“SAR operations under way,” the Hawkeye replied calmly. “You want to discuss this now, or get your ass in gear?”
“I’m on it,” Fastball said immediately.
“No, I’ll—” Bird Dog began, only to be interrupted by the Hawkeye.
“Roger, Fastball. Dolphin lead, remain with flight.” The Hawkeye continued with a rapid summary of the scenario — eleven kills for Dolphin flight, one Tomcat splashed. That left one without a wingman, and it was Bird Dog’s duty to fill in.
“Acknowledged,” Bird Dog said, already turning back toward the rest of his flight. “Fastball, take care of it, and get your ass back here.”
And assist where fastball pulls doors but out of the bacon.
One bomber peeled way from the pack, evidently intending to make a run for it on its own. Tombstone changed course and headed directly for it. His blood was running hot, his anger concentrated into every cell. His entire life seemed to depend on killing Russians. Nothing else could ease the pain in his soul.
Suddenly, his international air distress frequency came alive. A low-pitched but definitely female voice snarled, “Damn you, all of you. I’m not going to do it — fuck you!” The transmission cut off as abruptly as it began.
Tombstone’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The aircraft around him disappeared. It was as though he was in suspended animation, trapped lifeless between the ejection seat and the sky. The words pounded in his brain.
She always had a mouth on her. That’s just what she would say. But what were they trying to make her do?
“Tombstone? You okay?” Greene snapped. “Get your head in the game, asshole.”
Tombstone didn’t answer. The voice obliterated his entire world, the words overwhelming them. No, not the words — the voice. Because he was as certain as life itself that Tomboy had been speaking.
“Stony?” the voice said. “I love you.”
“Stony — oh, god. That’s her, isn’t it?” Greene said, his voice weak. “Tombstone, where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Tombstone said, his lips barely moving. He was cold, so cold. Sweat poured off his forehead and his palms were clammy. “She could be anywhere.”
“Stony One, Hawkeye. Be advised that last transmission was from an aircraft. The line of bearing and track put it directly in front of you. Whoever that was, she’s on that bomber.”
I can’t do it. No one would expect me to. I’m already dead — I won’t kill her, too. The stream of consciousness flowed through Tombstone’s mind, confusing him. He waited — for what, he wasn’t certain.
“I won’t do it!” Her voice again, howling her anger and outrage. It was just like her, that indomitable spirit even when confronted with the most unimaginable odds. “Let go of me, you can’t—there!” If he thought he had been cold before, he was mistaken. The savage glee and victory in her cry of triumph froze his very soul.
The sky in front of him shattered into fragments of glass — no, it wasn’t glass. The top of the bomber exploded, sheets of metal peeling back from the fuselage. Small black dots shot out at forty-five-degree angles to the aircraft. The bomber was still airborne, just barely, it’s structural integrity assaulted by the violence of the ejections.
Was she strapped in? She was fighting with them — no, she wasn’t.
Of course she was — Tomboy wouldn’t be that stupid.
Or would she? Would she find a way to grab an ejection handle and yank down, knowing that it would eject everyone except her. Would she ride a dying aircraft down to the surface of the sea, sacrificing herself in order to destroy the aircraft?
“Tomboy!” The howl was ripped from deep inside of him, anguish and protest rolled into one. “No!”
There were eight chutes now, floating down in the air. The bomber itself was wobbling, trying to fly but not able to, its autopilot unable to keep up with the cascading damage and system failures.
“She punched out,” Greene said. “Tombstone, she punched out, she punched out.” Greene repeated the phrase like a mantra, trying to refocus the pilot’s attention. Finally, in response to pleas and threats from his backseater and from the Hawkeye, Tombstone rallied.
“I’m okay.”
“Stone One, you have priority in the pattern. Get your ass on deck.” The stern voice of the admiral echoed over the airwaves. “Pull yourself together, partner. Get that aircraft back down here. Now! We have SAR en route the chutes.”
“Come on, Tombstone,” Jeremy said, his voice gentle but urgent. “Let’s get back to the boat — come on, you can do this with your eyes closed.”
Cold, so cold — dear god, I’ve been there, punched out, not knowing if I’d survive. They said they had eight chutes. She’ll make it. I’m sure she will.
“Come right, course three two zero,” Greene said, his voice firm. “Descend to ten thousand feet.”
Mechanically, Tombstone flew the aircraft. He flew with precision, muscles and mind detached from his intellect and emotions, automatically taking the Tomcat around the marshal stack, lining up on the stern of the carrier, calling the ball, making the adjustments required, and taking his Tomcat in for a perfect three-wire trap. A perfectly executed approach and trap — all done by reflex.
At the moment the plane captain stepped in front of his aircraft and signaled him to reduce power, his world shattered into pieces. Instead of reducing power and taxiing to his spot, Tombstone eased the throttles back. The hard scream of the Tomcat died. The aircraft rolled backward slightly in response to the pull from the three-wire. Tombstone applied his nosewheel brake, waited for the tension to ease off, then retracted the tail hook and popped the canopy.
Tombstone reached down to safe his ejection seat, then stood. He swung one leg over the side of the aircraft, groping for the foothold, then descended to the deck.
There was a moment of confusion on the deck, then the yellow shirts stormed across nonskid and clambered up the boarding ladder. Jeremy unfastened his ejection harness and climbed into the front seat. He popped the brakes, taxiied to the spot, and ran through the shutdown checklists. There were still Tomcats in the air that needed to get down on deck, and they couldn’t land until this aircraft moved.
Tombstone walked blindly across the deck, saying nothing. Her voice drowned out the rest of the world. Two white-shirt safety deck observers were shortly joined by Admiral Grant. A corpsman slipped in beside him, followed shortly by a doctor. The rest of the flight deck crew formed a protective circle around him.
Tombstone disappeared into the skin of the ship. Greene watched him go.
TWENTY-THREE
Pamela had just returned from the shower and was toweling off her wet hair when she heard the announcement over the 1MC. The ship had been at flight quarters for a couple of hours, but that was no big deal. After all, this was an aircraft carrier.
But the bongs from the ship’s bell startled her. She glanced at her clock to see if they were chiming the hour for some reason, but it wasn’t time for bells. The carrier had never used bells for hours regularly anyway.
And the bongs continued, on and on and on. She counted, stopping at eight.
Who the hell? Only top officials, up to and including the president, rated eight bells. She shoved her hair into some semblance of a style, grabbed her tape recorder and her sunglasses, and headed for the flight deck. Her cameraman was smart — Jeff would meet her there. He knew what eight bells meant.