“What the hell are they doing?” Jeremy shouted. “Your dot, Tombstone,” he said, indicating that he’d selected a target and Tombstone was cleared to fire at will.
“Roger. Fox two, fox two,” Tombstone said as he toggled off the AMRAAM.
The AMRAAM was a fire-and-forget weapon, one that could be targeted directly from the Tomcat radar or from any other source. In this instance, the carrier’s targeting data, stripped of the jamming, was fed directly into that missile’s tiny brain. Once it was free of the Tomcat’s wing, it activated its own small radar and maintained an active track on the assigned target. Capable of achieving speeds greater than Mach 4, the AMRAAM could catch anything it was sent after. Other missiles proved more difficult targets than aircraft, not only because of their increased speed, but because the stealth technology resulted in an exceptionally small radar return. That, coupled with the sheer size considerations of the smaller target, made exploding rod or fuel-cloud warheads more effective than a simple explosive warhead. However, in this case, Tombstone’s Tomcat carried only standard anti-air explosive warheads.
“He sees it,” Jeremy said. “It’s got a lock, he’s got a lock — shit, they’ve launched! Incoming, Tombstone!”
“I got it,” Tombstone said as the symbol popped into being on his display. “Activating countermeasures — hold on, Jeremy.”
Tombstone put the Tomcat into a hard climb, rocketing up at nearly a completely vertical angle. The g-forces slammed Jeremy back into his seat, sitting on his chest like a five-hundred-pound tiger. He grunted, tensing all his muscles, forcing oxygen to his brain to prevent gray out. Just when he thought he would lose the battle, even with his anti-G suit, Tombstone pulled the Tomcat out of the climb and into level flight.
“It’s still on us,” Jeremy shouted as his vision cleared enough for him to make out the radar screen. “More countermeasures!” He popped off chaff and flares from the undercarriage of the aircraft. The bright hot spots and confusing metal strips would create additional targets for the missile, be it heat-seeking or radar. “Commencing spoofing.” The test electronics built into the new model of Tomcat enabled it to intercept radar signals and to feed back, with a split-second difference, an identical pulse to the original sender. The transmissions from the Tomcat would look like returns from the missile’s own radar. This would confuse it, causing it to reposition and chase the false target. The false radar returns had to be just right, not so strong that they were immediately obvious as a countermeasure, yet solid enough to override the real returns from the radar’s own signal generator.
This particular Tomcat possessed one of the most advanced spoofing sets ever designed. Tombstone’s uncle had a close relationship with a contractor, the result of all of his years as chief of naval operations, and quietly, without informing anyone else, he had loaded the latest electronics along with signal generators into this particular bird. The problem in using them lay in the fact that they would confuse the carrier as well, who was not expecting to see that particular signal radiating from a Tomcat.
“Got it!” Jeremy crowed as the missile turned hard to the right and was lost in the midst of the flares. “Not sure which one worked, maybe all of them. More incoming!”
On tactical, the other Tomcats were calling out their shots as well, firing the preferred AMRAAM and following it up with heat seekers. The orderly arrangement of Tomcats and Forgers was now a furball of launches, missiles, and countermeasures. The confusion was made worse by the fact that they were all working off the carrier’s targeting data, and the carrier was still having a problem dealing with Tombstone’s Tomcat’s spoofing.
“Jamming is secured,” a surprised voice said over tactical. “Turn on your own radars — stand by for synchronization.”
Jeremy flipped a switch. His radar had been placed in standby rather than completely secured — standard procedure — and was already warmed up and ready to transmit. In moments, their own picture was back on the screen.
Below them and off to their right, a fireball exploded in the air. It was a hard yellow and orange, so bright that it hurt to look at it. Black smoke boiled out immediately, and encompassed the entire area until it looked like a thundercloud with a fire inside.
“Bears,” Jeremy said, noting that all the Tomcats were still present. “And another!” A second fireball, slightly higher than the first one, tore through the sky.
“Stony, Home Plate,” a voice said, and Jeremy recognized it as the admiral. “Change of plans — you’re first on deck. I’m turning you over to the TAO for further instructions, but I want to see you as soon as possible.”
“They’re running,” Jeremy said. The two symbols representing the remaining Forgers had turned away from the port fireball and were going on afterburner toward their own carrier. “Coming to their senses or working off orders?”
“Maybe they finally got it straightened out,” Tombstone said. “It still doesn’t make sense that they went after the COD. Especially not after what happened.”
“Maybe they were trying to retaliate.”
“Maybe.” But Jeremy could tell that Tombstone wasn’t convinced. To tell the truth, neither was he.
Beside her, Jeff was swearing quietly. They could both see the fireballs high in the air, as could a few of the other passengers. Even with the noise in the passenger compartment, she could hear voices raised, and feel the uneasiness crescendoing to fear running through the aircraft.
Suddenly, they smashed into the deck, the motion throwing them all forward hard against their restraining harnesses. After the roller-coaster motion in the roiled air astern of the carrier, it felt like they had crashed.
Someone near the tail of the aircraft screamed, a high-pitched voice clearly well advanced into terror. Drake smiled. “Welcome to the fleet, Winston.” Beside her, Jeff nodded.
“One zero one, call the ball,” the tower said, indicating that Tombstone should sing out when he located the Fresnel lens on the stern of the carrier. From that point on, his flight would be controlled by the landing signals officer, or LSO, who would have visual contact on him and his position relative to the carrier’s deck.
“Ball, 101,” Tombstone said, his voice calm but tense.
“Roger, 101, I have you, sir,” came the voice of the LSO. “One zero one, say needles.” This was a request that Tombstone report on the readings of his automatic glide path indicators. If they agreed with the LSO’s assessment of Tombstone’s position on the required flight path, Tombstone would be told to fly needles, meaning that he could rely on them in making corrections to his flight path. More often than not, the LSO was not satisfied with the needles picture and would proceed to guide the aircraft in by himself.
“Needles high and right,” Tombstone said. That assessment disagreed with his own assessment of where they were, and it was no surprise when the LSO said, “One zero one, disregard needles. I hold you on path, no corrections.”
“Roger, concur.”
In the backseat, Jeremy was silent. Aside from tanking at night and landing on the carrier at night, every landing was a special situation. It required the utmost concentration by the pilot. The backseater’s only role at this point was to avoid distracting the pilot and to keep an eye on altitude and the area around them. Deconflicting the airspace was the carrier’s responsibility, but aviators never liked to rely on anyone else to do that.