Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

He thought back to the night Magruder had come aboard. She must love you bugging out for sea duty again so quick, Tombstone had said. And he had made a flip reply. You know Julie. No complaints there. He had always looked at it from his own selfish point of view, never seen what Julie must have gone through each time he let his love for blue skies and thundering jets lure him back to duty. Magruder had lost Pamela Drake over the same stubbornness. Pamela had been strong-willed and forceful, willing to fight for her side. Julie wasn’t made of the same stuff, so she had let Coyote leave her time and again.

  His latest brush with death had reminded him of what he’d almost lost. He had almost given up flying after Wonsan, but that had been an instinctive reaction to the whole situation he’d been through in Korea. In the long run he hadn’t changed his viewpoint that much. This time it was different. This time, Grant knew, he could finally say for sure that his family meant more to him than anything else. He couldn’t keep playing the daredevil flyer when each time he went up he might never make it home to his wife and daughter.

  His hands gripped the rail more tightly. That left him with a tough decision to make right now. Any aviator could turn in his wings any time, just walk away from duty if it got to be too much, if he thought he had lost the edge. There was nothing to stop Willis E. Grant from doing the same right now … nothing except his own sense of duty.

  It’s your instincts I need. Your nose for tactics. Magruder had turned to his experience when he needed help. And although Admiral Tarrant had been talking to everyone, his words had hit home too. Each of you has a vital role to play.

  Batman Wayne was more than capable of taking over command of the squadron … but Coyote couldn’t just turn his back on his men now. Viper Squadron was down to half its original strength, and they needed every pilot they could muster. He couldn’t leave them in the lurch now, on the eve of their most difficult test. Even if it ended in disaster, he had to go up with the others.

  He turned from the rail and headed for the ladder, his mind made up. When he got home — if he got home — he would find out what Julie wanted. He would give up flying, even give up the Navy, if she asked him to. But in the meantime, he couldn’t let his shipmates down.

  1431 hours Zulu (1431 hours Zone)

  CAG office, 03 Deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  In the Norwegian Sea

  Lieutenant Roger Bannon raised a hand to knock on the door, then hesitated. He had screwed up his courage to come to see Commander Magruder, but now that he was here he found it hard to go ahead with his plan.

  He couldn’t keep postponing this movement. Bannon gritted his teeth and rapped softly on the door.

  “Come!” Magruder’s voice called out, sounding distracted.

  The commander was sitting at Stramaglia’s old desk, pouring over an open file folder that matched ten more stacked beside his elbow. It was plain that Magruder hadn’t taken any time to clear away his predecessor’s personal effects. A mug on the desk still held a pair of Stramaglia’s notorious cigars, and there was a picture hanging on the bulkhead beside the door of Stramaglia and his teenaged son at an air show Stateside. It was hard to believe Stramaglia was really dead. It looked like Magruder was just keeping his chair warm until CAG turned up again.

  But he was dead, and now Magruder was in charge. The commander looked tired. If he had managed more than six hours sleep in the last forty-eight it didn’t show. He had thrown himself into his new job with a single-minded determination, but the talk in the other offices of the Air Wing hinted that he would burn himself out if he kept pushing himself at this pace. Looking at him now, Bannon was forced to agree.

  Magruder held up a hand as Bannon came in and said, “Wait a moment.” He never even looked up from the folder. Bannon waited, hoping his resolve wouldn’t wilt in the meantime.

  Finally Magruder put the folder aside and looked at him. “Oh … Bannon. Didn’t know it was your shift yet. Did you bring the report from Lieutenant Lowe?” Lowe was the chief of S-6 Division, responsible for Aviation Supply.

  “Uh, no, sir,” Bannon replied. “I’m still on my own time, sir. I … needed to see you about a personal matter.”

  Magruder frowned. “I don’t have a whole lot of time, Bannon,” he said. “Make it quick.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” Bannon hesitated again, reluctant to go on despite Magruder’s admonition. “Ah … well, sir, the fact is, I’ve been thinking about what I should do. The way you told me to the other day.”

  Magruder looked blank for a moment, then seemed to remember the conversation that had started on the hangar deck. “If you’d rather not stay stuck on the staff, I can probably put you in a slot as Assistant LSO for the Death Dealers. That’ll free up Jeffries to fly. Talk to Owens to take care of it.” He reached for another folder.

  “Uh … that’s not it, sir,” Bannon said.

  The commander’s frown deepened. “Look, Bannon, I don’t need this. I’ve got maintenance men giving me a dozen reasons why they can’t get enough planes in the air to make this strike work, and about twenty different variable plans to put together before we get word the Russians are moving. So spit out whatever it is you want and then get the hell out of here!”

  “Yessir!” he responded automatically. There was nothing left now but to take the final plunge. “Commander, I want you to restore me to flight status. I want to fly the strike when it goes in.”

  Magruder leaned back in his chair and studied him through narrowed eyes. The scrutiny made Bannon feel uncomfortable, and he had to fight to keep from fidgeting. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” The tone suggested that Magruder was anything but sure of Bannon’s competence.

  “Yes, sir,” he said again. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.” It had kept him awake nights, until he’d finally managed to talk out his problems with one of Jefferson’s chaplains. Lieutenant Commander Stocker hadn’t said much, but in the course of the talk Bannon had come to realize that he couldn’t just give up. Nothing he could do would ever bring Commander Greene back, but Bannon owed it to Greene, and to himself, to try again. He needed the chance to prove himself once and for all … or die trying.

  Magruder kept studying him for a long moment, and Bannon shifted uneasily. “I can do the job, Commander,” he said. “I know I can.”

  “You sound sure of yourself,” Magruder said quietly. His hand absently picked one of Stramaglia’s cigars out of the mug. He toyed with it for a second without even seeming aware of what he was doing. Then he went on. “But I wonder if you’re that confident on the inside.”

  He started to make a glib reply, then hesitated. “No sir,” he admitted at last. “I’m not. But it’s something I have to do. Please don’t refuse this, Commander. It’s important.”

  There was another long silence. Then Magruder nodded suddenly. “All right, Bannon,” he said. “Lord knows we need every pilot we can get for this. Keeping the strike ready to launch is going to be hard on everybody, and the more spare officers I’ve got on tap the better prepared we’ll be.” He pointed the cigar straight at Bannon’s chest, a gesture that reminded him of the old CAG. “Just don’t screw this up, Bannon. If you can’t pull your weight, don’t drag the rest of your buddies down. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell Owens you’re back on the roster and report to your CO. Dismissed.”

  Bannon’s mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions as he left the office. He knew he had made the right decision, the only decision … but Magruder’s words had reinforced his own doubts and fears. If he lost it up there, would he end up killing another of his shipmates?

  2318 hours Zulu (2318 hours Zone)

  CAG office, 0–3 DecK, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  In the Norwegian Sea

  Tombstone Magruder leaned back in his chair and looked up at the overhead, rubbing his eyes. He had snatched a few hours’ fitful sleep, but now he was back at his desk grappling with the details of the proposed Alpha Strike.

  As a
squadron CO he’d faced his share of paperwork, but somehow the magnitude of the burden of running a full air wing had never hit him until he had to do it himself. In the movies, the carrier pilots just climbed into their cockpits and went off to do battle with the enemy. But in real life, there was a lot going on behind the scenes to make that possible. CAG had to work out battle plans with the admiral, with Captain Brandt, and with each individual squadron commander. He had to coordinate activities with the Air Boss and S-6 Division and half a dozen other individuals and groups, and any one of them could throw a monkey wrench into a complex plan. He’d learned that lesson after Maintenance had written up down gripes on two Hornets and thrown his entire carefully prepared launch schedule out the window.

  He was beginning to understand something that had puzzled him. It was no wonder Stramaglia had been so eager to go up with Coyote on that last mission. CAG had always been an aviator before all else, and it must have been galling to be chained to this desk trying to coordinate the activities of the entire air wing without going crazy. It made those hated days in Magruder’s Pentagon assignment look like a quiet vacation.

  But it was finally starting to come together. From the moment Admiral Tarrant had changed his mind and decided to proceed with the mission, the Air Wing staff had plunged into the preparations with a dedication that made Magruder proud to be a part of it all. If and when the Intelligence types spotted the opening they needed, CVW-20 would be ready for it. It would still be dicey trying to strike a blow against the Russians with their overwhelming air power, but at least now they could do something. At least Jefferson wouldn’t be slinking away with her tail between her legs, defeated. It was a chance, no more, but a chance was all anyone could ask in a situation like this.

  In the meeting with Tarrant the day before, after Magruder explained his new idea for evening the odds, the admiral had given Magruder the credit for that chance. I would never have thought of the S-3s for this, Tarrant had said. Back in my day they weren’t fitted for this kind of op. If we win this, it’ll be because of you and your sleight of hand, Commander. Flattering words for someone who had been thrust into the CAG slot without warning and without adequate preparation.

  He hadn’t protested at the time, but Magruder knew that the credit for any success they earned now should still go to Joseph Stramaglia. He had been fine-tuning the Air Wing long before Magruder had arrived, and it was his staff — Lee and Owens and others — who were performing miracles to organize the operation. And Stramaglia had insisted on broadening Magruder’s own experience when Tombstone had wanted nothing more than a chance to cling to the past in the cockpit of a Tomcat. That more than anything else was what had earned Jefferson her chance at striking back.

  A knock on his door brought Magruder out of his reverie. At his call it opened to admit Lieutenant Commander Owens, his young, eager features little changed by the hard work he’d been putting in all day. The young officer had developed an overprotective attitude toward his new superior, and seemed unduly worried at the pace Magruder was trying to maintain, but he was a rock when it came to the administrative details. If Owens had been a little better used to taking responsibility and making tough decisions, he would have made a better CAG than Magruder.

  Not that the tough decisions came any more easily to Magruder. It had taken every ounce of self-control to contemplate the possible results of the Alpha Strike without breaking down entirely. When young Bannon had requested the chance to go back on the roster, it had required a real effort to keep from giving in to his urge to keep the kid out of combat for his own good. And Coyote’s decision to return to duty had been even harder on him, despite their strained relations. Too many friends were at risk in this whole operation, and Magruder had to live with the knowledge that it had been his crazy idea, in Tarrant’s eager hands, which had put them all on a collision course with battle.

  “Sir,” Owens began breathlessly. “Sir, it’s going down. OZ has been tapping into real-time satellite data, and it looks like they’re on the move out of Murmansk.”

  That made him sit up straight. It was the moment they’d been waiting for, when the Soviets finally committed themselves. The next few hours would tell them where the Russians were going and whether or not Jefferson had a hope of intervening.

  They were as ready now as they would ever be. Magruder could only hope and pray that they were ready enough for what lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sunday, 15 June, 1997

  2100 hours Zulu (2100 hours Zone)

  CVIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  In the Norwegian Sea

  CVIC was crowded, more crowded than the briefing Tombstone had attended with Stramaglia the day after he’d arrived aboard. Was it really less than a week ago?

  That briefing had been for ship commanders and other senior officers of the battle group, and it had mostly dealt in generalities. Tonight, by contrast, only Jefferson officers were in attendance, most of them squadron COs and XOs from the Air Wing. And tonight’s session was focusing on concrete plans to deal with the unfolding situation on the Norwegian coast.

  Magruder had never been much of a public speaker, but Tarrant had turned the bulk of the meeting over to him so that he could explain the attack plan, code-named Operation Ragnarok, step by step. Watching the reactions of the men who would be executing the operation, Tombstone had started worrying all over again. It was clear that most of them were dubious about the strike. But it was too late now for changes. He had done the best he could in putting together the plan. It was up to these men to take the ball and run with it.

  “That wraps up the highlights of the mission profile,” he said as his presentation was winding down. “There are more details in your folders. Familiarize yourself with the operation and then pass on the info to your squadrons.”

  He paused and looked around the room again. Admiral Tarrant and his staff were near the front, along with Brandt and his Exec. Their expressions were somber, but receptive enough. Commander Monroe, the Air Boss, seemed cheerful enough, a study in contrasts with the officers representing other parts of the carrier’s Air Department. Getting the percentage of aircraft rated FMC — Fully Mission Capable — to a level that would support Ragnarok’s tough requirements had taken everything from cajoling to threats to bribes, and most of those officers were less than happy with the pressure Magruder had been bringing to bear ever since the admiral had authorized the strike.

  But it was the squadron commanders and their executive officers who counted most. Commander Quinn of VA-89 looked especially grim. In Jefferson’s last cruise two full squadrons of Intruders had been deployed on the carrier, but budget cutting had reduced CVW-20 back to the old mid-Eighties organization of one attack squadron. They would be regretting that change in the hours ahead.

  The skippers and execs from the two Hornet squadrons formed a tight-knit group. They looked reasonably happy with their roles in the coming mission, taking their cue perhaps from Bobby Lee Benton of the Javelins. His opposite number in VFA-173, the Fighting Hornets, was a craggy-faced lump of a man, Commander Henry “Bigfoot” Henderson, and while Henderson wasn’t as flashy and charismatic as Benton he had a reputation for steady reliability. He’d need it, given the part of the mission Magruder had assigned him to.

  Magruder cleared his throat before continuing. “Now for some updates we didn’t have time to include in the formal briefing material,” he said. “Starting just before midnight Zulu time last night, the Russians launched the paradrop we’ve been expecting. Actually it was a series of drops, but satellite recon has discounted most of their operations as decoy deployments to distract the defense. The main enemy landing area is around the port town of Brekke, about halfway up the Sognefjord and maybe eighty kilometers as the MiG flies from Bergen. That conforms with the best estimates Intelligence made originally when we were mapping out our strategy. The location doesn’t change the basic mission profile at all.”

  Magruder looked down at the l
ectern, checking the hastily scrawled notes he’d made of Lee’s latest findings. “The Russians have also launched a general offensive all along the line to pin the Royal Norwegian Army while they bring in their amphibious troops to support the Brekke paradrop. Our last contact with General Lindstrom brought word that he had only enough reserves to contain what was on the ground already. He doesn’t think they have much hope of holding against a larger force with the resources he’s got on hand. So if those transports get through Bergen will fall. That’s all there is to it.”

  Commander Harrison held up a hand. “What about the Norwegian air force? Where are they while we’re sticking our necks into the noose?” Harrison hadn’t liked any aspect of Magruder’s plan, and he wasn’t making any effort to hide his feelings.

  “Every bird Lindstrom can spare is starting on cyclic ops on the southeastern end of the front,” Magruder told him. “This was at our suggestion. By mounting a serious threat to the Russians in Oslo, we’re hoping to draw off a large chunk of their air force until our strike is finished. We’re also hoping this will encourage the Russians to believe that we’ve fallen for some of their decoy operations down in that neighborhood. We want those transports to keep moving toward Brekke. It’s the one chance we have to nail them.”

  Harrison looked unhappy. “You won’t sucker all of them that way, Commander,” he said.

  “No, we won’t. But in conjunction with the other phases of Ragnarok we should be able to neutralize most of them.” He glanced at his watch. “Galveston and Bangor should be starting their end of the process pretty soon now. It’s going to take a lot of little pieces fitting together.”

  “I’ve got a question, Stoney,” Batman said. He and Coyote were sitting side by side near the back of the room. “Looks to me like you’re counting pretty heavy on getting some of our planes in using nothing but low altitude, jamming, and a couple of Hail Marys. I thought those new AEW planes of theirs were supposed to be almost as good as the Hawkeyes.”