Final Flight jg-2

by Stephen Coonts

  “Yessir.”

  “You’re the pilot who just sent a boatload of fanatics to Paradise and you’re the air wing commander, so you’re getting a turn on the hot seat. Don’t forget you may be worth more to them dead than you are alive. That’s all.” Which meant Jake was dismissed.

  * * *

  Senator Cavel was fiftyish, graying at the temples. His fluffed, teased hair was coiffed tightly over ears hidden from sight, and when viewed from the front, he looked, Jake thought, like a man of distinction in a whiskey ad. In profile, the hairdo looked like a football helmet two sizes too small. His slightly sagging abdomen and rounded shoulders were expertly encased in a dark-gray wool suit with flecks of red and blue that Jake suspected had set him back the better part of a grand. The senator was tall, about six-three, and had a booming voice that dominated the congressional delegation and the group of officers in the flag lounge. He treated everyone as voters, hail-fellow-well-met, and even shook hands with the admirals’ aides. His handshake had the polish of years of practice. It wasn’t crushing and it wasn’t wimpish, just dry and quick with a hint of firmness.

  “Damned nice ship you fellows have here, Admiral. Damned nice. Great to see what all those taxpayers’ dollars bought. Three billion and some change, I seem to recall.”

  Parker nodded. “Yessir. She’s …”

  But Senator Cavel wasn’t listening. “Just why do these things have to be so damn big? I never did understand that.” He shook his head ruefully, as if he had never seen the engineering and design justifications on Nimitz-class carriers that the navy had spent a year and several million dollars completing, at his insistence. “I get letters from all over, wondering why we can’t build these things cheaper. Are you aware that 95 percent of the American public has never even laid eyes on an aircraft carrier? Lots of letters … Ah, so you’re Grafton?”

  He had finally zeroed in on Jake’s name tag. He had apparently ignored the introductions. Jake was shaking hands with a stout, florid congressman, but the senator put his hand on the representative’s shoulder and addressed Jake as if the other man weren’t there. “You’re the air wing commander?”

  Jake admitted he was as the senator glanced at the four rows of ribbons on the left breast of his white uniform shirt, under his wings.

  “I see you’ve been shot at before, Captain,” he said, then turned back to the admirals.

  “Yessir,” Jake Grafton told Cavel’s back. But only by guns and missiles, he added to himself, then tried to pay attention to whatever it was this representative was telling him about sailors from Ohio.

  With the pleasantries over, the delegation surrounded the admirals and tossed questions about the use of the task group in the waters off Lebanon. Jake eased toward the door. A glance from Admiral Parker froze him in his tracks.

  In addition to the senator, Congressman Victor Gilbert also considered himself a heavyweight. It was quickly evident Gilbert was looking for ammunition to take back to Washington and fire at his colleagues in the never-ending political battle over Mideast policy. It was equally apparent that the admirals had no desire to give aid and comfort to either Gilbert or his opponents. Lewis’ answers didn’t satisfy the vociferous congressman, but the senator said little. Perhaps he’s saving himself, Jake mused.

  * * *

  The tour of the ship began in the waist catapult control cab, known as the waist bubble. A similar control cab was on the bow, situated between the cats. Here on the waist the bubble sat on the catwalk outboard of Cat Four. The cabs were unique to Nimitz-class carriers. This innovation removed the launching officers from the flight deck and placed them in actual control of their giant steam-powered slingshots. The bubbles also provided a terrific place for tourists to view the launch.

  Jake led the congressmen into the waist bubble from the O-3 level, the deck just below the flight deck. The catapult officer triggered the hydraulic system which raised the bubble into position for the upcoming launch. Now the top of the armored cab, which consisted of windows of bulletproof glass, extended eighteen inches above the flight deck. The visitors stood packed into the only open area, their eyes exactly at flight deck level. The launching officer sat in a raised chair in the aft end of the cab in front of the control panels for both the Number Three and Number Four catapults.

  The cat officer muttered greetings. He was a lieutenant aviator assigned to the ship’s air department for a two-year tour. After he had shaken hands all around, he ignored the visitors and devoted his attention to the yellow- and green-shirted crewmen on deck who were hooking planes to both cats.

  Jake explained the launching evolution to the congressmen. The first plane to be launched would be the KA-6D Intruder tanker on Cat Three. The F/A-18 Hornet, a twin-engine, single-seat fighter-bomber sitting on Cat Four, would be shot next while another plane taxied onto Cat Three. Up on the bow a similar bang-bang sequence would be occurring on the two catapults there.

  The launching officer gave a thumbs-up to the yellow-shirt director on Cat Three. He signaled the pilot to release his brakes and add power. The engines began to roar as the green-shirted hookup man checked the fittings, then tumbled out from under the plane with his thumb in the air. He joined his comrades squatting in the safety area between the catapults. The Intruder pilot saluted the bubble. He was ready to go. He put his helmeted head back into the headrest on his seat, bracing himself for the acceleration of the coming shot.

  Jake pointed out the signal light on the ship’s island that the air boss used to initiate the launch. It turned green.

  The launching officer glanced down the catapult to ensure it was clear, then back to the Intruder at full power. He lifted the safety tab covering the fire button and pushed it. The Intruder leapt forward, its left wing sweeping over the heads of the men squatting in the safety area, and raced for the edge of the angled deck three hundred feet away. The plane covered the distance in less than three seconds and shot out over the sea, flying.

  When the visitors’ gaze came back to the Hornet on Cat Four, it was already at full power. They were looking at this plane almost head-on. The catapult track ran parallel to the edge of the angled deck, so the Hornet’s left main wheel was almost against the deck edge, its left wing extending out over the side of the ship. Upon launch it would pass right in front of the bubble with its wing sweeping over the top. Now the river of hot gases blasting from the plane’s twin exhaust pipes and flowing up over the jet blast deflector shimmered as the blast-furnace heat distorted the light. The fighter appeared stark and crisp against this mirage backdrop.

  The cat officer lifted the protective safety cover and pushed the fire button on the Cat Four console. The Hornet seemed to shimmy slightly under the terrific acceleration as it raced toward the bubble. In a heartbeat it went by in a thundering crescendo that shook the control cab.

  The congressmen laughed nervously and shouted comments to each other above the background noise. “Impressive,” Senator Cavel told Jake, who grinned and nodded.

  But as spectacular as the planes were, the visitors’ attention was soon on the catapult crewmen. One of them crawled under each jet as it taxied onto the cats, lowered the nose-tow bar and installed the hold-back fitting. He waited under the plane until the engines were accelerating to full power before he scanned its belly, checked the fittings one last time, then tumbled out from under. These men reminded Jake of circus roustabouts tending angry elephants.

  “That job looks damned dangerous,” one of the congressmen remarked.

  “It’s that,” Jake agreed. “It’s dirty and dangerous for not enough pay.” He recognized Kowalski, the Cat Four cat captain, in his filthy yellow shirt and radio headset. Each cat crew had a captain, a ringmaster who ensured each man understood his job and performed it perfectly.

  When the launch was over, the congressmen shook hands again with the cat officer and his engineer, who sat at an instrument panel at the forward end of the bubble. Then Jake led them through the hatch and down the s
hort ladder into the O-3 level. The four junior officers who had been volunteered for escort duty were waiting in the passageway, since there hadn’t been room for them in the bubble. The air here was cooler, and calm.

  * * *

  Senator Cavel got down to cases that evening after dinner in the flag mess. The admiral’s chief of staff, operations officer, and aide left after dessert. Vice-Admiral Lewis had flown from the ship that afternoon, telling the congressman he had to get back to Naples. Now just Admiral Parker, Jake, and the four congressmen were sitting around the table. One of the representatives lit a cigar, and Jake greedily inhaled some smoke. It made him slightly dizzy. With a wry grimace, he pushed his chair further away from the table to avoid the fumes.

  The senator played with the spoon beside his coffee cup. It was real silver, and under the cup was a real white linen tablecloth. Admirals rated the good stuff.

  “How come, Admiral, you people had to sink that boat?”

  “It was running without lights and closing the task group in a suspicious manner. It refused to identify itself or change course. It shot at one of our planes.”

  “Would you have sunk it if it hadn’t opened fire on Captain Grafton’s plane?”

  Cowboy Parker scanned the faces gathered around the table. “Has everyone here got a clearance?”

  “Yessir,” Senator Cavel boomed. “We all do. Top Secret. And we’ve read the classified action report. We know Captain Grafton turned on his aircraft’s lights — apparently no one in the eastern Mediterranean is very fond of lights — and pointed his plane directly at that boat. At a very low altitude. Only then did the crew of the boat open fire. Now what we are trying to find out is whether or not his actions caused the captain of that boat to feel he was under attack.” The senator looked at his colleagues. None of them spoke. He resumed, “You do think the men in that boat had the right to defend themselves in international waters, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Senator, they had that right.” Parker picked his words carefully. “But only if they were under attack or had reason to believe an attack was imminent. We know that boat wasn’t under attack, and the appearance of a low-flying plane with its position lights on is not what I would call an indicator of an imminent, forthcoming attack.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that, Admiral.”

  “I’m sure,” Parker said. “You people can debate it for weeks. I didn’t have weeks. I’m responsible for a lot of lives and ships out here, Senator. You gentlemen have read the Rules of Engagement we operate under. You know that at some point I have to use my own judgment.”

  The representative with the cigar spoke up. This was Victor Gilbert, from a dirt-poor conservative district in the Deep South. He was the same one that found Admiral Lewis a tad too slippery earlier in the day. “Admiral Parker, we don’t want you people to start a war out here.” He pronounced “here” as “hyah.” “I understand that the navy is just obeying orders from the administration. I think the orders are misconceived, not in the national interest, but I’m not the president. However, I am a congressman. My constituents don’t want a war. I can’t make it any plainer, Admiral.”

  “Sir,” Parker said. “I agree wholeheartedly with your constituents. I don’t want a war, either. I’m doing everything I can to prevent one from happening. On the other hand, I have to protect these ships.”

  “Captain,” the senator said, looking at Jake, “why did you turn on your lights and fly right at that boat?”

  Every eye in the place was on Jake Grafton. “I was trying to spook him. If he was hostile, we wanted to know it sooner rather than later. We can’t sit here like bumps—”

  Senator Cavel gestured angrily. “In my twenty years in the senate, I’ve found that a man who goes looking for a fight usually finds one. That’s the problem.”

  “The men on that boat were looking for the fight,” Jake shot back. “We can’t wait until they pop a cruise missile against a ship before we decide what we’re going to do about it.”

  “Admiral, you never answered my question. Would you have sunk that boat if it hadn’t opened fire on Captain Grafton?”

  Parker sipped his coffee and took his time before he spoke, “If they had continued on course toward the task group, I would have had the nearest screening ship fire warning shots. Yes, I’d have been forced to the conclusion that attack was imminent if they had ignored the warning shots, and I’d have defended this task group.”

  “Do your superiors know what you would have done?” Cavel pressed.

  Parker set his cup firmly in its saucer. “My superiors sent me here with written guidelines, called Rules of Engagement. I follow them. If anybody threatens to kill my people or sink my ships, I’ll shoot first. That’s in the ROE.”

  “But it all hinges on whether or not there is a threat. You alone determine that, and nobody elected you to anything. If you’re wrong, we may be in a war.”

  Parker turned his hand over and inclined his head an inch.

  “Pretty goddamn convenient if you ask me, Admiral, that your air wing commander just happened to be flying the plane that needed to zap somebody,” Senator Cavel said. “That doesn’t look so good. You can bet your pension that the pundits in the States are pointing to that as proof positive that you and the administration are up to something sleazy.”

  Parker explained that the air wing commander routinely flies missions with his crews. He concluded, “I can’t worry about how this looks on the front pages back in the States on Monday morning. My problems are here and now.”

  “It strikes me, Admiral,” Victor Gilbert said, “that you’ve got a damn tough job.” He puffed his cigar three or four times quickly, then took a deep drag and blew the smoke down the table, toward Jake. “You fuck this up and the navy will hang you by the balls. If they don’t, we will.”

  A trace of a smile flickered on Parker’s lips. “I think we understand each other, gentlemen.”

  * * *

  After Jake finished answering questions at the press conference in the wardroom, the congressional delegation trooped into the lights of the television cameras. They spoke as a group, then individually. Representative Gilbert, sans cigar, was mouthing a string of one-liners for the evening news shows when Jake joined Farnsworth at the door and opened it as quietly as he could. Farnsworth had operated the tape recorder. In the lounge Farnsworth told Jake, “You did fine, sir.”

  “I strategized my conformity,” Jake Grafton muttered.

  Farnsworth nodded sagely. “Why couldn’t you have woven my name in there someplace? I always like to see my name in the paper.”

  “I want to read that transcript before it goes anywhere.” Two can play this game, Jake thought.

  “Should I put in all the ‘uhs’ and ‘ands’ and sentence fragments, or should I clean it up so that it reads like English?”

  “Farnsworth …”

  “An excellent choice, sir. It’ll be on your desk in two hours.”

  11

  It was five minutes to four in the morning when Jake Grafton walked into the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center (CATCC) space and dropped onto the vinyl-covered couch beside the air operations officer, Commander Ken Walker. As usual, he surveyed the plexiglas status boards that lined the front of the compartment and listed all the aircraft waiting on deck to be launched and all the aircraft airborne awaiting recovery while he bantered with several of the squadron skippers and executive officers who were trailing in. The launch was scheduled to go on the hour, and as soon as the launch was complete, the recovery would follow.

  CATCC, pronounced “cat-see,” was the nerve center of carrier operations at night. Two monitors suspended near the overhead displayed the video from the island and flight deck cameras continuously. Enlisted “talkers” wearing sound-powered telephone headsets stood behind the status boards and updated the information with yellow grease pencils. The air ops officer sat on the vinyl couch where he could see it all and dictate orders to his assistant, who sat in front o
f him at a desk surrounded by a battery of intercom boxes and telephones.

  The room was dark except for a minuscule light over the desk and red lights that illuminated the yellow words and numbers on the status boards. Behind the couch where the heavies sat, junior officers from each of the squadrons with planes aloft stood shoulder to shoulder. They were there to give advice and answer questions, if asked.

  The status boards tonight listed twelve airplanes to launch and thirteen to recover.

  “How’s tricks?” Jake asked Walker when he finally got off the telephone.

  “Terrible. There’s about fifteen knots of wind and it’s shifted sixty degrees in the last hour. We’ve meandered all over compass trying to get it down the deck.” On the bridge the officer-of-the-deck would be ordering course changes as he chased the wind. This would cause havoc with the air controllers’ efforts to stack, or marshal, the planes to be recovered aft of the ship, somewhere near the final recovery bearing. No one knew what the final bearing would be.

  “And Five Oh Six hasn’t checked in to Marshal yet.”

  Jake glanced at the status board again. 506, Majeska. No fuel state was given. Majeska was the commanding officer of the A-6 Intruder squadron.

  Jake stood. “I’m going next door.” As he walked away he heard the assistant air ops officer on the phone to Captain James.

  * * *

  The adjoining compartment housed the radar displays, communications equipment, and status boards to control airborne aircraft. The scopes cast an eerie green light on the faces of the specialists who sat before them. Dim red lights shone down from the ceilings. A senior chief petty officer wearing a headset that allowed him to listen to all the radio transmissions walked back and forth behind the scopes, listening and looking and occasionally issuing an order. The senior chief was a chain-smoker who carried his own ashtray. Consequently the area near the door was a haven for refugees from the clear air of the air ops compartment next door. Here in the inner sanctum amid the scopes the smoke wafted about visibly, alternately green and red, swirled constantly by the ineffectual air-conditioning.