“Nothing around here now,” he said. “Let’s hope that doesn’t change.”
“I’m getting LINK feed from the United States,” Jason announced. “Clear picture all around, Stoney. I think we might just pull this off.”
“Keep an eye out for the tanker,” Tombstone ordered. “Four hours out and that’s only for the first one.”
“Roger.” Just then, a voice spoke over tactical. “Tomcat triple nickel, this is Big Eye. Do not acknowledge this transmission. I’m holding you southbound at four hundred and twenty knots, at location,” and the voice reeled off lat and long coordinates. “Be advised I hold radar contact on both you and Texaco, and am available should you need a vector to the ten-yard line.” The ten-yard line was the code word given to their first refueling point.
There was no more dangerous evolution, with the exception of perhaps a night carrier landing, than refueling. Refueling during short-notice operations with the Air Force in charge guaranteed that the pucker factor inside the cockpit was bound to be high.
In Tombstone’s earliest days, coordination with the Air Force had not been particularly inspiring. There were misunderstandings, incompatible equipment, and a general morass of confusion surrounding the terminology. Over the decades that followed, the two services had finally managed to come to an accommodation, and refueling operations today were virtually seamless. Yet, in the back of his mind, Tombstone always retained the harsh early lessons.
As the time for their first rendezvous approached, Tombstone felt his tension increase. Jason seemed to sense the senior pilot’s distraction and the flow of stories gradually trailed off.
“If there’s a problem, the AWACS will let us know. I mean, hell, sir — it’s their bird, right?” Greene’s voice sounded distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of trying to reassure the more senior pilot. “He’ll be there — he has to be there.”
“Yeah, of course they will. We got comms with the AWACS if we need it.”
But the only reason we’d need it is if something goes bad wrong. And if we punch out over these waters, the odds of surviving are pretty much nonexistent. If we don’t freeze on the way down, we will within about thirty seconds of hitting the water.
But Tombstone kept his thoughts to himself. Jason knew the dangers as well as he did. “Be nice to have radar contact on the tanker, though,” Tombstone said.
As though his radar were reading his mind, a small, fuzzy lozenge resolved out of the backscatter on the screen. Jason let out a yelp of glee. “Looks to me like a tanker, boss.”
“You get any IFF?”
Jason fiddled with the IFF controls for a moment, then said, “Sure do. She’s breaking for an Air Force KC-135. And I got a mode four IFF.” Mode four was the encrypted mode signal that positively and indisputably identified an aircraft as a friendly military flight possessing the correct encryption gear for that particular day.
Tombstone felt himself relax slightly, and warned himself not to. In another thirty minutes, after it was all over, sure. He laid his hands on the controls. “I’ve got the aircraft.”
Jason held his hands up momentarily. “You have the aircraft, sir,” he said, acknowledging Tombstone’s assumption of the controls. He’d been flying for the last two hours, and Tombstone had no doubt about his ability to execute the refueling. But Jason was in the back seat and his visibility from there wasn’t nearly as good as it was up front.
“Next time, you can take front,” Tombstone volunteered. “I don’t want you getting rusty.”
“Maybe, sir, we should make some practice runs refueling from the back seat. I mean, they sent us out in a two-seater for a reason, right?”
The reason is because we’re going on long flights, not because something might happen to the guy up front. But you’re right, kid. We got the capability, we need to train to it. Out loud, Tombstone said, “Put it on our list of things to do when we get back. Along with getting the name of that mess cook that made breakfast at Adak.”
“Tomcat double nickel, this is Texaco. Do not acknowledge transmission unless there’s a problem, gentlemen. I am on base course, base speed, awaiting your approach. Unless otherwise directed, I intend to pass ten thousand pounds to you.” The cool, calm voice of the KC-135 pilot reassured them both.
“Nobody wants to talk to us,” Jason muttered, although they both knew the reason for it. No transmissions meant they couldn’t be triangulated by any passive sensors monitoring this part of the sky. “Okay, let’s do it,” Tombstone said. He had a visual on the tanker’s lights now, and adjusted his altitude slightly. Tombstone always favored approaching from below, finding it somehow easier to control his attitude and altitude.
It was so familiar, this process. How many times over the last decade had he plugged the back of a tanker? A thousand, perhaps? So familiar, yet each time was a new experience, fraught with all the danger of the first one.
Time slowed as Tombstone made his approach slowly, carefully, until he had a perfect lineup on the basket. “Looking good, Tomcat. Come to Mama,” the refueling technician said over tactical.
Tombstone nudged the power slightly, and slid forward for a perfect plug on the basket. The light on his enunciator panel lit up, indicating that the seal between the Tomcat probe and the tanker was airtight. “I got good flow,” Tombstone said, as he watched the digits on his fuel status indicator click over. “Good flow.”
“Ten thousand should do us,” Jason said.
“Looking at the numbers, I don’t think we could take more than one or two hundred more than that.”
“Looking good on this end, folks,” the tanker’s voice said. “Speak up if you see any problems.”
“You know, it occurs to me that there’s not much use in maintaining radio silence,” Jason said. “Any radar holding us knows that we’re here, and can guess what the tanker is. So what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that it keeps them guessing. Up until now, we could be an intelligence bird. They might be suspicious and they might not like it, but they won’t get completely wound up unless they know this is a fighter.”
“That’s why I let somebody else do the thinking,” Jason said.
Before long, they were done. The flow of fuel cut off precisely at ten thousand pounds, and Tombstone found the estimates were indeed correct. The tanker said, “That’s it, folks. Disengage at will.”
Tombstone eased back ever so slightly on the throttle and the Tomcat fell back gently from the tanker. He waited till he was well clear of the larger aircraft, then peeled off to the left, waggled his wings, and headed south.
“Good luck,” the tanker said in parting.
“Luck’s not what we need right now,” Greene observed.
TWENTY-ONE
“Solid firing solution, Captain,” Jacobs said. He held his finger poised over the button that would unleash their ADCAP torpedoes at the two contacts. “Request weapons free?”
“Weapons free, fire when ready,” the captain ordered.
Jacobs took one last look at his solutions, and pressed the button.
There was a loud whish inside the submarine as well as a slight shudder and an ear-popping drop in interior pressure. The outer doors were already open, and the submarine’s torpedoes were now given permission to launch. Compressed air blew them out of the tubes, their motors kicked in for a straight run for a short time and then they both arced off down a bearing heading for the two contacts.