It was just that he thought there ought to be another way — that there had to be another way — of resolving conflicts. You go out and beat somebody up, they’re going to wait until they’re strong enough to beat you up. Not a question of being afraid, not that at all. No, it was a question of choice.
The last time I’ll fly. So I better do a damned good job of it.
Just then, two bits of sea return merged, stabilized and turned into a target. “Your dot, Bird Dog,” Music said. “Definitely your dot.”
“I got a visual on him,” Fastball announced. “Looks like it’s going to be a wasted trip, Rat.”
Rat gritted her teeth. Fastball would always rub it in, wouldn’t he? She knew how the story would be replayed on the carrier when they got back.
“See, he’s already got a missile on him,” Fastball said. “I don’t know why I ever listen to you, Rat. You’re such a—”
The surface of the ocean exploded into a fireball. A hot wave of expanding gases rushed over them, buffeting the Tomcat violently. Fastball swore as he fought for control, then finally pulled the Tomcat out into level flight.
“What the hell??!!” he shouted, adrenaline pumping through his system.
Rat stared down at the ocean, numb. “Suicide mission. Like the one that nailed the USS Cole,” she said. “That was no normal explosion — man, that thing had to be packed with explosives.”
“Bird Dog — where is he?”
Rat stared down at her radar screen, searching for the contact that the system would label as a friendly Tomcat. Static stared back at her, the superheated air along the surface of the ocean wreaking havoc with waveforms and transmission paths. “No joy,” she said softly.
“He’s gotta be down there somewhere!” Fastball insisted. “That was Bird Dog!”
Over tactical, a chatter of reports streamed in as the carrier insisted on asking what the hell was going on while the air boss vectored helos into the area. The explosion had flung shrapnel toward the carrier, and several pieces of metal traveling at supersonic speeds had skewered both aircraft and personnel in the hangar bay and on the flight deck. Damage control teams were fighting one small fire and the yellow gear was moving in to shove the burning aircraft over the side, the only way to control a Class Delta metal fire.
“Somebody want to come get me?” a familiar voice said irritably over the air distress frequency.
“Bird Dog!” Fastball shouted. “He’s alive!”
“I’m over on the starboard side, just after your wake, Big Boy. Call it four hundred feet and opening,” Bird Dog’s voice continued. “Let’s make it snappy, okay? And get me another aircraft ready.”
“How’d you get over there?” the air boss asked, after he’d relayed vectors to the SAR helo.
“I figured it out right before I took the shot, so I did a bunny hop over the carrier. Timed it so the bulk of the carrier would shield us from most of the blast, but we ended up in the drink anyway,” Bird Dog said, his voice seriously aggrieved. “I almost had it, but there was a hell of a lot more explosives on it than I figured.”
“And he had time to punch out,” Fastball said, awed at the speed at which Bird Dog had deciphered the situation and gotten himself clear. “Time to figure out when to shoot, kick in afterburner and clear the carrier, then get back down low enough to be shielded. The blast must have nailed him through the open hangar bay. And then, on top of that, he manages to roll enough to avoid punching out into the carrier and time it so that they stay clear of the stern.”
Evidently the air boss made the same conclusions, because when he spoke again, his voice was filled with gruff respect. “Roger, Bird Dog, we’re on our way.”
“Medical for my RIO,” Bird Dog said, his voice starting to mirror the strain now. “I think he’s hurt bad. I want to…”
As Bird Dog’s voice trailed off, the circuit was filled with a flurry of orders. Within the next fifteen seconds, the rescue helo had a swimmer in the water holding the pilot and RIO’s faces out of the water as a rescue basket was lowered to them. Bird Dog regained consciousness just long enough to insist that Music take the first ride up.
Bird Dog watched Music being hoisted up to the helo, then turned his attention to staying alive. The large waves were alternately lifting him to their peaks and then tossing him into the valleys, and the spray was so heavy that it was hard to draw a deep breath. The life jacket was doing a good job of keeping him afloat, but it was up to him to keep his head out of the water and time his breaths so he wouldn’t take in a lungful of water.
Finally, it was his turn. The rescue carry basket descended, and he swam over to it, cursing when it swung out of reach. Finally, he managed to hook one hand around the bottom of it and pulled it toward him. He pulled himself inside, strapped in, and raised a thumbs-up at the hoist operator. With a hard jerk, the rescue basket began its ascent.
As it came level with the side hatch of the helo, Bird Dog was already struggling with the strap, trying to undo it even before he was inside. “Stop that!” a crew member snapped, and swung the basket inside the helo. He motioned to the other man to shut the hatch, and then glared at Bird Dog. “What do you think you’re trying to do, you idiot?” He grabbed for a hand hold as the helo banked sharply away from the area and back toward the carrier. “I go to all the trouble to pull you out of the water, and you’re trying to get thrown back in. If you fall out, I’m leaving you there.”
“How is he?” Bird Dog asked, letting them undo the straps. Music was stretched out on his back, pale and only semi-conscious. A corpsman was already ripping apart the flight suit to take a look at the wound.
“He’ll live,” the corpsman said. “Didn’t even break the bone. Once it heals up, there’s no reason he can’t be back in a flight status after some physical therapy.”
At that, Music groaned and opened his eyes. “No more flying. That’s it for me.”
Bird Dog stared at him, disbelief in his eyes. “What do you mean, no more flying? Come on, Music, I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”
Music shook his head weakly. “It’s not for me, Bird Dog. It’s just not. As soon as we get back on deck, I’m turning in my wings.”
“Back to the fight?” Rat said, and then she noticed that the Tomcat was already ascending again.
“Back to the fight,” Fastball said grimly. “Watch my ass, Rat. We’re going to kill us some Fencers.”
Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. Fastball hadn’t gotten six kills, but he sounded fairly content with the three he’d managed to rack up. The last had been a real son of a bitch, stitching a line of bullets down his vertical control surfaces before finally wandering into Fastball’s own guns.
As the American forces headed for the tanker, then lined up for a shot at the deck, the few remaining Chinese aircraft were already facing the consequences of failure as they landed.
Captain Chang was seated in his stateroom, his back to the door. He heard his second in command announce Major Ho, but, as they’d planned, he did not answer.
The door opened and hesitant footsteps sounded on the spotless white tile. Still Chang did not turn. This was the first test.
Five minutes passed, and there was no sound behind him. Not an impatient throat clearing, not a scuffle, not even a sniff. Finally, Chang wheeled around to stare directly at the top of Ho’s head. The younger man’s bow was as deep as Chang had ever seen, and Ho was waiting to be acknowledged with a patience and submissiveness that Chang would not have expected from him.