Away Boarders

by Daniel V Gallery

  "Well - that's very thoughtful and neighborly of them," commented the Admiral.

  "Cairo has announced," continued the aide, "that Russian SAM missiles are now being installed around Cairo and at nearby airfields. Russian technicians are advising the Egyptians on these installations and are assisting in training missile crews."

  "Those are the same missiles that have been knocking down our planes in Vietnam, aren't they?" asked the Admiral.

  "Yes sir. And several of the latest Russian ships to arrive in the Med have them, too."

  "What do we know about these missiles?" asked the Admiral.

  "They are radar-controlled beam riders," said the aide. 'They have about a forty-mile range and follow a radar beam until they get about ten miles from the target. Then they send out their own radar signals and home on them. They have an influence fuse and are a verv effective anti-aircraft weapon."

  At this point another aide interrupted and held out a telephone on an extension cord to the Admiral. "We've got a call via satellite on the scrambler phone from the Pentagon, Admiral," he said. "Assistant Under Secretary for Defense Morgan wants to speak to you."

  "Well, here we go again on some goddamn crackpot project," said the Admiral, as he took the phone. "Admiral Mason speaking," he said.

  "Good morning, Admiral," said a voice. "This is Under Secretary of Defense Morgan calling."

  "Yes sir," said the Admiral.

  "How are things going out there, Admiral?" asked the Under Secretary.

  "The situation is under control, sir. Everything is just about normal," said the Admiral.

  "Admiral," said the Under Secretary, "I'm calling about a reconnaissance flight we would like to have you make over Cairo."

  "Er . . . yessir," said the Admiral.

  "We want you to fly at forty-five thousand feet over the city and get us some high-definition photographs. We are interested in their air defenses around the city."

  "They've got Russian SAM missiles there now, you know, Mr. Secretary," said the Admiral. "They have shot down several of our planes at forty thousand feet in Korea with them."

  "Yes. I know that. But we don't think their missiles arc operational yet," said the Under Secretary.

  "Well, Mr. Secretary," said the Admiral, "we can do it if we have to. I assume vou will take this up through the regular chain of command and that I'll get orders for this from my boss, Commander Sixth Fleet?"

  "Well, I hadn't figured on doing it that way. I thought this phone call would be enough. But I can do it that way if that's what you want," said the Secretary.

  "Yes sir, Mr. Secretary," said the Admiral. "I prefer it that way."

  "Okay. Over and out," said the Secretary.

  The Admiral handed the phone back to his aide and said to the chief of staff, "Every Under Secretary of Defense seems to think he is a commander in chief. That's the third time this month I've had to tell one what the chain of command in this fleet is."

  "What did he want, sir?" asked the COS.

  "Just a photo flight over Cairo," said the Admiral. "A fine chance to get a plane knocked down and have a nasty international incident on our hands. Those goddamn bureaucrats are a menace to the national defense . . . Now - where were we when we were interrupted?"

  "We were talking about the SAM's around Cairo," said the aide. "Russian technicians are installing them and will train the Egyptians in how to use them."

  "Meantime, didn't we get good pictures of them installed on that new cruiser that just came out of the Black Sea? Much better than you can get from forty thousand feet?"

  "Yes sir," said the aide. "One of our destroyers got real good closeups of them the other day. We've sent them to Washington."

  "Anything else?" asked the Admiral.

  "No sir."

  "Okay," said the Admiral. "I believe we'll be landing in about fifteen minutes. I'm going up on the bridge to watch it."

  On the flag bridge, the Admiral cast a critical eye over the formation of ships. Three miles out from the flagship there was a circular screen of a dozen destroyers to protect the big ships from submarines. They do this by constantly pinging in the water with their sonars and listening for answering echoes returning from the depths. This may seem like a waste of time in peacetime. But the Russians had submarines in the Med now - and the Russians are completely unpredictable.

  Inside the screen on each beam of the flagship about a mile away were two heavy cruisers. Each had a powerful battery of guns and also had target-seeking missiles like the Russian SAM's.

  About a mile ahead of the America and on the same course for the time being was a Russian destroyer. This snooper accompanied the task group wherever it went, hanging around the big ships, taking pictures, getting in the way, and making a general nuisance of herself. Ordinary sea manners require a single ship to keep clear of a formation. But this Russian had the manners of a Marseilles tugboat skipper. He barged about through the formation at will, forcing big ships to change course to avoid collision, and generally managed to get in the way whenever the carrier turned into the wind to launch or land aircraft.

  In the center of the formation was the attack carrier America, sixty thousand tons, carrying an air group of one hundred jet planes and with her magazines full of atomic bombs. This was a very powerful force indeed, capable of wreaking more havoc in this world than all the bombs dropped by both sides in World War II. True, it could be wiped out by one accurately placed atom bomb, or half a dozen submarine torpedoes. But the America was well able to defend itself against either form of attack, and its mobility made it impossible to pinpoint. It could be west of Malta today and near Suez tomorrow, with planes that could reach out to the other side of the Urals.

  On the flight deck, preparations for the next launch were in progress. The thousand-foot, four-acre flight deck was a beehive of activity. On the port side, the canted deck landing area was kept clear at all times, ready to land any plane in the air that had to come down. Flight operations are around the clock these days, day and night whenever the carriers are at sea. On the starboard side, fifty fighters and bombers were parked in the after section with wings folded, while mechanics readied them for flight.

  A flight-deck crew in action is a colorful spectacle. They all wear different-colored shirts to show what their jobs are. Arresting-gear men wear brown, gas crews and ammo handlers red, tractor drivers and taxi directors yellow, plane captains blue, and fire fighters green. All wear helmets and the key men have earphones, so the Air Officer in his cubbyhole above the flight deck up in the island can talk to them by walkie-talkie over the roar of jet engines, which, of course, when they are lit off, drown out even the powerful bullhorns.

  At this point, tractors were hauling planes for the next launch forward and spotting them near the catapults, of which there are four. When they have those expensive airplanes in tow, tractor drivers proceed as carefully as an old lady parking a brand-new car. But they are all frustrated hot rods, and when they haven't got a plane in tow, they roar around the flight deck wide open, skimming the edge of open elevators in a way that would scare the grit out of an astronaut.

  As the tractors dragged the planes up, each catapult crew spotted the first plane for the launch on its cat. A dozen sailors eased it carefully into position, where the breaking link was hooked into the tail. Then the heavy tow bridle was attached to the landing gear and thrown over the catapult shuttle. This latter is a towing hook which sticks up through a slot several hundred feet long running down the deck and is propelled by a steam jet controlled in the catapult room just below the flight deck. It boosts the plane from a dead stop to 140 mph in little more than a second. With the bridle in place, the shuttle is eased forward to take a strain and put tension on the breaking link that holds the tail.

  Presently the pilots came trotting out of the island in their flight gear, kicked the tires, and climbed into the cockpits. Then began the starting ritual. The Air Officer pressed the button on the bullhorn and his voice boomed
over the flight deck, "Now check all loose gear about the decks."

  Plane captains took a quick look around for buckets, wing lines, swabs, or cockpit covers adrift near their planes.

  "Check wheel chocks and wing lines," continued the bullhorn.

  Plane captains checked wheel chocks in place and wing lines taut.

  "Stand clear of jet exhausts and intakes," boomed the bullhorn.

  The penalty for disregarding this warning is severe and messy. Everybody who hasn't got a job on deck drops off into the gallery walkways.

  "Stand b-y-y-y-y to start engines. Start Engines!"

  The flight deck explodes with a great whoom as the jet engines light off, run up to full power, and throttle back.

  The catapult crews run through a quick final check of the bridles, hold-back pins and wing locks as the pilot is carefully checking each item on his take-off list. As he completes the list, the pilot holds his right hand out with thumb up to the catapult officer, and slides his canopy shut.

  Meantime, things are happening on the flag bridge. The staff duty officer has figured out a course that will put the wind seven degrees on the port bow, smack up and down the center line of the canted deck. If the Admiral is on the bridge, he goes through the formality of asking permission to turn into the wind, gets a curt nod in reply, and then yells over the wing of the bridge at the chief signalman, "Signals! Course pennant zero two zero."

  The chief barks the order to his signal floosies and they bend on the flags and haul them out of the bag and up to the yardarm as if the Old Nick himself were urging them on with a red-hot marlin-spike. Throughout the fleet, the other ships have their spyglasses on the flagship, the signal forces spring into action, and on each ship the signal "Corpen zero two zero" is bent on and hauled halfway up to the yardarm, indicating "Signal received, we are looking up its meaning."

  Everybody knows the meaning of simple corpen signals so almost immediately the signal is two-blocked, meaning, "Signal is understood; we are ready to execute."

  The chief signalman on the flag bridge yells up to the staff duty officer, "All ships acknowledge." After a final look around, the duty officer yells, "Execute."

  Down come the flags on the flagship, followed immediately by those of the other ships.

  On the bridge of each ship, the OOD says, "Right standard rudder," the helmsman spins his wheel, and the task group begins turning into the wind, leaving great creamy white wakes behind them. They are ready to launch.

  A whirlybird tuning up on deck revs up, flutters off, and stations itself at masthead height a little on the starboard bow. This is the plane guard. If anybody goes in the water, it is his job to get over there, drop frogmen, and get the people out of the plane and into the sling which the hovering whirlybird lowers. The average time from splash to back on board the America is about two minutes.

  Down at the catapults they have run up the blast shields while the ship has been turning into the wind. These are large sheets of metal which lie flat on deck ten feet aft of the planes until launching time. Then they are raised on edge to deflect the blast from the afterburners up in the air and away from the planes behind on deck.

  The cat officer holds his right fist over his head with one finger up and the pilot shoves his throttle all the way against the stop. When his jet hits top speed, he nods his head to the cat officer, who puts up another finger. The pilot hits his afterburner, which lights off with a noise like thunder, drowning out all the other jets. The pilot then braces himself, salutes, grabs the stick again, and waits patiently for about a second. The cat officer takes a quick look down the deck to make sure it is all clear, still holding his fist over his head with two fingers extended, and then sweeps his arm down, pointing to the bow.

  Down in the cat room a light flashes from amber to green and the chief pulls a lever admitting high-pressure steam to the catapult piston. The tow bridle stiffens as the shuttle urges it forward, the hold-back link breaks, and away she goes, accelerating in little over a second to flying speed before she reaches the bow. At the bow, a doohickey snatches the bridle off as it flashes by and whips it under the overhang of the flight deck. The pilot hauls back on his stick, flips his wheels up, and away he goes, into the wild blue yonder.

  Meanwhile the planes of the previous flight have been returning and circling high overhead, getting ready to land. They can land during the launch, if necessary, but usually they wait till the last plane is off before coming in. As the last planes are being taxied to the catapult, word goes out from CIC, "Land airplanes. Fighters are first to land."

  A group of four Phantom fighters have been circling the ship, throttled back to two hundred knots at five thousand feet. The leader immediately gives the breakup signal, wiggles his wings, and dives out of the formation, pulling up ahead of the ship on the starboard bow at about five hundred feet. He squirms out of his chute harness, opens his plastic cockpit cover, runs down the checkoff list, dropping his hook and wheels, and starts a slow turn to the left. He rolls out of his turn still at two hundred feet a little on the starboard quarter of the ship, throttles down to final glide speed, and looks at the deck ahead for the meatball. Meantime, the landing signal officer on his platform at the stern checks to make sure his wheels and hook are down.

  The meatball is a spot of light from a gyro-stabilized projector on deck set to shine a narrow beam at the exact glide angle down which the plane must come. There is a horizontal line of lights on deck, and when the pilot is coming down the beam exactly right this line bisects the meatball. If he gets too high the meatball goes above the line - too low, it goes below. The pilot fiddles with his stick and throttle till he has the meatball centered, and then all he has to do is just keep it there till he hits the deck. The instant he touches the deck, he jams his throttle all the way forward. If his hook catches a wire, he yanks the throttle off and the arresting gear snubs him to a stop in short order. He picks up his hook, drops the wire, and taxis out of the landing area to starboard. If his hook jumps the wires, he's got full power on, and the canted deck gives him a clear runway ahead. He then becomes a "bolter" and roars down the deck and into the air to go around and try it again.

  This is quite different from the way it used to be in World War II, before the canted deck and the meatball landing system came along. In those days you landed on a straight deck, heading right at the planes that had landed ahead of you. Halfway up the deck were the barriers. These were three heavy cables stretched across the deck at propeller hub height.

  There was no meatball in those days. You got in the groove astern of the ship and then followed the directions of the landing signal officer, who stood on a platform at the stern and controlled your approach with hand-held flags. He would signal too high, too low, too fast, too slow, or just right - hold it. As you neared the ramp he gave you either a cut or a wave-off. On a wave-off you gave her the gun, pulled off to port, and went round again. On a cut you whacked off the throttle and settled on deck. The number one rule then was "never touch your throttle again after a cut." If your hook jumped the wires you had to just sit there and take it when your plane went into the barriers. This brought you to a sudden stop. But it usually didn't do any more than bust a prop and shake the pilot up a little bit. If you gave her the gun trying to go round again and didn't make it, you would plow into a mess of parked airplanes on the forward part of the deck. There would be blood, guts, and feathers all over the place (but no brains).

  As the last planes to land taxi out of the gear, the bullhorn booms, "Secure from flight quarters." The plane captains and gas and armament crews get busv readying the planes for the next flight. There is no rest for the wean when a big carrier is on a round-the-clock schedule. The only time those crews have to themselves is when their planes are in the air.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Plane Shot Down

  Down in CIC the boys settled down for what they hoped would be an uneventful watch. CIC (Combat Information Center) is the brain of the ship. It is
in voice communication with all planes in the air and has an array of radar scopes which keep track of all of our own and any other planes and ships which come within range. The radar can see things at night and in fog just as well as in the daytime. In the old days whenever things started to happen the captain used to head for the bridge. But nowadays most captains head for CIC to get the hot dope.

  In the center of the compartment is a big vertical plastic plotting board on which all targets held by any radar scope are plotted. Seamen plotters with various-colored grease pencils stand behind this board wearing phones to the various radar operators. When an operator spots a blip, he phones the dope to the seaman, who marks it at the proper bearing and distance from the ship, which is always at the center of the board. These seamen have to learn to write backward on the board so those on the other side can read correctly.

  Shortly after all planes of the new flight had completed their radar and radio checks and started on their missions a blip appeared on the edge of the big vertical board two hundred miles to the east. Five minutes later it was forty miles closer, coming directly toward the America. The CIC officer got down off his stool and walked over to the long-range-search radar scope. He watched over the operator's shoulder while the antenna made a couple of sweeps around the horizon, noted that the blip continued to come straight in, and then said to the operator, "What do you make of that blip, son?"

  "I dunno, sir," said the lad on the scope. "It's a good solid blip, coming in pretty fast. We picked him up at two hundred miles, so he must be flying high, about forty thousand feet. It's probably some airliner."

  "Maybe," said the CIC officer. "But we're not on any regular air route here . . . I'm going to intercept him."