like permission to set a green deck while we’ve got gunnery stations manned,” he said, aware that it was outside the usual safety regulations. But then, by definition, so was most combat. “A helo and a fighter paired up together might be more useful against a maneuverable target.”
“Go ahead,” the admiral said after a second’s reflection. “But call a check-fire while you’re actually launching. I don’t want to lose a pilot because a gunner got too eager for a shot and forgot about the Tomcat crossing his field of fire after launch.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” The TAO briefed the gunnery crews over his coordination line, affirmed that there were no questions about his orders, then switched channels to the Air Boss. “I’d like to go ahead and put one section of Vikings and one section of helos in the air,” he said. “Helos are already fitted with their side door guns, right? That’s after you launch a section of alert five Tomcats.”
“That’s affirmative on the helos,” the Air Boss answered.
“Good. Green deck. Brief the aircrew that the gunnery stations will be on check-fire until they clear the area, but they better go buster once they’re airborne. Launch when ready.”
“Roger, copy all. Ready now, TAO.” As the Air Boss spoke the words, a low rumble built through the compartment, shaking and shivering every piece of loose gear. The noise built until the edge of the TAO’s computer stand jittered. A Tomcat, first, then, he could tell without even looking at the plat screen. The helos would cause barely a ripple within CDC and the Vikings barely shuddered the coffeepot. Even the potent Hornets couldn’t match the low-throated roar of a Tomcat on the catapult.
A second Tomcat howl joined the first, then the higher-pitched distinctive whine of a S-3B Viking. The S-3B was nicknamed the Hoover, since it sounded like a vacuum cleaner.
Just as the first Tomcat howl started to fade away, there was a soft thunk — the catapult reaching the end of its running and releasing its aircraft off the forward end of the ship. A second thunk followed quickly, and then a softer noise as the S-3B on the waist cat launched. Then two helos taxied forward to launch spot, shuddered and lurched as they built up rotor speed, then quietly lifted off the deck and slid out over the sea. As soon as they were clear, the second set of Tomcats taxied forward to the cats.
On the tactical screen, the symbols were popping into being superimposed over the symbol for the carrier itself, slowly drifting away from the ship and vectoring in on the contact marked as a hostile surface target. The helos followed behind their faster fixed-wing brethren, but soon the air around the one contact was cluttered with air symbols.
Still the contact maintained its course and speed, still headed directly for
“Sir,” the watch officer said, “lead Tomcat is requesting weapons free on the contact.” The pilot, the TAO knew, would want to take the contact with his nose gun.
“Range from Jefferson to the contact?” the TAO asked.
“Five miles, sir.”
“No. Tomcats are weapons tight. Gunnery stations, weapons free inside two miles. Have the Tomcats ready to go, but for now, tell them simply to stay overhead. And to make
“Roger, sir.” The stations answered up one by one.
“Hey, we got us an escort in,” Major Carlton Early, the KC-135 tanker pilot, crowed. “Couple of Tomcats, right? Nice, real nice of the carrier.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Lieutenant Commander Green said. She turned to Tombstone. “They haven’t acknowledged any of my transmissions, sir.”
“You sure you’re sending right?” he asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t asked. Green’s face went still and cold.
“Yes, sir,” she answered calmly, her voice matching her expression. “I’ve transmitted your message five times with no response.”
“Keep transmitting,” Tombstone ordered. He looked up at the sky, his eyes following the movements of the Tomcats, the way the helos were standing off between his vessel and the carrier, the low altitude wobbles of the Tomcats as they cut tight station-keeping arcs overhead. One broke off and jogged off five miles, then a small geyser erupted underneath it.
“Shit. They’re test-firing nose guns. Green, keep transmitting. General, take another shot at the bridge-to- bridge radio. Try channels eight, nine, ten, and thirteen. Keep trying until someone answers up. The closer we get to the carrier, the more likely they are to hear us through the noise.”
“So what’re they doing now?” Adele asked Jack. She’d just come up from below for another short break only to find her new husband studying the other boat in the area through binoculars.
“Still sending flashing light, still heading toward
“Of course.”
“Would you get it, please?”
And that, she thought, as she headed back down to retrieve her cell phone from her luggage, was another thing you could count on with Jack Simpson. A thank-you. Courtesy ran as deep in his bones as the reflex to prepare for potential emergencies.
“Thanks,” he said as he took it from her a few minutes later. “You take the conn for a moment, would you?”
“I have the conn,” she acknowledged.
Jack punched out a series of numbers on the cell phone, and then grunted impatiently as he got a busy signal. He hit redial, then entered another number.
“Who?” she asked finally.
“The Reserve Center first, then a couple of my reserve buddies if I can’t get through. Somebody, somewhere, has a cell phone number for the
“What for?”
He grinned, a devilish look on his face. “Under the circumstances, seeing as we’re mobile and in the area, I want to check in and see what we can do to help.”
“How could we possibly help?” she asked.
The smile faded from his face and he put the cell phone down carefully. “You know, I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said soberly. “It’s our honeymoon, after all. And you’re a civilian — you didn’t sign on for any of this. I’m not sure it’s fair to risk you at all, not at all. In fact, I’m not sure I can bear the thought.” He started slowly down the steps to the lower level of the boat.
“Jack Simpson, you get right back up here,” she shouted. “Right now.”
He popped back up, a look of surprise on his face.
“When I married you, I married all of you. That includes the part of you that’s in the Navy. Part time, maybe, but it’s there.”
“No,” he said immediately. “If the Navy had wanted me to have a dependent — and that’s what you are now, my dear; it’s the new politically correct term for wife — they’d have issued me one.”
“To hell with that,” she said forcefully. “The Navy has got nothing to do with it. It’s my country, too, Jack. And if there’s anything we can do to help that carrier out there, then you better count me in. Because you military types don’t have a monopoly on serving your country. You think you do, but you don’t.” She paused for a moment to let that sink in, then said, “Pick up that phone and get us some sailing orders, mister.
