French was determined to land the Hornet. Once, three years before, he'd been catapulted off the bow of the Nimitz and something had gone wrong. The cat had failed to deliver the needed steam pressure and he'd pitched off the carrier's bow at seventy knots… far too slow to remain airborne. Endless hours of training and practice had paid off; he'd ejected… but his parachute had snagged on the tail of an A-6 parked along the port side of the flight deck, and he'd spent ten nightmarish minutes dangling between sea and sky before they'd been able to haul him in.
Only later had he discovered that he'd broken his arm during the ejection.
Commander Marty French would never have admitted that he was afraid to eject… but he knew with passionate conviction that he didn't want to ever have to go through it again. He was a man who believed in odds, who believed that it didn't pay to tempt fate by pressing those odds to the limit. Yeah, he'd hold his bird together and keep her in the air long enough to get back.
Then he'd land the bitch and walk away.
It was time to leave. Fuel was running low, and sooner or later more Yankee aircraft would arrive to swing the odds back in the Americans' favor. The battle had dragged individual aircraft farther and farther apart, until it was less a dogfight than it was many widely scattered one-on-one engagements. That was the sort of fight which MiGs could never win against F-14s and Hornets.
With a final roll, Major Pak broke clear of the contest and swung his MiG onto a bearing with Wonsan. The air, the sky were wonderfully clear, and Pak savored the heady excitement, the sheer joy of being alive. He'd survived and shot down at least one more American aircraft as well with a second kill that would almost certainly be listed as probable. This day's exploits would enshrine him as a hero of the PDRK. His training, his dedication to his craft had paid off at last. Now it was time to savor the fruits of those labors.
"Star Group! Moon Group! Disengage and retire!" he snapped over the radio. "We have beaten them!"
The North Korean aircraft were fewer in number now, and several were limping as they formed up for the homeward leg of their flight. There was no sense of defeat in their retreat, however. The Yankee aircraft were already drawing off, bloodied by the encounter. The Americans liked to boast about the ten-to-one ratio enjoyed by their flyers… ten opponents shot down for every plane they lost. Today they'd lost two, possibly three aircraft if Pak's last target had been hit as seriously as he thought… and downed only eight North Korean planes in return.
Yes, the People's Air Force had much to be proud of this day. In combat, victory was not always awarded to the side which suffered fewer casualties. Against the Americans, this battle counted as a decisive victory. Major Pak hoped that his superiors would see the action in the same light.
The North Korean aircraft were drawing off, breaking free from the dogfight and heading northwest, back toward Wonsan. "Tomcat Two-oh-five," Tombstone radioed. "It looks like the hostiles are disengaging."
"Roger that," Batman said over the tactical channel. "What say we go get 'em?"
"Negative, negative," Tombstone replied. "Check your fuel."
"Uh… understood. Looks like it's back to the bird farm for us."
Tombstone's fuel stood at just over six thousand pounds, enough to get back to Jefferson, but not enough for further combat. Sustained maneuvers on full afterburner drank fuel at an impossible rate.
Moments later a call from the carrier confirmed his decision. Homeplate wanted the attack group on deck before sundown, and that meant an RTB now.
"Hey, Stoney?" his RIO called over the ICS. "We're going home empty, no kills!"
"So?" Tombstone's response was harsher than he'd meant it to be. "What do you think this is, Snowball, some kind of game?"
"No, Tombstone. I just thought-"
"Just keep your thoughts to yourself and let me fly."
"Aye aye, sir."
Snowball sounded defensive. Let him, Tombstone thought. After today, it wouldn't really matter.
Tombstone Magruder could not remember screwing up this badly since he'd forgotten to release the brakes on the trainer at Pensacola and managed to wreck the aircraft's nose gear steering mechanism. He'd made one decision after another, and every one of them had turned up wrong.
He'd let himself be suckered by the MiGs coming up from behind and on the deck while his Tomcats were tangling with the Kosong bandits. He'd sent Dragon and Snoops in to cover Snake and Zombie when they were shot down… putting them squarely in the path of those unexpected MiGs. He'd let himself get so rattled he'd loosed a missile without getting a target lock; hell, that little display was a damned nugget trainee's goof, not the sort of thing expected of a squadron skipper fresh out of Top Gun school.
Somehow, the dogfight had reinforced his earlier doubts and fears, had left him wondering if it wasn't time to pack it in. He was getting too old to let himself get shot off the nose of aircraft carriers, too old to play cowboy in the sky, competing day in and day out with young guys like Batman Wayne.
Responsibility, that was what it was all about. He sighed. Maybe it was all true what they said about him. His promotions had come so easily. Having an admiral for an uncle could do great things for your career… but when men's lives began riding on the decisions you made, maybe those promotions weren't such a great idea. Tombstone wondered if maybe it wouldn't be better for himself, the men under him, and the Navy if he didn't find something else to do.
The image of himself as a COD pilot or hunting subs in a Viking came to mind, and he shuddered.
Marty French had missed his first shot at the Jefferson's flight deck. For a second time he'd been given the option of ejecting, but he elected instead to ride his Hornet in. The controls were still a bit mushy and his left flaps sticky. He'd also lost a bit of hydraulic pressure, and that was worrisome but not critical. He'd clearly taken some damage, but not enough to warrant ejecting and ditching the plane. The rest of the attack group would wait in a marshall stack, a holding pattern twenty-one miles astern of the Jefferson while he made his approach. Once he was down and clear, the rest of them would be brought in.
"Three-oh-one," he said, identifying his aircraft. He could see the Jefferson's ball clearly now as he drifted down the approach glide path. "Hornet ball, one-point-six." Fuel loss was his only serious problem. If he missed on this pass he'd have to refuel before he managed a second try, and that would be more time lost… more time for something to go wrong with an aircraft which was already on the verge of falling apart.
"Roger ball," the LSO replied. "Don't get too low."
He took the gentle hint, already responding as the glowing yellow eye of the Fresnel lens system began drifting below the horizontal line of green lights, indicating he was low. Gently, he nudged the throttles forward, increasing power, speed, and altitude. Jefferson's deck expanded to fill Frenchie's HUD.
Too much! The ball went high and he caressed the throttles back. The Hornet was responding slowly, too slowly.
"Deck coming up," the LSO reported. "power down."
The deck rushed to meet him. He cut back on the throttles to keep from overshooting the arrestor cables. A last check showed the Fresnel lens was still green.
He felt the arrestor hook grab. At the same moment he rammed the throttles to full military power and retracted his speed brakes in case he missed his trap. The wheels slammed onto the deck.