Fitzgerald grinned. ‘ ‘I hardly think they’ll mistake us for the Pakistani navy, sir.” Jane’s Fighting Ships gave the strength of Pakistan’s navy as seventeen ships, not counting patrol craft. The largest was Babur, a former British destroyer of 5440 tons. He’d looked it up earlier that morning.
“Damn it, Captain, this is no joke!” Vaughn scowled, rubbing at his short and bristly mustache with a forefinger. “You saw the latest set of dispatches from Washington. The Indians don’t want us out here. This whole situation could blow up in our faces at any moment.”
“I realize mat, sir.” The word from Washington that morning was that a formal protest had been delivered to the White House by the Indian Embassy in Washington, objecting to U.S. warships in their waters during time of war. Accidental
attacks were a possibility, the communique had pointed out, especially in the confusion of jamming and electronic counter-measures in the region once fighting started.
“Listen, Jim,” Vaughn said. “I called you off the bridge because I wanted to talk with you about this command. I’ve been following the weekly reports. Performance is way down, you know. And morale.”
Fitzgerald ran one hand through his thinning hair. “That’s hardly surprising, Admiral. They’ve been through a hell of a lot this cruise.”
“That’s no excuse, hey?”
“It’s not intended as one, sir.” Fitzgerald’s lips compressed into a hard, thin line. “This is a good ship, Admiral. And damned good men.”
Vaughn studied him for a long moment. “I want to know I can depend on mem, Captain. And on you.”
“That goes without saying. Sir.” Fitzgerald knew his tone verged on the insubordinate, but he was angry now and working to keep the words formal and correct. It was Vaughn’s responsibility to direct the entire battle group; it was Fitzgerald’s responsibility to hand the admiral a ship he could work with, manned by a well-trained and highly motivated crew. When Vaughn criticized the men, he was criticizing him. That might be Vaughn’s right as CO, but Fitzgerald had the feeling mat the admiral didn’t really care about Jefferson’s crew or bow capable they really were.
And that worried him.
Vaughn did not seem to be aware of Fitzgerald’s anger. “Good. I’ll want you to bring the Jefferson to a new course at once to avoid that submarine.”
“Of course, Admiral.”
“And I want an ASW alert. Get some of your King Fishers Up there in case they’re needed.” The King Fishers, VS-42, were Jefferson’s antisubmarine S-3A Viking squadron. “Intelligence briefing at 0800 tomorrow. I want to discuss our options.” . “Aye, aye, sir.”
“See to it.” Vaughn turned abruptly and strode toward the door. “Oh, and you might speak to your Exec about the mess here in CVIC. I like a taut ship, Captain. Can’t go into combat With gear adrift, hey?” Then he was gone.
26
KeHh Dougtass
ARMAGEDDON MODE
27
Fitzgerald stared after him for a long moment before following. Vaughn, he decided, was still an unknown quantity. An untested quantity.
Well, odds were he would get his testing on this cruise.
1423 hours, 23 March Tomcat 201
‘Tomcat Two-oh-one, charlie now.”
Tombstone heard the words and felt the tension ebb somewhat from his shoulders and back. “They’re calling us in, CAG,” he said. He nudged the stick to the left, putting the Tomcat into a shallow, sweeping curve that would roll it out of the holding pattern several miles astern of the carrier.
“Suits me,” Marusko replied. “My safe little office back on the old bird farm is looking better and better.”
“Viper Two, Viper Leader,” he called, opening the tactical channel. “Batman! We’re charlied. Going in.”
“Roger that,” Batman’s voice replied a moment later. “Save us a cold one. We’re right behind you.” That was almost the literal truth. His wingman was now half a mile behind Tombstone’s aircraft ami three thousand feet higher, locked into the aerial racecourse of the carrier’s traffic control holding pattern, called a Marshall stack. They’d been circling there twenty-one miles from the Jefferson while the Air Boss brought in some S-3A Vikings that had been out on a sub patrol.
Tombstone leveled off. He could just make out the Jefferson’s stem far ahead, a gray rectangle nearly lost on the ocean. The flight decks on Nimitz-class carriers covered four and a half acres, but they looked ridiculously tiny from the cockpit of a fighter plane positioning itself for a trap. As they got closer, his eyes shifted to the carrier’s port side where a yellow speck of light, the “meatball,” or Fresnel optical landing system, appeared centered like a bull’s-eye above the LSO platform.