Carrier c-1

by Keith Douglass

  1802 hours

  Tomcat 205

  It grew dark quickly once the sun slipped below the horizon. Tombstone watched the golden light fade as he continued to loiter at six thousand feet twenty miles behind the carrier. The marshall stack was a complex aerial racecourse, with each plane a thousand feet below the plane behind, and a mile ahead. There was nothing much to do but feed Air Ops with updates on fuel and time… and think.

  "Hey, Tombstone?" Snowball asked over the intercom. "Whatcha thinking?"

  Tombstone didn't answer immediately. It wouldn't do to admit he'd already decided to turn in his wings. "Just going over the checklist again, Snowy. I-"

  "Oops, hold it, Skipper. Message coming through."

  Tombstone listened in. Jefferson's Air Ops was ordering them to begin circling out of the marshall and come on in. "Sounds like the deck is clear," he said.

  "Yeah, I wonder-"

  "I don't really want to think about it, Snowy. We'll find out soon enough."

  One by one, the aircraft began to leave the marshall and head for the carrier, Intruders first, then the Hornets as the carrier began recovering aircraft at forty-five-second intervals. It was pitch black by the time Tombstone got the signal to begin his approach, with only a few stars showing through patchy, high-level clouds.

  At five miles out, Air Ops handed him over to Jefferson's Air Boss. Commander Wheeler sounded tired as he announced the take-over. Tired and… and shaken? Tombstone shook the thought from his mind. Of course Wheeler would be shaken, along with everyone else in the recovery team, but they were professionals.

  And so are you, old son, he told himself. At least until you walk in to see CAG tonight. Right now, think about this being your last night trap.

  Tombstone had never liked night landings. Once during the Vietnam War, he'd heard, some doctor types had carried out a series of tests on aviators flying combat missions off carriers. They wired them up with devices to monitor breathing, heartbeat, blood pressure, and perspiration, then recorded the biological reactions as those pilots were catapulted into the sky, refueled in midair, carried out bombing runs, engaged in dogfights, and engaged in routine carrier operations. Time after time, one thing pegged out every needle, showing a level of stress which even one-on-one air combat could not match: night carrier landings.

  The Jefferson was lit for the occasion, with lights outlining her flight deck, and a vertical line strung down her stern over the fantail. This was designed to create a three-dimensional effect, almost like a wire-box image on the display of a computer video game. Without it, a pilot could suffer a particularly terrifying optical illusion… the sensation that the carrier's deck was rising up vertically in front of him, an invisible wall in the sky.

  At that moment, Jefferson was tiny against the sea, an impossibly small target adrift in blackness, with no other visual clues to the position of sea or sky at all.

  "Roger ball," Tombstone heard over his headset. That was Lieutenant Commander Ted Craig, the Vipers' LSO, telling him that he had Tombstone's aircraft in sight, that he was controlling the approach, that it was time to call the ball.

  Tombstone found the meatball, an orange light in a row of green on Jefferson's port side. "Tomcat Two-zero-five," he said. "Ball. Three-point-one."

  "Looking good, Tombstone."

  Normally, the LSO would say nothing unless he saw something to correct. The pilot was busy during the last ten seconds of an approach, and chatter wasted time. Those words were a measure of the stress on the flight deck… and among the pilots.

  Tombstone could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it always did during a night trap. The meatball wavered above the line of green, then below. Damn! The thing was all over the place. The black hulk of the Jefferson swept up to meet him.

  He was low. "This doesn't look good," he said to no one in particular, aware of the strained silence from the backseat as his RIO held his breath.

  Tombstone checked the meatball again as he corrected. It was dangerous to fasten all of your attention on the Fresnel lens, especially in a night landing. He was still low. "It's no good."

  1835 hours

  Landing Signals Officer's Platform, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Bumer Craig had flown F-14s for five years and had served as VF-95's LSO since the cruise began. He stood on his platform just forward of the Fresnel lens system, behind a HUD and console, complete with TV screen, speaker controls, and telephone, that was raised behind a windowed barrier for landing operations. A small crowd had gathered around him, other LSOs and LSO trainees who had come to watch.

  He ignored them, his attention divided between the lights of the approaching aircraft and the TV, which was tuned to the ship's pilot landing aid television. The PLAT could see in the dark and showed more detail of the approaching F-14… but like all experienced LSOs, Craig preferred his own eyes. The TV image was two-dimensional and could fool you; eyes were hot-wired to instincts and were far more reliable.

  Mentally, Craig kicked himself after he told Tombstone he was looking good. Aviators were a touchy breed, and there was an inborn love-hate relationship between every Navy flyer and his Landing Signals Officer.

  The LSO's primary responsibility was to grade each landing. "Okay" was best, followed by "fair." A "no grade" was dangerous to the pilot or his and other aircraft, while "cut" meant the approach could have ended in disaster. In peacetime, each pilot's standing relative to all of the other pilots in the wing was a matter of fierce pride and fiercer competition, and the aviators' frustrations could often be directed at the LSO who'd marked them down for some minor deviation on their recovery. Pilots could be incredibly defensive about their standings… and about any criticism at all, real or perceived, of their abilities.

  Tombstone was an old hand and a pro, with no need for an I'm-okay-you're-okay talk-down. The best I can do, Craig told himself, is keep quiet and let the man do his Shit! The Tomcat was low… way low! "Power up," he snapped into his microphone. His fingers tightened a bit around the control box in his hands, the "pickle" which would light up the red wave-off display around the meatball and tell the pilot to go around for another try.

  The roar of the Tomcat's engines rose in pitch and the aircraft's running lights seemed to float higher… higher…

  No! Too high! Craig's finger closed on the pickle. "Wave off! Wave off!"

  1835 hours

  Tomcat 205

  Tombstone swept in above the carrier's roundoff, knowing he'd missed. A circle of red lights flashed on, a ruby bulls-eye with the meatball in the center. "Wave off!" the LSO shouted in his ear. "Wave off!" His wheels hit the deck, but too far forward for the arrestor hook to snag any of the four cables stretched across his path.

  Tombstone rammed the throttles forward, going to full burner as he fought to build up airspeed once more. For an instant he was aware of the carrier's deck lights on either side of his cockpit, of the shadowed island streaking past his right wing. Power roared, shoving him back in his seat.

  Then he was in the open sky once more, the carrier's deck lights a dwindling glow on the black face of the sea behind him.

  "Tomcat Two-oh-five, bolter," he heard in his headset. There was nothing wrong with missing a trap, save the embarrassment and the ribbing he'd take from the other members of his squadron, but the extra stress on top of what he was feeling already rose like a storm cloud in Tombstone's mind.

  He felt an odd sensation in his right hand, the hand holding the Tomcat's stick, and he looked down. His hand was trembling, shaking, and there was nothing in the world he could do about it.

  1838 hours

  Landing Signals Officers Platform U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Craig chewed at the end of his mustache as he watched Tombstone's second approach shaping up. He wasn't so worried about the pilot's pride now as he was about simply getting the man and his RIO down intact.

  He'd been aware of Tombstone's moodiness during the past few days, ever since Coyote and Mardi Gras h
ad bought it. That sort of thing was especially hard when it was your buddy who cashed in. And now, with four more people in the drink this afternoon, plus French's crash-and-burn on the deck…

  "Come on, Tombstone," Craig said over the radio. He knew others were listening in, CAG and the Air Boss and anyone else tuned into the PLAT channel, but his words were for Tombstone alone. "No sweat. Silky smooth, just like a virgin's ass."

  "I'm okay." Tombstone sounded tight. His red and green navigation lights hovered off the stern of the carrier, three miles aft.

  "Call it, son. Call the ball."

  "Tomcat Two-oh-five. Ball. Two-point-seven."

  "You're lined up great. Bring her on in!"

  The lights descended, wavered, corrected. He held his breath as they began to drop. Too fast! Craig felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Again, he stabbed the switch.

  1838 hours

  Tomcat 205

  If he'd been embarrassed after his first bolter, Tombstone felt stark terror now. Jefferson's stern looked like it was all over the sky as he raced toward the carrier at 150 miles an hour. The red bulls-eye around the meatball lit up again and he heard the shouted command to abort. "Wave off! Wave off!"

  He rammed the throttles forward. With a shattering roar they skimmed above the flight deck, not even touching this time as they whipped past the island. Damn!

  "Hey, Stoney, this isn't looking too good."

  Tombstone guided the Tomcat into a gentle left turn. "You want to get out and walk? I can do without the backseat driving!"

  The next several minutes passed in silence. Tombstone focused all his concentration on controlling the ship and himself as he circled a few times. Finally, he began circling back toward the break, lining up for another pass.

  "Tomcat Two-oh-five, this is Two-three-two," a familiar voice said. "What's the story, Tombstone?"

  "I keep missing the goddamned carrier." He swallowed behind his mask, trying to control his twisting gut. "I think they're moving the bastard on me."

  "Well, shitfire, you know what I think? I think you just don't want to face me tonight when I talk about my two kills. You don't want to admit that I'm the new hotdog of the squadron. What do you say to that, fella?"

  He recognized the banter for what it was, an effort to break the tension, to get him to laugh at himself long enough to get the Tomcat down. As psychology it was a bit primitive, but Tombstone laughed. "If I land this bitch, you'll eat your words, old son."

  "Okay, Tombstone," Craig's voice said. "Let's do it this time! Call the ball!"

  Tombstone swallowed a hard, cold lump. The carrier's lights wavered in front of him, tiny in the dark and the distance. His hands were sweating. "Two-oh-five. Tomcat ball," he said mechanically. "Two-point-one." Another pass and he'd need to retank before trying again. Don't let me screw it up! Not again!

  Not with Batman watching. Not with his uncle watching! He realized that the trembling, strength-sapping fear had been replaced by anger. This bitch isn't going to beat me! Not now! Not when I'm goddamned through!

  The lights swelled in front of his cockpit. "Real slick, man," Snowball said, but Tombstone scarcely heard him. His hand was no longer shaking.

  His wheels touched steel and he rammed the throttle to full power. There was an eye-rattling jolt as the hook grabbed wire, and the Tomcat slowed from one-fifty to zero in two seconds. For an instant, Tombstone hung suspended in his harness then he was throttling down, backing the aircraft to spit out the wire, following the waving yellow wands of a deck manager guiding him to a parking slot.

  It's over! The thought was exultant. It's over!

  Tombstone felt as though he'd never been so alive as he was at that moment.

  DAY FOUR

  CHAPTER 17

  0005 hours

  Over the Yonghung Man

  The SEAL team consisted of Lieutenant Brandon's thirteen men, operating under the call sign "Bushmaster." They sat crowded shoulder to shoulder on narrow seats, facing outward, bathed in a dim red glow barely sufficient to illuminate the helicopter's cabin. Anything like normal conversation was impossible under the hammering of the SH-3H Sea King's five-bladed rotors, so there was no talking. Each man, his face and hands heavily blackened, wore a wetsuit, life preserver and harness, and a face-mask. Each man held swimfins, letting them dangle between his knees. At his feet was a waterproof rucksack holding weapons and equipment.

  They'd boarded the Sea King over an hour earlier, watched only by a few curious sailors on Jefferson's flight deck. Now they were approaching the Korean coast, skimming the waves at one hundred fifty miles per hour.

  Several possible plans had been discussed for inserting the team. The most common means for getting SEALs ashore was to release them from the diving trunk of a submarine, but the nearest U.S. sub equipped for SEAL ops was still a day's sailing time away, and the shallow waters east of Wonsan were risky haunts for subs in any case. Both HALO ― A parachute drop from high altitude with the chute opening delayed until the last moment ― and HAHO ― A drop from high altitude with the chute opened immediately and steered across dozens of miles to the drop zone ― had been considered and discarded. Jefferson's Prowlers were busily jamming North Korean radar, but it was still possible that parachutists, especially high-flying, long-ranged HAHO jumpers, would be spotted coming in. Besides, the North Korean landscape was a rugged jumble of mountains, woods, villages, and industrial complexes. Without pathfinders to secure and mark the DZ, a parachute landing was extremely risky.

  The solution, to insert by helocast into the sea and make the final approach to shore by raft, was risky too, but it offered several advantages. North Korean radars ― those that could burn through the American jamming ― had been picking up Jefferson's SAR helos all evening. Helicopters had been deliberately overflying the area for hours now, even deliberately penetrating the twelve-mile limit. By now, one more helo wouldn't attract undue attention… if it was seen at all against the scattered returns from the waves.

  Too, in a helocast, the possibility of one or more jumpers injuring themselves was smaller, and this was an op where even one casualty would seriously weaken the team's chances.

  Lieutenant Sikes held one hand to the communications helmet he wore. "Three minutes!" he heard the aircraft commander say over the headset.

  Sikes picked up his equipment bundle and padded barefoot across the cabin to the big sliding door on the starboard side, feeling the deck vibrate beneath his feet. A Navy helicopter crewman grinned at him and gave a jaunty thumbs-up, then undogged the door and slid it back. Wet air thundered past the opening.

  The blackness outside was complete. The SEAL lieutenant took his position by the door, turned, and gave his men a hand signal. "Get ready!"

  Sikes removed the communications helmet and handed it to the sailor as the team members unstrapped themselves and gathered up their gear. The stick leader, Boatswain's Chief Manuel Huerta, helped the lieutenant drag a black-shrouded bundle weighing more than three hundred pounds and fitted with safety lines and flotation collars, across the deck and position it near the door. He signaled again. "Stand up!"

  The men unbuckled themselves and shuffled into line, Huerta taking his place at the head, facing Sikes. Wind tugged at the lieutenant's life vest, but its force was lessening. The Sea King was slowing now as it approached the drop zone.

  "Check equipment!" As for a parachute jump, each man checked the gear of the man in front of him, rucksack snap-linked to harness, fins looped over one arm, knife, flare, first-aid kit, and pistol secured to web belt. Sikes double-checked them all, and Huerta checked him. The sailor, hearing a warning from the aircraft commander over his com helmet, held up his forefinger, crooked over to show half. Thirty seconds. "Stand in the door!" The lieutenant could make out the oily flash of wave tops in the blackness below the helo, could taste air-flung salt as the rotors lashed spray from the surface. The Sea King had slowed now to less than twenty knots, coasting a bare fifteen feet above the water. Th
e seaman gave a signal. "Go!" The bundle went out first, already unfolding as its C02 valve triggered. Huerta was next. Earlier that evening, a metal bar had been welded to the helo's side, just ahead of the door and extending three feet from the hull. Huerta reached out the door and grabbed the bar, swung clear of the cabin with his body angled slightly forward and his gear bag dangling below, then let go. The splash was lost in the roar of the engines.

  One by one, the SEALs shuffled forward and repeated the procedure. When the last man had vanished into the spray-whipped night, Sikes grinned at the sailor, took his own place at the bar, then let go.

  The water was cold, engulfing Sikes in a numbing grip. By the time he resurfaced, the Sea King had already picked up both speed and altitude, its roar dwindling into the night. The lieutenant slipped his fins on, cleared his mask, then began closing with the rest of the team. He could hear them nearby, gathering at the black rubber raft riding the heavy sea swell. The IBS ― Navyese for Inflatable Boat, Small ― could carry fourteen men and up to one thousand pounds of gear. It took only minutes for the SEALs to get themselves and their gear on board, to unship the waterproofed electric engine and secure it to the motor mount. Sikes checked his compass and indicated a direction. Land was that way about five miles off if the helo had put them in the right place. The IBS began moving silently through the night.

  0005 hours

  Me Jo, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  One of the bunk-rooms reserved for six of the wing's junior officers was affectionately known as a Me Jo, a humorous acronym which stood for Marginally Effective Junior Officers. The quarters belonging to six of VF-95's lieutenants and j.gs had been taken over by pilots and RIOs from half a dozen of the wing's squadrons.

  The party was in full swing when Batman arrived, at least twenty men crowded into the bunk-room, talking, laughing, and making the inevitable "there I was right on this guy's tail" motions with their hands as they described again and again their specific engagements during the dogfight. Snake Hoffner and Zombie Callahan were enjoying the attention as they talked about their fish-eye view of the battle and their long, cold wait until a SAR Sea King had reached them. They'd been released from sick bay only moments earlier, arriving just before Batman. Since liquor was strictly prohibited aboard ship, refreshments were limited to Kool-Aid and coffee served from a pair of silver ten-gallon urns set on a cart in the corner. Food ranged from chips, pretzels, and other assorted junk from the ship's exchange to "autodog," soft ice cream so-called because of what chocolate ice cream was supposed to look like as it was extruded from the automatic dispenser.