"Get it off now," Sheila said. "Quick, so I can take a second shot if we need to. Hurry before he-"
The MiG shuddered, twitching a little as though the pilot were going to pull out of his descent. He held it for a couple seconds longer than I thought he would, but I didn't mind. I pickled off one Sidewinder, then another, letting the heat-seeking missiles get a good look at the hot exhaust flaring out of his tailpipes. At this range, it was a nobrainer.
"Skeeter, you have to-"
The MiG broke off suddenly, pulling up sharply and almost stalling, then accelerating away in level flight. I swore, jerked back on the yoke, and rolled out as well. But sixty thousand pounds of Tomcat, even with five hundred and sixty-five square feet of wing area, is not near as maneuverable as a MiG-3 1. He had time to cut a hole in the sky and come back around to be directly overhead before I saw level flight.
"The little bastard ― let's see if he can keep up with this!" I swung the Tomcat around and went back into a steep, bone-rattling climb.
"No point in it now," Sheila said, disgust heavy in her voice. "Do you realize what you just did? Skeeter, you idiot ― why don't you ever listen to me?"
"What the hell do you mean?"
Admiral Magruder's voice over tactical answered the question for me.
"Tomcat 101, RTB."
"Return to base? What the hell for?" I asked, tactfully keeping my finger off the Transmit button.
Sheila answered immediately, "Don't you listen to the briefs? We had a seven thousand altitude restriction, you idiot. He suckered you, big time. And you followed him right down, right to the edge of the envelope.
He had time to pull out before he broke seven thousand feet ― you didn't.
Six thousand nine hundred and forty-five feet ― you lose." "No fair!" I said. "We got off two Sidewinders before we reached-"
"You broke the altitude restriction ― you were dead before the missiles left your wing," Sheila said wearily. "Quit arguing and answer the admiral, Skeeter." I paused a second, collecting my thoughts. The admiral's voice came over tactical again. "Tomcat 101 ― acknowledge last transmission.
RTB-now!"
Finally, I toggled the mike. "RTB-roger, wilco." I didn't bother to ask why. The admiral knew ― and now, so did I.
We were only twenty minutes out from the base, but it seemed to take forever to get back there. The air was cold and clear, perfect flying weather, but somehow I was enjoying it a hell of a lot less than normal.
It was the same Tomcat curled around me, a metal shell that felt like my second home. The reassuring thrum of the turbofan engines, the familiar heads-up display that almost felt like a part of me ― none of that had changed. It was still the most powerful fighter ever built, a hell of a lot better than the MiG-31. The aircraft hadn't failed ― I had.
There was no use trying to blame it on Sheila, or bemoaning the fact that the MiG pilot had a guy on the ground feeding him information and keeping him from breaking through the artificial barriers set up for our engagement. The GCI concept is wrong, way wrong. Fighter pilots have to be free to operate in wolf packs, choosing their own targets and defining their own engagements. The time lag between aircraft and the guy on the ground is just too great to make for effective combat. Then how come I'd lost this engagement?
It wasn't real. If it had been real, that MiG would have been dead.
But real didn't matter ― not now. We'd set out to prove a particular point and I'd screwed it up by not paying attention to my altitude. Sure, Sheila might have been a little bit louder in warning me, or even the admiral could have spoken up ― no, no use trying to find somewhere else to fit the blame. Flying the aircraft was my responsibility, and mine alone.
Sheila had her hands full with the radar and targeting at that point, and even though she'd started to warn me about the altitude, it wasn't her fault.
Out to the north, I could see a thin, oddly colored line on the horizon. At this altitude, I had an excellent view of the coastline, the array of military bases and commercial points along it. The supertankers, massive and imposing close up, were smaller than matchsticks.
And there was the Jefferson, way off, barely visible to the naked eye although we were holding her position solid in the link. I let my hands rest easily on the control and steered out toward her. The sea round her was a dark, angry gray, forbidding and menacing. Ice was already fouling the water around the shoreline, creeping out gradually as the calm seas did nothing to prevent its formation. In closer to land than Jefferson I could see two other surface ships, probably the icebreakers we'd been briefed on earlier. It would be their job to insure that Jefferson had clean water around her and didn't get mired in the ice. An aircraft carrier is tough, but the hull simply isn't built to withstand the massive pressure that an ice float can bring to bear on man-made metal.
The dark line on the horizon was growing thicker now, and I saw an odd shot of white spark through it. I toggled my ICS. "You see that? Looks like we've got some weather blowing in."
"Yeah, looks like." Sheila's voice was calm and noncommittal. "I guess they know it on the ground."
I shook my head. "They should, if they've got the same weather prediction capabilities that the United States has. Do they?"
"How should I know?"
"Well, I better let them know when we get back down during debrief.
We're supposed to be flying every day for the next couple of weeks, but if that shit rolls in there's not a chance in hell of us getting up tomorrow.
Too bad."
"Well, maybe they'll take us on a sight-seeing tour."
"Wonderful. Just what I joined the Navy for." I couldn't keep up the light banter, pretending that nothing had happened back there. "Sheila ― I blew it. Sorry, buddy."
There was a vague note of amusement in her voice when she answered.
"What, Skeeter apologizing? You practicing up for what you're going to say to the admiral? Because if you are, let me tell you that I don't think that's going to cut it."
"I'm not apologizing, I just- Hell, I guess I am. I should have been watching the altitude more closely."
Just then, the air traffic controller's voice came on, directing me to a new vector for approach on the base. I lined up on the radial he indicated and glanced down at my altimeter. "Funny, they're starting our approach out this high."
"Tomcat 101, request you maintain angels seven on inbound radial.
Currently show you at angels eight." "Angels eight?" I said out loud. I glanced back down at the altimeter. We were at eight thousand five hundred feet according to my altimeter. What the-?
"Altitude ― Skeeter, check your altimeter settings. Now!" Sheila said.
I clicked on the mike. "Request revised altimeter setting for Arkhangelsk," I said.
The altimeter is one of those funny little instruments onboard an aircraft that will get you killed as fast as a missile. One of the first things you do on approach to a new airfield is reset the altimeter according to your charts. If you leave the altimeter set on, say, San Diego ― basically at sea level ― and you try to land at an airfield significantly above sea level, you'll discover the ground far sooner than you expect to.
I'd reset the altimeter according to our charts during our approach on Arkhangelsk. The numbers came back to my mind ― twenty-nine forty-nine. I glanced down at the setting. It read twenty-nine sixty.
I started swearing, while I flipped the numbers back to the right setting for Arkhangelsk. "Damn it, somebody's been in here ― Sheila, they tampered with our altimeter!"
"That explains it," she said, her dawning comprehension clear in her voice. "Skeeter, I didn't want to say anything. Your ego's big enough as it is, but I've never known you to keep up that lousy of an instrument scan. It's not your fault you were below altitude ― somebody tampered with the altimeter. It was reading well above seven thousand feet when you were actually below seven thousand feet." "I should have checked it," I said.