Jake turned right and came up alongside the bomber’s right wing. He could now see into the copilot’s side of the Bear’s cockpit. The copilot was staring across the hundred feet of empty air that separated them.
“Just stay here, CAG,” Toad said. “I’m getting pictures.” In the rearview mirror Jake saw Toad focusing a 35-millimeter camera.
In the cockpit of the Bear a camera was being pointed this way. “They’re taking our picture, too,” Jake said.
“Not to sweat, sir. I have the sign against the canopy.” Jake knew the sign Toad was referring to. Printed in block letters on an eight-by-ten-inch piece of white cardboard was the word “Hello.” Under it in letters equally large was the word “Asshole.”
When Toad had six shots of this side of the bomber, Jake dropped below the plane and Toad kept snapping. Then they photographed the left side of the plane and the top, ending up back on the right side, where Toad finished out the roll. These pictures would be studied by the Air Intelligence officers for indications of modifications or new capabilities.
By the time Toad was finished with the camera, the other F-14 was joined on Jake’s right wing. Jake knew the RIO of that plane was busy photographing his fighter against the bomber. One of these pictures would probably be released by the navy to the wire services in the States.
“Okay, CAG,” Toad said. “Our guy’s all done. I’ll just flip Ivan the terrible bird and we can be on our way anytime.”
“You’ve got real class, Tarkington.”
“They expect it, sir. They’d feel cheated if we didn’t give them the Hawaiian good luck sign.” Toad solemnly raised a middle finger aloft as Jake lowered the Tomcat’s nose and dove away.
2
The USS United States and three of her escorts, two guided-missile frigates and a destroyer, anchored in the roadstead off Tangiers around noon after completion of the voyage across the Atlantic. Due to her draft, the carrier anchored almost two miles from the quay where her small boats began depositing sailors in midafternoon. By six that evening almost two thousand men from the four gray warships were ashore.
In twos and threes and fours, sailors in civilian clothes wandered the streets of the downtown and the Casbah, snapping photos of the people and the buildings and each other and crowding the downtown bars, which were relatively abundant in spite of the fact that Morocco is a Moslem nation. Fortunately, downtown Tangiers had been built by the French, a thirsty lot, and the pragmatic Arabs were willing to tolerate the sinful behavior of the unbelievers as long as it was profitable.
In the “international bars” barefoot belly dancers slithered suggestively. The sailors didn’t stay long with beer at the equivalent of four U.S. dollars a glass, but when they saw the belly dancers they knew they were a long way from Norfolk, and from Tulsa, Sioux Falls, and Uniontown and all the other places they had so recently left behind. Properly primed, they explored the streets and loudly enjoyed the respite from shipboard routine. The more adventurous sought out the prostitutes in the side streets. Veiled women and swarthy men watched the parade in silence while their offspring gouged the foreigners unmercifully for leather purses, baskets, and other “genuine” souvenirs. All things considered, the sailors and their money were welcomed to Tangiers with open arms.
Just before sunset the Air France flight from Paris touched down at the local airport. One of the passengers was a reporter-photographer from J’Accuse, a small leftist Paris daily. The French government was considering a port call request from the U.S. Naval Attaché for a United States visit to Nice in June, so invitations to a tour of the ship while she was in Tangiers had been liberally distributed to the Paris press.
The journalist, a portly gentleman in his fifties, took a taxi from the airport and directed the driver to a modest hotel that catered to French businessmen. He registered at the desk, accompanied his bags to his rooms, and returned to the lobby a quarter of an hour later. After an aperitif in the small hotel bar, he walked two blocks to a restaurant he apparently knew from prior visits to Tangiers. There he drank half a bottle of wine and ate a prodigious expense-account dinner. He paid his bill with French francs. He stopped in the hotel bar for a nightcap.
Within minutes an attractive young woman in an expensive Paris frock entered and seated herself in a darkened corner of the room away from the bar. Her hair looked as if it had been coiffed in a French salon. She had a trim, modest figure, which her colorful dress showed to advantage, and the shapely, muscular legs of a professional dancer or athlete. She ordered absinthe in unaccented French and lit a cigarette.
Her gaze met the journalist’s several times but she offered no encouragement, or at least none which caught the bartender’s eye. When it became apparent she was not waiting for an escort, the reporter took his drink and approached her table. He seated himself in seconds. The couple talked for almost twenty minutes and laughed on several occasions. There were only two other men in the bar, both of whom were apparently French businessmen; they discussed sales quotas and prices the entire time they were there. Around 11:30—the bartender was not sure of the time — the reporter and the lady left together. The reporter left French francs on the table sufficient to cover the price of the drinks and a modest tip. At midnight the two businessmen departed and the bartender closed up.
* * *
The following morning the J’Accuse press pass was handed to an American naval officer on the quay as he assembled a group of thirty journalists, about a third of whom were women. At ten o’clock the group was loaded into the captain’s gig and the admiral’s barge for the ride out to the great ship, which was visible from the quay. The journalists had a choppy ride in the invigorating morning air.
As the boats approached the ship the photographers were invited to the little amidships quarterdecks, where they snapped pictures of the carrier and watched the coxswains steer. The gray hull of the carrier appeared gigantic from a sea-level perspective, a fifth of a mile long and rising over six stories from the water. As the boats neared her she looked less and less a ship and more and more like a massive cliff of gray stone.
At the officer’s brow the journalists found themselves under the overhang of the flight deck. Sailors assisted them from the bobbing boats to a carly float, and from there up a ladder to the ceremonial quarterdeck where they were met by several junior officers. Several journalists were struck by how much alike these men, all in their early to middle-twenties, looked in their spotless white uniforms. Of various sizes and racial groups, these half dozen trim, smiling young men still looked as if they had been punched from the same mold as they saluted and welcomed the tour group aboard.
The journalists were led down a series of ladders in groups of five and through mazelike passageways to a large, formal wardroom deep within the ship. Spread on tables covered with white cloths were plates of cookies, a pile of coffee cups and glasses, and several jugs of an orange liquid. “It’s Kool-Aid,” one of the young officers informed a Frenchman after he sipped the sugary orange stuff and stood looking at the glass as if he had just ingested a powerful laxative.
“Good morning.” The speaker was an officer with four gold stripes and a star on each of his black shoulder boards. His white shoes, white trousers, white belt, and short-sleeved white shirt were accented by a yellow brass belt buckle and, on his left breast, a rainbow splotch of ribbons topped by a piece of gold metal. The touches of color made his uniform look even whiter and emphasized the tan of his face and neck. He stood a lean six feet tall. Clear gray eyes looked past a nose which was just slightly too large for his face. His thinning hair was cut short and combed straight back.
“I’m Captain Grafton. I hope you folks had an enjoyable ride out to see us this morning.” Although he didn’t speak loudly, his voice carried across the group and silenced the last of the private conversations. “We’re going to give you a tour of the ship this morning when the cookies are gone. We’ll break you up into groups of five. Each group will go with one of these young
gentlemen who are standing over there watching you eat cookies. They had some before you arrived, so don’t feel sorry for them.”
Several of the journalists chuckled politely.
“Captain, why was this group invited to tour the ship?” The question was asked by a woman in her late twenties with a hint of Boston in her voice. She wore a bright red dress and carried an expensive black leather purse casually over one shoulder.
“And who are you, ma’am?”
“I’m Judith Farrell from the International Herald Tribune.”
“Well, we often entertain groups aboard, and starting this Mediterranean cruise with a tour for you ladies and gentlemen of the European press seemed appropriate.”
“Are you saying the invitations had nothing to do with the American request for a French port visit for this ship in June?”
The gray eyes locked on the woman. “No. I didn’t say that. I said a tour of the ship for you folks of the European press seemed appropriate.”
“This ship is nuclear-powered?”
“Yes, it is. You may wish to examine the fact sheet that Lieutenant Tarkington is handing out.” An officer immediately entered the crowd and began distributing printed leaflets.
“What assurances can you give to the people of Europe in light of the recent revelations about the extent of the Chernobyl disaster?”
“Assurances about what?” The captain glanced from face to face.
“That your reactors are safe.” Judith Farrell replied as she tossed her head to flick her blond hair back from her eyes.
“The Russians didn’t build these reactors. Americans did. Americans operate them.”
Judith Farrell flushed slightly as her fellow reporters grinned and nudged each other. She was inhaling air for a retort when a well-dressed woman with an Italian accent spoke up. “May we see the reactors?”
“I’m sorry, but those spaces are off limits except to naval personnel.” When he observed several people making notes, the captain added, “Only those sailors who actually work in those spaces are admitted. I might add that, outside of the Soviet Union, you are far more likely to be struck by lightning than you are to become a victim of a nuclear accident.”
“Captain …,” said Judith Farrell, but Grafton’s voice was covering the crowd: “Now if you folks will break up into groups of five, these officers from the air wing will show you around.” Everyone began talking and moving toward the door.
“Captain,” said Judith Farrell firmly, “I do not appreciate that evasive answer.”
“Mister Tarkington, include Miss Farrell in your group.”
“It is ‘Ms.,’ not ‘Miss.’”
“Please come with me, Ms.,” said a drawling voice at her elbow, and she turned to see a tan face framing perfect teeth. The grin caused his cheeks to dimple and deep creases to radiate from the corners of his eyes. The innocent face was topped by short, carefully combed brown hair.
“I’m Lieutenant Tarkington.” The captain was walking away.
In the passageway she asked, “Lieutenant, who is that captain? He’s not the ship’s commanding officer or executive officer, is he?”
“He’s the air wing commander, ma’am. We call him CAG.” Tarkington pronounced “CAG” to rhyme with “rag.” It was a fifty-year-old acronym from the days when the air wing commander had been known as Commander Air Group, and it had survived into the age of jets and supercarriers. “But let’s talk about you. Whereabouts over here on this side of the pond do you live, ma’am?”
“The pond?”
“Y’know, the puddle. The ocean. The Atlantic.”
“Paris,” she said in a voice that would have chilled milk.
“I sure am glad you’re touring this little tub with me this morning, ma’am. All my friends call me Toad.”
“For good reason, I’m sure.”
Lieutenant Tarkington smiled thinly at the other members of his group, all men, and motioned for the little band to follow him.
He led them through pale blue passageways with numerous turns, and soon everyone except Tarkington — who frequently looked back over his shoulder to ensure his five were following faithfully — was hopelessly lost. They passed fire-fighting stations with racks of hose and valves and instructions stenciled on the bulkhead. Above their heads ran mazes of pipes, from pencil-thin to eight inches in diameter, each labeled cryptically. Bundles of wires were threaded between the pipes. Every thirty feet or so there was a large steel door latched open. When asked by one of the men, Tarkington explained that the doors allowed the crew to seal the ship into over three thousand watertight compartments. He paused by a hole in the deck surrounded by a flange that rose about four inches from the deck. Inside the hole was a ladder leading to the deck below. Above it a heavy hatch on hinges stood ready to seal it.
“When the ship goes into battle,” Tarkington said, “we just close all these hatches and this ship becomes like a giant piece of Styrofoam, full of all these watertight compartments. The enemy has to bust open a whole lot of these compartments to sink this bucket.”
“Just like the Titanic,” Judith Farrell muttered loudly enough for all to hear.
“A bucket?” one of the men murmured in a heavy French accent.
Tarkington led them on. The smells of food cooking assailed them. They looked into a large kitchen filled with men in white trousers, aprons and tee shirts. Each wore a white cap that covered his hair. “This is the forward crew’s galley.” Huge polished steel vats gleamed amid the bustling men, several of whom smiled at the visitors. “They’re fixing noon chow. The ship serves eighteen thousand meals a day.”
Beside the galley was a cafeteria serving line with steam tables, drink dispensers, and large steel coffee urns. Huge racks of metal trays stood at the entrance. “The men go through here and fill their trays,” Tarkington said as he led them into the mess area, which was filled with folding tables and chairs. “They find a chair and eat here.” The overhead was a latticework of pipes and wires. Around the bulkheads were more fire-fighting hoses and numerous buttons and knobs to control machinery which wasn’t visible. Large doors formed the forward bulkhead.
“What are those doors?” Judith Farrell asked.
“Weapons elevators, ma’am.”
“Does the entire crew eat here?” one of the men asked in an accent Tarkington took to be German.
“Couldn’t be done. There’s fifty-six hundred men on this ship. We’ve got another galley and mess area back aft. The crew eats in both mess areas in shifts. The officers have two ward-rooms and the chief petty officers have their own mess.” The group just stood, looking. “It isn’t exactly eating at the Ritz, but the chow is pretty darn good,” Tarkington added and waved his hand for them to follow.
He led them outboard from the mess area to a ladder that rose steeply. They ascended one deck and followed him through another open watertight door out into the hangar bay.
The hangar was a two-acre cavern crammed with aircraft. The group threaded their way around the myriad of chains that secured each plane to a clear walk area that meandered down the center of the hangar between the planes. Tarkington stopped and the visitors gawked.
“Sort of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”
“All these planes …” the Frenchman marveled. F-14 Tomcat fighters, A-6 Intruder attack bombers, and F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers, all with folded wings, were crammed in so that not a square yard of space was empty. Tarkington led them to a clear area that divided the space laterally.
“Now this space right here is always kept open, so we can close these big bombproof doors.” Massive doors that were as tall as the bay was high — about twenty-five feet — were recessed into each side of the bay. “There are two of these doors, this one and the one back aft. By closing these we can separate this bay into three compartments and isolate any fire or bomb damage. Up there,” Tarkington pointed at a small compartment with windows visible near the ceiling, “is a station that’s manned twenty-
four hours a day. The man on duty there can close these doors from up there and turn on the fire-fighting sprinklers at the first sign of fire or a fuel spill. You will notice we have three of these stations, called CONFLAG stations, one in each of the three bays.” In the window of the nearest CON-FLAG station, the face of the sailor on duty was just visible. He was looking down at them.
One of the reporters pointed at some racks hanging down from the ceiling which held large white shapes pointed at both ends. “Are those bombs?”
“No, sir,” said their guide. “Those are extra drop tanks.” When he saw the puzzlement on the reporter’s face, he added, “Drops are fuel tanks that hang under the wings or belly of an airplane that the pilot can jettison if he has to.” The lieutenant stepped to an A-6 and patted one that hung on a wing station. “Like this one, which holds a ton of fuel.”
The German pointed his camera at the lieutenant. Tarkington shook his head and waved his hands. “Please don’t take any pictures in here, sir. You can get some shots up on the flight deck. I’ll show you where.” He herded them around the planes to a large opening in the side of the ship. A greasy wire on stanchions was the only safety line. About twenty feet below them was the sea. On the horizon the group could see the city of Tangiers and the hills beyond. The spring wind, still raw, was funneling into the hangar through this giant door. Above, a large roof projected out over the sea and obstructed their view of the sky. Tarkington nodded to a sailor on the side of the opening and instantly a loud horn began to wail. Then the huge projecting roof began to fall.
“This is one of the four aircraft elevators that we use to move planes and equipment back and forth to the flight deck. We’ll ride it up.” As the platform reached their level, the safety stanchions sank silently into the deck. When all motion stopped, Tarkington led them out onto it.
The elevator platform was large, about four thousand square feet, and was constructed of grillwork. Several of the journalists looked down through the grating at the sea beneath them as the elevator rose with more sounding of horns, and several kept their eyes firmly on the horizon after a mere glance downward. The wind coming up through the grid swirled Judith Farrell’s dress. As she fought to hold it against her thighs she caught Lieutenant Tarkington looking at her legs. He smiled and winked, then looked away.
Final Flight jg-2 Page 2
