VF-95, Viper Squadron, again.
Those were Viper Tomcat-Ds recovering on the Jefferson under the Air
Boss’s watchful eye now. Tombstone was now the Co of CVW-20, commanding
officer of Jefferson’s entire air wing of some ninety aircraft, but he
still couldn’t help holding a special place in his feelings for the
Vipers of VF-95.
“Hey, c’mon, Bill,” he said. “I just came here to do some slumming, you
know that. If You Prefer, you can let it out that I’m here to boost
morale and encourage the troops-”
“I think you’re scared those nuggets of Yours out there are going to get
lost.”
They laughed at that, but Tombstone was more than a little nervous and
had to resist the impulse to pace the narrow stretch of Pri-Fly’s free
deck space. An aircraft carrier’s roof, her flight deck, was already
the deadliest workplace on Earth, and the harsh blend of darkness, wind,
and sleet transformed it into a death trap. Back in the Vietnam War,
medical researchers had wired naval aviators to record pulse and
respiration and other telltale physical signs, then monitored them as
they carried out their missions. Nothing, not the headlong rush of a
catapult shot, not SAMs streaking toward their aircraft in the skies
over Hanoi, not air-to-air combat, not even the jolting instant of stark
terror during an ejection, could cause the same heart-pounding,
sweaty-palmed terror every aviator felt making a final approach toward a
carrier at night.
And wind and rain just made it worse, of course. Still, carrier
operations went on, whatever the weather, whatever the time of day or
night.
Especially now … with this undeclared war with the Russians, or
whatever the hell they were calling themselves these days. Tombstone
glanced across the compartment to the Pri-Fly tally board, where an
Assistant Air Boss was keeping tabs on Jefferson’s far-flung net of
aircraft.
Storm or no storm, at this moment six S-3A Viking ASW aircraft were
probing across an arc far in advance of the carrier battle group,
searching for seaborne traces of Russian submarines that might be trying
to use the rain and wind as cover for a stealthy approach and kill.
Somewhere in the darkness a mile or so off to port, an SH-3 Sea King
helicopter mounted lonely vigil, ready to attempt a rescue of an aviator
who, God forbid, got into trouble during recovery and had to punch out
in this soup. High up and to starboard was one of Jefferson’s four E-2C
Hawkeyes, providing the entire, far-flung battle group with
early-warning radar that could penetrate the sleet and dark across
hundreds of miles and, at need, serve as airborne combat command
centers. CAP, or Combat Air Patrol, was being provided by four F/A-18
Hornets of VFA-161, the Javelins. They’d screamed off Jefferson’s deck
into the rain thirty minutes ago, taking up their patrol stations so
that the Tomcats of Viper Squadron could return to the carrier.
As it was, except for the increased number of Viking sub-hunters aloft,
it was a fairly light deployment. Jefferson and the entourage of
warships comprising Carrier Battle Group 14 were currently cruising
east-northeast through the Norwegian Sea two hundred miles south of
Iceland. Carrier Battle Group 7, the U.S.S. Eisenhower and her
consorts, was already somewhere well to the northeast, five hundred
miles ahead, moving to cover the Barents Sea approaches out of Murmansk
and the Kola Peninsula just in case the Red Banner Fleet elected to
sally forth for a rematch after its defeat at Jefferson’s hands off
Norway the previous year. CBG-3, meanwhile, with the U.S.S.
Kennedy, was in the North Sea off the Skagerrak, overseeing the final
collapse of neo-Soviet troops in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. Kennedy
and the warships with her were the cork in the Baltic’s bottle, keeping
any surviving Russian ships at St. Petersburg safely docked and out of
action.
No, Jefferson shouldn’t have to worry about Russian attacks tonight.
But they did have to worry about the weather. Tombstone felt the deck
rise beneath his feet, felt the slightly sickening twist of the carrier
corkscrewing through the worsening waves.
“Two-one-eight,” the LSO said over the speaker. “Call the ball.”
“Home Plate, Two-one-eight, Clara, repeat, Clara. I’d call the damned