'Commander Toland, sir.'
'Thank you,' the Admiral said without turning. 'Tea and coffee in the corner, Commander.'
Toland availed himself of the tea. He drank it only in the U.K., and after several weeks he found himself wondering why he didn't have it at home.
'Your Tomcats have done well up in Scotland,' Beattie said.
'It was the aerial radar that made the real difference, sir. More than half the kills were made by the RAF.'
'Last week you sent a message to our air operations chaps to the effect that your Tomcats were able to track Backfires visually at very long range.'
It took Toland a few seconds to remember it. 'Oh, yes. It's the video-camera system they have, Admiral. It's designed to identify fighter-size aircraft at thirty miles or so. Tracking something as big as a Backfire they can do at fifty or so if the weather's good.'
'And the Backfires would not know they were there?'
'Not likely, sir.'
'How far could they follow a Backfire?'
'That's a question for a driver, sir. With tanker support, we can keep a Tomcat aloft for almost four hours. Two hours each way, that would take them almost all the way home.'
Beattie turned to face Toland for the first time. Sir Charles was a former aviator himself, last commander of the old Ark Royal, Britain's last real carrier. 'How sure are you of Ivan's operating airfields?'
'For the Backfires, sir? They operate from the four airfields around Kirovsk. I would presume you have satellite photos of the places, sir.'
'Here.' Beattie handed him a folder.
There was a degree of unreality to this, Toland thought. Four-star admirals didn't chew the fat with newly frocked commanders unless they had nothing better to do, and Beattie had lots of things to do. Bob opened the folder.
'Oh.' He looked at a photo set for Umbozero, the field east of Kirovsk. There'd been lit smokepots during the satellite pass, and the resulting black smoke had completely hidden the runways to visual light, with flares messing up the infrared imaging systems as well. 'Well, there are the hardened shelters, and maybe three aircraft. Was this taken during a raid?'
'Correct. Very good, Commander. The Backfire force left the airfield three hours before the satellite pass.'
'Trucks, too-fuel bowsers?' He got a nod. 'They refuel them right after they land?'
'We think yes, before they get into the shelters. Evidently they don't like the idea of fueling inside a building. Seems reasonable enough. Ivan's had problems with accidental explosions the last few years.'
Toland nodded, remembering the explosion at the main ordnance storage facility for the Russian Northern Fleet in 1984. 'Be a hell of a nice time to catch them on the ground-but we don't have any tactical aircraft that'll reach nearly that far. B-52s could do it, but they'd be murdered. We learned that over Iceland.'
'But a Tomcat could trail the Backfires nearly to the Russian doorstep, and that could allow you to predict exactly when they'll land?' Sir Charles persisted.
Toland looked at the map. The Backfires reentered Russian fighter cover about thirty minutes, flying time from their home bases.
'Plus or minus fifteen minutes… yes, Admiral, I think we can do that. I wonder how long it takes to refuel a Backfire.' There was a lot of thinking going on behind those blue eyes, Toland saw.
'Commander, my operations officer will brief you on something called Operation Doolittle. We named it after one of your chaps as a clever bit of subterfuge to weasel the assets from your navy. For the moment, this information is eyes-only to you. Be back here in an hour. I want your evaluation of how we can improve the basic operational concept.'
'Yes, sir.'
They were in New York harbor. O'Malley was in the wardroom finishing up the written account of the destruction of the Soviet submarine when the growler phone on the port bulkhead started making noise. He looked up and discovered he was the only officer in the room. That meant he had to answer it.
'Wardroom. Lieutenant Commander O'Malley.'
'Battleaxe here. May I please speak to your CO?'
'He's taking a nap. Can I help you, or is it important?'
'If he's not too busy, the captain wishes to invite him to dinner. Half an hour from now. Your XO and helicopter pilot also if he's available.'
The pilot laughed. 'The XO's on the beach, but the helo driver's available if the Queen's ships are still wet.'
'Indeed we are, Commander.'
'Okay. I'll go wake him up. Be back to you in a few minutes.' O'Malley hung up and went out the door. He bumped into Willy.
'Excuse me, sir. The torpedo-loading practice?'
'Okay, I'm going to see the skipper anyway.' Willy had complained that the last practice had gone a little slow. He handed the petty officer his report. 'Take this down to the ship's office and tell 'em to type it up.'
O'Malley went forward and found the door to the captain's stateroom closed, but the do-not-disturb light was switched off. He knocked and went in. The noise surprised him.
'Don't you see it!' The words came out as a gasp. Morris was lying on his back, his hands balled into fists on the blanket. His face was covered in sweat and he breathed like a man finishing a marathon.
'Jesus.' O'Malley hesitated. He didn't really know the man.
'Look out!' This was louder, and the pilot wondered if anyone in the passageway outside might hear it and wonder if the captain were-he had to do something.
'Wake up, Captain!' Jerry grabbed Morris by the shoulders and lifted him up into a sitting position.
'Don't you see it!' Morris shouted, still not really awake.
'Settle down, pal. You're tied to the pier in New York harbor. You're safe. The ship is safe. Come around, Captain. It's okay.' Morris blinked his eyes about ten times. He saw O'Malley's face about six inches away.
'What the hell are you doing here?'
'Glad I came. You all right?' The pilot lit a cigarette and handed it to the captain.
Morris refused it and stood. He walked to his basin and got a glass of water. 'Just a dumb dream. What do you want?'
'We've been invited out to dinner next door in half an hour-I guess a reward for giving them the Victor. Also, I'd like your deck crew to practice loading torps on my bird. Last time was a little slow, my petty says.'
'When do you want 'em to do it?'
'Soon as it gets dark, Captain. Better they should learn it the hard way.'
'Okay. Half an hour on dinner?'
'Yes, sir. Be nice to have a drink.'
Morris smiled without much enthusiasm. 'Guess it would. I'll wash up. Meet you in the wardroom. This thing formal?'
'They didn't say so. I wasn't planning to change, if that's all right with you, skipper.' O'Malley was wearing his flight suit. He got lonely without all the pockets.
'Twenty minutes.'
O'Malley went to his stateroom and ran a cloth over his flight boots. The flight suit was new, and he figured that was dressy enough. Morris worried him. The man might come apart, not something that should happen to a commanding officer. That made it partly his problem. Besides, O'Malley told himself, he's a pretty good man.
He looked better when they met again. Amazing what a shower could do. His hair was brushed back and his service khakis pressed. The two officers went aft to the helicopter pad, then down the brow to the dock.
HMS Battleaxe gave the appearance of a larger ship than the American frigate. In fact she was about twelve feet shorter, but seven hundred tons heavier, various differences in her design reflecting the philosophies of her builders. She was undeniably prettier than her American counterpart, her unexciting hull lines more than balanced
