“Goddamn it to hell.” Vaughn rubbed his chin with one hand. His own skin felt clammy and cold. “Goddamn it to hell …”
“Damage isn’t too bad,” the radio voice continued. “Minor fires in some stored paint abaft the chain locker, but fire parties have those in hand. Casualties so far are light, but a muster’s probably going to turn up some missing men blown off the deck.
“Our worst operational damage is to the catapults. One and Two are both down, and the cat crews are not real optimistic about getting them up again any time soon. There was some minor buckling to the deck, and the steam lines to the forward catapults are out.”
“Shit,” Vaughn snapped. “Are they still up at the waist?”
The radio operator passed on the admiral’s question.
“Three and Four are still operational,” was the reply. “Good pressure, and no apparent damage. We have DC parties checking them now.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” Vaughn said.
“It’s going to restrict operations, Admiral,” Captain Bersticer said, frowning. “They’ll have to shift aircraft aft to the waist to continue launching … and they won’t be able to simultaneously launch and recover aircraft. Operation Mongoose is supposed to go down in four hours. We’ll never make it without four working cats.”
Vaughn stared at Bersticer for a moment as the words sunk in. If they couldn’t launch the strike against the Indian supply columns … They had failed. He had failed, and before they’d even had a proper chance.
His fists clenched at his side, the frustration, the rage of the past twelve years surging up inside like a black, unstoppable tide.
It’s not fair! he thought. It’s not-fucking-fair!
“I want that airplane, CAG,” Tombstone said, cold steel behind each word. “It’s criminal idiocy to keep me here when we need aviators out there!”
CAG looked at Tombstone with level eyes. “What are you going to fly?” he said. “Two-oh-one just augered in.”
“Two double-nuts,” Tombstone replied immediately. “It’ll fly.”
He’d been spending his time since being put in hack catching up with his squadron’s paperwork. Tomcat 200, the aircraft in Viper squadron traditionally reserved for the CAG when he flew, had not been operational since before Wonsan. Stored in the aft hangar bay for repairs at the time, the F14 had been damaged during the battle at Sattahip Bay in Thailand when a rebel attack sent a rocket through an open elevator door and into the parked airplanes on the hangar deck. It was one of the two aircraft in VF95 with a maintenance downcheck.
Maintenance personnel had only finished installing a new engine a week earlier. The job had been inspected, but not tested. No one knew for sure yet if Two-double-nuts would run.
Or fly.
“Stoney,I know how you feel,” CAG said gently. “But I can’t authorize a damn-fool stunt like-“
Tombstone jerked a thumb at the bulkhead speaker. The voices of several aviators could be heard calling to one another. “My God, look at that!” a voice was saying. “One-oh-three, we have bogies inbound! Bogies inbound at fifty miles!”
“Those are my people out there, damn you,” Tombstone said, his voice carrying a deadly edge to it. “My people!”
“The plane’s not armed.”
“It’ll take twenty minutes to slip some Sidewinders on her. It’ll take that long just to get the rest of VF97 aloft with only two cats working.” Tombstone’s voice raised suddenly to a shout, and every head in CATCC turned in their direction. “Damn it, CAG! I’m going with or without your say-so, but I’m going!”
“You’re an asshole, Stoney,” CAG said. He shook his head. “And if you don’t watch your mouth the brig is where you’re going!” The two men stopped, staring eye to eye. Then CAG looked away. “So you’d better go before you say something that makes me put you there. Who’s your RIO?”
“Me, sir!” Hitman said.
Tombstone turned, surprised. He’d forgotten Costello was behind him.
“Hell, Stoney,” Hitman continued with a shrug. “I’d rather be your RIO than stay here and get shot at!”
“Get into your flight gear, gentlemen,” CAG said. “And get the hell out to your ship. I’ll inform the Boss you’re coming.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Shut up and git. Before I shoot you for desertion.”
Tombstone got.
“Commander?”
Tombstone stopped and turned. Three sailors were sitting at one of the consoles, watching him. By the light of a nearby radar screen he recognized the one who had spoken: Seaman David Howard, the sailor who’d become a hero at Bangkok.
“Good luck, sir,” Howard said.
“That’s right, Commander,” one of Howard’s companions said. The name stenciled over the pocket of his dungaree shirt read, “Gilkey, F.” The man gave him a sharp thumbs-up. “Beat the shit out of the bastards.”
“We’re right behind you, sir,” the third man, a second-class radarman, said. His shirt carried the name Benedict. “Kick some ass for us!”
It was strange. Tombstone did not know Gilkey or Benedict. A supercarrier was large enough that it was possible to live and work aboard her for months on end and never meet all the people aboard.
But these men certainly seemed to know him. Young Howard must have been shooting off his mouth, he decided. Still, it was a good feeling to know that he had men like these in his corner. It would make the sky a lot less lonely.
Tombstone grinned and tossed them a casual salute. “Watch my back, guys.”
Then he was through the door and pounding down the passageway toward the VF-95 Ready Room.
CHAPTER 21
Batman took the Tomcat up to twenty thousand feet, giving Malibu a clear view on the radar for sixty miles in every direction as they searched for the Indian fighter that had given them the slip. There were plenty of targets in the area, but the unidentified bogies seemed to be drawing off toward the east and Batman wasn’t about to follow them, not when there were at least ten of them and only one of him.
“Any sign of the bastard, Mal?” He was still feeling stupid for having forgotten about the Sea Harrier’s incredible maneuvering capability.
“He could be one of those guys on the run,” Malibu said. “Or he could be wave-hopping to hide in the surface clutter. What you wanna do?”
“I don’t know,” Batman said. He was still feeling shaken by the encounter, and more shaken still by the sudden loss of Army and Dixie.
That Sea Harrier must have put a heat-seeker into Army just as he was breaking off from his pursuit of the enemy missile. Two-oh-one had dropped from the screen like a stone. Then, nothing.
Batman had already made one quick pass over the area looking for chutes, but had seen nothing before Jefferson’s CATCC chased them away. A helo, they’d been tersely informed, was on its way to look for the downed aviators. The carrier’s automated point defense was on and random overflights of the area would be dangerous. “We’re picking up a ninety-nine-aircraft alert,” Malibu informed him. “Those Indie planes up north. They’re moving.”
“Great,” Batman replied. “And us with one rock left to throw.”
