“No,” Fitzgerald agreed, serious now. Vaughn’s mood was gnawing at him, and he didn’t know how to reply. “No, we can’t match their planes. But we can match their pilots. I’m willing to bet we could match them ten for one in that department any day!”
“Maybe.” Vaughn sighed. “But it’s not the men who count. Not anymore.”
The words chilled Fitzgerald. He glanced at the enlisted watchstander who was still standing a few feet away, face expressionless and his eyes fixed on the horizon forward. “How can you say that, sir?”
“God. You heard how the fight went last night. Out of control . . . Most of that battle was fought by computers, Captain. Do you understand that?”
“I think so, sir. But men were directing the battle, controlling the computers.”
“No, Captain. Things happen too fast for humans to manage a modern battle. All humans can do is screw things up. Remember the Starkl And the Vincennesl”
‘ ‘Of course.” Stark was the Perry-class frigate that had been hit by an Iraqi Exocet in ’87 because her combat crew had failed to take certain defensive preparations at the time. Vincennes was the Aegis cruiser that had misidentified an
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Indian airliner and shot it down by mistake. “But I think we learned some things from tiiose episodes.”
“What’s to learn? That your ship can be under attack before you even realize it. That any human decisions are going to be made too late to help when you only have seconds to react. No, Captain. If we fight, we’re going to find that it’s our mistakes that shape the battle more than our decisions. And we … we’re at a disadvantage.”
“How is that, sir?”
“Because we have the more complicated electronics, the faster computers, the more sophisticated gadgetry. That’s more stuff to break down. And because we have to haul those . . . what’dyou say? Beans, bullets, and black oil halfway around the world, while the Indians have everything they need right here.” He shook his head. “Damn it. Washington expects the impossible. The impossible …”
The sun slipped beneath the horizon at that moment, the fire fading from the sky. The admiral drained the coffee mug and set it on a console. “Good night, Captain.”
Fitzgerald watched him go with black misgivings.
2135 hours, 24 March
Crew’s Lounge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Seaman David Howard sat at the round table with three friends, accepting the face-down cards as RD/2 Benedict dealt them out. Once he glanced up at the paneled bulkheads and their neatly framed prints of various scenes out of the Navy’s history and repressed a slight shudder. He remembered sitting in this same lounge two months earlier, with three other friends who now were all dead.
‘ ‘Whatsa matter, Tiger?” the second-class radarman asked. “Lose somethin’?”
“Nah.” Howard scooped up the cards and fanned them. “Just thinking.”
Tiger. He still wasn’t used to the handle they’d dropped on him. Short in stature, still three weeks shy of his nineteenth birthday, he didn’t look much like a hero. His part during the Bangkok affair had won him a Silver Star; he still couldn’t remember much of what had happened, still didn’t feel heroic.
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In fact, he didn’t feel any different now than he had then. Perhaps the only real change beyond his raise in rank and pay was the new nickname. He liked “Tiger” a lot better than “Howie.”
“Ah, leave the thinking to the fuckin’ brass,” Air Traffic Controlman Third Francis Gilkey said. “Gimme two.”
“Make it three,” YN/3 Reid said. “Thinking too much don’t pay. Not on this boat.” Unlike Howard, Benedict, and Gilkey, all of whom were assigned to Air Ops as part of Jefferson’s OC Division, Reid served on the CAG staff and, therefore, was technically part of CVW-20 rather than the ship’s crew. As such, the third-class yeoman referred to the carrier as “boat” rather than “ship,” to the good-natured derision of the others.
“That’s ‘ship,’ airhead,” Benedict said. He chewed a moment on his cigar. “Whatcha want, Tiger?”
“One.” Howard glanced at Reid. “What about this ship?”
“I got a friend.”
“Yeah.” Gilkey chuckled- “It’s called your right hand.”