CARRIER 6: COUNTDOWN By Keith Douglass

shoulder showed green. They were ready for launch. Leaning her helmet

as far back into her headrest as it would go, she braced herself,

fighting the tension building in her gut. Suddenly, it was as though

perspective had changed for her. The length of track from the Tomcat to

the bow, just visible past the console and the back of Coyote’s seat in

front of her, seemed now impossibly short, a few feet at most. The deck

officer was making revving motions with his wands, and she felt the

F-14’s engines coming to full power, a volcanic blast of power shrieking

scant feet behind the small of her back. The Tomcat trembled now at the

head of the catapult, like a great, gray eagle poised for flight.

How Many times had she been hurled from the bow of an aircraft carrier?

She’d long ago lost count … but the excitement and the fear and the

adrenaline rush were always the same for her.

Coyote saluted the deck officer, indicating he was ready. The deck

officer swung his arm up in that graceful point, dropped, touched the

deck …

WHAM!

The Tomcat accelerated from zero to 170 mph in two seconds, thundering

off Jefferson’s bow in a dizzying rush of raw power. Had something gone

wrong, had the catapult failed to provide the necessary thrust, they

would have plunged off the carrier’s bow toward the sea … with a

scant second or two to grab their ejection rings and blast themselves

clear.

“Wheeooo!” Coyote shrilled from the forward seat. “Good shot!”

And then they were climbing, her seat tipping back as the nose came up

… up … up … and the Tomcat rocketed into the dawn. Golden

light exploded over the eastern horizon as they passed five thousand

feet, a mile up and still climbing. The sky above was pure glory.

And this was why Kathy Garrity had become a naval flight officer,

despite the protests of her parents, despite the grueling training and

study she’d put herself through for the past four years.

“oh, God, this is beautiful!” she cried over the ICS, unable and

unwilling to suppress the joy.

“Amen to that,” Coyote replied. “Let’s tuck ’em in and see what this

crate’ll really do.”

The Tomcat’s wings, extended straight out to achieve maximum lift for

takeoff, were folding back now, turning the Tomcat into a sleek

spearhead designed for speed.

Accelerating now, they kept climbing into blue-gold glory.

0630 hours

Hawkeye 761

Twenty-five miles North Of North CaPe

The E-7C Hawkeye had roared off Jefferson’s number-two catapult hours

earlier, taking up station in advance of the carrier group as it made

its way northeast along the Norwegian coast. One of four E-2Cs in

VAW-130, the Catseyes, the Hawkeye was a carrier-based AEW, or early

warning aircraft, thought by many to be the most capable radar-warning

and aircraft-control plane in service anywhere in the world. In an age

of high-performance jets, it was driven by two Allison turboprops, which

gave the plane fuel efficiency enough to manage a two-hundred-mile

patrol radius with six hours of loiter time on station. By far its most

distinctive feature was the saucer-shaped radome, twenty-four feet in

diameter, circling at a leisurely six revolutions per minute on its

mounting above the aircraft’s fuselage. The saucer provided lift enough

to offset its own weight, and housed the powerful APS-125 radar that

allowed the E-2C to track targets out to a range of 240 nautical miles.

On board was a crew of five: two pilots, a combat information center

officer, an air controller, and a radar operator. Though it was now

past sunrise, the aft part of the aircraft was shielded from outside

light, and the only illumination came from the green-glowing screens

that were the Hawkeye’s entire reason for being. On the radar

operator’s main console, the sweep line painted smears of liquid light,

stage-lighting the man as he noted the appearance of unidentified blips

just entering the E-2C’s range.

The CIC officer and the air controller stood behind him, peering over

his shoulders at the screen. “My Lord in heaven,” the air controller

said. “They must be standing on each other’s shoulders.”

“Let’s flash it,” the CIC officer said. He picked up a microphone,

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