pointing toward the rear of the room. The second team leader nodded and
took his men over to it. The dogging mechanism on the door moved easily,
and seconds later they were walking into the carrier CDC. From what he
could hear, the Spetsnaz surmised that they experienced as little physical
resistance to the invasion as the flag spaces had.
“They’ll kill you for this,” Tombstone said levelly. His eyes
searched the commando’s face, looking for any break in the passivity he saw
there. “What’s more, there’s nothing you can do with this ship. I will
give no orders on your behalf, and none of my staff members will obey you.
What will you accomplish by this?”
Rogov stepped into the compartment from behind the commandos, and
Tombstone immediately recognized that he was the man in command. The
Cossack stared at Tombstone for a moment, as though assessing him.
Finally, he spoke.
“For your purposes, Admiral, what we want is not nearly as important
as what we have. That is to say,” he said, making a gesture that included
the entire room, “your people and your ship.”
1158 Local
Tomcat 201
“What the hell’s taking them so long to clear us?” Bird Dog grumbled.
All he wanted now was about six hours’ uninterrupted rack time, followed by
a couple of sliders, the carrier version of a hamburger. And some autodog,
he decided. Yes, that sounded good–a whole ice cream cone full of the
soft brown ice cream that had earned the disgusting slang name. He sighed,
settling in to do what all Navy officers learned to do early in their
career–hurry up and wait.
“Wonder what the hell’s going on back there?” Gator said curiously.
Bird Dog glanced in the mirror an saw his RIO had turned around in his seat
and was staring at the helicopter landing spot. “Awful lot of people
around there. Hell, we’re at General Quarters.”
He turned around and settled back in his seat. “You hearing
anything?” he asked, putting his own helmet with its speakers back on.
“Oh, shit,” Bird Dog said softly. “Gator, they’re gonna launch us
again.”
“Launch us? But we just got here. What the hell-” Gator fell silent
as he listened to the instructions coming over his own headset. “Armed
terrorists on the ship?” Gator said disbelievingly. “I don’t believe–Bird
Dog, at least get them to put some weapons on the rack before we launch
again,” he finished, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Although what
good it’s gonna do with terrorists in the ship, I’ll be damned if I know.”
“Start the checklist,” Bird Dog ordered, all traces of his earlier
fatigue now vanishing in a fresh wave of adrenaline. “I don’t know either,
but if the air boss wants it, we’re out of here.”
Gator complied, and began reading the prelaunch checklist from his
kneeboard. Before he was finished, Bird Dog started taxiing for the
catapult. Ordnance technicians scurried about the aircraft, short-cutting
most of their standard safety precautions to slap Sidewinders and Sparrows
onto the wings.
“No Phoenix?” Gator asked.
“No. And just as well, if you ask me.” Shooting the long-range
Phoenix missile was okay for making long-range aircraft go on the
defensive, but for what he had in mind he preferred a knife-fighting
close-in load out.
“That tanker’s still in the air, at least.” He glanced down at the
gauge. “We’ve got enough for a launch, with some time overhead, but I’m
going to want to be going back for a fill-up real fast.”
“Air boss says they’re in TFCC and CDC,” Gator reported. “We’ll have
to get the air boss to coordinate it.”
“He mentioned that earlier–said the tanker’s in the starboard marshal
pattern already, waiting for us. They’re gonna shoot us off, and then get
as many of the ready aircraft launched as they can. Although where we’re
supposed to go if they don’t get our airport sanitized, I’ll be damned if I
know.”
Four minutes later, only partially through the checklist, Tomcat 201
hurled down the flight deck on the waist catapult and shot into the air.
“Where to now?” Gator said.
Bird Dog shrugged. “First we go get a drink, amigo,” he said. “Then