heading back to the pattern. You happy now that you’ve destroyed my fun?”
“Fun’s not over yet, sir.” The operations specialist sounded amused.
“Your tower flower just called down and said you’re short one formation flight this month. He’d like you to get it over with now.”
Thor groaned. “With who?” Flying close formation with another Hornet was a routine qualification for all pilots, but it was not his idea of fun. Traveling a little under Mach 1 that close to another airplane required a pilot’s constant attention, not only on his instruments, but on the eight thousand pounds of flying metal just yards away. No screwing around, no unexpected maneuvers, just a careful ballet between two giant dragonflies.
“Fly in with the Tomcat, sir. Tomcat Two-zero-eight is airborne for formation flight in five mikes. You’ve got time to scamper over and get a drink, then back to Marshall to join on him.”
“Who’s flying her?” Thor demanded. If anything was worse than a formation flight, it was working with a Tomcat.
While the F-14 had an extended range and could carry more armament than a Hornet, it was markedly less nimble. It was, he reflected, not a damn sight much better than driving a surface ship. He shuddered at the thought.
“Staff wienie, sir. Call sign Bird Dog. That okay?”
Thor grinned. “Sure, send the young lad on up. We’ll let him get a look at a real aircraft.”
Thor heard muffled voices just below audibility come out of the headset. Finally, the operations specialist came back on the air.
“Tomcat Two-zero-eight will be on button three for coordination. And, sir, he asked me to tell you that you’d better suck on some fuel before he gets up there. He doesn’t want to be waiting outside the rest room for you every five minutes. He said,” and Thor could hear the smile in the OS’s voice, “that you should’ve gone before you left home.”
Flight Deck, USS Jefferson “You ready?” Bird Dog asked. He twisted in his seat to look back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Commander Charlie “Gator” Cummings, his backseat radar intercept officer.
“Just like old times, huh?”
“I don’t know how the hell I let you talk me into this,” Gator muttered. “It’s not like I have to get five traps a week to stay current.”
“Come on, you know you love it. Besides, no one else wants to fly with me.” Bird Dog’s voice took on a plaintive note. “They think I’m getting rusty.”
“You are. That’s why you’re scheduled for PAM flights every week.”
Gator’s voice was tart. “And I’m not so sure that playing grab-ass with a sponge of MiGs is my definition of a FAM flight.”
“I’m entitled I’m on staff,” Bird Dog responded.
“Jesus, don’t you think I’d fly every second if I could? But somebody’s gotta keep the big picture around here.”
Gator snorted. “You?”
“Yeah, me. What, you think that’s funny? Considering that the Cubans have gone from a couple of lookie-loo surveillance flights every day to full-scale combat patrols, I don’t find anything at all amusing about the situation.”
“Considering I was teaching you to fly not three years ago, I damned sure do. When I first met you, you were as raw and fresh-caught as Skeeter Harmon was a little while ago,” Gator snapped, referring to the young pilot who’d been their wingman cruise before last. Skeeter was currently attending Top Gun school, honing the combat skills he’d learned on their last Med cruise. “Now all at once you’re a military genius?”
Bird Dog sighed and turned back to face forward. He ran through his prelaunch routine automatically, consciously tensing and untensing his muscles, giving his ejection seat harness one last tug to make sure it was secure. Was he that rusty? No, he didn’t think so. And he’d never been as raw as Skeeter the young black pilot might have shot down a missile in flight, but so what? Bird Dog had more time in the cockpit than Skeeter had in the chow line.
Still, the notable lack of enthusiasm among the RIOs on staff had irked him. “Just like riding a bicycle,” he muttered.
“No it’s not,” Gator said sharply. “And if you think it is, you just let me out at the next stop.”
Bird Dog signaled to the yellow shirt on the flight deck and tensed himself for the catapult shot. “It’s damn sure not.
You can’t do this on a bicycle.” He snapped off a salute and waited.
The Tomcat jolted, started rolling forward slowly, and quickly gathered speed. About 150 feet later, it was hurtling down the flight deck at 134 knots. Bird Dog heard Gator’s sharp intake of breath and grinned.
His backseater always had been a nervous Nellie on cat shots, even on routine flights. And if he couldn’t answer a simple question about whether or not he was ready, then he deserved what he got.
Seconds later, the aircraft shot off the pointy end and Bird Dog felt the familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach and his ass floating away from the seat as the Tomcat lost altitude.