Chain of Command c-12

by Keith Douglass

  "Maybe just a bad bird, Bird Dog."

  I toggled off another missile, already feeling a sinking, twisting sensation in my gut that told me I was in a bad tail chase. Real bad. The geometry flashed through my mind, more instinct than an actual mathematical calculation, but often just as deadly accurate. Gator wasn't the only one who could predict a hit, and despite my wishes I was calling this a no-go.

  "I'm there," Skeeter said. "Fox three, Fox three."

  "You can't make it," Gator said, his voice panicked now.

  "Bird Dog, get Snoopy down on the deck. She's gonna have to try to evade it."

  An E-2 trying to evade a missile is like a snail trying to evade a fly-swatter. I had five seconds to watch, five seconds longer than any I've ever had in my life. Even flying nap of the earth over the Arctic hadn't curled my balls back up into my torso and made me want to puke with pain like this.

  Five seconds. The E-2 started to move, pitching down and pointing her nose to the deck. She picked up speed immediately, trading altitude for airspeed.

  Four seconds. The E-2 went into full nose-dive now, at an angle any experienced pilot would have been insane to try. Those airframes are sturdy but ancient, and the metal stress factors that play into extreme maneuvers like this are another thing to be worried about. I imagined what it was like in the cockpit of that bird, hearing the old structural members scream and complain, the ominous pops and cracks of an airframe exceeding her performance envelope.

  Three seconds. The E-2 pilot was howling on tactical now, praying to every god he knew and damning the Vietnamese.

  Two seconds. I heard it, those fatal last words that always echo over the airwaves, the ones that signify a pilot's final acknowledgment that he's really screwed the pooch this time. "Oh, shit."

  One second. I had a visual on the missile now, so much smaller than the aircraft, streaming directly toward it with fire gouting out its ass.

  The sky five miles away from me exploded into fire, violent, searing colors of orange and yellow. The black smoke followed, billowing around it like a shroud, then a secondary explosion, then nothing but black smoke and odd shards of metal cluttering the sky and Gator's radar scope.

  "Chutes, any chutes?" Gator said urgently.

  I tossed the Tomcat around in a tight curve, spiraling higher to avoid the black fireball now fouling the air. The sky was brilliant blue above, no trace of the fiery destruction down in my realm. Blue, innocent, and eternal. But that wasn't what I was interested in.

  I spiraled down, staying well clear of the fireball that was now mostly smoke and a rain of shrapnel.

  No chutes. No billowing arcs of silk white that would indicate any one of the four people on board had had time to punch out.

  I dived lower, so close I could see the wave tops curling over and under, white-capped, covering deep sea fields of kelp. Just on the off chance that they made it out, had time to slip by me somehow undetected and make it to the safety of the ocean.

  No luck. Not for me. Not for the E-2 crew.

  "Let's get back to the boat," I said finally to Skeeter over tactical. "The helos are on their way ― they can do a better search at this altitude than we ever could. If there's anything there, they'll find it."

  Two clicks acknowledged my transmission, nothing more. Skeeter had spent his own time at sea level looking for any trace of the survivors. Hoping against hope, we both knew it was not going to happen.

  Both of us were getting low on fuel. What we'd really like to do was head back in over land and nail the bastard who'd fired those missiles at an innocent, harmless E-2. If they wanted to fight, why hadn't they taken on one of us, somebody who had the maneuverability to at least stand a fighting chance? But no, they'd taken out the one bird in the sky that was more an ungainly seagull than a tactical aircraft.

  And the one that could do them the most harm. Why were they objecting to the E-2's presence in their skies? In other words, what did Snoopy see that they didn't want him to?

  "We're spooling up two F/A-18's now," the controller back on the carrier said, as though he'd managed to read my thoughts from a distance of fifty miles. "As soon as they're airborne, we'll recover you."

  "Roger."

  Skeeter and I fell into the starboard marshal, waiting our turn. As we spiraled around in our assigned spots, I keyed the mike and called the carrier one last time. "What are those Hornets loaded out with?"

  "Ground weapons," was the short, satisfied reply. "And we're just waiting for clearance."

  Fine. If I couldn't take the SAM site out myself, then at least we were doing something. Doing something this time, instead of doing what my father's generation had done, concentrating firepower on truck parks and POL sites. We needed to hit these bastards hard, where it could hurt them, where they knew exactly why we were doing it. As far as we were concerned, that SAM site would be toast.

  I let Skeeter take a plug at the tanker first. As I hung back waiting my turn, it was easy to see that he was shaken up. Not that he would have admitted it, but it showed in his approach on the KA-6 tanker. Skeeter, normally the rock-steady precision flyer, was all over the sky. It took him three tries to plug the tanker, and even then he had one breakaway before he managed to suck down five thousand pounds. When he finally pulled away, I could tell from the tanker pilot's voice that he'd just about had enough of playing patty-cake with Tomcats.

  "C'mon in, Bird Dog," Leslie "Loon" Luna said. He was normally the most unflappable of tanker pilots, but now his voice was short. I had a feeling we wouldn't be trading dirty jokes over the tanking frequency this time.

  "On my way." I slid the aircraft forward slowly, eased into position, then, keeping my eyes on the lights around the basket, slid the probe home with a firm thunk.

  "Good seal," Loon reported. "Ready to begin transfer."

  I sucked down a quick five thousand pounds, glad I could at least manage to do this right.

  Good eyesight and fast reflexes aren't enough to make a fighter pilot. You need something more ― the ability to compartmentalize your mind, to shut out everything else in the world once you step into that cockpit. My wife, my dog, none of that matters when you have that many pounds of airframe wrapped around you, enormous firepower on your wings, and a guy in the backseat who's depending on you. It doesn't matter ― it can't. Not if you're going to do your job right.

  Like I knew what that was about. As I pulled away from the tanker, some tiny wall broke, and I saw again the bloody black fireball that was all that remained of the E-2. The Tomcat wobbled a bit as though she sensed my guts moving in different directions. Gator cleared his throat, then said, "You okay, buddy?"

  "I'm fine." The words came out harder than I meant them to, but Jesus ― what did Gator expect? Yeah, he'd seen the same things I had. But it hadn't been his fault. It was mine, completely and solely.

  If only I had sent Skeeter off after that third missile. I'd been so certain that I could get it myself.

  Too certain? I shoved the thought away, leaving it for another time. One when I wasn't trying to get a bird back on deck.

  "Nice plug," Gator offered. I recognized that for what it was, a little cheerleading from a backseater who thought the guy up front might be shaken up. Two years ago, when we'd first started flying together, it might have worked. It almost did this time too, especially coming from Gator, whose voice I knew as well as any man's on earth.

  "Piece of cake, yeah," I said, trying to simulate the appropriate response so he'd go away and be happy. "Yeah, I sure can fly those tankers."

  "All you have to do is get us back on deck now, Bird Dog," Gator said. I could hear the careful note in his voice, the one that treaded around the edges of an argument. No matter how strongly he felt about me ― hell, I wasn't even sure he would ever want to fly with me again, not after today ― he would never bring it up right before a trap. Not when he wanted every bit of my attention focused on the pitching, heaving deck below us, and the thin wires that ran perpendicular to m
y flight path.

  Skeeter and I settled in to the starboard marshal pattern and waited for the call. We were operating on visual now, moving automatically into our next place in the pattern and waiting for our chance to roll out.

  Finally, I was up. I went first, leaving Skeeter still in the pattern waiting for his turn.

  I started my approach, and at two miles out I was rock-steady on glide path. The LSO voice ― Landing Signals Officer ― was just as soothing and encouraging as Gator's had been. Clearly, he knew what had happened, and he was prepared to talk a shaken aviator back down onto deck as gently as possible.

  "Tomcat 201, call the ball."

  Like I could miss it. In this weather, the Fresnel lens was a lock, clear and brilliant on the port side of the carrier's ass.

  "Roger, ball," I acknowledged, and followed with a report of my fuel state and number of people on board. Someday, just for the hell of it, I was gonna say three souls and see if anyone caught it.

  I came in smooth, clean, adding a little power just as we came over the end of the ship.

  It was one of the best traps I ever made, smooth, clean, and solid on the three-wire. Heck, if I'd had another hundred feet, I wouldn't have needed the damn wire at all.

  So maybe that's an overstatement. Even the best carrier aircraft landing is a controlled crash, a violent intersection of aircraft and flight deck that throws you forward in the straps and rattles your teeth. It's not something you want to try with a full bladder. I felt the tailhook catch, and slammed the throttle forward to full military power. Standard procedure, in case the hook skips over the wire ― called a kiddie trap, because the aircraft then looks like a kiddie's toy bouncing down the flight deck ― or in case something else goes wrong.

  If you do have a problem, you have enough forward speed and lift to get back off the deck. Then you go round, go back into the marshal, and take another pass at the deck.

  I waited for the yellow shirt's sign that it was safe to power down, then throttled back to taxi speed. We backed slightly and I lifted the hook, clearing the wire, then followed the yellow shirt's hand directions into the spot. The nose wheel's steering gear felt a little rough ― I made a mental note to gripe it when I signed the aircraft back in.

  Once on the spot, I spooled the engines down and started my pre-shutdown checklist. Gator sang out his portions, and we finished quickly.

  Behind me, I could hear the high scream, like a tornado inbound, of the next aircraft coming down over the deck. Skeeter, probably ― he'd been right behind me in pattern and should be next on deck.

  I turned slightly and craned my neck to watch the ass end of the carrier. The youngster came in high and fast, almost seeming to ignore the LSO's increasingly frantic insistence that he power back. He caught the one-wire ― but just barely. He was nose-high, and I saw the aircraft's nose slam down with an impact that must have been brutal.

  "What the hell's going on with him," I said, half aloud and half to myself. "He's not the one who blew it today."

  Gator leaned forward and tapped me gently on the shoulder. "Later, Bird Dog. Let's get this aircraft shut down first."

  I shoved it away again, the last time I'd have to, and completed the pre-shutdown checklist. A few minutes later, the aircraft went cold and dark.

  By the time we were on the tarmac, CAG was at the island door waiting for us. Big surprise, that.

  CAG stands for Commander, Air Group. Except he's a captain, not a commander. And it's no longer called an Air Group either. It's an Air Wing. But somehow, the acronym CAW just never caught on. CAG is CAG.

  There are three major players on board any aircraft carrier. There's the skipper of the ship, an aviator by trade but one who's on his way up from mere four-striper captain to admiral and has been through all the surface-track training he'll ever need. Then there's the guy that owns all the squadrons on board the carrier ― the CAG. They both work for the admiral in command of the entire battle group.

  CAG motioned us inside the island, and as soon as we were off the flight deck, he said, "The admiral wants to see YOU."

  "I figured."

  "Now."

  "That I also figured."

  We followed CAG down one deck to the Flag spaces, sweaty, stinky aviators in flight suits, still carrying their helmets and wearing their ejection harnesses, trotting the sacred cool corridors of Flag country.

  CAG stopped us just outside the admiral's door and turned back to me. "He's been there, Bird Dog. If anybody understands, the admiral does."

  The walls I'd erected in my mind broke down finally. It washed over me now, the sheer magnitude of the loss. Jesus, I knew those men ― hell, I'd had chow with Dogpatch, the E-2 pilot, just yesterday. Gator grabbed my arm. "Don't go tits-up on me now."

  I started to say something, tried to tell him I was okay, but it must have been very clear that I wasn't. My vision had faded around the edges, tunneling in like I was taking too many Gs, graying out, with color seeping out of the room. There was a black-and-white picture, bleached of all color ― and of all life.

  My knees buckled. Gator and CAG caught me on the way down. It didn't seem to matter ― nothing did. My vision was now blurry as well as colorless, and the overwhelming sensation that the world around me was just mist and fog increased.

  "Suck it up," Gator whispered harshly, glancing around at the people standing at the open hatches and doorways down the passageway. "Just a few more minutes, Bird Dog. Suck it UP."

  "Let's get him into the mess," CAG said finally. "Asshole's gonna pass out on us."

  They dragged me into the Flag Mess, the dining facility just off the admiral's quarters. Somebody pushed me down on the couch, and I felt a hand on the back of my neck, shoving my head between my knees.

  "Breathe." Gator's voice now, giving orders. In that state, if there was any voice I'd obey, it would be Gator's.

  I took in a deep shuddering breath, felt my diaphragm flex and resist, then forced it in. With my head down, the fuzzy feeling and grayness started to seep away. I tried to sit up straight.

  "Not just yet," Gator said softly. "Not yet, buddy."

  Finally, the two of them decided I could be trusted not to be treated like a teenager. They let me sit up, and somebody shoved a glass of water in my hand. If they'd been any kind of shipmates at all, there would have been some bourbon in it. You feeling better?" Gator asked.

  "Yes, MOMMY."

  Irritation splashed across Gator's face; then he gave a grunt. He turned to CAG. "Back to normal, I'd say."

  CAG regarded me for a few minutes, and I saw an odd mixture of compassion and anger in his face. "No, he won't ever be," CAG said. "No man would be." He stood, motioning to Gator. "Let's see if we can get him on his feet."

  I waved off their assistance and stood slowly. My vision wavered a bit, then settled down. My gut was letting me breathe, and my knees didn't feel like they were about to buckle anymore. Physically, I was all right.

  "You up to talking now?" CAG asked. It wasn't really a question.

  I nodded. "Yeah, let's get it over with."

  CAG led the way to the admiral's private door to the mess, rapped gently, then stuck his head in. "They're here, Admiral." Gator's hand was clamped around my arm again, just above the elbow. Hell, if he kept touching me like that, we were gonna start going steady. I shook him off.

  CAG motioned us in. As I stepped across the hatch and into the admiral's office, I tried to remember one thing. I was a good stick, one of the best. The admiral knew what I could do ― hell, we'd been on three cruises together so far. He'd been in command of the Carrier Battle Group when I'd flown my ass off over the Arctic, and he'd been on board Jefferson from D.C. when everything went to shit in the Spratly Islands. And I knew him ― he was a good guy.

  The admiral knew I was a good stick. Even though I'd just killed four aviators.

  3

  Rear Admiral Edward Everett "Batman" Wayne

  23 September

  USS Jeffer
son Admiral's cabin

  God save me from good sticks. Whether they're male or female, they're never modest. They stalk the passageways of the carriers like grounded gods, arrogant and barely touching the deck. They can do no wrong, every trap is a three-wire, and they never, ever screw the pooch. I know. I was one of them.

  It can't last forever, of course. Sooner or later, they come down hard. Sometimes they're the only ones who know it, but you can see it in their faces. It starts with a quiet, reflective couple of days, an unusual look of thoughtfulness on the pilot's face. That fades ― faster than you think. What you get at the end of it is a pilot who thinks, one who lets his mind rule his reflexes instead of the other way, one who knows he or she is mortal. In short, you get a better pilot. One who's likely to come back.

  Of the five officers standing in front of me, only two had been through that process. One was Gator, Bird Dog's RIO. The other was CAG. Bird Dog, Skeeter, and Lieutenant Laurel, Skeeter's backseater, were still too young to ever admit that they were mortal. God knows, Bird Dog was long overdue. I'd known it was coming.

  But God, not like this. Never like this.

  "Sit down." I gestured at the ring of chairs arrayed in front of my seat. "Tell me about it."

  A knock on the door interrupted Bird Dog before he could even start. Lab Rat opened the door and stuck his head in. "May I sit in, Admiral?"

  I nodded, a little bit annoyed that he'd caught me in a slipup. Or was it? Of course I'd wanted to hear the details first myself ― deserved it, in fact. I was in command of this Carrier Battle Group, and everything that happened and every man and woman under my command were my direct and personal responsibility.

  But Lab Rat, my senior Intelligence Officer, was right too. The first retelling of an incident is often the most accurate one, filled with the details that immediately stand out in each pilot's mind. Intelligence Officers such as Commander "Lab Rat" Busby thrived on that stuff, raw, hard data straight from the pilot's lips.

  I pointed at the couch. Lab Rat slid into his accustomed space and perched on the worn cushions, his pale blue eyes alive and expectant behind thick spectacles.