CARRIER 5: MAELSTROM By Keith Douglass

the battle was going to reach all the way to Jefferson’s position in the

fjord. He’d already heard the word passed to set the carrier’s CIWS on

manual, and to ready her missiles for launch. It was going to be one hell of

a fight.

Still, Tombstone thought he saw a window of opportunity here, a chance to

carry out the plan he’d been presenting up in CVIC. He would have to approve

the thing with Tarrant, of course, but in the meantime he wanted to make

certain that the window stayed open.

Damn, though, it meant they were going to lose some aircraft, and some

good men. The thought brought a bitter scowl to his face. Who are we going

to lose this time?

“CAG? They said you wanted to see us.”

He turned and looked down into the hard, brown eyes of Sluf Dodd, the A-6

pilot who’d been credited with taking out the mighty Russian battle cruiser

Kirov. Behind him, towering over Sluf’s squat frame, was Commander Max

“Hunter” Hanson, CO of the VS-42 King Fishers.

“Hello, Sluf,” he said, setting the coffee aside. “Hunter. Thanks for

coming. Got a question for you.”

“Sure thing, CAG,” Hunter said. “Shoot.”

“I want you men to tell me if you think something is possible …”

0412 hours Zulu (0512 hours Zone)

Tomcat 200, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

Romsdalfjord

Tomcat 200 trembled with the thunder as another aircraft, a Hornet,

roared off the catapult just ahead and into the pearly light of the early

morning sky. Coyote finished going down the preflight checklist, reminding

Teejay to check the electrical fuses in the receptacle in the seatback behind

the RIO’s head. He double-checked that the safety was pulled on his ejection

seat, then confirmed that Teejay’s was pulled as well.

The sky overhead through the F-14’s cockpit was dazzlingly beautiful,

partly cloudy, the patches of blue an intense, vibrant azure, the clouds

limned with pearly light. The deep U-shaped gulf of the fjord was still

entirely in shadow, the water misted over by patches of fog, the details of

rock and tree and cliff almost lost in the depths of shadow made darker by the

brilliant light from the sky.

“We’ve got clearance to roll,” his RIO said.

The jet-blast deflector that had protected the Tomcat from the exhaust of

the F/A-18 ahead of them in line was coming down. Gently, Coyote guided the

aircraft forward, positioning it over the slot in the deck where green-shirted

hookup men were guiding the catapult shuttle into place. A green-shirt held

up a chalkboard where Coyote could read it: 66,000. He nodded to the man,

indicating verification of the Tomcat’s total weight, aircraft, fuel, and

weapons load. The same information was being relayed to the catapult officer,

who would adjust the pressure in Cat One to the proper setting to get Tomcat

200 airborne.

A red-shirted ordie held high a bundle of wires, each with a red tag.

These were the safing wires from their ordnance load, four AIM-7M Sparrows and

four AIM-9M Sidewinders, and they let Coyote verify that all eight AAMs were

now armed and ready. They were carrying no Phoenixes on this mission. The

long-range AIM-54Cs were in short supply after Summer Thunder, and the few

remaining were being hoarded. Coyote hoped the admiral would see fit to

rendezvous with the resupply ships damned soon. Rumor had it that the battle

group was low on everything, especially Harpoons.

That, however, was not his immediate concern. The fight this morning

would be close up, at knife-fighting range, as Navy aviators liked to say, and

the combination of Sparrows and Sidewinders would give him optimum

flexibility.

With a clatter of chains, the hookup men secured the launching bar on the

Tomcat’s nose wheel to the catapult shuttle. The launch officer made a

circling motion with his hand, signaling Coyote to bring his throttles up to

military power.

The F-14 was trembling again, this time with a barely suppressed ongoing

shudder of raw power. Coyote checked his control stick in the old litany of

Navy aviators: forward-Father, back-Son, left and right-Holy Ghost, rudder

pedals left and right-Amen.

All correct. A red light still shone from the carrier’s island, beside

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