"Need some help there, Skeeter?" The cheerful Texas twang grated across my nerves as it always did. "I'm inbound on your six ― wait for it. I'll give you a break."
Of all the Marines to show up on station, it had to be Thor. Major Frederick Hammersmith, if you want his real name. The prototype for all Marine pilots ― I'd seen him drop down on the brutally hot tarmac to crank out fifty push-ups before getting into his aircraft just to piss the Air Boss off. Given half a chance, he'd probably carry a knife clenched between his teeth while in flight.
Still, there was no denying his help would be welcome about now. Not that I'd ever admit it to him. But the lighter Hornet, while it didn't have the staying power of my own dear Tomcat, had some advantages in a fight with a MiG. Since it was smaller, with a higher thrust-to-wing-area ratio, the Hornet was a scampery little bastard, able to cut inside arcs and turns in a way that the Tomcat couldn't. Besides that, it has LERX ― Leading Edge Root Extensions. These give it an extended range of angle of attack above and beyond sixty degrees, which is about what we're limited to. Also, it has a high-tech retrofitted fence running along the LERX that generates the right airflow patterns to reduce metal fatigue on its tail assembly.
"Come on in, Thor," Skeeter said. I could hear the relief in his voice. Like what ― he thought I wouldn't be there? I was already headed for the deck, trying to pick him out from the gaggle of other Tomcat pilots who'd let themselves get suckered. Too many ― far too many.
"Wait for it, buddy," Thor said. I could see his Hornet now, the small, agile form of his two-seater night-attack variant arrowing in from the direction of the carrier. "Almost there ― get ready ― now! Break right, Skeeter. Hard right."
My confusion over which set of aircraft was Skeeter and his MiG was immediately cleared up. I saw an F-14 break hard right, the maneuver almost immediately duplicated by the MiG on his six in perfect firing position.
Almost.
Skeeter made the bright move of taking on some altitude at the same time he was turning, thus increasing his separation from the doomed MiG. The F-14 was almost on top of him now, seemingly being reeled in by some invisible fishing line trailing off the MiG's ass.
A slight twitch, a puff of smoke, then the heat-seeking Sidewinder blinking in the sunshine like a beacon.
The missile sought out the MiG's tailpipe like it was mother's milk. It streaked inbound, dead on target and never wavering, then the two images merged into one. The silver shape of the MiG was replaced immediately by a blossoming, ugly black and red fireball.
"That one's mine." Thor's voice was calm and confident. "Any other problems I can solve for you turkey jockeys?"
"Thanks, Thor," Skeeter said. I almost puked.
More Hornets were arriving on station, calling out their tallyhos and missile shots almost as soon as they were on station. I started getting calls from my own flight on a separate circuit, early indications that they were getting low on fuel or that they were Winchestered ― out of weapons. The Winchesters I sent back immediately ― there was absolutely nothing they could do out here except for a lucky shot with their twenty-millimeter Vulcan Gatling-type guns fitted on the left sides. The guns are bitching when you can take the shot, but even most knife fighters don't like to get that close. Their 675 rounds, even shooting small bursts, isn't a lot of firepower.
"Viper Flight, Dragon Flight, Home Plate. Two flights of Tomcats, one flight of Hornets inbound. Viper Flight, break off as needed."
At least we were getting some more Tomcats into the fight. And the controller was right to remind me ― those of us who weren't low on fuel soon would be, and it was better to clear the deck for the fresh forces.
"Let's get going," Gator urged from the backseat. "Bird Dog, our fuel is-"
"I know what our fuel is," I cut in. Damn it, someday I'm going to tape a cardboard shield between the front seat and backseat on this aircraft so he can't stick his nose into my business. "You think I'll run out of gas?"
"Of course not. At least, you never have before." Gator's voice sounded just the slightest bit dubious. "Still, don't you think we ought to-?"
Without answering, I put the Tomcat into a hard, tight climbing turn. "One more quick look, then we're out of here. I want to make sure all of our guys are out."
"Whatever you say, Bird Dog."
We spiraled on up, slowing slightly as we poured all of our power into the climb. When I felt we had a bird's-eye view, I rolled back into level flight, and then into inverted flight.
I love this part. Gator hates it. It's a good thing for him that our fuel-transfer mechanism doesn't allow me to remain inverted for the entire flight. There's something about hanging from the ejection-seat harness. Maybe it's the blood getting forced into your head by gravity that does it.
The ocean was spread out below me, looking almost calm and peaceful from this vantage point. The aircraft still engaged below were dull gray shapes against darker water, or brilliant specks of light like fireflies as the sun reflected off wings. They winked in, back to dull gray, then back into fiery brilliance.
I saw the remnants of two fireballs hanging in the air, slowly dissipating as the wind tore at them. Only one that I knew of was ours ― and better them than us.
The new aircraft were joining up on the battle already in progress, picking out beleaguered Tomcats to delouse of MiGs and neatly nailing the enemy aircraft one by one. Other Tomcats were rising up from the fray, seeking altitude and shaking the last of their pursuers as they broke off.
"Viper Flight, say state," I asked, then waited for their responses. Each pilot called out his fuel status, then waited for the tanking order.
"Red, go on in ― you're lowest," I ordered. "Then Smiley, Joe, and Theresa. Skeeter, you stick with me. I think we're better off than most of them."
"Not by much," Gator said tartly. "In fact, Theresa's got more fuel than Skeeter does."
"Ladies first. Besides, neither of them is in the red zone."
I heard the exasperated sigh over the ICS. As much as I hated to admit it, there was something to what Gator was saying. Still, more of us were at bingo state. A little low, a little light-winged of weapons, but basically in good shape.
Those of us who'd made it out. Theresa had just cleared the tanker when I led Skeeter, now wing-welded to me again, in a gentle turn toward the tanker. She called out and checked in with the carrier, then peeled off toward the starboard marshal pattern to wait her turn at the deck. She'd made it ― Theresa was a good stick, and the weather conditions were optimal.
"Skeeter, go ahead," I said. "Plug and suck, buddy, then get the hell out of the way."
"Want to take any bets on this one?" Skeeter queried.
I laughed. "No, you asshole. I know you plug first time. Just go on and get it over with. Hell, you're probably as fast in bed as you are on the tanker."
"Now, that's not what they tell me," Skeeter answered, his voice cool and amused.
We were both in the throes of that exhilaration that sets in right after combat, the period of time in which it finally sinks in that your ass was almost grass and that you'd escaped once again. Plus you'd put a few bad guys at the bottom of the ocean along the way. It's a heady euphoria that's got no equivalent in civilian life. Except maybe bungee jumping, and that was one thrill I'd never tried out.
True to his word, Skeeter nailed the tanker right off. It was a smooth, fluid plug, probe right into the basket, and the tanker started pumping him right away.
Six minutes later, he was topped off enough to go take a look at the boat. I waited until he was safely away, then slid in to try my luck.