Those were tough orders to obey in modern warfare, however, where ship-killer weapons could be deployed in seconds, and where a mistake rarely permitted a second chance.
“So,” Tombstone said. “What are we going to do about friend Victor?”
“Do? Not a hell of a lot we can do. We keep track of him with Vikings and Sea Kings and trust Orlando to nail the bastard if he so much as looks hard at the Jeff. Other than that…” A shrug.
“Hell of a way to run a war.”
“It would be, if this was a real war. Who knows? Maybe the Russians just want to make sure we stay clear of their bases in the Crimea. And you know, that Victor could be a Ukrainian boat, too, out of Odessa.”
Tombstone nodded. “Russians and Ukrainians, they’ve both got to be a bit nervous with us here. About the way we’d feel if a Russian battle group steamed into Chesapeake Bay.”
“Nah. There’s a difference. Chesapeake Bay is U.S. territory, right down to the last soft-shelled crab. The Black Sea is international waters, whatever the Russkis and Ukes might think about the matter.”
A telephone rang, and an enlisted rating picked it up.
After a moment, he looked at Brandt. “Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Commander Nelson, in Ops, sends his respects and says that all vessels are clear of the Bosporus now, and the battle group is in a standard port-heavy deployment.”
“Very well.”
Tombstone looked out the bridge windows. He could see two other ships, both very small and on the horizon. Decatur was to the north. Leslie was a gray smudge to the west, just off Jefferson’s starboard bow. The sea appeared empty otherwise. So long as the Jefferson was hugging the Turkish coast, the bulk of her screening ships could be thrown out to north, east, and west, giving an added layer of defense across the most likely direction of an enemy’s approach, a protective net that extended across the surface of the water, in a broad bubble in the air overhead, and beneath the waves as well.
Not that they ignored the southern flank. In these waters, the CBG had no friends, and no one else to trust.
“Wishing you were on a smaller target, Tombstone?” Brandt asked, twinkling.
“To tell you the truth, sir,” Tombstone said, jerking a thumb toward the overhead, “I’d feel better up there. With my people.”
“Now, now,” Brandt admonished. “When you grow up, you put away your toys. You’re a big boy now, Stoney. Time to stop playing with airplanes and take on some real responsibility, right?”
Tombstone wondered ? not for the first time ? whether he really wanted to go on to command a carrier like this one someday. He just wasn’t certain, and that bothered him. A man should want that next step in his career, want it enough to taste it, to be willing to fight for it, not to simply wait for it to be handed to him on a platter. Not that command of a CVN was something that could be disbursed that way; there were thousands of eager young aviators in the U.S. Navy, every one of them on a career track straight for command of an aircraft carrier. In the entire U.S. Navy, there were exactly twelve supercarriers, some nuclear powered, others, like the John F. Kennedy and the three Kitty Hawk-class carriers, powered by conventional steam boilers. Even throwing in the various Marine amphibious assault ships and helicopter carriers, there were only a couple of dozen carrier commands in the entire Navy, and thousands of eager would-be skippers. His chances of landing a carrier command were vanishingly slim.
And there was something more.
He cocked an eye at Brandt. “Tell me the truth, Captain. Do you miss it now? The flying, I mean?”
“Every goddamn day of my life, Stoney, and that’s the truth.”
“That’s what I thought. Maybe all the grown-up responsibility isn’t such a great idea after all, huh?”
“Second thoughts, Tombstone?”
“I’m not sure, Captain. I just know I prefer blue sky to quarterdecks, and a Tomcat’s ejection seat to the captain’s chair on the bridge. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I think I’d better get down to CATCC. With our planes up, it looks like I’m CAG again.”
“Well, son, thanks for keeping me company. Drop by anytime.”
“You know I will, Captain.”
“Oh, and Stoney?”
“Sir?”
“You tell your people to keep their Mark One eyeballs peeled up there.
Hawkeyes or no Hawkeyes, I trust their judgment and their instincts more than all the electronics between here and Silicon Valley.”
Tombstone grinned. He felt exactly the same way. “Aye, aye, sir!”
CHAPTER 4
It was almost time for evening chow, but work aboard a Navy carrier continued nonstop, with no pause for food or sleep, often with a near-constant cycle of cat launches and recoveries carried out for hour after hour after grueling hour. Save for rare instances such as Jefferson’s recent transiting of the Bosporus, several aircraft were nearly always in the sky, especially in potential war zones like this; minimum air deployment at any given time for the Jefferson’s air wing was a couple of Tomcats on Combat Air Patrol, and at least one of the E-2C Hawkeyes. While the actual takeoffs and landings were controlled by the Jefferson’s Air Boss from his glass-enclosed domain high up on 0–8 deck known as Primary Flight Control, or Pri-Fly, aircraft already in the air were directed from the darkened room on 0–3 deck designated the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center. CATCC ? pronounced “cat-see” in the Navy’s language of acronyms and abbreviations ? was a dim-lit, magical world of computers, monitors, and complex communications systems overseen by a staff of the Navy’s most skilled high-tech wizards. Perhaps a dozen men occupied the consoles and radar display screens scattered about the room, while Lieutenant Fred Penhall, the duty officer in CATCC for this shift, surveyed his domain from the lordly throne of an elevated, leather-backed chair at the center of the compartment.
Tombstone was tired as he pushed aside the curtains that kept out the harsh light of the passageway outside and entered the room. He’d been going pretty much on adrenaline since the Jeff had entered the Hellespont the day before. Someone thrust a steaming mug of coffee ? his mug, inscribed “CAG-CVW-20” ? into his hands and he gave the sailor a brisk nod. Radio voices crackled from speakers on the bulkhead, terse and urgent.
“As you were, Lieutenant,” he rasped as Penhall started to rise from his chair. He took a sip from the mug. It was a particularly strong brew this evening, the much-concentrated remnants of a pot put on the hot plate a long time ago. “Just passing through. What’s the word?”
“We’re on line now with both the Shiloh and Hawk One, sir,” he replied.
The duty officer gestured toward one of the several large computer display situation boards commanding the entire compartment. Drawn in zigzagging lines of colored light, crowded with small and cryptic symbols, each tagged by strings of alphanumerics, it was a condensation of tactical and map data relayed from several sources ? in particular the Hawkeye’s APS-125 radar and the high-tech array of search and tracking radars that made up the Shiloh’s electronic sensor suite ? but it included data relayed to the CBG from other ships and aircraft and even from military satellites as well.
The scale at the moment revealed only a fraction of the display’s reach, out to about one hundred nautical miles from the Jefferson’s position. At a glance, Tombstone could see the Turkish coast running southwest to northeast some fifteen nautical miles south of the carrier. The Turkish port of Zonguldak was prominent there, ringed by the glowing icons representing air defense, tracking, and surface scan radar. The various far-scattered ships and aircraft of the battle group were marked in green, while yellow symbols represented identified Turkish radar contacts, mostly military forces shadowing the American force.
One red-lit target stood out on the map display with ominous clarity ? the last known position and track of
