CARRIER 8: ALPHA STRIKE By: Keith Douglass

reporting numerous fighters inbound!”

“TAO, get a raid count from that Tomcat,” Tombstone said quietly,

ignoring the jolt of adrenaline flooding his body.

“Gunslinger 101 estimates ninety aircraft, Admiral,” the TAO replied.

“Feet wet off the coast of Vietnam five minutes ago. Air boss requests

permission to set flight quarters.”

“Do it,” Tombstone ordered. “And tell him I expect to see a new record

set on launching the alert CAP.”

Ten seconds later, the thunderous roar of a Tomcat at full military power

shook the space. Tombstone glanced at the CCTV and saw the afterburners light

the deck in an eerie hell-like fire. Five seconds later, the catapult sang

its rattling song, ramming forward to toss the first alert fighter off the

deck.

The carrier shook with the differing rhythms, as a forward catapult,

followed by the waist cat, then the other forward catapult launched the alert

package. For ten minutes, the refrain was Tomcats. The lighter-voiced scream

of the Hornets picked up the second verse, followed by the rumble of a KA-6

tanker.

Within twenty minutes, the carrier felt eerily silent, the last of the

alert aircraft launched. Overhead, he could hear the odd rattlings and

vibrations that came from aircraft being moved around the deck in preparation

for normal launch.

Tombstone felt strangely disconnected from the battle. Unlike every

other time in his career, this time he’d be following it on the communications

net and from the radar screen instead of in the air. His hands curled,

missing the feel of the vibrating throttle beneath them. Watching red symbols

track across a screen was a poor substitute for the actual sight of the enemy

raid.

Over the tactical net, he could hear the Hornet pilots snapping at each

other, chivvying to be the first in line to top off from the tanker and get

into the fight. The longer-legged Tomcats were already underway to the fight.

Had he been able to come up with an excuse–any decent excuse would have

done–he’d have been up there with them. But, as CAG had reminded him, it was

time to turn the fight over to better eyes, faster reflexes, and the next

generation. His place was here on the ship. The harder job, perhaps, except

for the dying–watching it instead of doing it.

“Admiral! S-3 SUCAP reports a visual on a periscope!” the flag TAO said.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Thirty miles to the east, sir. DESRON is vectoring them in for the

intercept.” The TAO paused, and a frown crossed his face. “Lost it. It went

sinker as soon as the S-3 got overhead.”

“I’ll save DESRON the trouble of asking the next question. Tell that

Viking he’s weapons free, and to watch out for those Grails,” Tombstone said

immediately. The TAO nodded, and passed the word up five decks to the DESRON.

If he’d had any doubts about the Chinese intentions, the sudden

appearance of the submarine had cured them. No matter whether it was a Kilo

or a Han-class boat, it had just surfaced for the last time.

CHAPTER 24

Thursday, 4 July

1815 hours (Zulu -7)

Handler’s Office

USS Jefferson

Good hunting, Lieutenant,” Chief Franklin said.

“Thanks, Chief,” Bird Dog said absently, his mind already forty feet away

in the cockpit of the Tomcat. He scribbled his name in the maintenance log,

acknowledging he’d read the “gripes,” the maintenance action forms, filed in

the compact folder. He patted himself over one time, carefully checking that

he had his water bottle, candy bar, gun, and all the other paraphernalia that

pilots tucked into the pockets of their flight suit. He gave the crotch

straps on the ejection harness one last tug to tighten them. As dangerous as

ejection could be, loose straps could result in permanent damage.

He pushed open the hatch and felt the heat and the noise of the flight

deck assault him. He scanned the deck and found Tomcat 205 waiting near the

handler’s shack. The plane captain, a slim, coverall-clad figure, was dogging

down one last panel.

Shaughnessy! Bird Dog stormed back into the handler’s office. Chief

Franklin was still there, leaning on the counter and chatting with the

handler.

“Chief! What’s she doing on my aircraft?” Bird Dog demanded.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *