CHAPTER 10
“Now just how the hell do we explain this to Seventh Fleet!” Tombstone shouted into the receiver. “This was supposed to be routine FON ops — how many times do I have to explain that to you? Do you think that includes lighting up a foreign national’s aircraft? With fire control radar? Do you suppose he and his government might take the slightest bit of offense at that? Damn it, Killington, that’s a violation of every known rule of peacetime engagement!”
“And because my ship was ready, I’m talking to you now, Admiral! With all due respect, if you are ordering me to compromise the safety of the Vincennes, I decline.” Captain Killington’s voice was coldly self-righteous.
Tombstone glanced across the desk at the JAG officer, a lawyer with extensive expertise in international maritime. The JAG shrugged and nodded.
No help from that corner, Tombstone thought. I know as well as he does that no Board of Inquiry will ever blame him. That SOB is damned lucky he got shot at! The end justifies the means, in this case. But it’s entirely probable that he provoked the whole incident.
“I better not see a single action that can possibly be interpreted as aggressive out of you,” he warned Killington. “You’ve damned near gone over the line this time.”
“If I had, you’d have already relieved me,” Killington snapped. “And if you’re certain I have and you don’t, then stand by to join me at that long green table, shipmate. Because if I go down, you’re going with me!”
Tombstone slammed the receiver down and flung himself back away from the desk. The bitch of it was that Killington was right. If he relieved the man of command now, Killington would claim that he’d energized his fire control radar in self-defense. And if he didn’t, he would appear to condone any subsequent actions by the Aegis cruiser CO.
“You’re taking notes,” Tombstone said finally to the JAG officer sitting quietly across from him.
“Yes, Admiral. For what it’s worth, I don’t envy your position.” The JAG officer shook his head. “Either way, we’ve got problems. Can you afford to take the chance that he was right?”
“At this point, I’m going to. My gut tells me not to do it, but I’m going to leave him in command. Maybe the Navy knew what it was doing when it gave him command, maybe it didn’t. For now, I’ll trust the selection boards — if not Captain Killington himself.”
Tombstone leaned forward and punched the intercom button for CAG. Captain Cervantes answered up immediately.
“CAG, get me some air-power up there. I don’t want any repeats of the Stark business.”
As the JAG left the office, Tombstone glanced at the Western history book still open on his coffee table. As surely as Wyatt Earp had known what awaited him at the OK Corral, Tombstone knew that the battle group was standing into danger. If the Chinese wanted a shoot-out in the South China Sea, he’d be damned if he’d show up unarmed.
Onboard Jefferson, life suddenly became simultaneously much simpler and more complicated. Most of the more restrictive rules of engagement had just gone out the window on the trail of the submarine’s cruise missile, uncomplicating the maze of determinations a commander needed to make before launching weapons. However, the logistics of getting enough metal into the air to protect the carrier battle group more than made up for any simplification of the battle group’s engagement status.
The flight deck boiled with technicians. Red-shirted ordnance technicians hauled yellow gear to waiting S-3B and ASW helicopters, manhandling the torpedoes up to the weapons stations on the wings. Other ordies restocked the sonobuoy slots along the underbelly of the aircraft. Purple Shirts, the enlisted men and women who handled refueling, waited impatiently. Refueling and rearming an aircraft simultaneously was too dangerous.
The helos were ready to go first. They carried smaller weapons loads than the fixed-wing ASW aircraft, only two torpedoes each. The SAR helo, always airborne during flight operations, circled the carrier, waiting for the carrier to declare a green deck.
Up in Pri-Fly, the Air Boss swore to himself. He’d left two S-3’s on alert ten. As he watched, the stubby ASW hunter-killers taxied to the bow. The first, Hunter 702, lined up on the waist catapult. Hunter 7 10 went straight ahead to the port bow cat, its jets throbbing with the low, mesmerizing sound that gave it its nickname of Hoover.
The bow cat was ready first.
“Green deck!” the Air Boss snapped, scanning the flight deck for any lingering technicians within the lines that delineated the operating area.
“Green deck, aye,” the Air Traffic Controller, or AC, echoed. He repeated the Air Boss’s order into the sound- powered microphone that hung around his neck, and it was relayed to the Yellow Shirts and catapult officers on the deck.
The Air Boss saw the handler motion, and two technicians scampered out from under the forward Viking. The shuttle was now attached to the S-3’s forward wheel strut. The Viking’s engine ramped up, crescendoing into the full-throated roar of military power. The handler snapped off a salute, then ran to safety. The Air Boss could almost feel the catapult officer pause, take one last look around, and then press the pickle switch that would unleash the steam piston.
The Viking shot forward, reaching over 120 knots of ground speed in four seconds. With thirty knots of wind across the deck, that equated to 150 knots over the wings, enough to keep the aircraft airborne until its own engines could get it moving faster.
Fifteen seconds later, the same intricate ballet was complete on the waist cat, and the second Viking was airborne. The ASW helicopters followed in short order, three of them.
The Air Boss looked grimly satisfied. With a total of six ASW aircraft, along with the towed arrays of the surface ships and the cruiser’s own ASW helos airborne, being a submariner just got a lot less fulfilling.
“Admiral, how about a JAST Tomcat?” Batman asked quietly. “That look-down capability might come in real handy about now.”
Tombstone shot his former wingman a thoughtful look. “Are they configured to handle a sub-launched missile?”
“Don’t see why not. The best parts of the new avionics and radar are designed to handle sea-skimmers. Can’t come much closer to the sea than getting shot from a submarine, now, can you?”
“TAO — all the ASW birds launched?”
“Yes, Admiral.” The TAO pointed at the plat camera display on the closed-circuit TV monitor. “Last Viking just took off. Air Boss called Red Deck a few seconds ago.”
Tombstone turned back to Batman. “Go see CAG. It sounds to me like a good time to try out one of your toys in the air, but he may have some other plans. It’s going to take a while to get one fueled and armed, anyway.”
“They’re Tomcats, Admiral. Hardly toys.”
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Captain.”
“Sir?” Batman stiffened, wondering if he’d overstepped the bounds of their long friendship. Surely Stoney hadn’t let his stars turn him into a pompous asshole!
He studied his old friend carefully. One corner of Tombstone’s mouth twitched. “They’re all toys, Batman. Until they start shooting, that’s what they are.”
