"How?"
I shrugged. "Don't know. I always do, though. You believe it too, or you wouldn't have told me to shoot that Sidewinder."
"Maybe I do," she said thoughtfully. "It was just something Gator told me ― about your flying map of the earth in the Arctic in zero visibility. I figured if Gator was willing to go up with you, it must be true."
"Just remember ― hell, you admitted it earlier. I'm immortal. The guy in the backseat is the one I have to worry about."
"It's beautiful back there," she continued. I took a quick glance back at her ― she was still craned around in the seat watching the IP. "I can't see anything anymore. Just smoke and flames."
"That's the way we like it."
We had about five seconds of peace and quiet to contemplate the pleasures of a good, hard-hitting bombing run. Then her ESM detector went off.
"Crap. More SAMs." She was back in the hood now. "That Prowler ― where is he?"
"Cut out before we did. You got his squawk?" I suggested, referring to his IFF signal.
"Yeah, I got him. Carrier's keeping him under close control. I think he's out of range of the site now. Uh-oh."
It always worries me when RIOs say that. "Uh-oh what?"
She sighed. "The Hornets ― they took out most of the MiGs, but then they started getting low on fuel. They're cutting out one by one to hit the tanker."
"And the MiGs?" I prompted.
"Headed toward us, but bearing to the north some. I can't tell if they're running an intercept or not. The geometry doesn't work for it, but…"
"But they could if they wanted to," I finished for her. "Wouldn't take a whole lot of fuel, not with us each carrying one or two Sidewinders."
"Yeah. I'm watching them. If they're going to turn into us, it'll have to be ― shit, they just did. Six of them, Bird Dog, about eleven o'clock and high."
I gave the sky a quick once-over and had them. They were there, just barely visible.
"Viper 201, Snoopy. Be advised, six bogies inbound." The E-2C bubba sounded alarmed. He rapped out a quick series of vectors to open the gap between the MiGs and us, then added, "We're buster back into the inner air zone. Say your state?"
I glanced over at the fuel gauge. "Enough for a shot at the deck without tanking. Hold one ― we're vectoring in to provide CAP for you."
"Me too," another voice chimed in on tactical. "We got enough fuel." Skeeter. How did I know he would be in on this? "No, Skeeter," I said firmly. "You go-"
"Not this time, Bird Dog." There was a cold note in my wingman's voice I couldn't quite place. "No, not again."
"Just what the hell does that mean? Skeeter, you get your ass out of here!"
"No way. You think you can shake me off, go ahead and try."
I groaned. "Listen, we're almost back inside the cruiser's missile coverage. It's not like this guy's going to need CAP for long. He'll be back on the deck before you can get over here."
"Nope."
"Umm ― Bird Dog? Two thousand yards back and forty-five degrees down ― it's a little late to be sending him home, don't you think?" Karnes's voice had the first note of amusement I'd heard in it since we'd gotten airborne.
And just why didn't I want Skeeter around? I tried to convince myself that it wasn't necessary, that I could handle taking care of the E-2C by myself.
Sure. Like I did last time, There was a reason we fought in pairs.
Then what was it? I could only think of one possibility, one that pissed me off right down to my boots.
Skeeter was a hell of a stick. So was I. Something about that bothered me.
He didn't have any judgment, no sense of when to call it quits and back off for another shot. I couldn't depend on him the way ― The way Gator depended on me? Look what had happened to my RIO.
"All right," I said finally. "Take high station on me." Two clicks on the circuit acknowledged my order.
Skeeter made a smooth transition to his new station. I reached up and switched the eject-select switch back to command-eject.
The MiGs were definitely inbound now, balls to the walls for us. The Hawkeye was going buster back to the boat, but it was going to be close. "Pull off. Stay between the E-2C and the MiGs," I said.
"Roger."
Now we were orbiting, letting the Hawkeye make his dash back to the boat while we loitered high waiting for the MiGs.
"First Hornet's off the tanker," Karnes reported. "But he's Winchester ― out of weapons."
"Who's got anything left on their wings?" I asked over tactical. A few Hornets answered up. Altogether, we had eight Tomcats with two Sidewinders each, me with one, two Hornets with two Sparrows and two Sidewinders, and three Hornets with one of each. Not a lot of firepower, but it was all we had airborne.
Six MiGs versus fourteen U.S. fighters ― nine Tomcats and five Hornets. Twenty-two Sidewinders and four Sparrows on our side, God knows how many air-to-air missiles on the MiGs. I liked the odds.
"Carrier's launching the reserve Hornets, but it's going to be about ten minutes," I heard over tactical.
"We don't have the time or the space," Karnes said. "It's us, guys."
"More MiGs," the Hawkeye chimed in. "We got them just launching to the north. Getting too hot for us here, shipmates. We're out of here."
"Roger, Snoopy. See you back on the deck. Break ― Viper Flight. There's not going to be an E-2 overhead giving us the big picture," I added. "Wait for them, call out your targets, and kill them. No excuses, no wasted shots. We hold on until the cav arrives, you got it?"
A chorus of clicks on the circuit acknowledged my transmission.
Like I said ― good odds. The MiGs had more missiles, but we had something they didn't have.
Each other.
It didn't take long. Within five minutes, all that was left of the MiGs was smoking craters in the sky and oil and debris floating on the ocean. We were all Winchester and low on fuel. A quick plug and suck at the tanker, and we formed back up in a starboard marshal pattern to wait for our look at the deck.
They were waiting for us just inside the island, crowding around the metal hatch that let out onto the flight deck. I pushed past most of them, too exhausted to pay any attention to them. I just wanted to go pee and get something to drink. Then maybe shoot some pool ― yeah, that'd be good. That's what the carrier needed most of all ― a pool table. Make it mandatory, just like the popcorn machines.
I looked up just as this was all starting to make sense to see Admiral Wayne blocking my way down to the ladder. "Hi," I said, aware that it wasn't probably the most appropriate greeting I could manage to the senior officer on board the ship, but still preoccupied with the desire for a pool table.
The admiral looked at me with an odd expression. "Hi yourself, mister. Medical's looking for you. Want to explain to me how you managed to slip out of there? And what you're doing flying when you're not medically cleared for it?"
"Ummm… not exactly, Admiral."
"To which part?" Now the admiral looked truly disgusted. "Oh, never mind. I should know better by now. But if you're not too busy, would it be too much trouble for you and your RIO to get your butts down to CVIC for a debrief?"
"No, sir." I glanced back, and saw Karnes moving toward me. Odd, I'd never realized she was so short.
"We were just heading down there, Admiral," Karnes said smoothly, sliding in between me and the admiral. "Just on our way, sir."
I nodded, trying to look like that had indeed been my intention. I wondered if Karnes played pool.
We slithered down the ladders and passageways to CVIC, Karnes practically dragging me by the scruff of my neck. "And the next time you get some bright idea about skating out of sick bay without permission to go flying with me," she hissed, giving another jerk on my collar, "I'm going to kick that little stud ass of yours up and down about twenty ladders until you come to your senses."