front of them and bellowed his reply. “I’m not real happy about her, sir!
She was on deck the day of the big cock-up. There was some damage to the wing
… here … and over here!” His finger jabbed in emphasis.
Magruder nodded slowly. He didn’t pretend to be an expert on aircraft
maintenance, but CAG had ordered him to check on the readiness of the wing’s
Intruder squadron. Now that Jefferson was sailing into a potential battle
zone it was critical that the attack aircraft be ready for action. “Did you
give it a down-check then?” he asked.
The CPO shook his head reluctantly. “Didn’t want to, sir. The damage
wasn’t bad compared to the ones that really got caught in it. But I ain’t
happy about it.”
Rubbing his forehead, Tombstone tried to decide how to respond. Even
with the planes he’d brought in the night before Jefferson was short of
Intruders, and he could understand the chief’s reluctance to order another one
taken out of service. Intruders were tough birds that could take a lot of
punishment and still do the job.
But if the damage was bad enough to weaken the wings, another two-man
crew would be facing disaster each time they flew the bomber.
“Give it a down gripe,” he said at length. That meant the Intruder’s
maintenance log would show it as unfit for use until repairs had been made.
“But put the sucker at the top of the repair list, okay?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the petty officer replied. He looked happier now.
“That’s the last of ’em, Commander.”
“Good. I want all the maintenance logs on my desk tomorrow morning for
review. Got it?”
“Aye, aye,” the chief repeated.
Tombstone turned away and started across the wide deck, dodging people,
tractors, and parked aircraft constantly. A well-run hangar deck left very
little wasted space and still couldn’t hold all of a carrier’s planes.
Jefferson’s hangar deck was very well run, and hence very crowded.
He stopped beside the bulky form of an E-2C Hawkeye to get his bearings
and pick out the best possible path out of the chaos. Something flapped
overhead in the stiff breeze coming through the opening of the number-two
elevator, and Magruder looked up. In port, the overhead of the hangar deck
would be strung with dozens of flags and banners of states, territories,
foreign nations, and so on. When the ship was at sea the flags weren’t
supposed to be hung, but apparently someone had placed the flag of Norway, a
white and blue cross on a red background, in a prominent position dominating
the center of the hangar, where everybody could see it. There was little
doubt of the crew’s feelings, whatever might be coming out of Washington.
Tombstone thought back to the briefing. It was clear enough from the
emphasis on the military situation that Admiral Tarrant expected Jefferson to
be involved in the fighting. Whether the President finally took the plunge
and ordered support for the Norwegians, or whether the Soviets chose to
enforce their huge exclusion zone, that looked like the most probable outcome.
But what could one carrier battle group do to help the beleaguered defenders
around Bergen? Land-based air could swamp the carrier’s defenses, lurking
submarines would be a constant threat … and the Soviet Red Banner Fleet was
out there somewhere, an awesome assemblage of naval firepower. The Americans
didn’t even have their old advantage in carriers anymore. There was at least
one of the new Russian CVs in the Red Banner Fleet, and even if it was smaller
and less dangerous than the Jefferson, it was a carrier nonetheless, capable
of challenging America’s power-projection capability in a way no enemy had
been able to try since the Second World War.
It made his new assignment all the more frustrating when he thought about
the odds they were up against. While men like Coyote and Batman risked their
lives flying cover for the battle group, he’d be condemned to Captain
Stramaglia’s idea of his proper place.
His proper place, he told himself, was in the cockpit of an F-14.
“Mr. Magruder … sir?” The voice came from behind him, loud enough to