“He told me, you see, sir. He tried to get me to do somethingbut I didn’t. I thought it was another routine flight. I didn’t ask for CAP, didn’t request that the ship maneuver to open weapons armament, didn’t do any of that. I blew it. Completely, without a doubt, and through no fault of anybody’s but my ownI blew it.”
Skeeter felt surprisingly calm as he finished his recitation of his own failures. It felt like that moment when a Tomcat reached the highest point of an Immelman and you hung suspended in the ejection harness, free of gravity and floating more than sitting in the cockpit. It was a feeling of lightness, of an unbearable diffusion of self until the boundaries between you and your aircraft disappeared, until you were one with the hydraulics, the engine, the leading and trailing edges of the wings.
“So that’s what that was about,” the XO said finally.
“You mean my screw-ups? Yes, XOI guess it was. By the time I got to the carrier, I wasn’t even thinking straight. Not really.”
“No, not that at all. I mean what Admiral Magruder said about youhe saw me before you checked in, you know. It was his first stop when he came on board.”
Skeeter’s head jerked up from his automatic instrument scan. “Admiral Magruder? Why? I only met him for just a minute. Flew over with him on the helo, but that hardly counts.”
“There’s more that counts than you know,” the XO continued. “I take it you met Admiral Magruder as soon as he came aboard La Salle, right?”
“Yes, sir. Sixth Fleet sent me out to greet him.”
“You didn’t feel a little naked out there, like a Christian in the arena with lions roaming around?”
Skeeter was confused. “No, XO. They just told me to go out and escort the admiral. Besides, I figured he’d come looking for me eventually, since I’m the one who screwed up his ship. I thought it might be better to get it over right away.”
“Oh, that’s not the half of it,” the XO mused. “Not the half of it at all. Sixth Fleet sent you out there figuring that Tombstone would have you drawn and quartered right there on the flight deck. From what Admiral Magruder said, the Sixth Fleet Chief of Staff was along as well, to make sure it happened. Didn’t you notice that?”
“I thought it was just standard procedure.”
“Hardly. Sixth Fleet intended to sacrifice you to preserve his own ambitions.”
The XO’s voice was grim. “That’s a nasty thing to do to a lieutenantmake him take the fall for your mistake.”
Skeeter’s confusion deepened. “His mistake? But the admiral wasn’t even in TFCC when we were attacked.”
“Exactly. It was as irresponsible an act as I’ve ever seen from an officer to leave you alone in that flag plot, Skeeter. You had no right to be on watch there alonenone at all. Now, I’m not saying that you’re not a good aviatorI can see from the way you handle this Tomcat that you’ve got the moves, the reflexes. If you’ve got the brains to go with your nervous system, you’re going to do just fine. But a couple of months out of the RAG, standing watch in a flag officer’s TFCC? I don’t think so. Someone was too lazyor even worse, just didn’t careto put experienced officers on that watch bill. You may have been the actual officer on watch, but the rot in Sixth Fleet went a lot deeper than that.”
Skeeter felt a new humility seep into his innermost self. He knew, at some level, that what the XO said was true. He’d wanted to believe himself that he was competent, capablea bloodied and salty Naval aviator taking on responsibility early, just like in the commercials. But in truth, he’d never felt entirely comfortable with standing TAO watches there. Sure, he’d done itand to even be asked was entirely flattering. But had he really been qualified to do so?
“I should have said no, shouldn’t I?” he asked the XO slowly. “I just didn’t think I could.”
“There are ways of saying no, and there are ways of saying no. You’ll learn’em as you get some more time under your belt. But as far as the VF95 Vipers are concerned, the only mark on your record is the stunt you pulled on the flight deck. And under the circumstances, I can almost see why that happened. That soon after the attack, you should have at least been medically clearedmentally, I meanbefore you went wandering around a flight deck for the first time on your own.”
Another surprise. “Admiral Magruder was right,” Skeeter said quietly. “He warned me before I stepped out on the flight deck, told me to keep my head on a swivel. I started to follow him off of the helo, but I got bumped back to the back of the line by the other senior officers. Something else I didn’t know.”
The XO chuckled. “I heard about thatBird Dog’s an old shipmate of mine. He came crowing in to me about setting our newest nugget straight. But I think what Admiral Magruder had in mind was for you to follow him across the flight deck. I don’t know, Skeeter, I wasn’t there, but I’d bet on it. Stoney’s that kind of man. He’s got a sixth sense about when an aviator needs a little looking after.”
“Stoney?”
“Tombstonehe got that call sign from his face. Don’t you ever think about playing poker with the man, Skeeter. He can outbluff anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Another silence settled over the cockpit, one considerably more comfortable than the one that had preceded it. Skeeter felt relieved, purged. The sense of lightness, of freedom, was growing. He put the ICS back on and ventured, “XO?”
“Yeah?”
“How about we see what this Tomcat can really do.”
An earsplitting smile crept across the young pilot’s face.
“Rogergo for it. Impress me, Skeeter.”
0915 Local
Hunter 701
Twenty Miles East of USS Jefferson
“I’m just a lonely cowboy, lonely for my baby,” Lieutenant Commander Steve “Rabies” Grill sang lustily. He could hear the muttered protests from the other three crew members over the ICS, and chose to ignore them.
They simply had no taste in music, and despite two cruises flying togetherthree for some of themthey had yet to learn to appreciate the finer nuances of country-and-western.
“Another Tomcat launch,” the TACCO said, desperate for something tactical to say over the circuit to forestall a second chorus. “Should be well clear of our area, though.”
“Altituuuuude separaaaaaation,” Rabies sang in response, picking up the notes from the refrain.
“Come on, sir, give it a break,” AWI Harness said wearily. “I’ve never heard a key before that had seven flats and eight sharps.” AWI Harness was cursed with perfect pitch.
“All right, all right,” Rabies said, reluctantly abandoning his newest favorite melody. “But when I retire and make it big in Nashville, you’ll be telling people about back when. But as good as I’ll sound at the Grand Ole Opry, I sound better at ten thousand feet.”
A chorus of groans greeted the all-too-familiar beginning of his plans for his future career. “As long as I don’t have to fly with you,” the TACCO muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, I didn’t say-“
“No, down there.” Rabies waved over toward the left side of the cockpit. “I saw a flash.”
“Nothing on FLIR,” muttered Harness. The forward-looking infrared sensor was one of the many potent avionics carried on board the S3B Viking ASW hunter-killer.
“I saw something,” Rabies insisted. “Let’s go take a look.”
“I’ll lose contact on the more distant buoys if you get too low,” the TACCO warned. “Any of those bastards have the little missile launcher on top of them that we saw in the South China Sea?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the copilot said promptly. Of the four, he was the one who stayed most current on intelligence threat estimates. The crew’s interest in submarine-launched anti-air missiles had become almost an obsession after their first encounter with the first operational platform carrying the weapons in the South China Sea. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”
“Careful, hell,” Rabies snor
ted. “This here’s a jet, fellas. Any of you limp dicks want to bail out, you know where the panic button is.”
Rabies tipped the sturdy aircraft over into a deep dive. Of all the aircraft carried on board Jefferson, the S3 Viking was arguably the most airworthy and stable of any platform. It was designed to cruise at patrol speeds for long periods of time, carrying a comprehensive set of sensors.
Foremost in its arsenal were the sonobuoys tucked into its gut, each one spat out on command by a tiny explosive charge in the end. Depending on the water conditions below, a single line of sonobuoys could provide comprehensive undersea surveillance for the entire battle group.
“Rabies, take it easy. You’re passing four hundred knots.” The copilot’s voice was annoyed.
“Ain’t seen nothing yet, asshole. Max speed on this baby is four hundred and forty knots, and I figure that’s going downhill.” Rabies grinned insanely. “About time somebody set a new speed record in this aircraft, don’t you think?”
“I’ve got it,” Harness said suddenly. “Buoy Fourit’s barely there, but I have contact on some electrical sources. Flow tones as well. I make her doing about six knots.”
“Six knots? That’s moving along for a submarine running off battery.”
The TACCO looked puzzled. “She probably heard our sonobuoys hitting the water and wants to clear the area at all possible speed,” Harness countered. “I don’t know that that makes much senseit just makes her more detectable, and it’s a long time until sunset when she can snorkel in relative safety.”
“Any indication of depth change?” Rabies asked, suddenly all business.
“Negative. She’s headed due west, and I’ve got no indications of a depth change.”
“How deep?” the TACCO asked.
“Deep enoughshe’s not shallow, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean,” the TACCO confirmed. “As long as she stays at depth, even if she’s got that Codeye installed,” he said, referring to the surface-to-air-missile assembly they’d seen before, “she can’t launch. Isn’t that right?”
“As far as we know.” The copilot sounded dubious. “I don’t know that I want to bet on our intelligence estimates.”
“This is the Med,” Rabies chimed in. “No weird shit herejust straight-forward find’em and kill’em.”
“Sir, she’s headed directly for the carrier.” The TACCO’s voice took on a formal note as his training took over. “Recommend that we set up for deliberate attack. We’ve got time.”
“And torpedoes,” Rabies responded. “You give me a fly-to point, and I’ll take us there. But no weapons free until I talk to Homeplate.”
“Roger.” The TACCO’s fingers flew over the keyboard, entering the tactical fly-points that would appear on Rabies’ screen. “You’ve got it.”
“Got it, aye.”
The S3 tipped over into a steep port turn. “You want a six-buoy pattern in front of them, right?” Rabies confirmed.
“That’ll do it.”
The TACCO switched his radio to the tactical circuit. “Homeplate, this is Hunter 701. We hold contact on an unidentified diesel submarine,” he said, continuing with range, frequency, and bearing information.
“Request weapons free.”
There was a long pause over the circuit, just as he’d expected.
Requesting weapons free on an unidentified submarine was particularly dangerous. Of all bodies of water in the world, the Mediterranean was most crowded with allied submarines. Most littoral nations built their own or bought some variant from any one of the number of other nations exploiting submarines. Without positive identification, the submarine they were tracking could just as easily be Russian, Ukrainian, or even Israeli.
Still, to hold contact and not request weapons free would label one as a bit of a pussy.
“Negative, Hunter 701. Launching two SH60 helos in five mikes. Coordinate transfer of prosecution to Sea Lord 601. After turnover, continue to monitor forward ASW barrier as briefed.”
“Well, ain’t that the shits,” Rabies remarked. The transfer of responsibility for the prosecution was hardly a surprise. Two dipping helos working in tandem against a submarine contact were every submariner’s worst nightmare. In addition to a smaller load of sonobuoys, the SH60 carrier variant had a dipping sonar capable of being deployed to a considerable depth. While the submarine might try to hide by shifting between the various thermal layers found in the warm, salty Mediterranean, it would be difficult to escape two determined and proficient helo crews.
The turnover went quickly, and the Sea Hawks eagerly took up prosecution of the contact. Twenty minutes later, Hunter 701 was headed back on station.
Rabies sighed. “So that’s all we get for being the best aroundalways the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
“You’re forgetting about the Aleutians,” Harness said. He shuddered. “A submarine with anti-air missilesit’s damned unnatural if you ask me.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Rabies agreed readily. “Still, this is the Med, not some weird-ass corner of the world.”
The Mediterranean. He gazed down at the clear blue waters, always looking for that unexpected flash of light that indicated a protruding snorkel tube, an amorphous shape just below the surface of the ocean that would reveal a submarine running submerged and shallow. The Mediterranean was a submarine hunter’s worst nightmare for water, and Rabies loved it for that.
The enclosed sea was divided into two distinct thermal layers, in one of the oddest arrangements of any ocean in the world. The top layer was warm and salty, and flowed toward the mouth of the Mediterranean. Deep beneath it, a second layer replenished the Med, cold, less salty ocean water rushing in to replace that lost through evaporation and outflow. The difference between the two vertical currents could produce odd acoustic effects, and an inexperienced crew could easily lose their prey in the shifting sound channels.
“Just another hour on station,” Rabies said cheerfully. “Our reliefs are probably taking a last piss call as we speak.”
“Don’t talk about that,” Harness groaned. “I hate those damned piddle packs.”
The rest of the crew chimed in in agreement. Of all the hardships of flying a long-endurance ASW aircraft, the lack of an adequate relief tube was among the most significant. While some tactical aircraft had a tube built directly into the airframe venting to the outside, the S-3 aviators had to be content with a device that most resembled a hot-water bottle.
The “piddle packs” had been banned by Rabies based on an entirely understandable accident two missions earlier involving a too-exuberant change of altitude by the pilot that was not coordinated with Petty Officer Harness’s more personalized maneuvers in the backseat.
“I’d even take the pack right now.” Harness’s voice sounded strained. He heard Rabies rooting around in the forward part of the aircraft, and moments later the dreaded clear plastic pack was passed back to him.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
0925 Local
Tomcat 308
“Tomcat 308, you have strangers inbound.” The laconic voice of the TACCO in the E-2C Hawkeye orbiting ten thousand feet above them was calm. “Vector zero-four-zero to intercept and VID.”
“What the? Sentry, this is 308. We’re on a checkout flight. What about onstation CAP?”
“Four aircraft inbound,” the Hawkeye replied. “Both CAP currently on station are already en route. Request you break off current training operations and join them.”
There was no mistaking the note of command now in the E-2C TACCO’s voice.
“Okay, Skeeter.” The XO’s voice was determinedly calm. “You want to show me what this aircraft can doyou’ve got your chance. Good thing you’ve got the best RIO in the squadron,” he continued.
“We’re going on an intercept?”
“Looks like it. Here, here’s your fly-to point.” The XO transmitted the coordinates of the station he wanted his pilot t
o take. “Get hot, Skeeter. Training mission’s over.”
“Roger, copy.”
Skeeter slewed the Tomcat around into a tight port turn. They were currently at Angels 11eleven thousand feetand had been drilling on a scissors maneuver, the tactic preferred by the light Falcon against a heavier aircraft. The XO had just been reviewing the breakout points and counters with him when the call from the Hawkeye came in.
“I hope you were paying attention,” the XO said. “I’m going to be a little bit busy back here, but I’ll coach you through it when I can.”
“Not a problem, XO.”
Skeeter felt a surging buoyant feeling of confidence. What had Admiral Magruder saidthat he’d give him a chance?
Well, if more of those assholes who’d shot up the flagship were inbound, they’d find they were facing an entirely different Skeeter. This time, he was in his platform of choice, one that he knew as well as his own bedroom.
The Tomcat was an extension of his skin, a natural marriage of man and machine so intimate as to defy complete description. No one who had never flown in a Tomcat could fully understand how it felt to him, how it reacted to his demands and requests almost before he could translate them into action, how he and the aircraft seemed to meld into one beinga deadly, potent, unified force.
“I’m ready,” he repeated, this time out loud. “Let’s go kick some Turkish ass.”
0928 Local
Falcon 101
“Ah, there you are.” The pilot glanced at the heads-up display and identified the third fighter inbound on their flight. “Four of us, three of youyes, I think these odds will be fair.”
“Red Three, break right and intercept new bogey.” The flight leader’s voice cut through his contemplation of the new contact. “Stick to the Rules of Engagementno incidents this time. But if the Americans wish to play hard, we may show them what we’re truly capable of.”
The pilot turned his aircraft slightly toward the south and accelerated to Mach 1.5. At that speed, he was traveling fifteen miles every minute, closing on the incoming aircraft at breakneck speed. The radar-warning receiver squealed one short alarm. He glanced at it, assessing the data instantly. “Tomcatyes.” The signature of the AWG9 radar was unmistakable. “Are you as reckless and aggressive as your squadron mate was? Shooting at our aircraft with no provocation other than he was near your ship? We will see if you find a prepared fighter pilot as easy a prey.”
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