Islamabad that we will see this through, regardless of world opinion! It will be, gentlemen, the gateway to our own future as a global power!”
Ramesh returned the orders to the folder unread. He didn’t need to see them to know their content … or to know that, after a few hours of argument, the military staff would give it their stamp of approval. The possible benefits were enormous, the risks relatively small. There was a stronger possibility of Pakistan deciding to employ nuclear weapons, but perhaps Intelligence was correct in assuming that Islamabad was not yet able to deploy such weapons in the field.
Those considerations did not really touch him closely in any case, because he had seen one section of those orders, the paragraphs dealing with Indian navy deployment. The Indian aircraft carrier Viraat had been designated the flagship of the naval operation against the Americans.
And Rear Admiral Ajay Ramesh was commander of Viraat’s task force, with the carrier as his flag. It would be he who led the attack against the foreigners, opening the way for the IAF bomber strikes.
It would be a suitable revenge for poor Joshi’s death.
“Yeah, Coyote, it’s true,” Tombstone said. The clatter of dishes and silverware rose around them, mingled with the low conversations of several dozen of the ship’s officers. Tombstone was clad in his khakis, but Coyote was still wearing his flight suit after an afternoon of patrol and practice touch-and-goes off Jefferson’s roof.
“God, man, I don’t believe it! How can they can the goddamned squadron commander?”
Tombstone pushed his dinner tray back on the table. He’d not felt much like eating. “By not making it an official canning. They’ll just take their time getting around to the investigation and hope I go away in the meantime.”
“Kiss of death, man! They can’t pull that shit! An aviator’s got to get out there and strap on that airplane every day, or he loses the edge!”
“Hell, they’re doing it. Can’t fight city hall. You know that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not bad. Gives me a chance to catch up on my paperwork. The Vipers are down two aircraft, and getting IM-2 moving on our work orders is like shoveling mud.” The IM-2 division of Jefferson’s Aircraft Intermediate Maintenance Department (IMD) was responsible for all inspection, testing, calibration, and repair of the aircraft embarked aboard the carrier. He knew his offhand statement was not entirely fair; IM-2 consisted of eight officers, 420 men, and thirty civilian technical reps with an impossible backlog of orders and requests. “Officially, I guess I’m still in charge.”
“So who’s running the squadron, guy? Unofficially, I mean?”
“Army. Fred Garrison. Remember him? He’s squadron XO now. Anyway, he bosses ‘em in the air and I take care of the paperwork. Good trade.”
Coyote leaned back in his chair, a mug of coffee in his hand. “You can’t fool me, Stoney. This has got you pissed off royally.”
“Maybe.” He wondered whether to tell Coyote that he was planning on resigning. It wasn’t the sort of thing you just blurted out. There was an unspoken attitude among Navy aviators. The guys who turned in their wings or resigned were failures, fallen gods no longer possessing the edge, the all-important right stuff.
Tombstone valued Coyote’s friendship and didn’t want to risk it.
Another thought occurred to him. “Listen, Coyote. I haven’t had a chance to ask. How’s Julie?”
“Fine, fine. She told me to send her love.”
Tombstone and Coyote both had dated a good-looking insurance claims rep named Julie Wilson years before, when they’d first been stationed at Coronado. The rivalry had been friendly. In the end, Tombstone had been best man at their wedding.
“So tell me,” Tombstone said uncertainly. “What does Julie think of your coming back out here? I mean, you came pretty close to buying the farm last time around. How’d she take it?”
Coyote studied his coffee mug for a moment. “Hell, I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t worried. But she knows that Navy aviation is what I do.
She knows I miss her like nobody’s business when I’m gone, but that flying is the next best thing to sex there is.” He hesitated. “You want to tell me what’s behind that, Stoney?”
“Oh, nothing important.” He knew the lie was transparent. “Just trying to figure where my own career is going, that’s all. I met a girl.”
“Yeah?”
“TV news-type person. Met her in Bangkok during all the excitement there. I … I’m in love with her.”
“But there’re the old questions about whether love and salt water mix, hey?”
“Something like that.” Tombstone grinned suddenly. “You know the old saying. “If the Navy wanted you to have a wife, they’d have issued you one with your seabag.’” He looked at his watch. “Shit. I gotta go.”
“Hey, wait.”
But Tombstone didn’t want to talk about it, not now. He stood, picking up the tray with his unfinished supper. “Catch you later, Coyote.”
“Yeah. Later.”
Why was he telling Coyote his problems? He shook his head as he returned the tray to the galley window and shoved it through. The Coyote had it made, excited about his career, about flying … and a smart and pretty woman waiting for him back in the World.
He sure as hell wouldn’t understand. Tombstone knew he was going to have to face his problems with Pamela alone.
CHAPTER 12
“Now hear this,” the 1-MC speaker on the bulkhead intoned. “Now hear this. Commence fuel transfer operations. The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship.”
Captain Fitzgerald scarcely heard the announcement. His attention was fixed on the activity to starboard. Jefferson rode the heavy seas at reduced speed, her massive bows rising and plunging with each wave.
Sliding along in her shadow one hundred feet to starboard, dwarfed by the supercarrier’s bulk, the U.S.S. Amarillo paced her larger consort, matching her plunge for plunge.
Jefferson’s three starboard flight deck elevators had been lowered to the hangar deck level, giving men of the deck division places to stand as fuel hoses from the AOE were snaked across along span wires stretched from Amarillo’s topping lifts to pelican hooks secured to Jefferson’s side. Red flags, warning of the fire hazard, snapped in the breeze on both ships as deckhands secured the hoses. Suspended from the span wires by sliding pulleys called trolleys, the hoses were draped in a series of deep loops between the vessels, allowing plenty of give and slack as the ships went their separate up-and-down ways.
The carrier’s two Westinghouse A4W nuclear reactors could keep Jefferson steaming for thirteen years without refueling, but she still carried over two million gallons of JP-5 in her aviation fuel compartments.
During typical peacetime operations, fifty or sixty planes were flown off a carrier twice daily, each mission consuming two to three thousand gallons of fuel, and at-sea replenishment was scheduled about every two weeks. During the Vietnam War when fuel expenditures were much higher, reprovisioning at sea had taken place as often as once every three or four days.
Jefferson’s last UNREP — Underway Replenishment — had been carried out ten days earlier, in the waters north of Diego Garcia. Captain Fitzgerald looked down on the Amarillo from his vantage point on the supercarrier’s bridge and wondered how soon he could expect the next resupply. UNREP ships were limited, and they had a long way to steam to reach CBG-14 in the isolated vastness of the Arabian Sea.
The Amarillo’s 194,000 barrels of fuel translated as over seven and a half million gallons, most of it JP-5 destined for Jefferson’s air wing.
Normally, that was enough for six weeks of air operations — ASW patrols and CAPS, as well as daily proficiency flights as the aviators logged in their hours aloft.
