plane’s nose read 232, while the tail displayed the red snake device of
Squadron VF-95, the Vipers. The two aircraft would be launching
together.
Tombstone faced starboard again and casually tossed a two-fingered
salute to the bow catapult officer, informing the deck crew that he was
ready for launch. The cat officer looked left and right, checking first
with the bow safety observer, who was standing at his station, arm out,
thumb extended into the air, then with the sailor at the bow catapult
control console, and finally checking for one last time that the Tomcat
and the catapult slot running forward were both clear. Only then did he
return Tombstone’s salute, twist gracefully to the side with his right
hand pointing forward off the bow, then drop to one knee and touch the
deck.
Below the flight deck, steam exploded against the catapult pistons, and
the cat shuttle attached to the aircraft’s nose-wheel whipped forward,
dragging the F-14 with it in billowing clouds of white vapor.
The jolt flattened Tombstone against his seat. Acceleration pressed his
eyes back in his head and squeezed the breath from his body. There was
a sharp rattle of steel wheels and a rushing blur of motion as the plane
hurtled forward, passing 180 miles per hour in less than three seconds.
For one instant the F-14 hung suspended in midair, just off the
carrier’s bow, and then the wings bit air. Tombstone’s left hand
punched the gear handle, then he trimmed the ship and brought the stick
back, pulling the Tomcat up in a ten-degree climb.
“Tomcat Two-oh-one, good shot,” he said, letting the carrier know the
cat had delivered power enough to get him safely airborne.
“Two-three-two, good shot,” said a voice a moment later.
The second plane was aloft as well. Tombstone pulled back on the
throttle until his wingman could catch up. Side by side now, the two
aircraft continued to climb, angling toward a patchy ceiling of broken
clouds against blue sky.
“We copy, Sharpshooter,” the voice of the carrier’s Air Boss said over
Tombstone’s earphones. “Have a good one.”
“Rog.” Tombstone clicked frequencies on his comm select panel.
“Sharpshooter Two, this is Leader. How do you read, over?”
“Loud and clear, Stoney.” His wingman was Lieutenant E.E. Wayne, better
known as Batman to the rest of Squadron VF-95. “Looks like we’re CAVU
clear to Bangkok.”
Tombstone looked to port. Tomcat 232 was holding position just off his
left wing. He saw the helmeted heads of Batman and his RIO, Lieutenant
Ken “Malibu” Blake, facing him. Batman gave him a cocky thumbs-up.
“Ay-firmative,” Tombstone agreed. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. It
was a glorious day for flying. “Next stop, ladies and gentlemen, exotic
Thailand …”
The two F-14s continued to climb until they reached twenty thousand
feet.
Scattered clouds spread out below them, cast into sharp relief by their
own shadows against the ocean. At three hundred knots–about three
hundred forty-five miles per hour–the Tomcat’s variable-sweep wings
automatically swung back until the aircraft looked like a pair of broad,
gray arrowheads hurtling through the blue glory of the sky. The Thomas
Jefferson, a floating combination of airport and city with six thousand
men living under her four-acre roof, dwindled astern until she was lost
against the endless sea.
“Sharpshooter Leader, this is Homeplate.” Tombstone recognized the
voice in his headphones as that of Commander Stephen Marusko, known as
CAG for Commander Air Group. “Homeplate” was the call sign designation
for the Jefferson.
“Sharpshooter. Go ahead, Homeplate.”
“Just a reminder, people,” CAG said. “Mind the ROES.”
ROEs stood for Rules of Engagement, and these had been meticulously
listed and discussed during the preflight briefing that morning.
Jefferson’s air wing was flying in support of the Royal That Air Force,
a mission which would carry them over a combat zone. They’d been
emphatically warned, however, not to become involved in combat. The
ROEs for the op established a hard deck of ten thousand feet, a lower
limit below which they were not allowed to fly, and established a
shoot-only-when-shot-at protocol that required an order from the carrier
for weapons release.
That would hardly be a problem. So far, the guerrilla forces fighting
the That army and air units were armed with nothing more threatening to