so firmly embedded in carrier aviation culture that Tombstone doubted it would
ever disappear. Besides, CAG was a hell of a lot better acronym than CAW.
His current CAG, Captain Peter Cervantes, was an F-14 driver like
Tombstone. They’d known of each other for years, although they had always
seemed to be assigned to different coasts and had never worked together.
CAG’s reputation within the tight-knit fighter community was golden, though.
“Until we know what that strike was, I’d consider us in harm’s way out
here. And if they have a little cruise missile surprise to worry the surface
ships, it makes me wonder what they’ve got cooked up for us that we don’t know
about,” CAG said.
“My thoughts exactly. Stingers I’m not that worried about. But what if
there’s something else?”
“We can start by shifting more of the surveillance patrols to the F-18
squadrons, and keeping an E-2C up around the clock. Let’s use what we’ve
got.”
“Tomcats aren’t going to like that,” Tombstone said thoughtfully.
“They’ll have to live with it. In this particular scenario, the Hornet’s
the best bet. I hate admitting it as much as you do. An AWACS would be even
better,” CAG replied.
AWACS, short for Airborne Warning and Control System, was military slang
for the E-3 Sentry surveillance aircraft. A modified Boeing 707, it carried
extensive mission avionics packages for long-range targeting information and
identification. The 11,800-pound rotodome measured thirty feet in diameter,
and was mounted on two struts on top of the aircraft. Its AN/APY-2 slotted,
phased-array antenna and APX103 IFF interrogator provided excellent coverage
of large areas of ocean. But it had two fatal drawbacks, as far as Tombstone
was concerned–it was owned by the Air Force, and it couldn’t be deployed from
an aircraft carrier.
“The odds of us getting one aren’t great. Too few friendly land bases
nearby. Plus, we’d have to coordinate fighter protection for it,” Tombstone
said.
“I know, and I’m not counting on it. Let me tinker with the flight
schedule for a few hours, then run some ideas by you. We’ve got enough power
to take care of ourselves.”
“Okay, CAG. Keep me posted.” Tombstone resisted the impulse to quiz CAG
on his plans. When Tombstone had been CAG, his admiral had given him
considerable free rein in running his airwing, even to the point of moving his
flag to a cruiser and leaving CAG Magruder as the senior officer present on
the carrier. It was one of the eternal challenges of getting
promoted–learning to keep one’s hands off one’s former jobs.
“Roger that, Admiral. I’ll get back to you ASAP.” CAG pulled his 230
pounds up out of the hardback CVIC chair. “Hitting the flight deck today for
a run, Admiral? We’re going to have four open hours later today.”
Tombstone smiled. “Tell me that again after you get through revamping
the flight schedule, and after Seventh Fleet gets back to us. I have a
feeling that the flight deck’s going to be a bit busier than we originally
planned!”
Bird Dog threaded his way aft through the maze of passageways to his
stateroom, avoiding the heart-to-heart chat his backseater had insisted they
needed to have. Gator was a good RIO and an even better all-round officer, he
thought. His advice undoubtedly would have proved helpful. But there were
just some things a man had to sort out for himself.
Nothing that day had turned out like he’d thought it would. He’d lost it
on his first pass at the carrier, and then mouthed off to the Admiral.
Besides that, the VF-95 Executive Officer was on his tail about overdue
enlisted evaluations, and islands were blowing up out of the sea when he got
near them. Hell, the battle group had been so hyped up over the rock
exploding that CAG hadn’t even gotten around to chewing him out for screwing
with the Aegis cruiser.
On top of everything, he had a host of problems to sort out with his work
center, the AE Branch. No, he concluded, life as a naval aviator was not a
whole lot like it’d been advertised.
He remembered the day he’d first reported to the carrier. Sure, he’d