Four hundred miles northeast of Bermuda, the USS
Several Russian warships, including three troop transports, were 400 due north of the
The weather was surprisingly calm and clear for that time of year. Later in the season, storms would blow in from the north and be fed by the warm waters of the Gulf Stream current. As winter approached, the full force of the atmospheric fury would descend on the region. During the worst of the storms, even the aircraft carrier would pitch and roll.
But, for now, every ship was taking advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant weather. Weather decks thronged with sailors in shorts and T-shirts, and even if the weather was a bit chilly, they all basked in sunshine.
Admiral “Coyote” Grant was on the bridge, watching the commencement of the latest set of exercises. The object of this short deployment was to practice the latest tactics developed by the Surface Warfare Development Command and test them against real world considerations. Privately, Coyote thought some of the measures were rather farfetched, but he kept his opinion to himself. No point in affecting anyone’s performance by letting them suspect he was highly doubtful about some of the maneuvers they had been asked to test.
Even if he wasn’t necessarily buying into the revised doctrine, he had found one advantage to having a staff walk through a full consideration of the tactics. While they might not agree with what they were being told to do, it encouraged them to think outside the box, to take a different look, a hard look, at the way they did business. And that, Coyote mused, was not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.
On the bridge, there was a stilted formality in the air. That was one of the problems with being an admiral, Coyote reflected. While you might still feel like a fighter pilot — and you were, of course — no one else ever forgot the stars on your collar. He had probably spent more time on the
But, to the bridge officers, he was not just a guy who knew more about the ship than they could ever imagine. Even those who were tempted to ask his opinion and take advantage of his experience were just a little too junior to have the guts to do so. To most of them, he was the one person they didn’t want to screw up in front of, the one who might note their mistakes and report them to their commanders, blowing the hell out of their careers.
Not that Coyote would have had to go far to find their bosses — most of them were on the bridge just moments after he arrived, trying very hard to pretend they were there on routine visits. Word traveled fast when the admiral started walking around the ship, and every officer or chief petty officer with any responsibility whatsoever wanted to be where he was in order to make sure his people didn’t screw up. But instead of being reassuring, their presence only added to the pucker factor and normally flawless officers and petty officers got nervous and started making mistakes.
But that was part of it too, wasn’t it? You had to learn to operate under stress, not to let it get to you. And, besides, it was his battle group, dammit. And he wanted to see what was going on.
The battle group was currently experimenting with a different concept of antiair warfare. Instead of assigning defense areas radiating out from the carrier, the plan was to have the aircraft cover the starboard side of the carrier and the cruiser cover the port side. The theory was that by concentrating the aircraft assets in one sector, there would be less mutual interference with the cruiser. The problems of firing at incoming enemy aircraft when there were friendlies in the way was an age-old problem.
Nobody was particularly happy about this idea, least of all the fighter pilots. Shooting down missiles was problematic at best. Often they ended up in head-on engagements and lacked the sophisticated processing gear found on board the cruiser.
The cruiser was screaming loudly about it as well. The surface ship officers guarded their missions even more rabidly than the aviation commands did. They saw this as simply one more way to cut down on the number of support missions that required two cruisers instead of just one, and they didn’t like it one bit.
“Good morning, Admiral,” a cheery voice said behind him. Coyote turned to find himself staring into the smiling face of Lieutenant Commander Curt “Bird Dog” Robinson, the new XO of VF-95. “About time to shoot down some drones, isn’t it?”
“I hope not,” Coyote said calmly. “You remind your folks they’re suppose to come close but not actually hit the drones, okay? I don’t want any surprises.” The drones would make two passes by the carrier. A recovery boat was standing by to pull the carcass out of the water for refueling and reuse.
Bird Dog waved aside his concerns. “Oh, they know that. We take care of our toys, that we do.”
“The weather is cooperating,” the admiral noted. “I hope the cruiser does.”
The admiral studied Bird Dog for a moment, repressing a smile as he did so. Bird Dog had just taken over as executive officer of VF-95, and was clearly pleased as punch about it. Bird Dog was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with a strong athletic frame. He had dark blond hair and blue eyes, and wore a perpetually cheerful expression. He was an excellent fighter pilot, perhaps the best Coyote had ever seen. Present company excluded, of course. No pilot ever admits that anyone is better than he is. But Bird Dog not only possessed the reflexes and eye-hand coordination to excel, but he also had the most important attribute of a good fighter pilot: luck. Bird Dog had been in more tight spots and deadly conflicts, often as the result of his own hotheadedness, than any other pilot Coyote could think of. He’d punched out of more than one Tomcat and lived to talk about it when most pilots ended their careers with an ejection. All that ought to have earned him a number of black marks on his record and permanently stymied his chances of rising to command, but his punch outs were balanced against an even more startling number of victories. Almost single-handedly, he had resolved the problem in the Aleutians, to name but one. Wherever there was a fight, Bird Dog always seemed to be on the leading edge of it. And, while he had scared more than one RIO shitless, everyone else breathed a sigh of relief when they saw Bird Dog’s name on the flight schedule.
“I halfway expected you to be flying the first engagement,” the admiral noted. He grinned as he saw Bird Dog frown.
“I tried to,” the new executive officer admitted. “But the skipper nixed that. Said I didn’t need the practice. Of course, he’s right,” Bird Dog acknowledged, oblivious to the amusement in the admiral’s eyes. “But it seems like there ought to be some good deals in exchange for all the paperwork I wade through every day. You’ve got no idea, sir. No idea.” Bird Dog held up his ring finger for the admiral’s inspection. “Look at that. A paper cut.”
Coyote clapped him on the shoulder. “It just gets worse, my friend. Trust me on that.”
“Vampire inbound,” the officer of the deck announced. Coyote checked the time, then nodded with approval. Right on time, the first drone was making a pass at the battle group.
“If it flies, it dies, right?” Bird Dog asked.
Coyote nodded. “Let’s see how your boys and girls do.”
“Tallyho,” a voice said calmly over tactical. “I have a lock.”
“Who’s that?” Coyote asked.
Bird Dog tried to smile, but it was clear that hearing that particular voice caused an ache in his gut. “Fastball Morrow — you’ve met him, I think. A good stick, and if he ever gets his temper under control, he’s going to be pretty impressive.”
This time, Coyote grinned openly. Yes, he knew Fastball, and Coyote was willing to bet that he wasn’t the only one who felt a deep sense of vindication that Bird Dog was having to deal with him.
