Soviets, it was as if he was taking a vacation from his duty.
Yet the thought of climbing back into the cockpit of his Intruder still gave him the shakes. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to fly again without reliving the horrors of the crash and the guilt of losing Commander Greene.
He took a sip of coffee and tried to consider his future objectively. If he turned in his wings and walked away he would have to live with the knowledge of failure for the rest of his life. They probably wouldn’t even let him stay on board Jefferson longer than they absolutely had to. It was never considered wise to keep a failed aviator on his old ship. Short of resigning his commission and looking for a civilian pilot’s job, he might never fly again.
And yet flying was all he had ever wanted to do. As a boy he’d hoped to earn his wings and then look for a shot at astronaut training, but once he’d been in the cockpit it was enough just to be in the air, in control, free of the restrictions of an earthbound existence. Until he’d run up against the Deputy CAG and lost his confidence, Bannon had been in love with flying, and even Jolly Green’s criticism hadn’t been enough to dampen his enthusiasm for his chosen life.
That had only come after the criticism had stopped forever. After Greene’s death.
He shook his head slowly and stared down at his cup. He would have to face his fears again if he was ever going to be whole … but he didn’t know if he had that kind of courage inside him.
Then the blare of the klaxon jerked him out of his reverie. “Now hear this! Now hear this! Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands to battle stations. That is, battle stations! This is not a drill!”
His battle station was in the Air Ops module of CIC, with CAG. Bannon pushed back his chair and stood, gulping the rest of his coffee. Then he was caught in the swirling mob of men rushing from the wardroom.
Thoughts of the future would have to wait.
“We just got an update in from SOSUS Control, sir. Feeding in the new info now.” The AW/2 looked too young to be in the Navy, but he knew his job. Lieutenant Eric Nelson leaned forward to study the electronic display map as new contacts appeared.
“I don’t like the looks of these,” he said softly. “Rodriguez, what’ve you got on this contact?” He used his keyboard to highlight one of the symbols.
AW/2 Carlos Rodriguez checked his own terminal before replying. “Victor III,” he said. “The SOSUS trace reported it was probably diving and increasing speed as it was picked up.” He paused. “The triangulation isn’t real accurate, sir. That could mean more than one contact, or it could just be bad conditions.”
“Could be …” Nelson shook his head. “‘Could be’ could get us killed. This guy’s not that far away. How’d the sub-hunters miss him?”
The Hispanic sailor shrugged. “He’s probably been laying low, sir. Running on minimal power and waiting.”
“Well, he’s not waiting now.” Nelson picked up a handset. “Get me the Air Ops module.” He masked the phone with one hand. “Rodriguez, make sure this gets passed on to the rest of the battle group pronto. Especially Gridley. She’s closest.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Air Ops,” Stramaglia growled into the batphone. “CAG speaking.”
“This is Nelson in ASW. I’ve got at least one SOSUS sub contact two hundred thirty miles north-northwest. Possibly multiple contacts. I think you’d better check it out.”
“All right. I’ll get on it as soon as I can. We’ve got some other problems to get to first.” He slammed down the handset and turned to study the map. “Any change, Howard?”
Radarman Second Class David Howard shook his head. “No, sir. Still reading twenty aircraft. Same course and speed as before.”
That was the other problem, and right now it loomed higher on Stramaglia’s list of concerns than the sub contact Nelson had reported. They had appeared on Tango Six-five’s radar screens a few minutes earlier, flying at low altitude and on a course that could only have brought them from one of the Soviet air bases in the Kola Peninsula. Launching during a window when there were no U.S. spy satellites overhead, they had very nearly taken the battle group by surprise.
But their course, so far, wasn’t bringing them directly toward the carrier. They had been curving west and south, parallel to the Norwegian coast. That could mean they were going after a target in Norway.
Or it might be that the Russians weren’t sure of the exact location of the Jefferson. Stramaglia couldn’t be sure but he wasn’t planning on taking any chances.
At that moment the screen came alive with new symbols, three-letter ID codes next to each of the dots representing an enemy plane. BKF … that meant Tu-22Ms, Backfires in NATO’s B-for-bomber code. They were a powerful threat to the Jefferson.
Stramaglia drummed his fingers on the console, frowning as he stared at the moving symbols on the screen. Viper Squadron was on Alert Fifteen this morning, and he’d ordered them to start launching as soon as the bombers had first appeared. The Tomcats were ideal for this situation. Their Phoenix missiles were designed to knock out Soviet cruise missiles as well as the bombers themselves, and if those Badgers really were searching for the Jefferson Viper Squadron might just turn the tide.
He found himself wishing the other Tomcat squadron, the War Eagles of VF-97, had drawn this watch. Stramaglia wasn’t sure how much he trusted some of those hotheads in Grant’s outfit.
Probably the War Eagles were no better. They needed a tight rein to keep them in check, though, and with Magruder already out on a Viking sub hunt, that left Stramaglia with very few options. It went against the grain to leave CIC at a time like this, but he might just be able to show the youngsters what a real Tomcat pilot could do.
“What’s the word on the flight deck?” he asked Bannon, who was hovering nearby.
The Intruder pilot looked up, holding a hand over the batphone to answer him. “Three planes are up, CAG, and already starting to refuel. The Boss says he’ll have four more up in the next five minutes if he has to go out there and throw them off the deck himself!”
That brought laughs to the men in the Air Ops module, but Stramaglia didn’t even smile. This was the kind of situation every carrier officer dreaded, with the battle group sitting exposed to a massive strike by Russian bombers armed with stand-off weapons.
On the screen the lines showing the Backfire flight paths were altering. The bombers were changing course, driving west now away from the Norwegian coast. They were still well to the north of the carrier battle group, but if they turned again they would be in range in no time.
“Tell the Boss to ready the double-nuts bird too,” he ordered. “And find me an RIO. I’m going up with them!” He stood up, looking across at Bannon. “Call Owens to relieve me here, Mr. Bannon. And pass on the SOSUS info to Magruder in 704. Let’s get moving, people!”
He looked down at the screen again and prayed they wouldn’t be too late.
“Snowman, Snowman, this is Watchdog. Snowman, this is Watchdog. Respond, please. Over.” The radio voice was heavily spiked with static, but even through the distortion Major Peter Kelso could hear a note of desperation.
“Watchdog, Snowman. Can you boost your signal, over?” Kelso replied. Watchdog was an orbiting E-3A AWACS Cape Straumnes on the northern coast of Iceland. There shouldn’t have been that much static.
“Snowman, this is Watchdog. We’re already on maximum. Heavy jamming on radar and radio. Repeat, heavy jamming on radar and radio. Do you copy, Snowman?”
“Roger, Watchdog,” Kelso told him. “Do you have any radar contacts? Over.”
“Cannot confirm … Wait one! Wait one!” There was a long pause before the message resumed. “Snowman, Watchdog. Flash priority, Warning Red. We have multiple contacts. Multiple contacts! Zombies are inbound, repeat
