“Where’s it going?” O’Neill tensed, knowing the answer in advance. “Destination?”
“Cuba.”
“Keep us informed,” the flight leader replied, swearing to himself. “Have Mother send more chicks, mucho hasto!”
“Roger, Buzzard. Two of the ‘Jolly Rogers’ are on the way, call sign ‘Scooter.’ We’ll switch them to your freq in a couple minutes.”
“Okay,” O’Neill paused. “Texaco, you copy Buzzard?”
“Roger, Buzzard.” The tanker pilot sounded relaxed. “We are anchored over the Virginia at two-six-oh. Need some gas and a windshield wipe this evening?”
“That’s affirm, we’re on our way.”
O’Neill looked over at Cangemi’s dull gray Tomcat.
“Let’s go upstairs, Two.”
“Rajah.”
Simpson had turned back on course directly to the Eisenhower, relieved to have the Viking overhead. His relief was short-lived when he became aware of the approaching Russian fighters, now an airborne threat.
“Mister Jenkins, status report on our Sea Sparrows,” Simpson commanded as he nervously paced the bridge.
“Loaded, all systems up, launchers at the ready. Radar tracking indicates up status, Captain.”
“Very well,” Simpson replied, tapping his Naval Academy ring on the rim of his clipboard.
The bridge was hushed as everyone swayed back and forth, contemplating the next few minutes. The Virginia was at battle stations, tension coursing through the ship as she topped each wave and plunged into the next abyss, sending tremors reverberating through the hull.
Simpson and the bridge crew listened to the pilots rendezvousing overhead.
“Stingray, Scooter flight has a tally on the Buzzards,” radioed Lt. Davey “Pork” Heimler. “Going tactical.”
“Copy, Scooter,” answered the fully awake controller.
“Button four.”
“Rog. Goin’ four, switch,” the “Jolly Roger” fighter pilot ordered his wingman.
“Scooter up.”
“Two,” responded Lt. (jg) Jeb Graves.
“Buzzards, Scooter flight is aboard. Your seven, easin’ in, two hundred fifty indicated.”
“Good show,” O’Neill answered, concentrating on his egress from the KA-6D. “Better top off.”
“Scooter, Texaco,” the tanker pilot radioed. “You’re cleared to plug.”
“Rog. One is plugging.”
Heimler eased closer to the trailing basket connected to the fuel hose. He slowed his closure rate to a barely perceptible mating with the bouncing basket.
Night refueling, always difficult because of a lack of depth perception, was not something pilots looked forward to facing.
Heimler glanced at the tanker, then keyed his microphone.
“How much gas you have left?”
“’Bout four thousand pounds,” the tanker jock answered nonchalantly. “Another Tex is on the way.”
“Okay,” Heimler said. “I’ll take two grand and my partner can drain the rest.”
“Fair enough.”
Simpson looked at the sonar repeater. The Soviet sub was holding the same relative position. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the horizon, wishing for dawn to arrive.
The Virginia’s captain couldn’t distinguish anything in the black, raging storm, but it made him feel more comfortable than sitting idle, waiting.
The radio speaker continued to blare, harsh in the confines of the bridge, as the fighter pilots finished their airborne refueling.
Simpson’s disdain for aviators had diminished in the past fifteen minutes.
“Buzzard flight, Stingray.” This was a new voice, apparently the number one quarterback on the Hawkeye team.
“Go,” O’Neill radioed, closely monitoring his right engine gauges.
“The bogies are at your ten o’clock, one hundred out.”
The four Tomcats, with replenished fuel tanks, had been orbiting in a racetrack course over the Virginia.
“Rog, Stingray.” O’Neill was breathing faster, tension straining his voice. The fluctuating engine problem had to be forgotten at this point.
“This is now Buzzard flight,” O’Neill radioed. “Both sections go combat spread, Three and Four to the right.”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“Four!”
O’Neill could feel rivulets of sweat trickle down his temples as he checked his armament panel. He breathed deeply and forced himself to relax. “Come port twenty degrees. Let’s go switches hot.”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“Four!”
“You okay, Jeff?” O’Neill clicked his intercom button. He hadn’t heard a word from his radar intercept officer in five minutes.
“Yeah, doin’ fine,” replied a hushed voice. “I’ve got a sweet lock.”
The RIO, Lt. (jg) Jeffery Barnes was new to the squadron and O’Neill could understand his problem. This was a rude introduction to operational flying.
“Okay, stay alert,” O’Neill said in an encouraging tone.
“This deal is too well-orchestrated to suit me.”
Barnes shifted his gaze outside the canopy. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Simpson set his third cup of coffee down on a tray, too nervous to taste the black liquid. He repeatedly swallowed involuntarily.
“Captain, sonar.”
“Captain,” Simpson responded immediately, swiveling in his bridge chair.
“Sir, the sub is surfacing,” the operator said quietly. “Or coming to periscope depth.”
Simpson looked through his binoculars at the black, turbulent ocean. “You sure?”
“Yessir, they’re blowing tanks.” The petty officer waited a moment, then responded to what he was hearing.
“A lot of activity … and noise.”
Simpson turned to Jenkins, simultaneously asking a question and giving an order. “Where’s the XO? Tell the Viking to get on top of the sub, or we’re going to be shark bait!”
“The exec is in CIC, sir.” Jenkins felt like he was on a treadmill. “They notified Killer Seven-oh-six.”
“JESUS!”
“WHAT THE HELL!”
Everyone ducked or flinched as a brilliant flash turned night into bright day for a millisecond. There was a streak of light, too fast to follow, accompanied by a resounding crack and low rumble.
“MAY DAY! MAY DAY! Killer Seven-oh-six, we’ve been hit! We’re goin’ in! EJECT! EJECT!” The pilot was still transmitting on the radio, forgetting to switch to ICS.
Simpson was in shock as he followed the action over the speaker. Outside, less than a mile from the Virginia, a flaming ball of debris was tumbling toward the ocean. Jenkins had to remind Simpson that they needed to take action.
“Captain Simpson, the sub shot down the Viking! What do you want to—?”
“Commence firing on the sub!” Simpson ordered, throwing off the mental block.
“SAMS! SAMS!” Cangemi radioed, ducking as another flash of light streaked past his canopy. “The Viking is down!”
“Buzzard flight, hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
O’Neill was waiting for confirmation on the bogies. The Virginia would have to deal with the sub. He had his hands full setting up for the aerial engagement.
“Buzzard, this is Stingray,” the Hawkeye controller radioed. “Understand the Viking is—”
Suddenly the darkness glowed miles in front of the American fighter planes. A high-pitched warble sounded in the ears of the four pilots and their RIOs. The Russian fighter pilots had launched their air-to-air missiles in unison.
“Buzzard flight, launch missiles!” O’Neill ordered, fumbling with his armament panel. “Three and Four, break right! One and Two goin’ for knots … comin’ left!”