Viper Strike c-2, page 8
part #2 of Carrier Series
"What do you mean?" He led the group to a railing, out of the way of a mule and a team of yellow-jacketed deck handlers maneuvering an F-14 Tomcat onto the elevator. The dark waters of Sattahip Bay lapped at the ship's side twenty feet below.
"What did you say… two million gallons of aviation fuel? What happens if an enemy missile flies through this big hole in the ship's side?"
Tombstone grinned. "That debate has been going on since the Falklands War. That's when the Navy suddenly realized that a cheap missile could do big-time damage to a very expensive ship."
"And there was the Stark in the Persian Gulf," Pamela pointed out. "Can you really justify spending billions of dollars on something that can be blown out of the water by a single Exocet costing, oh, say a few hundred thousand dollars?"
"In the first place," Tombstone said slowly, "the Jefferson is not the Sheffield."
"Sheffield?"
"A British DDG, a guided-missile destroyer, sunk by air-launched Exocet missiles during the Falklands War," Tombstone explained. "Look at it this way. Jefferson has over two thousand separate watertight compartments.
Sinking her… well, you might as well try to sink a piece of styrofoam."
"That sounds ominously like the argument they used for the unsinkable Titanic," Pamela said. Her eyes twinkled. She seemed to enjoy sparring with him. "In a war, you'd have quite a time hiding a ship this big from Russian satellites. One nuclear cruise missile and… where would your styrofoam be then?"
Tombstone crossed his arms. "Look, if Russia and us start tossing nukes at each other, we're going to be losing a hell of a lot more than carriers!
Jefferson can fight a nuclear war all by herself if she has to, but her main purpose is as a deterrent… and to give the President some non-nuclear options in a crisis."
"Like Wonsan."
"That's right."
"Okay, what about conventional weapons then? You're still vulnerable.
An Exocet could slip right through this big doorway here, explode in there among all those airplanes and… whoosh!"
"In combat, these openings are closed off by sliding armor panels. We keep them open in fair weather and in port to keep the hangar deck aired out, but we can seal her up tight when we need to. So we won't have SSMs bouncing around on our hangar deck.
"Now, look over there." He pointed aft toward a railed sponson extending from the hull along the ship's port quarter. "See that grouping of six tubes, like mortars? That's Super RBOC." He pronounced it "are-bock."
"For Rapid-Bloom Offboard Chaff. Anti-ship missiles like Exocet are guided to their target by radar. When CIC ― that's the ship's combat information center ― picks up incoming missiles, those tubes fire off clouds of radar-reflecting fibers called chaff, just like the chaff dispensers on my Tomcat. The missiles home on the chaff and miss the ship.
"Now, look up there." He turned around and pointed forward, far up along the curve of the ship's hull. "Up there on that forward sponson… see something that looks like a big, white, dome-topped garbage can? That's one of our Mark IS Phalanx systems, or CIWS." He pronounced the acronym "sea-whizz."
"That's for Close-In Weapons System. It's a big Gatling gun, computer-controlled and radar-directed, which can rattle off 20-mm depleted uranium rounds at the rate of fifty per second. Each slug is two and a half times denser than steel and is moving at something like seven hundred miles per hour when it hits. The control and aiming is precise enough to target an incoming missile and blow it right out of the air. We have three Mark 5s aboard Jefferson: that one port side forward, one to starboard below the island, and one aft on the port side of the fantail."
The deck handlers had completed maneuvering the Tomcat onto the elevator.
A klaxon blasted warning, and then the elevator gave a hard jolt and began crawling upwards.
"Phalanx," Pamela said thoughtfully. "Wasn't that the defense system on the Stark that was turned off at the wrong time?"
Tombstone met her cool gaze evenly. "Yes, ma'am. It was."
"But of course, that can't happen aboard the Jefferson."
"No ma'am, it can't."
The elevator rose level with the flight deck and shuddered to a halt.
From here, it was like standing on a dry land airfield, with the control tower island rising far across a very large stretch of dark-colored runway. The aircraft parked along the edge of the four-acre flight deck, the helo still resting in front of the island, the tiny figures of deck handlers going about their duties ― all served to emphasize the overwhelming size of the Jefferson.
With no flight operations going on, the flight deck was unusually quiet.
"You still haven't convinced me, Commander," Pamela said as they stepped off the elevator and started across the flight deck. She stopped Tombstone with a hand on his shoulder and turned, facing west. Three of the other ships of Jefferson's battle group were visible scattered at widely spaced intervals across the Sattahip anchorage. Closest was the shark-gray shape of the Vicksburg, the CBG's Aegis cruiser. Astern was the DDG Kearny, and farther off still, the frigate Biddle. Winslow and Gridley, the remaining two vessels of CBG-14, were still at sea patrolling in the Gulf of Thailand. "Look," she continued. "You have a nine-billion-dollar aircraft carrier… and you still need all those ships just to protect her!"
Tombstone laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Excuse me, ma'am, but that's a pretty common misconception."
"Those other ships don't protect the carrier?"
"Oh, to a certain extent, sure. The frigates are mostly for ASW ― that's anti-submarine work ― and they act as a screen to keep enemy subs from getting too close. But Jefferson's aircraft are her whole reason for being. Look…
think of a map of the United States. Now imagine the Jefferson sitting in Washington, D.C., okay?"
"Okay."
"Her frigate escorts would be deployed as far apart as, oh, say, Pennsylvania and parts of North Carolina. But her F-14 Tomcats would be on patrol over Maine, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Michigan."
"My God…"
"Her S-3 Vikings would be sub-hunting in Ohio. If there was need for a bombing run, her A-6 Intruders could hit Chicago."
"Good Lord! I had no idea you guys covered so much territory," Baughman said. He sounded impressed.
"Put that same battle group in the Med," Tombstone continued. "With the Jeff off Greece, our planes could cover places as far apart as northern Italy and Syria, Odessa on the Black Sea and the deserts of Libya." He paused, suddenly self-conscious, then smiled and gestured at the Vicksburg. "You see, as far as we're concerned, it's us who protects them!"
She laughed, a warm sound, and she reached out and touched his arm. "I must say, Commander, that I admire your love for your ship. Boat," she corrected herself. "It certainly shows when you talk about her!"
He smiled in reply. "If you think that's bad, wait until you get me talking about flying. That's my real love."
Suddenly she turned serious. "Yes, I imagine it would be." She looked at Tombstone for a moment, then, abruptly, turned away. "Okay, boys. You got what we need?"
"That should do it," Griffith said, patting his camera. "We've got five ― ten good minutes' worth."
"We could get you back on board in the next day or two while we're conducting flight ops," Tombstone offered. "You could get some great shots of catapult launches… or recovery operations aft. It's a lot more exciting than miles and miles of gray steel passageways!"
"We may take you up on that," Pamela said. "For now, though, I think we should set up a time to meet you in Bangkok. I'll want to get some of what you said today on tape. You can be quite persuasive when you want to be, Commander."
"I guess that's why they made me tour guide," he replied. "To keep your show from getting too one-sided!"
She smiled. "We'll see. I'll take up your schedule with your admiral.
By the way, Admiral Magruder is your uncle, isn't he?"
That again. "Yes, ma'am, he is."
She laughed. "Well, that must be convenient!"
"I don't know what you mean." He couldn't tell from Pamela's bantering tone whether she was serious or not. Back at Yokuska, after the fight at Wonsan, the press had had a field day with the fact that he was the nephew of the battle group commander. Tombstone kept his face impassive and turned away. "This way, if you please."
As he led the civilians across the flight deck, Tombstone couldn't help connecting Pamela's seemingly offhand comment with their quiet, unstated hostility to the very idea of the Jefferson. To them, the carrier represented billions of misspent dollars, and he could tell they were looking for ways to attack her.
And now it felt as though they were attacking him.
CHAPTER 7
0900 hours, 16 January
CAG's office, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
"You're at attention, Mister!"
Batman gave up any thought of keeping this discussion on a friendly, personal level and held himself ramrod stiff, keeping his eyes focused on a point on the bulkhead behind CAG Marusko's left shoulder. "Yes, sir!"
Marusko examined the Shore Patrol report in his hand and shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe what he saw written there. "One ornamental hedge. Two rows of flowers. Tire marks across the landscaped lawn. A rock garden, complete with a decorative Buddhist shrine. A goddamned palm tree." CAG looked up, peering over the top of his reading glasses.
"Just how the hell did you manage to park the car in the hotel tennis court?
It was fenced in!"
"Well, it was. Sort of. Sir."
"Rental car."
"Yes, sir. You see, the brakes were kind of bad, and-"
"How much did you have to drink?"
"Gee, I'm not real sure, CAG. We'd stopped at the Oriental first. Then we went to the That Intercontinental. The girls were showing me around, you see."
"Driving under the influence. Property damage. This is serious, Mister.
Damned serious!"
"Yes, sir."
"Next there's this… this complaint from the same hotel. An unidentified man wearing boxer shorts, and two… ah… partly dressed young ladies, ran through the lobby, startling a number of the hotel's guests. That wouldn't be you and your 'friends' again, would it?"
"Uh, probably not, CAG. I mean, I don't remember too much after the-"
"The man in boxer shorts was screaming, 'Viper Squadron, launch when ready!" at the top of his lungs. Ring any bells?"
"No, sir."
"And then the finale. This same man and his female companions removed the rest of their clothes and went swimming in the hotel pool."
"I really wouldn't know anything about that, sir."
"It seems one of the restaurant lounges in this hotel has a large picture window, which looks out into the pool. Underwater. Very atmospheric, I understand.
"I'm sure it is, sir."
"The man proceeded to grapple with one of the women in the water, apparently in an attempt to copulate with her. In front of approximately fifty of the hotel's guests who happened to be in the lounge at the time."
"I'm sure if he'd known they were watching, he wouldn't have done it, sir."
"Responding to a call by the hotel, the Shore Patrol finally found you behind the pool house, apparently hiding from the establishment's security people, stark naked and sopping wet." CAG looked up again. "It doesn't say what became of your skinny-dipping companions."
"Oh, that was their hotel. I imagine they made it back to their room."
"You sorry son of a bitch! In one night you have managed to disgrace your uniform, your squadron-"
"Well, actually, I wasn't wearing the uniform at the time-"
"Damn it, Wayne, don't you play games with me!" He slapped the report down on his desk. "I could have your ass out of here with this! Do you understand me? I could have your wings handed to me on a platter!"
Batman swallowed. This was worse than he possibly could have imagined.
"Yes, sir."
"Now, you have a choice, mister. We can handle this right here, just you and me. Or we can go to the Captain with it. What's it going to be?"
"I'll be glad to… to work it out with you, sir."
"Good." Marusko nodded. "Good! The skipper wouldn't want to be bothered with shit like this. Now for the good news. Somehow you managed to luck out on one part of this sorry story, Wayne. The hotel has agreed not to press charges so long as you pay them ― — " He consulted the report again.
"Right. Two thousand, nine hundred fifty dollars for damage to their landscaping. Apparently they haven't been able to connect you with the swimming pool incident, because that wasn't mentioned in their claim. Or maybe they've decided to start featuring X-rated sex shows for their clientele."
"Three… three thousand dollars, sir?"
CAG picked up another paper. "Add to that an estimated eight hundred dollars for the rent-a-car people. The collision with the palm tree and the tennis court fence didn't do that Datsun's bodywork any good." Marusko removed his glasses. When he spoke again, it was with a low, almost quiet voice, the voice which CAG Marusko used when he was in his most dangerous mood. "So, four grand will settle things with the civilians and you luck out, but by God you still have to settle with me, Wayne. I'm not letting you off the hook that easily! Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir." Almost four thousand dollars! As a Navy lieutenant, Batman received $2,596 this month, a figure which included both flight pay and the temporary bonus of hostile fire pay for his service in Korea, but he was still going to have to take out a Credit Union loan to raise that much cash all at once. He'd be paying this one off for quite a while.
"It occurs to me, Mr. Wayne, that a change of scenery would be beneficial for both of us. It will remove you from the temptations of exotic Bangkok…
and it will get you out of my sight. It happens I have an empty slot for a special duty assignment. How does U Feng sound to you?"
Batman's jaw dropped. "U Feng? But that's… oh, shit!"
"You have a problem with that, Mister?" Marusko's voice was whip-crack tight again.
"No, sir. No problem, sir." U Feng! And the worst of it was, he hadn't even made it with Becky or Arlene. His attempt in the pool had been just that… and a dismal failure after all that he'd had to drink. And Becky had promised him another chance tonight.
"It is now 0914 hours. I want you and your RIO in the Ready Room, suited up and ready to go, by 1430 hours this afternoon. I'll have your orders cut by then. Launch is at 1500."
"Yes, sir." There was nothing more to be said.
"Get out of here!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" He fled.
Behind him, Marusko picked up the Shore Patrol report again and began re-reading it. His reserve broke at last, and he collapsed back in his chair, laughing helplessly.
1445 hours, 16 January
CATCC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Made It Bayerly crossed his arms and surreptitiously leaned against the bulkhead of the darkened room.
"Air Boss says they're ready to go on Cats One and Three," a third class radarman at one of the consoles said.
"Okay, Paterowski," Senior Chief Hansen said. He looked bored, sitting back in the room's command chair with a mug of coffee in his hand, his headset perched at an angle to uncover one ear. "Tell 'em we're ready to pick up."
"They're going to launch the helo first."
"Makes sense."
Bayerly glanced over at the status board, where a young third class was writing backwards on the transparent plastic. The Sea King's mission was listed as Bangkok, a run to the That Airlines helipad in the city and back.
That would be Tombstone Magruder's helo.
Damn the man, anyway. Bayerly's thought was raw pain and anger. The word had quickly spread throughout the ship that the three civilian visitors to the carrier the day before had been from a high-powered Stateside news program, and that one of them, a real looker of a woman, had asked specially to interview Commander Bigshot Magruder. So now the lucky bastard was on his way to Bangkok.
Bayerly glanced to his left. Several other naval flight officers from various squadrons were there, standing in various attitudes of relaxation or boredom. It was standard practice for NFOs to stand stretches of duty in Air Ops, where they could be asked for advice during a crisis, especially one involving a man in their unit. Since he'd been relieved of flight duty, it was natural that Bayerly put in more than the usual duty time for VF-97. He didn't like it, though. He didn't like it one bit.
The other officers had been all but shunning him since his suspension, almost as if he'd already lost his wings. Even now, McConnell, Rostenkowski, and the others seemed to be avoiding his eyes, and he could imagine their pointed comments behind his back.
The pain burning in Bayerly's gut felt like jealousy, though he knew it wasn't. It was despair for a career slowly but surely closing down. He'd known it, felt it for months. Back during the Wonsan operations three months ago, it hadn't been coincidence which had led CAG to assign the hotshot missions to Tombstone Magruder while posting Bayerly to routine CAP flights over the carrier.
Magruder had downed six MiGs and won the Navy Cross. Bayerly had sat it out on the sidelines. And all because of what had happened over a year ago…
"Helo away," a radarman said. Several television monitors about CATCC showed the gray bulk of the Sea King lift off the mid-deck, hover for a moment, then dip its blunt bow and angle off toward the north. Other monitors showed the view forward. Aft of two of the four catapults, JBD shields rose slowly behind the two Tomcats readying for launch. A deck officer gave the hand signal to bring the engines up to full power.
Bayerly wondered how Batman Wayne felt about being snagged to cover for Magruder. The rumors about his escapade last night had been spreading about the ship as well.
