“Missed! Missile’s vertical.” Music called.
Bird Dog’s missile exploded on the starboard wing intake of the F-5, sending the plane into a slow right turn back toward the U.A.E.
“We hit him, but he’s still flying. He’s heading home.” Bird Dog recovered and entered a hard left slice turn, quickly setting up another shot on the F-5. “Fox Two!” The F-5 had little chance. The Sidewinder ran right up its port tailpipe, bisecting the plane in a fireball.
“Good kill!”
“We missed!” the Rio called, still watching his Sparrow head aimlessly toward the U.A.E. The F-5 had managed to defeat it, through maneuvering and chaff, but had now decided to head home, no match for the better-trained Americans.
The Pilot pulled his Tomcat’s nose up and pressed his throttles through to afterburner. “Let’s get this bastard. He’s not getting away that easy.”
“Sparrow, your dot.”
“Fox One, southbound F-5. Switching to heat.” The P3 thumbed his selector. “Fox Two.”
Both missiles raced toward the F-5 just seconds apart. The pilot detected the incoming Sparrow and ejected, leaving his empty plane without a chance. The Sparrow hit first, ripping the F-5s right wing from the fuselage, followed moments later by the Sidewinder tearing through the port engine. The F-5 crumbled, then began to roll before disintegrating.
“Splash One F-5, southbound, angels eight.”
Morrow looked at his displays. He was still too far for her in this condition.
“Lobo,” he called over the tactical. “Move in and check out Rat. She’s not responding.”
“Roger, be there in a flash.”
Morrow clicked his mike again. “Come on, girl. Talk to me.”
“Tell Doug, I… tell him… I… Hanna…” Her head fell against the headrest then hung off her left shoulder.
“Johnnie! Johnnie! Respond!” Morrow closed his eyes.
Morrow shut down his remaining engine and hit the canopy release button, then started to loosen his restraints. He had to see what was wrong with his RIO. Lobo had said that the back canopy was shattered and that she could see splotches of red on the instrument console. In her estimation, Rat was either unconscious or dead.
Fastball managed to escape just as one of the flight surgeons scaled the right side of his Tomcat and peered into the backseat. “She’s alive — for now,” the flight surgeon shouted down at the corpsmen following him up the bounding ladder. “Come on, people — move! I want her in surgery in the next three minutes. Tell the orthopedic surgeon and neurologist to stand by. If we move fast enough, we may be able to save this arm!”
Morrow leaned back into his cockpit and lowered his head. His squadron had lost two aviators — would Rat make it three? Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to throw up. Was it his fault? Should he have seen those MiGs or at least anticipated that they would be there? The long-range contacts had been a mere diversion for the MiGs on the deck.
“Damn it,” he swore and punched the side of his Tomcat. Rat couldn’t die — she just couldn’t.
He turned his gaze toward Iran. The gray-blue waters of the Persian Gulf were rough tonight, the big warship rising and falling in the swells. Somewhere out there, he thought, an Iranian pilot is telling his squadron mates about the “great shot” he had gotten on an American Tomcat. A good shot, they’d say, but “not a kill.” How ironic.
Wadi glanced at his fuel gauge, and saw how critically low he was. The last stretch of afterburner had done him in. He had forgotten how easy it was to lose track of time and expend fuel.
No matter, the second wave was launching now. As he had planned, the initial strike would return to base, refuel, and then relieve the second wave. They could keep this up almost indefinitely, until the American aircraft carrier and cruiser were worn down.
Reluctantly, he turned away from the fur ball of aircraft radar contacts. He clicked on his mike. “First flight, bingo.” One by one, the aircraft broke off from their engagements and turned back for the base.
As he came in, he saw the fuel trucks lined up, waiting to begin the refueling. He taxied into position next to the first one, eager to be off the ground and back in the air.
While the refueling truck positioned itself, a technician scurried up the boarding ladder and offered him a high sugar, high protein snack and a drink of water. He gulped both down. Then he glanced over at his wing. Two of the refueling technicians were poking uncertainly at the fueling port, a look of concern on their faces. Fury boiled over in him. After all he had done, to be stymied by incompetence on the ground was too much to bear. He stood up, leaned out of the cockpit, and said, “You’ll fuel this aircraft or you will die. You understand that?” He was so angry he almost leaped out onto the wing to complete the refueling himself.
The technicians drew back. Fear flooded their faces.
“What is wrong with you?” he screamed, now almost oblivious to everything around him. “Refuel my aircraft!”
Finally, one of them spoke, his voice trembling. “We… we cannot, sir. The fuel pump ports… they’re welded shut.”
Wadi took his pistol out of his survival and shot the man. Then he turned the second. “Refuel my aircraft.”
The technician shuddered, aware that he would die within the next five minutes. “It is… it is impossible, sir.” He shut his eyes and composed himself for death.
Wadi put pressure on the trigger again, then a sick feeling of horror swept over him. Those bastard Russians — had they dared? He scrambled out of the aircraft onto the wing, shoving the dead technician out of the way. He put his hand into the fueling port himself, and his fingers scrabbled against a mass of immovable metal.
Up and down the flight line, the other pilots were encountering the same problem. And he knew with a cold, dreadful certainty that every aircraft now in the air, all of his second precious flight, would also have fuel ports welded shut. They could sustain the battle for another fifteen minutes, but after that, it would be impossible.
TWENTY-SEVEN
After only two days of being accompanied by bodyguards everywhere she went, Ambassador Wexler was already seriously tired of it. At Brad’s insistence, the men followed her everywhere, and it seemed she could do nothing to countermand his orders. For the millionth time since she had called Brad from the restaurant, she wondered what it was in his background that gave him so much power. More and more every day, it was becoming clear that Brad was not exactly who she had thought he was.
Oh, he was still the perfect aide. There was still fresh tea brewed, insightful comments on current affairs. But lately she had begun to notice a hardness in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. And the man who accompanied her everywhere belonged to him.
Brad had also nixed dinner at any of her favorite restaurants, and so she and T’ing had taken to dining at each other’s homes. He proved to be an excellent cook with a fondness for French cuisine and the tact to express appreciation for the deli sandwiches she usually produced.
This evening, dinner was at his townhouse located in a fashionable section of Manhattan. While she tried to mask her irritation at the security measures, she knew he could tell that something was on her mind. Finally, she told him what was bothering her.