CARRIER 4: FLAME-OUT By Keith Douglass

drag the rest of your buddies down. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Owens you’re back on the roster and report to your CO. Dismissed.”

Bannon’s mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions as he left the

office. He knew he had made the right decision, the only decision … but

Magruder’s words had reinforced his own doubts and fears. If he lost it up

there, would he end up killing another of his shipmates?

2318 hours Zulu (2318 hours Zone)

CAG office, 0-3 DecK, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

In the Norwegian Sea

Tombstone Magruder leaned back in his chair and looked up at the

overhead, rubbing his eyes. He had snatched a few hours’ fitful sleep, but

now he was back at his desk grappling with the details of the proposed Alpha

Strike.

As a squadron CO he’d faced his share of paperwork, but somehow the

magnitude of the burden of running a full air wing had never hit him until he

had to do it himself. In the movies, the carrier pilots just climbed into

their cockpits and went off to do battle with the enemy. But in real life,

there was a lot going on behind the scenes to make that possible. CAG had to

work out battle plans with the admiral, with Captain Brandt, and with each

individual squadron commander. He had to coordinate activities with the Air

Boss and S-6 Division and half a dozen other individuals and groups, and any

one of them could throw a monkey wrench into a complex plan. He’d learned

that lesson after Maintenance had written up down gripes on two Hornets and

thrown his entire carefully prepared launch schedule out the window.

He was beginning to understand something that had puzzled him. It was no

wonder Stramaglia had been so eager to go up with Coyote on that last mission.

CAG had always been an aviator before all else, and it must have been galling

to be chained to this desk trying to coordinate the activities of the entire

air wing without going crazy. It made those hated days in Magruder’s Pentagon

assignment look like a quiet vacation.

But it was finally starting to come together. From the moment Admiral

Tarrant had changed his mind and decided to proceed with the mission, the Air

Wing staff had plunged into the preparations with a dedication that made

Magruder proud to be a part of it all. If and when the Intelligence types

spotted the opening they needed, CVW-20 would be ready for it. It would still

be dicey trying to strike a blow against the Russians with their overwhelming

air power, but at least now they could do something. At least Jefferson

wouldn’t be slinking away with her tail between her legs, defeated. It was a

chance, no more, but a chance was all anyone could ask in a situation like

this.

In the meeting with Tarrant the day before, after Magruder explained his

new idea for evening the odds, the admiral had given Magruder the credit for

that chance. I would never have thought of the S-3s for this, Tarrant had

said. Back in my day they weren’t fitted for this kind of op. If we win

this, it’ll be because of you and your sleight of hand, Commander. Flattering

words for someone who had been thrust into the CAG slot without warning and

without adequate preparation.

He hadn’t protested at the time, but Magruder knew that the credit for

any success they earned now should still go to Joseph Stramaglia. He had been

fine-tuning the Air Wing long before Magruder had arrived, and it was his

staff–Lee and Owens and others–who were performing miracles to organize the

operation. And Stramaglia had insisted on broadening Magruder’s own

experience when Tombstone had wanted nothing more than a chance to cling to

the past in the cockpit of a Tomcat. That more than anything else was what

had earned Jefferson her chance at striking back.

A knock on his door brought Magruder out of his reverie. At his call it

opened to admit Lieutenant Commander Owens, his young, eager features little

changed by the hard work he’d been putting in all day. The young officer had

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