Corcovado, Or Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars

"Okay."

"One other thing. See the note on page five...you'll meet up with a Raven at those coordinates. He'll lead the strike, jamming for the most part, but he'll be carrying anti-radiation heads, too."

He looked over the attack profile and shook his head. "Why so low over the border?" he asked. "I thought their radar's down across the board?"

"A Saudi E-3 is picking up emissions in the area."

"Oh, swell."

"Yeah. Good news all over. Word is someone picked up Buk transmissions late last night, and some Air Force A-10s picked up some SA-7 fire when they tried to hit a road about ten clicks north of there..."

"You're just full of good news, aren't you, Skip?"

"Yeah, well, if it was easy..."

"Yeah, yeah...I hear you, Skipper."

"5-0-9 is scheduled to shoot from cat one, and she's ready to go. Cartwright ought to have the coordinates loaded now, all but the rendezvous with the Raven. Try not to bust 300 AGL inbound, alright?"

"Got it."

"Seeya."

"Yup. Good hunting, skip."

"You too. Better get a move on."

He picked up the rest of his gear and made it to the flight deck as the Roosevelt turned into the wind, and he made his quick walk-around the Intruder just as an S-3 applied full power next to his catapult. After checking his ordnance was racked correctly, and all pins removed, he climbed up into the Intruder's cockpit - just as the Viking launched.

His BN, Ben Cartwright, was still entering waypoints into DIANe when he clambered into his seat; his crew chief helped hook up the O2 line to his face-mask and straighten out his harness before the Chief pulled the safeties on his ejection seat, showing him the pins before he disappeared into the maelstrom down on deck.

He applied power and watched the deck come alive, then closed the canopy, waiting for the wand in the darkness. A minor swarm walked away from the Intruder a moment later, all last-minute checks complete, and he looked at the sea beyond the end of the deck as 'Pri-fly' came over the radio - right on cue.

"Tiger 5-0-9, you clear?"

"5-0-9, nominal."

"You spun up?Ready to roll?" he asked Cartwright as he applied full power and rechecked the wing.

"I'm nominal - I guess. But I was sure having a nice fuckin' dream..."

"Yeah, okay. Let's do this shit." He turned to the wands down in the dark and adjusted his head a little, pushing his body back in the seat a little more, then he turned his head a little and saluted into the night...

A lime green want arced and pointed into the wind, then touched the deck...

...And the old A6-E roared down the deck...

The transition to flight was subtle...just the slightest dip as 5-0-9's wings bit into the thick air...and, as was his habit, he shook his head and worked his jaw as he raised the gear and cleaned the wing, keeping one eye on the altimeter, the other on his airspeed, scanning the engine tapes until he was at 500AGL.

"Come left to three one zero," Cartwright said. "You got the Raven's coordinates?"

"Entered," he added, trimming the Intruder into a shallow descent.

"Okay...why don't you do some of that pilot shit and wake me when we get back."

"Yup, you take a nap. Just remember to wake me up somewhere over Kansas, okay?"

"Yup."

"Tiger 5-0-9, Big Stick."

"Five by five, Stick."

"Tiger Lead is airborne. Start your hack in five, four, three, two, one - mark."

"Got it."

"Contact Turnout on 244.3, and good luck."

"Forty-four three, and thanks."

With his eyes on the altimeter, he trimmed the Intruder again and slipped the HUD into terrain mode, looked at the sea's surface one more time before he turned all his concentration to his cockpit instruments. He would for the rest of this first segment, anyway.

"5-0-9, Turnout."

"5-0-9, go."

"Come to 3-2-0, get down in the weeds now."

"3-2-0."

"Uh, 5-0-9, we're picking up emissions inside Al-Wafrah, profile looks like an SA-11."

"Got it."

"Magpie 3-0-9, expedite."

"3-0-9."

"Uh, 5-0-9, make that 3-3-0. Someone just went active."

"Jerry?"

"I'm looking..." his BN said as the Intruder's threat receivers started warbling...then..."I got one launch!" Cartwright said, almost too quietly. "One airborne - uh, make that two...high-PRM, turning south by southwest!"

He sighed, felt his sphincters relax a little as he pulled up on the stick. Five twenty knots and one ten over the waves meant one wrong twitch and Tiger 5-0-9 would become a smeary patch of oil in the waters off Kuwait...then he saw the beach a mile ahead, and a few campfires down on the sand as they roared over seconds later.

"5-0-9, feet dry."

"5-0-9, come left to 3-1-0 and climb to at least 200 AGL, buddy, or I can't see you."

"Three ten and two."

"How long?" Cartwright asked.

"To?"

"The Raven."

"Call it ten minutes."

"Wish there was some moon."

"Not me. Too many b-b-guns down there."

"Hear anything from Barbara?"

"Nope. She went back home, I think. To her parents for a while."

"5-0-9, got an outbound strike headed to the Stick, two miles north, 300AGL."

"Okay."

"5-0-9, come to 295 NOW!"

He hit the stick hard, reefed the Intruder into a steep left turn, his eyes focused on the altimeter as he came off the power a little, then the threat receiver came on again.

"What the fuck!"

"Looks like heat-seekers. SA-7s, my guess," Cartwright croaked, the G-forces making it hard to talk now.

"Every Gomer with a flintlock," he groaned - as he straightened out on 2-9-0.

"5-0-9, you guys still with me?"

"Roger that. Looked like SA-7s."

"5-0-9, concur, your traffic is now two zero miles out, come right to 3-4-0."

"Got it."

"Okay, come up to 700AGL for the meet, then resume attack profile after you hook up."

"Seven, yeah."

A few minutes later the EF-111 appeared high and to their left, coming out of Saudi Arabia, and he reefed the Intruder into a gently arcing turn and slipped into the Raven's four o'clock.

"Magpie, 5-0-9. Where are you guys?"

"I can count your hemorrhoids, Magpie."

"Got it. You ready?"

"Affirmative."

"Okay...follow me."

He looked around once, finally realized the night was clear and it looked like there were a billion stars out, then he focused on the -111 and followed this Magpie character into a sharp dive, letting his speed build up to almost four hundred and fifty hundred knots - as fast as the Intruder dared go at this density altitude, and with this payload.

"Magpie, 5-0-9, I've got two transmitters targeted, launching in three-two-one..."

He had his visor down in an instant, and he squinted ahead just enough to see his instruments - yet even the intense bloom flared, almost blinding him.

"Fuck!" Cartwright screamed.

"Magpie, 5-0-9, launching in three-two-one..."

He clinched his eyes tightly this time, and still he saw the bloom - only it was deep red this second time, leaving the jangled impression of blood vessels on his retinas. He shook his head, looked at the attack cue on his HUD and armed both missiles.

"Launch in fifteen seconds," Cartwright sighed, flipping the final safeties to OFF. "Ten seconds. Magpie, launching ONE in five, four, three, two and one...launching TWO in five, four, three, two, one..."

His eyes almost wilted under the sustained fire that leapt from his wings.

"Magpie, Turnout, two impacts, high order probability detonations on target. Come left to zero-two-zero, start jamming off axis."

"Magpie, 0-2-0."

"509, SLAM ONE has detonated. I've lost your second...no...wait one. SLAM TWO detonation, both appear to be on target. Tiger 500 and 5-0-2 are starting their runs. Come to zero-eight-two degrees and 500AGL, 300 K-T-S now."

"509, 500 and three."

"509, start your run pilot's discretion."

He looked at the chronometer on the panel...call it fifteen seconds...as he trimmed out of his dive and went to full power. "Going in now," he said to the controller in the E-2C, then, to Cartwright: "Pickle's hot?"

"My bombs," his BN added, unnecessarily.

Even from ten miles out the mass of spreading fire was visible, and he couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like down there. At least ten thousand pounds of high explosives had just hit the Iraqi air field - everything from fuel storage bladders to the control tower had taken direct hits, and now he was coming in to literally drop bombs on anything, or anyone, left standing.

Then...the threat receiver screamed into the night...

...As five SAMs lit off and arced into the sky - chasing the skipper and the XO...

"Turnout? Got a vector to the launcher?"

"500, 509, negative. Hit the airfield again, got that! Repeat, stay on target!"

"509, roger."

"509, Turnout, radar contact, we got three aircraft taxiing for the runway, looks like the Sukhois."

"Vector?"

"Call it zero-eight-one."

"Show me four-zero seconds out. Gotta drop from at least eight hundred."

"509, no active emissions...they shut down...probably putting more on the rails."

"Yup. Runway in sight...confirm...looks like three Frogfoots and a Flogger..."

The threat receiver began howling again...just as he pickled his bombs on the Sukhois...and seconds later he saw at least one SAM arcing-in. He pickled flares and chaff, pushed the stick down easy and turned into the missiles, trying to confuse their radars. Fire more chaff, stick up, jink right then push down...

One missile exploded harmlessly in his wake...

The second missed, but only by a few meters, and it exploded less than a hundred meters behind his Intruder...

Then...fire alarms blared, hydraulic pressures began falling, then electric buses tripped. He looked over, saw Cartwright's head was - gone - geysers of raw arterial blood pumping from the stump...and he felt sharp pain in his right leg, shooting up from his ankle all the way to his thigh...

"Uh, 509, I'm going down - fast."

"509, say again?"

"509, I'm hit, my BN is gone, engines out, losing pressures...uh...okay, fire spreading to the wing...punching out now..."

He didn't hang around for a reply, and the next thing he knew he was hanging from his harness, drifting down towards a black hole in the desert...and he was sure his right leg was shattered.

+++++

He was sitting on the swim platform, Altair still visible in the early morning sky - now low on the southwest horizon. He could hear Ted describing Altair's systems to Tracy, trying his best to impress the girl, and no doubt failing miserably despite his reassuringly authoritative choice of words. In his experience girls just didn't give a damn about electronics and all that 'stuff,' though they often tried to appear interested. If they were, well, interested in the boy talking, that is. Only he wasn't sure who or what this girl was interested in - yet - and that bothered him.

The whole license thing bothered him, too.

Like she didn't appreciate the gravity of his passport explanation and so had decided to play him. To call him on it, in other words...and in his world eighteen-year-old girls just didn't do that. No, he wondered who she really was, and what her angle was. Most of all, he wanted to know who she was running from.

And just then he wished Ted had checked his testosterone back in Boston.

He could still see Vancouver's lights in their wake, and while the sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky it was still quite dark out.

"Just like me," he said softly. "Groping around in the dark again."

He looked at his star, watched it fade.

"You're too quiet," he whispered to Altair, his one and only star. "Talk to me..."

He looked at her fading light and nodded, then a shiver ran across his soul...like careless children running across a grave.

+++++

He could see Tiger 509 cartwheeling after it slammed into the mud, spraying jet fuel in wide arcs as it tumbled - and suddenly vast swathes of marshy grass lit off. Marching with the prevailing wind, the flames ran north, but then the thought struck him...

The flames were bright, and he looked up, saw his olive colored parachute as plain as day - which meant any Gomer within ten miles could see him silhouetted against the flames, too.

And now, hanging up here in the sky, his leg felt like it was on fire, too.

At least, he said to no one in particular, he felt somewhat intact. Not like...

No, I'm not going there, he thought. I'm alive - I'll worry Ben later. He reached for his SART radio and turned it on, but left it attached to his harness...

"509, how do you read, over?"

He fumbled for the transmit button and pressed it. "509, still in my chute."

"Confirm, you are down?"

"Yeah, 509 is down. The aircraft is about a half mile east of my position."

"Are you intact?"

"Negative. Some metal sticking out of my leg, it feels broken, but that's about all I can see from here."

"Call when you get set."

"Yup," he said, but the ground was rushing up now, and he knew what was coming next...

He tumbled for what felt like forever, his chute full of the southerly breeze and dragging his body through what had to be acres of marshy reed and prickly grass...then the silk got tangled in some sort of stunted tree and he slid to a stop in thick mud. He lay still for a moment, listening to his heart beat in his temples, then he tried to slow his breathing down but he was just too disoriented for that, so he pulled out his K-Bar and cut parachute cords, cutting himself free of the fluttering silk.

He rolled over, tried to see the wound but it was still too dark and he didn't dare use his flashlight out there in the open. He leaned up and took a look around, saw he had landed in coastal marsh, he could hear the sea beyond - and a small city perhaps ten miles away...probably Abādān...and he knew troops were there...because that's where the SAMs had come from...

He turned again and he hurt all over, felt light-headed for a moment and he steadied himself against a rock...until he heard movement in the marshy grass a few meters away...

Then he remembered...there were supposedly crocodiles in these marshlands and he pushed himself up, gathered the remains of the parachute and walked directly away from the marsh as quickly as he could...

He came upon a low escarpment of rocky scree and he strung up the remains of the parachute between a few stumpy trees, making a shelter of sorts - as he knew the sun would be brutal in just a few hours, and only then did he unclip the light from his harness and look at his leg...

He saw one piece of metal jutting from the top of his thigh, and it looked thin - and sharp - then he shined the light on his right shin and saw a much more ragged piece - of something - that had gone all the way through his leg, and this wound was bleeding. He felt for the little first aid kit in his right breast pocket and pulled it out, looked for the powder he was supposed to pour on wounds to control bleeding and found it. He gently opened the pack and poured a little on both, then leaned back and took a deep breath...

'The radio!' he thought... 'Got to get on the radio, turn on the beacon...'

He found the beacon and flipped it on, then turned on the radio and called in: "509, on the ground."

He paused, heard nothing, then called again.

"509, checking in, how do you read?"

"509, we have your beacon, some bad guys in the area looking for you right now, so keep your head down. Call in at 0500 hours, earlier if compromised."

"Got it." He turned the radio to standby - to conserve power - then he bunched up some extra parachute material in a pillow and leaned back - and then the light-headedness returned...this time with a vengeance. He reached out to steady himself but he was falling again, falling through cool clouds, falling to the earth, and into the night...

+++++

They dropped anchor that afternoon, a mile off the main channel in a protected harbor on the south side of Musket Island. He inflated the Zodiac and put the little Honda outboard on it's thin wooden stern, then held her off with one hand as he pulled the little inflatable to the bow with the other. Ted was getting the second anchor ready on the foredeck as he pulled up, and he took the anchor, put it on the hard floor, then turned to the motor and pulled the crank...

"Ready to pay out the chain?" he asked as the little outboard sputtered to life.

"I've got 200 feet ready. Is that enough?"

"Should be."

"I think we should tie the stern off to those trees," Ted added, pointing to shore. "Maybe keep us from swinging too much..."

"Not with these tides, unless you want to stay up all night paying out line," he said as he puttered slowly away from Altair. When he was fifty yards away from their first anchor he let this second one, a 44 pound Rocna, go; when it hit bottom he moved off a few yards then dropped the remaining chain overboard.

"Okay, back it down a little, rudder to port."

"Okay!" Ted called out, but by that time he was paying attention to Tracy again. Arms crossed over her chest, a petulant expression on her face. 'Not quite bored yet,' he sighed inwardly. 'But give it a few more hours...then the hurting will begin.'

The first thing he'd noticed as the day warmed - and sweatshirts came off - were the tell-tale tracks on her arm, and that set off all his internal alarms. This was his ship, and he was responsible for any drugs found on board, and that meant if they were boarded and drugs were found - anywhere - he could conceivably lose the boat. His home. And that meant he had to proceed carefully, and quickly, to get to the bottom of this.

"So," he said to himself, "tell Ted and let him handle it, or do it myself?"

Do it yourself, the little voice in the back of his head said. Don't put this one off on Ted.

He nodded as he set a trip-line for the anchor, then he motored off to the rocky shore, to the crumbling remnants of an old granite quarry. He waved at an older couple anchored as he passed, noting their little sailboat had come all the way from Southhampton, England, and he shook his head, wondering what it must be like to be cooped up on a thirty foot boat in the middle of the Atlantic...for weeks?

The water was clear near the rocky shore as he slowed - then beached - the Zodiac, and he hopped out, walked the rocks for a few minutes, looking at Altair as he picked his way around the worst of them, looking at Ted and Tracy talking on the foredeck. He was not looking forward to this...not at all...

He looked-over the old quarry for a while, climbed among the rusted detritus, wondering where these slabs of time had ended up. Some courthouse in Vancouver, probably, maybe Seattle or Portland. He turned, looked at the sun...maybe an hour to go to twilight, so it was time to head back and get to it.

By the time he was motoring back he saw Ted and Tracy had gone below, and he groaned. 'God, not already,' he said inwardly...dreading the idea of his son screwing this girl, of all girls.

He circled Altair once before he approached the swim-platform and tied off, and by the time he reached for the rail Ted was standing there, waiting for him.

With a couple of baggies in hand.

And with what looked like a handful of insulin syringes.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"Heroin," Ted said.

"Did you get all of it?"

"Unless it's stashed up her ass, yeah."

"Okay."

"I've checked already," his son added. "We can drop her at Powell River on the way up, in the morning."

"Is that what she wants?"

"No. She wants to stay."

"Nowhere to go?"

"Nope."

"No money?"

"A few bucks."

"What's with the McGill story?"

"Bullshit, for the most part. She came over a few years ago, dropped out after her second year. Been drifting ever since."

He nodded as he looked at his son. No, no longer a boy, that much was certain...but what kind of man was he going to be?"