down after a successful trap.
'Howdy, Commander,' someone shouted behind him. 'Your uncle's been pushing the ASW patrols.'
He turned and found himself face to face with a Navy chief. He recognized the man as part of the deck crew. With over six thousand men aboard the Jefferson, the vast majority were strangers with familiar faces.
'Sub hunting,' Tombstone replied. He had to shout to be heard above the carrier's wash. Everyone on board agreed that the only North Korean fleet elements which posed any threat at all to the Jefferson and her consorts were their Whiskey- and Romeo-class submarines, and the ASW Vikings of VS-42 had been up and patrolling around the clock ever since yesterday morning. No doubt the Sea King helos off the various carrier group escorts were patrolling vigorously as well.
The chief struck a cigarette, shielding the flame against sea spray and the eddying wind curling past the ship's hull. 'That was a great job you did on the gomers yesterday, sir,' he said.
'Thanks, Chief.' The man had planted himself against the rail and seemed unlikely to move, so Tombstone turned away and headed back for the cavernous opening leading back into the ship. Usually the fantail was a good place to think. But he didn't want a crowd around when he did it.
Thinking… that was always a bad thing. In Tombstone's experience, aviators who thought too much about their job, about their friends or families, about their responsibilities, were already as good as dead. Maybe it was time he examined his own future as a Naval aviator.
At the moment, it didn't feel like he had much of a future at all.
CHAPTER 9
Admiral Magruder leaned across the radar operator's shoulder, bathed in the eerie green twilight of Jefferson's Combat information Center. 'How long have they been airborne, son?'
'Almost an hour, Admiral. But they broke off orbiting their base at Vladivostok and set this new course about five minutes ago. one-seven-five, range three hundred. Speed five hundred knots.'
Magruder studied the silent sweep of the radar's beam, watching the pulse of light representing a target in the upper left-hand quadrant of the screen. The display was being relayed from one of Jefferson's Hawkeye patrol aircraft, now on station in the darkness north of the carrier some one hundred fifty miles out. The green blip represented a Tupolev Tu-20, a Russian Bear bomber out of the big Soviet fleet base at Vladivostok, and the aircraft's new heading was one which would take it straight over Jefferson's flight deck in less than forty minutes. or worse. They'd be in range to launch a ship-killer missile inside of twenty minutes, and they were in position to spot for a sub-launched cruise missile now.
Which made Soviet intentions at this point a crucial question indeed. 'Who's up on ready aircraft?' Magruder asked.
'Tombstone and Snowball, Batman and Malibu,' CAG replied. 'Alert Fifteen.'
That meant the pilots and their RIOs were standing by, dressed in their flight suits and ready to scramble for a launch within fifteen minutes.
Tombstone and Snowball. After the scene up in Pried-Fly the day before, he'd toyed with the idea of having Marusko take his nephew off the duty roster for a time, but such an order could have destroyed Tombstone's confidence.
On the other hand, Admiral Magruder had recognized the danger signs in Tombstone during that confrontation. His nephew was brooding, probably wondering if he'd been somehow to blame for Coyote being lost at sea. When aviators started to brood… that was when they started to make mistakes.
And there was no room for mistakes in carrier aviation.
All in all, it had seemed best to keep Tombstone in the thick of things, to not allow him time to dwell on his failings.
'Very well,' Magruder said, nodding. 'Launch the Alert Fifteen.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Now his decision was about to be tested. Magruder just hoped to God he was right.
It was dark in the cockpit of his F-14, a pitch blackness relieved only by the red glow from the instrument panel. 'Let's have the lights down a bit, Snowy,' Tombstone said to his RIO.
The instrument lights dimmed in response as Snowball turned the rheostat control. 'How's that, Commander Magruder?'
'Fine. Check your breakers.'
'We're all go for launch back here.'
In the darkness, it felt as though Tombstone was already somehow isolated from the carrier, suspended in black sky above black sea. But they were still on the carrier's flight deck. Tombstone could feel the ponderous movement of the Jefferson as she moved slowly into the wind, and he could hear the familiar clanks and rattles as the deck crew broke down his aircraft, preparing for the launch.
Pastel-colored light stabbed and flashed in the darkness. Yellow lights signaled 'come ahead' as the deck crew guided the second Tomcat onto the number two catapult. Blue lights probed flaps and control surfaces as the red lights of ordnancemen checked the F-14's weapon load.
A green shirt to his left held up a lighted board with 66,000 written on it. Tombstone acknowledged by lifting a penlight to the canopy and waving it in a circular motion. There was a final, decisive clank as the hook-and-cat men finished attaching the catapult hook to the F-14's launch bar. He glanced over his shoulder. The launch light on Jefferson's island was still red.
The catapult officer approached the aircraft, holding a green wand in his right hand, a red wand in his left. He waved the green light briskly from side to side, signaling Tombstone to ease his throttle up to full military power. The fighter trembled in the grip of the holdback bar, ready to hurl itself from Jefferson's deck. Tombstone could feel the power building as he moved his stick, checking the controls.
The launch officer signaled with the green light once more, up and down this time. Tombstone shoved the throttles the rest of the way forward, going to full afterburner. The Tomcat strained even harder at the leash, illuminating the deck in pale light as twin streams of fire screamed from the engines, playing against the raised blast deflector behind them.
Tombstone pulled the control knob that turned on his navigation lights, a final signal to the Air Boss and the launch crew that his Tomcat was ready to go. The light on the island turned green.
In one smooth motion, the cat officer dropped to one knee and touched his lighted wand to the deck.
The seat smacked Tombstone squarely in the back as the burst of steam hurled the Tomcat off the Jefferson's number three catapult. He guided the aircraft through that instant of sluggish hold-your-breath as the F-14 hung suspended off the carrier's bow, then felt the out-thrust wings take hold and the thrust from the twin engines build. 'Good shot, good shot,' he radioed Jefferson's flight control. He was airborne. Stars surrounded him as the Tomcat clawed its way into the night sky.
'Good shot.' That echo over his tactical net was Batman boosting clear of Jefferson's flight deck right behind him. Tombstone held his rate of climb steady, allowing Batman to close on his position, just off his starboard wing.
'Hunt Leader, this is Hunt Two, coming up on your three.'
Tombstone glanced to his right and saw the Christmas tree of green and red nav lights marking Batman's Tomcat. 'Hunt Leader to Hunt Two,' he said. 'Ease off and give me some slack, will you?'
'Roger dodger,' Batman replied in his headset. The other Tomcat drifted back slowly, opening the distance between them by a few feet.
Tombstone sighed and eased his own stick a bit to the left, increasing their separation still more. Batman had a reputation as a hotdog, and was probably trying to impress his CO with a dazzling display of precision night formation flying.
