toys. You’re a big boy now, Stoney. Time to stop playing with airplanes
and take on some real responsibility, right?”
Tombstone wondered–not for the first time–whether he really wanted to
go on to command a carrier like this one someday. He just wasn’t
certain, and that bothered him. A man should want that next step in his
career, want it enough to taste it, to be willing to fight for it, not
to simply wait for it to be handed to him on a platter. Not that command
of a CVN was something that could be disbursed that way; there were
thousands of eager young aviators in the U.S. Navy, every one of them on
a career track straight for command of an aircraft carrier. In the
entire U.S. Navy, there were exactly twelve supercarriers, some nuclear
powered, others, like the John F. Kennedy and the three Kitty Hawk-class
carriers, powered by conventional steam boilers. Even throwing in the
various Marine amphibious assault ships and helicopter carriers, there
were only a couple of dozen carrier commands in the entire Navy, and
thousands of eager would-be skippers. His chances of landing a carrier
command were vanishingly slim.
And there was something more.
He cocked an eye at Brandt. “Tell me the truth, Captain. Do you miss it
now? The flying, I mean?”
“Every goddamn day of my life, Stoney, and that’s the truth.”
“That’s what I thought. Maybe all the grown-up responsibility isn’t such
a great idea after all, huh?”
“Second thoughts, Tombstone?”
“I’m not sure, Captain. I just know I prefer blue sky to quarterdecks,
and a Tomcat’s ejection seat to the captain’s chair on the bridge. Now,
if you’ll excuse me, sir, I think I’d better get down to CATCC. With our
planes up, it looks like I’m CAG again.”
“Well, son, thanks for keeping me company. Drop by anytime.”
“You know I will, Captain.”
“Oh, and Stoney?”
“Sir?”
“You tell your people to keep their Mark One eyeballs peeled up there.
Hawkeyes or no Hawkeyes, I trust their judgment and their instincts more
than all the electronics between here and Silicon Valley.”
Tombstone grinned. He felt exactly the same way. “Aye, aye, sir!”
CHAPTER 4
Friday, 30 October 1735 hours (Zulu +3)
Carrier Air Traffic Control Center (CATCC), U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson It
was almost time for evening chow, but work aboard a Navy carrier
continued nonstop, with no pause for food or sleep, often with a
near-constant cycle of cat launches and recoveries carried out for hour
after hour after grueling hour. Save for rare instances such as
Jefferson’s recent transiting of the Bosporus, several aircraft were
nearly always in the sky, especially in potential war zones like this;
minimum air deployment at any given time for the Jefferson’s air wing
was a couple of Tomcats on Combat Air Patrol, and at least one of the
E-2C Hawkeyes. While the actual takeoffs and landings were controlled by
the Jefferson’s Air Boss from his glass-enclosed domain high up on 0-8
deck known as Primary Flight Control, or Pri-Fly, aircraft already in
the air were directed from the darkened room on 0-3 deck designated the
Carrier Air Traffic Control Center. CATCC–pronounced “cat-see” in the
Navy’s language of acronyms and abbreviations–was a dim-lit, magical
world of computers, monitors, and complex communications systems
overseen by a staff of the Navy’s most skilled high-tech wizards.
Perhaps a dozen men occupied the consoles and radar display screens
scattered about the room, while Lieutenant Fred Penhall, the duty
officer in CATCC for this shift, surveyed his domain from the lordly
throne of an elevated, leather-backed chair at the center of the
compartment.
Tombstone was tired as he pushed aside the curtains that kept out the
harsh light of the passageway outside and entered the room. He’d been
going pretty much on adrenaline since the Jeff had entered the
Hellespont the day before. Someone thrust a steaming mug of coffee–his
mug, inscribed “CAG-CVW-20”–into his hands and he gave the sailor a
brisk nod. Radio voices crackled from speakers on the bulkhead, terse
and urgent.
“As you were, Lieutenant,” he rasped as Penhall started to rise from his
chair. He took a sip from the mug. It was a particularly strong brew