"Take it easy, Nancy. They're just some of the local
boys assing around."
"What do they think they're doing! Damn it, Cunningham, they could have killed us!"
"Settle down, Ensign! Retainer Zero Two, climb out and set up for another approach. We'll take care of these clowns. You're gonna be okay, babe."
Arkady turned the handling of the helicopter over to Chief Muller and started scanning the UHF surface-to-air frequencies for the one being guarded by the Aeronaval fighters. Someone down in the CIC had beaten him to the punch, and he dialed into their outgoing transmission.
"… SS Cunningham. You are interfering with an emergency recovery operation. Clear our airspace! I repeat, clear our airspace!"
The voice that replied spoke a fluent, almost accent-free English. It also spoke with a lightly restrained arrogance.
"United States Ship Cunningham, this is Tigre flight leader. It is necessary to advise you that you are near the territorial waters of Argentina and the Malvinas. These are our sea and air spaces, Norteno."
"Tigre flight lead, this is the USS Cunningham. We are currently operating in international waters. We say again, we have an in-flight emergency. Please stay clear of our flight pattern while we recover our aircraft."
"Cunningham, this is Tigre flight leader. You do not understand." The Argentine pilot sounded as if he was enjoying himself. "As you are operating near our territory, it is necessary for us to investigate all such intrusions and all such unusual events, such as your emergency. We shall proceed to do so."
Muller was bending over a call-up of the Alpha display.
"They're pitching in again… descending. Aw, man! They're going right for Zero Two!"
"I don't believe this!" Vince snarled, cutting back to the Duke's operating frequency. "Retainer Zero Two, you got fast movers coming in on you again. Watch it!"
There wasn't time for more.
The Argentine Tornadoes flashed into view, converging on the crippled Sea Comanche. Viciously, they whipsawed it with a series of near-supersonic close-range flybys. It was a deliberate effort to blast the helo out of the sky with the shock waves of their passage.
Arkady forgot to breathe as the wildly bucking helicopter fought to survive again, and won.
"Retainer Zero Two, you guys okay up there?"
"Okay for now," the faint reply came back. "But one more like that, and we're in the water."
Another readily identifiable voice cut into the radio band. "Ah, Cunningham. I believe I have identified your problem. Inferior aircraft flown by inferior pilots. You should tell your young ladies to stop playing at being naval aviators, Cunningham."
Arkady nearly broke his thumb on the transmitter key. "Don't talk about inferiority, asshole. You've just earned yourself a lesson in it!"
He switched over to the ship's interphone. "Hangar bay! Get Zero One on the elevator with a full air-to-air ordnance load. Sidewinders and gun pods. Expedite!"
"Belay that order!" Amanda Garrett's voice cut in sharply. "Lieutenant Arkady, what are your intentions?"
"I'm launching, and I'm going to escort my pilot in. Right over the top of those macho bastards, if I have to!"
"Negative. Getting Delany caught in the middle of a dogfight isn't going to help matters any. Have her drop back, and go into a holding pattern off to starboard, until we get this sorted out."
"Captain…"
"I'll take care of it, Lieutenant." The tone of her voice didn't brook any protest.
"Aye, aye, ma'am." Arkady took a slow, deliberate breath and began to relay her instructions up to the helo.
The bridge had patched in to the ground-to-air frequencies and Amanda came on-line a few moments later.
"Tigre flight leader, this is Commander Amanda Lee Garrett of the United States Navy, currently commanding the USS Cunningham. To whom am I speaking, please?"
The cool dignity of her words took the Argentines by surprise. There were several seconds of dead air before the reply came in.
"This is Capitan de Frigata Alfredo Cristobal of the
Aeronaval Argentina, commander of the First Naval Fighter and Attack Escuadrilla."
"Captain Cristobal, this situation is unnecessary. It is placing the lives of two of my crew in jeopardy, and can only serve to further inflame the tensions existing between your nation and mine. As one officer to another, I respectfully request that you please withdraw and allow us to recover our aircraft."
For a second, Vince thought that she had pulled it off, that an appeal to simple, bald-faced sanity might end it. Maybe it would have, too, if Capitan Alfredo Cristobal hadn't been born with an apparent critical imbalance between brains and bullshit.
"Of course, Captain Garrett." The jocular arrogance crept back into the Argentine's voice. "But first, I must insist on one more flyby, to salute the lovely ladies of the Norteamericano Navy."
"As you wish." Amanda Garrett's voice was no longer cool, it was cold. Vince Arkady had a sudden mental image of a pair of hazel eyes narrowing ominously.
"Here they come again," Chief Muller reported. "This time it looks like they're going to scrape the paint off the top hamper."
Suddenly, the deck speakers came on-line again. "Alert on deck! Rig for live-fire ordnance testing. Clear the RBOC launchers!"
Arkady and Muller exchanged puzzled glances as the kerosene-fired thunder of the approaching aircraft began to grow.
On the foredeck and the forward facing of the superstructure, hatches swung open, revealing clusters of launcher muzzles. With a rippling roar that eclipsed the sound of the jets, the RBOC defense system salvoed a full spread of chaff rockets. The sky over the destroyer was suddenly filled with interlocking airbursts of smoke and metal foil, and the Argentine fighters found themselves driving right into the heart of it.
The Aeronaval strike fighters scattered like a covey of startled quail, pulling up and pitching out wildly to evade. Tigre lead didn't make it. Captain Cristobal's Tornado ripped through the edge of the cloud, and as it did so, a partially dispersed chaff packet was ingested by its starboard air intake. A fragment of a second later, several million dollars' worth of Turbo Union turbofan engine began to disintegrate.
Arkady caught the distinctive thud of a jet power-plant shedding a flame bucket. He was watching with considerable interest as the plane came crashing out of the chaff cloud, smoke streaming from the right engine exhaust.
Grant him his due, Cristobal was a superb airman; anyone less would have lost it totally. As it was, his Tornado did a complete slow roll at wave-top height before he could get the wings motored forward and the right side of the aircraft shut down.
Finally, he got his crippled plane leveled and coaxed into a slow climb. When he came back on-band, his arrogance was gone. He had cycled through shock and fear, and now was running on raw rage.
"Puta nortena! We will not let you get away with this! The Tierra San Martin belongs to Argentina! The Southern Ocean belongs to us! We will send you to hell!"
Amanda Garrett failed to conceal the contempt in her voice. "If the performance you put on out here today is an example of the professionalism of your services, I wish you luck. This is the Cunningham, over and out."
"Now, there goes a man," Arkady commented as the damaged aircraft limped off to the east, "who ain't going to be able to get it up for a month."
"Air One, this is the bridge." His captain's now more amiable voice filled his headset. "The Alpha Screen indicates all Argentine aircraft now departing the area. You may resume recovery operations as soon as we clear the chaff cloud."