“Good.” The President nodded. “Good, because I’ve already told Druzhinin to put the plan in the works for his people. And I’ll have the Joint Chiefs draft orders for Admiral Vaughn this afternoon.”
Magruder nodded. He felt suddenly very small, knowing that the decisions being made in this office were those that could save or destroy thousands — or millions — of lives within the next few days. Would India feel differently about the situation if both the United States and Russians made a stand against their ultimatum? Somehow, he doubted it, but perhaps it would make a difference for the men, those from the Commonwealth and America, who were out there south of Karachi.
He studied the lines in the President’s face and knew again the cost of command.
CHAPTER 10
Tombstone walked out onto the flight deck, accepting a helmet — a “cranial” in Navy parlance — from a sailor outside the mangler’s shack, where the deck handlers plotted each on-board movement of every aircraft in Air Wing 20. He was officially on duty in CATCC, but things were slow in Air Ops and he’d checked out for a stroll up on deck to get some fresh air.
The cloud cover had thickened during the night, bringing rain and gale-force gusts of wind, together with towering waves that had crashed over Jefferson’s bows in the darkness with the fury of an avalanche.
That morning the wind had abated to a steady fifteen knots, but the sky was still a dirty gray overcast anchored only a few feet above Jefferson’s highest radar mast. The ocean swells were running seven feet.
The carrier had come about so that the wind was blowing down her angled deck from bow to stern. Jefferson was pitching enough in the heavy waves to make any trap a challenge, and the rolling seas had imparted an extra twist to her movements. Tombstone could feel the corkscrewing motion through his legs as he settled the helmet on his head and stepped onto the open deck.
An E-2C Hawkeye had just completed its trap and was taxiing toward the ship’s starboard side, its wings already twisting sideways and folding back along its flanks in order to avoid the twenty-four-foot, frisbee-shaped rotodome above its back. A yellow-jerseyed deck director led the way, signaling come-ahead with his hands.
Tombstone had been following the incoming air traffic down in CATCC and knew that the next aircraft due on board was a C-2A Greyhound. A long-range twin-engine prop plane used to deliver supplies, personnel, and mail to the battle group at sea, the Greyhound was called a COD, for Carrier On-board Delivery. Outwardly similar to the Hawkeye from which it was derived, the Greyhound had a larger fuselage than the E-2C and a rear-loading cargo ramp, and of course, it lacked the radar frisbee.
Looking aft, he could make out the COD aircraft already in the slot a mile behind the carrier, a silvery speck swelling rapidly against the overcast as it dropped toward Jefferson’s roundoff. He watched as the pilot made a slight, last-second correction, adjusting for the changing pitch of the carrier’s flight deck. Then the Greyhound swept across the ramp and its landing gear slammed onto the roof, the lowered tail hook snagging the number-two wire and yanking the boxy aircraft to a halt.
The propellers continued to describe brilliant silver arcs as the COD plane spit out the wire, then began creeping after the deck director toward the mid-deck directly opposite the island.
Unlike the aircraft of CVW-20 that were based aboard the Jefferson, the COD Greyhound was not permanently a part of the carrier’s complement. It would be shot off the Number One Catapult as soon as its cargo and personnel were off-loaded, the bags of mail from Jefferson’s crew lugged aboard, and its tanks refueled.
Tombstone was waiting as the COD’s rear ramp whined down and a line of men began climbing down onto the deck. All wore civilian clothes and life jackets, all were lean, hard, and young. One saw Tombstone and broke into a broad, lopsided grin.
“Tombstone, you son of a bitch!”
“Coyote!” Their hands clasped, then they embraced, pounding each other’s backs. “God damn, Coyote, welcome aboard!”
Lieutenant Willis E. Grant, call sign “Coyote,” had been Tombstone’s very good friend since they’d first been stationed together at Miramar several years before. Both assigned to VF-95 out of CVW-20, they’d joined Jefferson before she left San Diego almost nine months earlier.
Coyote had been Tombstone’s wingman until a Mig-21’s missile had knocked him out of the sky over the Sea of Japan six months before. Coyote had been captured by the North Koreans, escaped with the help of a Navy SEAL team reconning the camp where he was being held, and been wounded. He’d been medevaced to Japan and finally wound up at the Naval Regional Medical Center, Camp Pendleton.
They walked toward the island. “So!” Tombstone said. “How’s the leg and arm?”
“No problems.” Coyote flexed his arm, demonstrating. “I was out of the hospital inside of six weeks, but they had me humping in the RAG at Miramar until last week. Then they decided you guys needed me.”
Tombstone grinned. “RAG,” for Reserve Air Group, was an obsolete term still used by Navy fliers for the Fleet Readiness Squadrons from which the carriers drew their replacements. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. We’ve been managing okay without you.”
“Ah! Ah!” Coyote held up an admonishing finger. “Can that “Lieutenant’ crap, mister. I pulled another half stripe. Came through while I was in the hospital.”
“Well! Congratulations! It’s about time. Lieutenant Commander, huh?”
“On the road to fame and glory, son. My future career looks rosy as one of our Navy’s elite.”
Coyote’s banter raised a small sting in the back of Tombstone’s mind. It was ironic. Here his friend had finally made it back to VF-95 … and Tombstone was going to be leaving for good in another few weeks.
Well, that was Navy life. Good friends and good-byes.
“Hell, what’s this elite garbage?” Tombstone said roughly, covering his feelings. “You look like a damned civilian to me.”
Coyote looked down at his civvies. “Yeah. Didn’t have time to change.
They routed that COD out of Masirah. We had a few hours in Dawwah, but they wouldn’t let us wear our uniforms. The locals are sensitive about American servicemen on their turf.”
They entered the island and removed their helmets. A seaman took Coyote’s life jacket. “Well,” Coyote said. “I’d better get checked in.
Hey, I hear your uncle’s not the Flag anymore. How’s the new guy?”
Tombstone’s lips compressed, then he shrugged. “Still settling in. You hear about our dustup last night?”
“No. What went down?”
“I imagine they’ll fill you in. We had a run-in with the Indian air force.”
“No shit?” Coyote whistled.
“No shit. We knocked down three of theirs.”
“So it’s gone to a shooting war!”
“Just this side of one anyway.”
“Were you in on it?” Coyote grinned. “You get yourself another kill?”
The question bothered Tombstone. “Yeah. I got a kill.”
“Then you can tell me about it. How about lunch?”
“I’ve got the duty down in CATCC. I’ll see you tonight at chow.”
“Roger that.” Coyote flashed a broad grin and was gone.
Heading in a different direction, Tombstone clattered down a ship’s ladder to the 0–3 deck, then made his way past Combat toward CATCC once more. There was a lot more he’d wanted to tell Coyote. His being grounded, for one thing, and the doubts he’d felt the night before when he kept asking for clearance to fire, with no response. Fog of war was one thing, but Tombstone had the feeling that someone at a high level had not been snapping off the decisions in an efficient and military manner.
True, the tactical situation always looked a lot different on the amber radar screens of CIC than it did in the cockpit of an F-14 on BARCAP, but the orders had been coming too little and too late during the evening’s
