Final Flight by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page A

ensure that it
was what they thought and that it was alone. The fighters would
stay well back out of view of the airliner’s
cockpit and passenger windows and would follow
until told to break off.
    Jake yawned and flashed his exterior lights.
Then he turned north.
    Jelly Dolan followed obediently. In a
few moments he turned east to permit Toad and
Boomer to use their radars to scan the skies toward
Lebanon. If any terrorists or fanatics
attempted a night aerial strike on the carrier
task group, it would more than likely come from the east.
    “Nothing, CAG. The sky’s as clean as a
virgin’s conscience.” “How come you’re always talking
about women, Toad?”
    “Am I?” Feigned shock.
    “After three months at sea, I’d think your
hormones would have achieved a level of dormancy that
allowed your mind to dwell on other subjects.”
    “I’m always horny. That’s why they call me
Toad. When are we going into port, anyway?”
    “Whenever the admiral says.”
    “Yes sir. But have you got any idea when he
might say it?”
    “Soon, I hope.” Jake was very much aware of the
toll the constant day-and-night flight operations had
taken on the ship’s crew and the men of the air wing.
He thought about the stresses of constant work,
work, work on the men as he guided the Tomcat through the
sky.
    “We’re approaching the eastern edge of the area,”
Toad reminded him.
    Jake glanced toward Jelly. The wingman was not
there. “Jelly?”
    He looked on the other side. The sky was
empty there, too. He rolled the aircraft and
looked down. Far below he saw a set of lights.
    “Red Ace Two Oh Seven, do you read?”
Jake rolled on his back and pulled the nose
down. “Strike, Red Ace Two Oh Five,
I’m leaving altitude.”
    The nose came down twenty degrees and Jake
pointed it at the lights.
    “Jelly, this is CAG. Do you read me,
over?”
    “He’s going down,” Toad informed him.
“Boomer, talk to me.” Jake had the throttles
full forward: 450 knots, now 500, passing
21,000 feet descending. The aircraft below was in
a gentle right turn, and Jake hastened to cut the
turn short and intercept.
    “Red Ace Two Oh Five, Strike. Say
your problem.”
    “My wingman is apparently in an
uncontrolled descent and I can’t raise him on
the radio. Am trying to rendezvous. Have you got an
emergency squawk?”
    “Negative. Keep me advised.”
    Now he throttled back and cracked the speed
brakes. He was closing rapidly. Passing
15,000 feet. Goddamn, Jelly’s nose was
way down. In the darkness Jake found it
extremely difficult to judge the closure, and
he finally realized he was too fast. He
cross-controlled with the speed brakes full out and
overshot slightly.
    “Thirteen thousand feet.”
    Jake slid in on Jelly’s left side as
he thumbed the boards in. Toad shone his white
flashlight on the front cockpit of the other
fighter.
    The pilot’s helmeted head lolled from side
to side. In the back cockpit Boomer also
appeared to be unconscious. Both men had their
oxygen masks on.
    “We’re steepening up, CAG.” Toad said.
“Twelve degrees nose down.
    Fifteen-degree right turn. Passing
nine thousand.”
    “Jelly, talk to me, you son of a bitch.” No
good. “Wake up! “Jake screamed.
    He crossed under the other plane and locked on the
right wing. He moved forward as Toad kept the
flashlight on Jelly’s helmet. He flipped
the radio channel selector switch to the emergency
channel and turned off the scrambler.
    “Wake up, Jelly, or you’re going to sleep
forever!”
    “Six thousand.” Toad’s voice. “Pull
up!”
    “Five thousand.”
    “Eject, eject, eject! Get out Jelly!
Get out Boomer!”
    “Four thousand. Fifteen degrees nose down.
Jake began to pull his nose up. As the descending
Tomcat fell away he lost sight of the slumped
figures in the cockpit. He rolled into a turn
to keep the lights of the descending plane in sight.
    “Pull up, pull up, pull up, pull up,
pull …” He was still chanting over the radio when