“Damn it all to hell!” Batman slammed his hand down on the console.
“We need another two hours to get them back aboard. Launching a diversionary small-scale strike with men on the ground is one thing, but I don’t want them there for the main attack. But if we’re going to prevent a strike on the continental U.S we’ll have to move it up.
Damn the Cubans damn them!” He glared at Lab Rat for a moment, then the anger drained out of his face. “They’re not going to make it, are they?”
Lab Rat shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. Admiral.
I just don’t know.”
THIRTEEN
The flight deck was a maelstrom of noise, heat, and wind.
For the last fifteen minutes, aviators had been kicking the tires and lighting fires on a wide variety of aircraft. EA-6B Prowlers were already spooled up and waiting on the catapult; their bulged cockpits and forward radomes, coupled with the distinctive pods mounted aft atop tail fins, marked them as EA-6B variants. The strange pods held both receivers and antennas for the SIR group, a systems integrated receiver for five bands of emissions. Other antennas were mounted on the fins, below the pods, enabling the aircraft to cover all electronic emissions from the A through the I bands.
The two J-52 turbojets flanking the fuselage were generating over eleven thousand pounds of thrust each, and each aircraft was straining at the tieback that held her shackled to the shuttle. The JBDS-jet blast deflectors aft of the catapult shunted the wash from their engines to the side, although the gaggle of fighters clustered farther back on the flight deck was generating more than enough wind across the deck.
Each aircraft carried three jamming pods, one on either side on a wide pylon and one on the centerline fuselage hard point. Additionally, AGM-HARM anti radar missiles graced their wings from the other pylons.
Each aircraft weighed in at slightly over sixty thousand pounds.
Overhead, two E-2 Charlie Hawkeye airborne early warning aircraft orbited, each under the protection of two F-A18 fighters. The Hawkeyes and their escorts had launched an hour earlier, and were keeping a close watch on the airspace in the vicinity of Cuba’s coast. Should anything launch, either aircraft or missiles, the E-2 Hawkeye would catch it on its ALR-73 PDS radar and relay it instantly to the carrier Combat Information Center through a two-way Collins AN-ARC-34 HF or ARC-58 UHF data links. Since the installation of the joint tactical information distribution system (JTIS), the E-2 had become capable of controlling and vectoring the air picture for any combat aircraft in the U.S. inventory.
The catapult officer, a lieutenant who had been on board Jefferson less than six months, shook his head as he looked at the cluster of aircraft queuing up behind the JBDs. Even during workup operations, he’d never seen so many turning at once, never had an opportunity to appreciate the delicate ballet orchestrated by the handler and the yellow-shirted deck crew. Most of the plane captains had already scampered away from the hot tarmac, taking cover in the vicinity of the island to avoid being inadvertently sucked down the throat of one of the screaming engines.
“Get your head out of your ass. Cat Officer,” his earphones thundered.
The lieutenant glanced up at the tower and nodded his head at the air boss, invisible behind the dark glass. It all came down to this, the one moment when he, the catapult officer, released the first aircraft for flight.
Even from his position in the enclosed bubble protruding up out of the flight deck, he could sense the tension.
“Roger, sir.” He made his words sound as calm as possible. In the present mood the air boss was in, it wouldn’t do to irritate him unduly. Not that he blamed the junior captain ensconced above hell, they were all nervous right now.
The catapult officer shifted his attention back to the flight deck and studied the Prowler straining at the shuttle in front of him. A plane captain held up a grease-penciled Plexiglas board to the pilot, showing the aviator his field state, weight, and weaponry. The pilot nodded, and the catapult officer saw the control surfaces on the Prowler waggle up and down. It was called cycling the stick, the last check of control surfaces that a pilot made before being launched.
“Now.” The catapult officer authorized release of the aircraft on deck. He saw the yellow shirt come to attention, snap off a quick salute, and drop to his knees, pointing down the deck toward the bow.
The pilot in the Prowler returned the salute, then leaned back slightly, bracing himself against the seat for the shot.
As always, it seemed to start impossibly slowly. The first few seconds of a cat shot were a study in tension as the massive aircraft slowly gathered speed. Soon, though, the expanding steam behind the shuttle overcame the aircraft’s inertia and the Prowler accelerated from a leisurely roll to a thundering bolt down the deck.
Fourteen seconds later, it was over. The catapult officer stared toward the bow, watched the aircraft disappear from view as it briefly lost altitude, then saw it reappear as it struggled for airspeed. The angle of ascent was minimal at first, gradually steepening as the Prowler overcame gravity.
Seconds later, another Prowler shot off the bow cat, gained altitude, and joined its wingman as they ascended.
Two down twenty-seven to go. The catapult officer turned his attention aft. The JBDs were already lowered, and two Tomcats were taxiing forward eagerly.
It was going to be a long morning.
Thirty minutes later, the deck was still and quiet. The carrier had launched two Prowlers, fourteen Tomcats, and ten FA-18s. Additionally, another EA6 had gotten airborne to replace one that was experiencing difficulties with its CAINS system. Add to that total two KA 6 tankers, and the carrier had a full alpha strike package in the air.
Back behind the carrier, a SAR helo kept station. The catapult officer glanced down at his schedule and frowned. One helo was already airborne why did the schedule call for another?
He wasn’t entirely certain, but he suspected it might have something to do with the small boat launched in the wee hours from the carrier’s aft deck. No matter he hadn’t been briefed on it; therefore, he had no need to know. All he did was launch ‘em-it was up to someone else to decide the whys. He glanced up at the tower. And to get them back on deck.
The second helo’s launch was markedly anti climatic after so many jets.
It quivered slightly on the deck, jolted once, then crept up into the air. It moved slightly to port, away from the carrier and over open water, and began gaining altitude. The catapult officer watched from his enclosed bubble as it headed out due west until it was merely a speck on the horizon.
Not that it ought to be flying at all, the catapult officer thought.
As an F/A-18 pilot himself, he took it as an article of faith that a helicopter had no more right to be airborne than a bumblebee. Only problem was, no one had bothered to tell either the bug or the helo. A collection of one thousand parts flying in close proximity to each other. He shuddered at the old gibe it was too close for comfort. No, give him speeds in excess of Mach 1 and two wings full of weapons over a helicopter anytime. Speed meant safety.
“No, I didn’t bring any doggy biscuits. So shoot me.”
Huerta’s voice sounded sharp for the first time since the mission had begun. “How the hell was I supposed to know?”
“Well, do something,” Pamela hissed. She gestured toward the east.
“When does the sun come up, anyway?”
None of them bothered to answer the question. They still had some time. Not enough, but the covering darkness would last at least another hour. After that, the first traces of light would start illuminating the compound,
