Sword of Shiva - Страница 32

And then they had blasted Owen Dowell without warning. There had been no radar spikes, no fire control acquisition alerts. Just a sudden fireball as Poker took a missile right in the lips. Probably that made the Chinese missile some kind of infrared homer, or something else which didn’t require an active seeker that would have alerted the sensors in the Super Hornets.

Rob didn’t give a damn about any of the technical details. He had concentrated on going after the treacherous fucks who had just killed Poker.

* * *

Now, as he made his approach toward the Midway, Rob could no longer remember much about the engagement. He knew that he had shot down two of the Bogies, and damaged a third. He knew that he had taken a hit somewhere in the mêlée.

He knew that his wings were bare of weapons, and his 20mm gun was completely out of rounds. Most of the details of the dogfight had faded with his anger, but he had definitely emptied the full magazine on the bastards.

He checked his range to the carrier. It was time to call in, so he keyed his radio circuit. “Strike — Two Zero Nine at fifty-two. Single engine, state four point three.”

His report, as short and cryptic as it might have seemed to non-aviators, told Strike Command everything they needed to know. Monk was 52 miles away from the carrier, coming in on one engine, and he was down to only 4,300 pounds of fuel.

Strike responded immediately. “Roger, Two Zero Nine. Flash Ident.”

Monk toggled the switch that gave his aircraft’s IFF transponder an extra burst of transmit power. This would cause the symbol for his plane to flash briefly on the aircraft carrier’s tracking display, verifying his identity, and making it easier to spot him among the cluttered radar signatures of the busy air pattern.

He checked his fuel again. He’d be cutting it close. A healthy Super Hornet burned about 1,100 pounds of gas during a routine landing pass. Monk didn’t know what his current burn rate was, but his aircraft was definitely not healthy, and his fuel usage was bound to be higher than normal.

He had survived the dogfight, and limped most of the way home. Was he going to get this close to the carrier, and then run out of fuel before he could land? Wouldn’t that be some fucking irony?

There was no way for him to know how badly his airframe was damaged, or whether or not the canopy would open if he had to punch out. If the canopy was jammed shut, the ejection seat’s solid fuel rocket would slam him into the underside of the acrylic bubble at about 12g’s. As Poker used to say, hamburger all over the highway.

He gave his head a quick jerk to clear his mind. It was time to stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. He needed to concentrate on keeping his plane in the air. Aviate, navigate, communicate. That was all he needed to do. Aviate, navigate, communicate. Forget about all the shit that could kill him.

* * *

His Squadron Rep’s voice came over the radio. “Two Zero Nine — Barnstormer. Alright buddy, let’s work the list.”

Back on the carrier, Chuck ‘Barnstormer’ Barnes was armed with a copy of the NATOPS systems handbook and checklists for the F/A-18E aircraft. Like all Navy pilots, Monk carried a pocket version of the checklist in his cockpit, but the content of the short list was pared down to a bare minimum, for rapid and easy use. Flying a jet aircraft didn’t leave time for reading lengthy technical write-ups, so multiple-failure situations were not covered. Major emergencies called for the full NATOPS manual, and Chuck Barnes was ready to talk Monk through the list of in-flight checks and emergency procedures.

By the time they had done all they could do with the checklist, Monk was coming up on the 25 mile mark. It was time to check in with the carrier’s Air Traffic Control Center.

He keyed the radio again. “Marshal — Two Zero Nine at twenty-five. Single engine, three point seven.”

“Roger single engine,” Marshal replied. “We’re going to bring you straight in.”

That was a comforting, if obvious decision. Monk was being given clearance to bypass the air traffic control pattern (the stack), and proceed directly in for a landing approach.

He didn’t have enough fuel to wait his turn in the stack, even if he hadn’t been flying on one engine. As usual, there was a tanker orbiting the carrier at 3,000 feet. The standard procedure would be to rendezvous with the tanker, take on some gas, and make his final approach with a comfortable fuel margin. But one of the many flashing red tattletales on Monk’s up-front control display told him that several components of the Super Hornet’s fuel system — including the extendible fuel probe — were failing real-time function checks. The decision not to risk an in-flight refueling had been made way above his pay grade.

* * *

Monk was down to 3,200 pounds of fuel by the time he was five miles out, and it was becoming clear that he would need to trap on the first try. If he missed the wire on the first pass, he might have enough gas to make it back around for a second attempt. They’d definitely rig the barricade if he had to make a second approach.

No Navy pilot ever wanted to land that way, his plane caught in a giant nylon net like a fly trapped in a spider web. Not a good way to land, but it was better than ejecting.

The carrier was visible now, a small dark shape in the distance.

Monk spotted the ‘ball’ about three-quarters of a mile out, the colored lights of the Fresnel lens optical landing system. The orange meatball showed slightly below the green horizontal datum lights. He was a little low, but his lineup looked good.

He added power to his one good engine and keyed the radio. “Marauder Two Zero Nine, Super Hornet ball, two point eight, single engine.”

The Landing Signal Officer responded. “Roger ball.”

The aircraft carrier that had looked so tiny just a few minutes earlier was growing rapidly, but Monk concentrated on the meatball, his lineup, and angle of attack. Meatball, lineup, angle of attack. Nothing else. Just like in training. Meatball… Lineup… Angle of attack…

The LSO’s voice came over the radio. “Little power.”

Monk edged the throttle forward on his good engine and his flight path shallowed a fraction. A few seconds later, his wheels slammed into the deck. He instantly shoved the throttle forward, his lone engine shrieking to full power in case he missed the wires and boltered.

His tailhook caught the number two wire. Not a perfect landing, but good enough. His body surged forward against his restraint straps as the arresting cable decelerated his aircraft, and brought it to a stop.

He was down.

A yellow shirt ran toward him, giving the throttle-down signal. Monk brought the port engine back to idle, and the voice of the Air Boss boomed over the radio. “Two Zero Nine — Boss. We’re gonna shut you down right there.”

Monk acknowledged the order, acknowledged the yellow shirt’s ‘chocks-in’ signal, and powered down his port engine. The silence in the cockpit was almost deafening.

The flight deck crew was already moving toward his plane, bringing the tractor to tow Monk’s injured aircraft to its designated landing spot.

And then, with his plane safely on deck, Monk’s bladder cut loose and he pissed in his flight suit.

Great… He would hear about that for the rest of his fucking career. No one would ever talk about the two Bogies he had downed, or the third that he’d shot holes in, or how he had kept a severely damaged plane in the sky for 300 miles, and then managed a difficult trap.

All he’d ever hear about was how he had wet his fucking diaper.

But no one ever mentioned the urine soaked flight suit. No one ribbed him about losing control of his bladder. No one even hinted at changing his callsign to Potty Boy or Diaper Man. If Rob’s temporary lapse of continence was discussed by anyone, he never heard a word of it.

And no one ever called him Nugget again.

CHAPTER 37

WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

WASHINGTON, DC

SUNDAY; 30 NOVEMBER

8:33 PM EST

President Wainright strode into the Situation Room, accompanied by a Secret Service Agent. The agent took his usual station in the corner as the president dropped into his chair. “Would someone kindly tell me just what in the hell happened?”

The Sit Room Duty Officer opened his mouth, but Admiral Casey, the Chief of Naval Operations, responded first. “It was an aerial combat engagement in the Bay of Bengal, Mr. President. Two F/A-18 Super Hornets off the USS Midway were vectored in to warn off four Chinese J-15 strike fighter aircraft from the aircraft carrier Liaoning. Planes off the Midway have conducted ten or twelve similar intercepts over the last week or so. Until now, they’ve always ended peacefully, with the Chinese fighters heading for home after the Hornets show up.”

“We’re not sure why it went differently this time,” he said. “All we know for certain is that the J-15s opened fire on our Hornets, and an air battle ensued. One of our Hornets went down and the other one took some damage, but made it back safely. At least two of the Chinese planes were destroyed. A third Chinese aircraft was damaged, but it was still in the air when it passed out of our radar coverage, so that one probably wasn’t a kill.”

The president stared at the CNO. “We are positive that our pilots didn’t shoot first?”