The watch officer, sensing he’d lost the TAO’s attention, turned back to the screen and asked, “What?”
At first glance, the more junior could see no reason for Bam-Bam’s preoccupation with the tactical display. The Viking was headed straight out to the last datum they’d had on the submarine. The overhead speaker was monitoring the conversation between the aircraft and the operations specialist located in the USW module in the next compartment, a small section of the carrier’s combat direction center, or CDC. While normally the Destroyer Squadron Commodore’s staff, or DESRON, would have directed the prosecution, this exercise was intended to flex the alternate command structure in place within every battle group. The carrier’s USW module was simulating the loss of the DESRON and had assumed full coordination and reporting responsibilities.
Slightly to the east, two F-14D Tomcats were orbiting, waiting for their turn at the airborne tanker. An F-18 Hornet was snugged up to the KS-3, sucking down a few thousand pounds of fuel before making its first run-in on the deck. Its wingman was already clear of the tanker’s path and headed for the starboard marshal pattern.
“What?” the watch officer asked again, bewildered.
Instead of answering, Bam-Bam ran his screen cursor out and let it rest lightly on a symbol that represented a Chinese merchant ship. He right-clicked, and a host of track information and data on the vessel sprang up on both the main tactical display and on the small data screen to his left.
“This is too weird,” Bam-Bam muttered. His hand snaked out and came to rest on the white telephone centered in the console between the TAO and the watch officer. “I don’t like this one bit.”
The watch officer slid back slightly in his seat and craned his neck to look at the other man’s data screen. Course, speed, last visual identification, final destination, origination port, all were displayed in an orderly fashion. The merchant had been overflown daily by both shore-based P-3C assets as well as the carrier’s own aircraft, rigged repeatedly, and photos were available in the carrier’s intelligence center, or CVIC, showing every detail of the ship’s superstructure.
“She’s making fifteen knots — correction, eighteen knots,” Bam-Bam said as he watched the speed leader protruding out from the merchant ship grow slightly longer. “Every other time we’ve seen her, she’s been at ten knots.”
“Some liberty turns,” the watch officer suggested, referring to the classic Navy maneuver of pouring on a few extra revolutions per minute above ordered speed when nearing home port. “Just ready to get in and dump that cargo, probably.”
“Maybe. But maybe not.
Questions crowded the watch officer’s mind, but he was too busy complying with the TAO’s orders to ask them. Seconds after his first phone call, the 1MC general announcing system on the ship crackled into life. “Flight quarters, flight quarters. Now launch the Alert Thirty S- 3s.” The watch officer could hear feet pounding down the passageway, noises overhead as the crew sprang into action.
Finally, after a last phone call to the handler assured him that two Vikings were spotted on the deck and turning, the watch officer turned back to Bam-Bam to find Admiral Wayne standing immediately behind him. Both were staring with growing anger at the tactical display. The TAO turned to the watch officer. “General Quarters.”
The habit of obedience was too deeply ingrained for the watch officer to even ask his first question. His hand was closing on the alarm lever and sliding it into position even as the TAO finished speaking.
“There,” Admiral Wayne said, hard anger in his voice. “Christ, I hope we’re not too late.”
Then the watch officer saw it. He felt the blood drain out of his face as the meaning sunk in. “Dear God,” he said, more of a prayer than an oath.
The merchant ship was at twenty-five knots now, but the truly horrifying details weren’t on the tactical display. Instead, they were on the small television screen mounted high in the left corner of the room. It served a variety of purposes, but at this moment it was relaying video back from the airborne Viking’s photo recon pod slung under its belly.
“Those bastards,” Admiral Wayne said. His face was a mask of cold fury. “This time they’ll learn a lesson.”
The rusty, bedraggled merchant looked as though it were caught in the middle of a tornado. Sheets of metal peeled back from its superstructure, cut ungainly arcs through the thick tropical air before shattering the smooth progression of swells into founts of white foam and water. Massive metal transport containers were incongruently fluttering in the wind as though they’d been robbed of every atom of structural integrity. Cargo cranes and handling gears slid smoothly to the sides of the ship, then sunk down out of sight as wide areas of deck peeled back to reveal elevators. The ancient metal tracks that served as a mini-railroad for the transport containers sunk down into the deck and diamond-glittering covers of nonskid snapped into place over them.
“Those are Harriers,” the admiral said wonderingly. “Not exactly — but something like it.” He reached for the Navy Red circuit handset located on the bulkhead next to him. “Sweet God, this can’t be.”
“A Trojan Horse,” the watch officer said, stunned. “It’s impossible.”
“It’s not only possible, it’s happening right now,” Bam-Bam snapped. “So get your head out of your ass and get me some aircraft in the air. I need Tomcats and Vikings loaded out with harpoons, torpedoes, anything they’ve got that will kill an aircraft carrier. Have the USW module get hold of the submarine on Gertrude — vector her in for the kill.” Bam-Bam himself was already feeding data to Admiral Wayne as he held a hurried conversation with the duty officer for Commander, Pacific Fleet.
The watch officer had the air boss on one line held up to his right ear, the handler on the phone at his left, and the airborne aircraft howling over tactical about the scene unfolding beneath them. He made his first command decision: He broke the Hornet off tanking and vectored him to bingo at Hickum along with the Tomcats. With as much air power as they were about to be launching, he had no time for taking onboard empty, winchester aircraft. The tanker reported in that he had enough fuel to stay airborne for another cycle, as well as enough in stores to support at least the first wave of fighters.
As they watched, a cloud of dust and fury rose up from the deck of the transformed aircraft carrier. Two of the Harriers, one on each end of the ship, shuddered, tilted in an ungainly fashion, then heaved themselves up into the air. As they fought off gravity, they started sliding forward, quickly gaining speed and altitude as they transitioned from take-off configuration into full flight mode.
“No, no,” Batman said, then toggled the mike to Navy Red on. He cleared his throat, then said, his voice husky, “CinCPac, this is
“The Air Force — ” the watch officer heard, then had to turn his attention back to the tasks at hand.
“If they’re not airborne now, they’ll be too late,” the TAO said quietly. “They’ll catch them on the ground, just like — ” he broke off, clearly unwilling to give voice to the words that were in everyone’s mind.
“Those SEALs, sir — they’re still on the ground,” the watch officer said. “Do you want me to try to raise them?”
Admiral Wayne shook his head. “Stay focused on getting my airwing loaded out and in the air. If anybody’s got a chance out there, it’s Murdoch and his men. And as for knowing what’s going on — well, I think they’re about to find out. The hard way.”
TWO
