Tombstone’s complaint was with the job itself. The temperament and skills that made a good fighter pilot were the antithesis of what made a Viking crewman tick. The aircraft was designed to remain aloft for long periods of time, burning fuel at about a sixth the rate of the thirsty Tomcats. And these extended flights required nothing so much as patience, a skill few fighter jocks cultivated.
“Want to take her for a while, Commander?” the pilot asked over the ICS. Commander Max “Hunter” Harrison was CO of the King Fishers, a soft-spoken black man whose pride in his squadron was evident in everything he said. He had elected to come on the mission this morning as the Viking’s pilot as soon as he’d learned that the Deputy CAG was going out. Tombstone could see that much, at least. Back when he’d been a squadron leader he had tried to be on hand anytime CAG or his staff were around.
“What’s my course?” Magruder asked. “This game’s a little out of my regular line of work.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Harrison said with a chuckle. “The computer’ll tell you where to steer.” He pointed to a display screen on the instrument panel. “Keep lined up on this and everything’ll be great.”
Magruder nodded. His training on the Viking was coming back slowly. The computer accepted instructions from the plane’s Tactical Coordinator, or TACCO, who designated where he wished to deploy sonobuoys as part of an overall search pattern. The computer marked the spot and guided the pilot there. On reaching the chosen position the number and type of sonobuoys selected for that location were ejected automatically from the rack in the belly of the aircraft.
“Right,” he said. He grasped the stick. The Viking was the only jet aboard the carrier which had duel flight controls. That allowed a pilot and copilot to divide up the flying duties on a five-hour patrol. There were other controls at his station in the cockpit besides the regular flight instruments, since the copilot was also expected to assist the TACCO in the sub-hunting part of the plane’s work. In fact Magruder was filling the slot of COTAC, although his knowledge of the electronics was limited. “I’ve got her!”
It felt good to be doing something at least, even if this wasn’t the most challenging flying he’d ever been called upon to attempt. The S-3’s mission was to range out beyond the screen of frigates and destroyers masking a battle group and crisscross the ocean in search of enemy submarines. The sonobuoys were the key to that. Each one was a floating module containing a sonar transducer and a radio. Once deployed, they sent out pulses of sound which were reflected back by obstacles — the sea bottom, whales, schools of fish, and the occasional submarine. The radios relayed the results of the sonar searches back to the Viking, where a crewman known as the Senso was responsible for translating the arcane data into an approximation of what was in a given stretch of ocean, and where.
The Senso had other tools at his command as well, from magnetic-anomaly detectors to electronic-surveillance gear that monitored radio traffic to FLIR, Forward-Looking Infrared Radar, which could detect the heat emissions of ships and subs lying at or near the surface. But the sonobuoys were the first and most important tool in the ongoing search for enemies lying beneath the waves.
Harrison slumped in his seat, looking completely relaxed. “What d’you think, Spock? Are we going to have anything to show our VIP this time out?”
From the rear compartment of the plane Lieutenant Commander Ralph Meade, the TACCO, gave a cautious answer over the ICS. He was a tall, spare man who bore more than a passing resemblance to the actor Leonard Nimoy, and that together with his precise, measured way of speaking had earned him his running name. “Hard to say, Skipper. SOSUS showed at least five subs filtering out in the past week, but there’s no telling if they’re still hanging around here or if they’ve moved on by now.”
That, Magruder thought bitterly, was the real problem with the sub-hunting business. The arcane art of ASW work was at least as much an art form as it was a science. Aircraft like the Viking had to fly long, complicated patrol patterns searching for enemy submarines because as yet no one had developed a reliable way to keep tabs on subs from a distance. The first line of defense was SOSUS — for Sonar Surveillance System — a line of permanent underwater microphones strung along the sea floor all the way across the GIUK (Greenland-Iceland-United Kingdom) gap. The technicians in the SOSUS control center back in Norfolk swore they could detect any sub that tried to cross the line, but once a submarine had passed through the network of microphones there was no way to keep further tabs on them except through dedicated ASW ships, planes, and helicopters. Frigates like the Gridley, helicopters off Jefferson and her escorts, the two submarines attached to the battle group, even P-3C Orion aircraft out of Keflavik in Iceland, all played a part in the ongoing hunt for the weapon most carrier skippers feared above all others. But it was the Viking that was the real backbone of the whole effort.
Yet with everything they could set to hunting they still couldn’t cover all the bases. Too much ocean, not enough people. A losing proposition, if viewed strictly from the technical side of things.
But it was possible to improve the odds a little. The ASW coordinator back on the Jefferson did his best to think like a sub skipper and deploy sub-hunting assets where they would do the most good. And Meade, the TACCO, was supposed to do the same thing on a smaller scale from his station in the windowless rear cabin of the S-3. Looking for submarines was like a chess game, with a variety of standard moves and gambits, but in the long run it was up to the individual players to make things happen.
ASW work was often regarded as the forgotten stepchild of the carrier air wing, at least by the pilots who flew the more glamorous missions. But the close-knit fraternity who flew the Vikings and the Sea Stallion ASW helicopters regarded themselves as every bit as important as any other element in the Air Wing. From what Magruder had seen so far they were as much masters of their arcane art as any fighter pilot was of the mysteries of air combat maneuvering.
He didn’t envy them their jobs. Harrison was a pilot, but nothing like the glamorous men who flew the Tomcats or the Hornets or even the Intruders. The other two were more technicians than aviators, with Meade, as TACCO, trying to outguess veteran sub commanders.
Then there was AW/1 Mike Curtis, the Viking’s Senso for this run, and the only enlisted man aboard. It had always surprised Magruder that ratings served in the plane crews of the Vikings and the Hawkeyes. The popular stereotype, which even life in the Navy didn’t fully dispel, was of aviation as a game for officers only.
But the special skill it took to handle the electronics aboard a plane as complex as the Viking was a great leveler. The men in the Antisubmarine Warfare military-occupation-specialty category were the high-tech elite of the carrier crew. Though they were often scorned by their own kind, who claimed that the AW stood for “Aviation Weights”—naval slang referring to someone who didn’t carry his load of shipboard duties — they earned their special place in the carrier’s hierarchy. Men like Curtis went through two full years of specialty training to get their jobs, while the typical enlisted man learned his specialty in a few short months. Aboard their aircraft, Magruder had heard, there were few distinctions between AW ratings and the officers they flew with, and good AWs had little trouble earning commissions and rising to the TACCO position.
He wondered what sort of a man could fill the demanding job. Curtis had been quiet throughout the flight except for responses given strictly in the line of duty. Was he naturally withdrawn, or overawed by the presence of the Deputy CAG?
“Well, how about it, Curtis?” he asked. “Don’t I get a show? Or maybe you at least have some words of wisdom for the rookie?”
“I don’t get paid for philosophy, sir,” Curtis said over the ICS. “That’s for officers to do. Me, I just sit back here and play the most expensive goddamned video game anybody ever saw.”
He smiled at that. “And what’s the score?”
“I haven’t been beaten yet,” Curtis said. Then, softly, he went
on. “But I’ve never had to hunt ‘em for real, you know, sir? I don’t know if that’s going to be the same.”
Magruder remembered the first time he’d flown in combat, back in Korea. All the flying time, all the Top Gun practice, still hadn’t prepared him for the realities of combat.
But the word from the Jefferson said Coyote’s squadron had already traded shots with the Russians. All too soon Curtis might have his chance to find out what a real sub hunt, a hunt to the death, was really like.
“It isn’t the same, Curtis,” he said softly. “It’s never the same.”
CHAPTER 11
Wednesday, 11 June, 1997
1445 hours Zulu (1445 hours Zone)
CAG office, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Northwest of the Outer Hebrides
“Well, Magruder, how’d you like your first day of sub-hunting?”
Tombstone studied Stramaglia’s bland expression carefully before answering. “It wasn’t … quite what I’d imagined, sir,” he said cautiously.
The Viking had set down on the flight deck an hour before, and Magruder’s legs were still stiff from too much time sitting in one position. At one point the TACCO, Meade, had offered to swap seats with him for a while, but he’d turned it down. Now he was regretting it.
“Boring as one of my Top Gun lectures, eh, Magruder?” Stramaglia asked with a lopsided smile. “Well, that can’t be helped. I want you out on at least one flight a day until I’m sure you know everything there is to know about ASW. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Magruder replied.
“And knock off the formal little sailor routine.” CAG looked down at his desk. His tone changed, losing the mild bantering manner and becoming grim and cold. “You heard about the Bear hunt?”
Tombstone nodded. “Sounds like a real mess. What happened up there, CAG?”
“Goddamn nuggets screwed up, that’s what happened,” CAG growled. “First one of them wanted to play stunt pilot and got himself in trouble, then his call made another one decide it was time to rock and roll. A right royal cock-up from first to last.”
Magruder didn’t say anything. He might have been able to do something to keep the situation under control if CAG had let him go up with Ajax Flight as he’d requested, but it didn’t seem like the right time to point that out to Stramaglia.
There was a knock on the cabin door. CAG looked up and barked out a quick “Come!” It was Coyote, wearing his khakis now instead of a flight suit and looking just as grim as Stramaglia. “I’ve got the reports on this morning, Sir,” he said. He held up a folder in one hand.
“About time, Grant,” Stramaglia said harshly. “Park your butt and let’s go over exactly what that fine bunch of glory hounds of yours did.”
Magruder started to rise. “I’ll let you-“
“Stay put, Magruder. If you’re going to be my deputy you’d better be in on this.”
As Tombstone resumed his seat CAG leaned forward and took the bundle of paperwork from Coyote. Stramaglia deposited the folder unread on the desk and looked Coyote over slowly. “You lost two men and a plane out there this morning, Grant … and worse than that, you let your people violate the ROEs and maybe pushed us into a full-fledged war. Does that sum up the situation in your estimation?”
Coyote nodded slowly, his face a mask. “Yes, Sir,” he said quietly.
“Got anything to say for yourself?”
Hesitating, Grant looked from Stramaglia to Magruder and back again. “It was a very fluid situation, Sir,” he replied. “Men can make mistakes especially when the men have limited experience.”
“Don’t make excuses!” Stramaglia barked. “You are the squadron commander, Mr. Grant, and that makes you responsible. So don’t hide behind your men!”
Coyote didn’t answer, but he glanced at Magruder again. There was a long silence before Stramaglia went on. “If we didn’t need every experienced aviator in the stable, I’d pull you and that kid … what’s his name? Powers? I’d pull You both off the flight roster. Him for being an irresponsible asshole and you for letting an irresponsible asshole run loose. As it is, I can’t afford to do that. But you can be sure I’m going to have some things to say that aren’t going to look good in your files, Grant. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Sir,” Coyote said meekly.
“All right. Now on to new business. Odds are our Russian friends aren’t going to be too happy with us after this one. Washington hasn’t responded with any official word, but the admiral and I are agreed we need to up our readiness in case of a retaliation. Capish?”
Grant nodded. “I agree, Sir. Best to take the cautious approach.”
Stramaglia glared at him. “Glad to hear you approve,” he said coldly. “As of now I’m putting one squadron on Alert Fifteen at all times. Javelins will be first up. Owens’ll post the rest of the rotation.”
“Yes, Sir.”
CAG’s order made good sense, Magruder told himself. It meant that the four fighter squadrons aboard would each pull long hours waiting in the ready rooms each day, suited up and ready to respond to an emergency. But at least they could put eight or ten planes in the air on short notice … although it would give the Air Boss headaches to keep so many aircraft ready for a quick launch.
“That’s it for now, Grant,” Stramaglia said after a moment. “But make sure you have a little talk with your people about what happened today. Because if Powers or any of those other hotdogs runs wild again, I’ll have your hide!”
Coyote left hastily, looking pale. He wouldn’t meet Magruder’s eyes on his way out.
When he was gone Stramaglia steepled his fingers on his desk and looked at Tombstone through narrowed eyes. “You think I was too hard on him, Magruder?”
“He’s a damned good man, sir,” Tombstone said. “And he can’t nursemaid every nugget up there.”
“And he’s also your friend.” CAG shook his head. “There’s no room for friendship in a job like this, Magruder. Think about that. Someday you might have to treat a friend that way.”
“But-“
“From where I’m sitting the important thing about what happened this morning is the fact that we just shot up two Russian airplanes. If by some miracle the Russkies don’t treat that as an act of war, we’ve got to make damned sure there aren’t any repeats. And if they do come after us I’ve got to make sure those damned hotdogs are on a short leash. Your buddy Grant’s the one who’s responsible for the Vipers, so he’s the one I have to land on with both feet. If you don’t like it, mister, then you’d better not plan on ever sitting in this chair.”
Tombstone swallowed and nodded slowly. He didn’t like it, but CAG was right … as far as he went. But surely there was a better way to handle it. “I understand, sir.”
“Good. Lesson over. Now get the hell out of here so I can start figuring out how to save a squadron commander’s neck when I file my report.”
Magruder was halfway out the door before he realized what Stramaglia had said. Perhaps the man really did care about the officers in his outfit after all.
Coyote met him in the passageway.
“Thanks a lot for all the support, buddy,” he said bitterly, blocking Magruder’s path. His face was flushed, and his eyes were angry. “You could’ve said something to get that bastard off my back. Instead you just sat there and let him dish it out!”
“C’mon, Willie-“
“Never mind! I guess that’s what happens when you get the big promotion, huh? All of a sudden keeping your own nose clean is more important than helping out your friends.” Coyote turned away abruptly and started down the corridor.
“Coyote-” Magruder began. Then he shrugged and turned away. It was no use arguing with Coyote now anyway. Maybe when he calmed down …
How could he think I wouldn’t stand by him? Magruder wondered, hurt and angry. He’d gone to bat for Coyote after Grant had left, even knowing that Stramaglia was likely to come down on him just as hard as he had on Viper S
quadron’s commander. Didn’t Coyote realize that he’d never let a friend down that way? Or was the friendship too strained by time and distance now to hold up any longer?
He was beginning to think Stramaglia was right. There was no room for friendship in his job now.
1510 hours Zulu (1010 hours Zone)
Situation Room, the White House
Washington, D.C.
“The President of the United States!”
The men and women gathered in the underground chamber surged to their feet at the announcement from the Marine guard at the door, but President Frederick Connally waved his hand in a dismissive gesture as he entered, impatient with the ritual. Didn’t these people realize there were more important things to worry about than observing the formalities?
He looked around the small room with its walnut paneling and the massive teakwood conference table that dominated everything. The expressions his top advisors wore told him the news wasn’t good.
With a sigh he settled into the leather chair at the head of the table. An Air Force officer carrying an innocuous-looking briefcase took up a position nearby.
Connally hated that briefcase and everything it stood for. It was the “football,” holding the codes that would grant Presidential authorization for a nuclear weapons release. The football had been much on his mind these last few days.
“All right, gentlemen, let’s hear it.” The message requesting his presence in the Situation Room had been brief and vague. His Chief of Staff, Gordon West, had framed it carefully to avoid giving away details to any of the senators attending the morning conference in the Cabinet Room. His eyes met West’s for a moment, but the former governor of Minnesota looked away.
It was Admiral Brandon Scott who spoke. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had a reputation for bluntness and was an outspoken critic of the new Administration’s defense policies, but Connally also knew that the man understood his business.
“The Soviets have advanced their front to link up with the amphibious and desant forces around Trondheim,” Scott said. He touched a button on the table in front of him and the curtains blocking off the rear-projection screen at the end of the room opposite the door rolled back. A map of Norway appeared, showing Soviet positions astride the center of the country in red. A second blob of red marked their bastion around Oslo, so far supplied and reinforced entirely by air.
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