But it was possible to improve the odds a little. The ASW coordinator back on the Jefferson did his best to think like a sub skipper and deploy sub-hunting assets where they would do the most good. And Meade, the TACCO, was supposed to do the same thing on a smaller scale from his station in the windowless rear cabin of the S-3. Looking for submarines was like a chess game, with a variety of standard moves and gambits, but in the long run it was up to the individual players to make things happen.
ASW work was often regarded as the forgotten stepchild of the carrier air wing, at least by the pilots who flew the more glamorous missions. But the close-knit fraternity who flew the Vikings and the Sea Stallion ASW helicopters regarded themselves as every bit as important as any other element in the Air Wing. From what Magruder had seen so far they were as much masters of their arcane art as any fighter pilot was of the mysteries of air combat maneuvering.
He didn’t envy them their jobs. Harrison was a pilot, but nothing like the glamorous men who flew the Tomcats or the Hornets or even the Intruders. The other two were more technicians than aviators, with Meade, as TACCO, trying to outguess veteran sub commanders.
Then there was AW/1 Mike Curtis, the Viking’s Senso for this run, and the only enlisted man aboard. It had always surprised Magruder that ratings served in the plane crews of the Vikings and the Hawkeyes. The popular stereotype, which even life in the Navy didn’t fully dispel, was of aviation as a game for officers only.
But the special skill it took to handle the electronics aboard a plane as complex as the Viking was a great leveler. The men in the Antisubmarine Warfare military-occupation-specialty category were the high-tech elite of the carrier crew. Though they were often scorned by their own kind, who claimed that the AW stood for “Aviation Weights”—naval slang referring to someone who didn’t carry his load of shipboard duties — they earned their special place in the carrier’s hierarchy. Men like Curtis went through two full years of specialty training to get their jobs, while the typical enlisted man learned his specialty in a few short months. Aboard their aircraft, Magruder had heard, there were few distinctions between AW ratings and the officers they flew with, and good AWs had little trouble earning commissions and rising to the TACCO position.
He wondered what sort of a man could fill the demanding job. Curtis had been quiet throughout the flight except for responses given strictly in the line of duty. Was he naturally withdrawn, or overawed by the presence of the Deputy CAG?
“Well, how about it, Curtis?” he asked. “Don’t I get a show? Or maybe you at least have some words of wisdom for the rookie?”
“I don’t get paid for philosophy, sir,” Curtis said over the ICS. “That’s for officers to do. Me, I just sit back here and play the most expensive goddamned video game anybody ever saw.”
He smiled at that. “And what’s the score?”
“I haven’t been beaten yet,” Curtis said. Then, softly, he went on. “But I’ve never had to hunt ‘em for real, you know, sir? I don’t know if that’s going to be the same.”
Magruder remembered the first time he’d flown in combat, back in Korea. All the flying time, all the Top Gun practice, still hadn’t prepared him for the realities of combat.
But the word from the Jefferson said Coyote’s squadron had already traded shots with the Russians. All too soon Curtis might have his chance to find out what a real sub hunt, a hunt to the death, was really like.
“It isn’t the same, Curtis,” he said softly. “It’s never the same.”
CHAPTER 11
“Well, Magruder, how’d you like your first day of sub-hunting?”
Tombstone studied Stramaglia’s bland expression carefully before answering. “It wasn’t … quite what I’d imagined, sir,” he said cautiously.
The Viking had set down on the flight deck an hour before, and Magruder’s legs were still stiff from too much time sitting in one position. At one point the TACCO, Meade, had offered to swap seats with him for a while, but he’d turned it down. Now he was regretting it.
“Boring as one of my Top Gun lectures, eh, Magruder?” Stramaglia asked with a lopsided smile. “Well, that can’t be helped. I want you out on at least one flight a day until I’m sure you know everything there is to know about ASW. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Magruder replied.
“And knock off the formal little sailor routine.” CAG looked down at his desk. His tone changed, losing the mild bantering manner and becoming grim and cold. “You heard about the Bear hunt?”
Tombstone nodded. “Sounds like a real mess. What happened up there, CAG?”
“Goddamn nuggets screwed up, that’s what happened,” CAG growled. “First one of them wanted to play stunt pilot and got himself in trouble, then his call made another one decide it was time to rock and roll. A right royal cock-up from first to last.”
Magruder didn’t say anything. He might have been able to do something to keep the situation under control if CAG had let him go up with Ajax Flight as he’d requested, but it didn’t seem like the right time to point that out to Stramaglia.
There was a knock on the cabin door. CAG looked up and barked out a quick “Come!” It was Coyote, wearing his khakis now instead of a flight suit and looking just as grim as Stramaglia. “I’ve got the reports on this morning, Sir,” he said. He held up a folder in one hand.
“About time, Grant,” Stramaglia said harshly. “Park your butt and let’s go over exactly what that fine bunch of glory hounds of yours did.”
Magruder started to rise. “I’ll let you-“
“Stay put, Magruder. If you’re going to be my deputy you’d better be in on this.”
As Tombstone resumed his seat CAG leaned forward and took the bundle of paperwork from Coyote. Stramaglia deposited the folder unread on the desk and looked Coyote over slowly. “You lost two men and a plane out there this morning, Grant … and worse than that, you let your people violate the ROEs and maybe pushed us into a full-fledged war. Does that sum up the situation in your estimation?”
Coyote nodded slowly, his face a mask. “Yes, Sir,” he said quietly.
“Got anything to say for yourself?”
Hesitating, Grant looked from Stramaglia to Magruder and back again. “It was a very fluid situation, Sir,” he replied. “Men can make mistakes especially when the men have limited experience.”
“Don’t make excuses!” Stramaglia barked. “You are the squadron commander, Mr. Grant, and that makes you responsible. So don’t hide behind your men!”
Coyote didn’t answer, but he glanced at Magruder again. There was a long silence before Stramaglia went on. “If we didn’t need every experienced aviator in the stable, I’d pull you and that kid … what’s his name? Powers? I’d pull You both off the flight roster. Him for being an irresponsible asshole and you for letting an irresponsible asshole run loose. As it is, I can’t afford to do that. But you can be sure I’m going to have some things to say that aren’t going to look good in your files, Grant. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Sir,” Coyote said meekly.
“All right. Now on to new business. Odds are our Russian friends aren’t going to be too happy with us after this one. Washington hasn’t responded with any official word, but the admiral and I are agreed we need to up our readiness in case of a retaliation. Capish?”
Grant nodded. “I agree, Sir. Best to take the cautious approach.”
Stramaglia glared at him. “Glad to hear you approve,” he said coldly. “As of now I’m putting one squadron on Alert Fifteen at all times. Javelins will be first up. Owens’ll post the rest of the rotation.”
“Yes, Sir.”
CAG’s order made good sense, Magruder told himself. It meant that the four fighter squadrons aboard would each pull long hours waiting in the ready rooms each day, suited up and ready to respond to an emergency. But at
