Tomcat

by David E. Meadows

  * * *

  “What is going on here?” shouted General Lewis, overhearing the excited ASW ATE operator tell Captain Dick Holman of the launch of the third torpedo.

  Two steps brought the sweat gear — garbed Army three star General beside Dick. He looked up at the Ranger general, towering over him by a good eight inches.

  “Sir, the P-3C and the two S-3s we launched off the Stennis a half hour ago are in combat with the Algerian Kilo submarine, the A I. Nasser” He glanced toward the console. “Looks very good right now. General. We have three torpedoes in the water. Two have made contact and exploded. We are waiting for confirmation of the kill.”

  It seemed to Dick the flow of blood to the top of the general’s head was a visible wave that crept up the neck, past flaring nostrils, across blazing eyes, bunched eyebrows, and furrowed brow before disappearing under the short cropped hair. He would have not been surprised to see steam rolling out of his ears.

  “Admiral! I said I did not want to engage! Does the reticent service ever listen to orders? I want the attack broken off now! I mean now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Admiral Cameron responded politely. He touched Dick Holman on the shoulder. “Captain Holman, have the aircraft disengage. Have the P-3C set up a sonobuoy pattern between us and the enemy and the S-3s establish an overhead orbit for the — remainder of their flight.”

  “Yes, sir. When would you like it done?” Dick asked, knowing he was pushing the envelope.

  “Enough of this bullshit, Admiral. Stop the attack, and stop it now, Captain.”

  Dick Holman turned to the young petty officer who had been listening intently to the confrontation. Sweat on the sailor’s wide-eyed face streamed down to a neckline that was quickly becoming soaked. It wasn’t the temperature in the air-conditioned space causing that.

  “Stay calm. Sailor,” he said softly. “Order the aircraft to break off their attack.”

  “Sir, Hunter Three One — the P-3C — reports no joy on the torpedoes. One exploded. They suspect on a decoy; the second exploded for unknown reasons and the other ran out of steam. The submarine maneuvered to avoid but has returned its original course of zero six zero.”

  General Lewis leaned down, pulling the towel back and forth across the back of his neck. “What does that mean, Captain?”

  Dick straightened up. “It means, General, that you got your wish, sir. The attack failed, and the submarine has returned to its original course directly toward the Amphibious Task Force. With luck, sir, we may be able to throw hand grenades at it from the flight deck when it arrives tomorrow.”

  “Don’t go too far down this road, Captain,” General Lewis warned.

  The lieutenant general turned to the two admirals and included Dick Holman in his words. “Gentlemen, don’t think just because I am Army that I don’t know what you tried to do right now. Admiral, you have every reason in the world to hate these people. You just buried your wife.

  Rear Admiral Devlin, you are an aviator and a P-3 jockey, so I know you have the instinct to kill a submarine when your aircraft discover it. You, Captain Holman, besides being overweight, a smoker, out of shape, and insolent, used to be captain of the USS Stennis before being involuntarily transferred to the Joint Task Force staff. You fear for your ship and the ships out here. In fact, all three of you do. I know I am abrasive. Sometimes it stimulates rebellion, but understand this; I am under orders to disengage us from North Africa. Those orders came from above the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and above the secretary of Defense. Do I make myself clear without saying specifically that the president himself wants our people off the beach, onto the ships and the hell out of here?

  Do I?”

  Behind the general, the low voice of the ATE arguing with the pilots of the three aircraft to break off contact could be heard. The P-3C pilot begged for one more pass; he had the submarine dead on and could drop his remaining Mark-50 directly on top of the bastard. Dick Holman heard the exchange and shook his head at the operator, who relayed a “Permission denied” to the pilot. The sailor grimaced over the response. Dick had a fair feel for what the pilot probably said, but he knew the pilot would obey the order even as the aviator cursed the stupidity of the battle group commander.

  “I know there is resentment over me coming in here and taking over a Navy show. Believe me when I say that I did not volunteer for this, but I did not try to get out of it, either, when they ordered me forward. We are professionals.

  We will act as professionals. We will work together toward one end: extricating ourselves from the beach and from contact with the forces of this new country.

  Can we do that?”

  When he received no answer, he turned to his aide.

  “Let’s go, Brad. I need a Navy shower, clean shorts, and a pressed uniform. I will see you gentlemen at dinner. My quarters, my invite, twenty one hundred hours. Okay?”

  Admiral Cameron spoke for the three of them. “Yes, sir, General. It will be our pleasure.”

  “Good, I would like someone to have some pleasure from today’s events. We have gotten off on the wrong foot, gentlemen. Let’s see if we can start over. Captain Holman, I will have the cook prepare a dieter’s special for you. The only other thing you need to pursue further is finding that missing SEAL captain and getting him and his cohorts off Italy and into Algiers. The sooner we recover those hostages, the sooner we vacate this quagmire.

  The Marines aren’t having much luck in finding them, so use this bastard who won’t tell anyone but this Captain James where the hostages are being held.” With that comment, he turned without waiting for a reply and headed toward the hatch.

  Colonel Brad Storey remained behind for a second and spoke to Admiral Cameron. “Sir, that invitation also includes Captain Bowen, sir. The general looks forward to an engaging and pleasant dinner. Thank you for coming.”

  Admiral Cameron nodded and watched General Lewis’s executive aide rush to catch up with the Ranger flag officer, arriving at the hatch as the general stood in front of it, eyeing the mechanism to open the door before attempting it.

  “He can’t have both,” Rear Admiral Devlin said.

  Cameron looked at him. “Both what?”

  “Engaging and pleasant. We just had an engagement with him. What do we do now? Present him our swords and lower the flag?”

  Admiral Cameron thought a few seconds before he spoke. “We have our orders. Our focus is to identify ways to disengage our forces throughout our operating area.

  Pete, put the word out that no naval or marine forces are to engage the enemy unless in self-defense. They are to avoid confrontations as best possible. The general is right, gentlemen, and we are the ones in the wrong. He has been ordered to disengage us from this theater. If we cannot support General Lewis, then we need to be up front and step aside so he can get someone in here who can. Understood?”

  Dick Holman and Pete Devlin acknowledged the admiral’s words.

  “Good,” Admiral Cameron said. “What is the status of Captain James? Have they located him and his two traveling companions?”

  Pete Devlin nodded. “They have flight reservations on a military airlift out of Naples tomorrow to Washington.

  We’ll intercept them at the airport and divert them here, to the Stennis, to pick up the rest of the team.”

  “Let me know when we have them. Shouldn’t have given them the weekend off to see beautiful Italy. Gentlemen, I’ll see you tonight at dinner. I am sure it will be engaging, if not pleasant.”

  The two stood side by side as the admiral strolled to the hatch to leave. He reached it as Captain Clive Bovven opened it from the other side. Admiral Cameron and Clive spoke a few words before the two departed the Air Operations space together.

  “Well, I guess that’s the ball game,” Pete Devlin muttered.

  “How’s that, Admiral?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing, Dick. Just thinking out loud. Go ahead and set up an ASW barrier between us and the Algerian Kilo su
bmarine. Just because we can’t attack him, doesn’t mean he won’t attack us.” He paused for a moment. “Anything else?”

  “Ranger Two Nine should be entering the Sigonella pattern in the next few minutes. If her wheels lower and lock, it should be an easy landing. Otherwise, could be asshole tight for the crew.”

  * * *

  “Ranger two nine, Sigonella control; you are clear to join pattern. Report over beacon Bravo Sierra. You are authorized to descend to fifteen hundred feet.”

  “Okay, we have clearance. Jasbo, I want to lower the wheels in two minutes when we pass over Bravo Sierra.

  Be prepared to jerk up on the landing gear controls if I holler. Chief, if we start an uncontrolled descent, I want throttles on numbers two, three, and four pressed forward to maximum. The Jasbo and I will attempt to regain control.

  Jasbo, if that happens, we’ll have about ten seconds to correct. Chief, you count. If I shout, it’ll mean we can’t correct. You then flip on the automatic controls, and at that moment we pray to the God of technology and computers to bring us out.”

  “Ain’t nothing going to happen, Skipper.”

  “Sure, Chief. I know that. You know that. And the Jasbo knows that. But, who knows what this aircraft is thinking after getting the beating it just got southwest of here. I don’t want Ranger Two Nine to decide because the wheels are down, it can land anywhere.”

  “She.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, sir. We all know that Ranger Two Nine is a she, not an it.”

  “Well, right now, she’s having a bad case of PMS.”

  The plane shook as it descended through the hot atmosphere above the cacti and brown grasses of the Sicilian hills. As he watched the altimeter needle slowly creeping downward and listened to the flight engineer’s voice calling off the feet, Commander Stillwell mentally reviewed the procedures to drop the wheels. Naval Aviation Training and Operations Safety manual, commonly called NA TOPS governed the safety, performance, and emergency procedures for every aircraft in the Navy inventory.

  The one for the EP-3E was written by Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two out of Jacksonville, Florida, formerly of Naval Base Rota, Spain. Stillwell was the operations officer for the squadron when not deployed.

  The continuous updating and revising of the EP 3E NA TOPS manual fell under his responsibilities. He knew the NA TOPS manual like a priest knows the Bible.

  For the tense crew aboard the war-torn Aries aircraft, no better pilot could have been on board.

  “Fifteen hundred feet, sir!” Chief Henckels announced.

  Stillwell pulled up slightly on the stick, leveling the plane at slightly under 1,500 feet.

  He pressed the Transmit button. “Sigonella Control, Ranger Two Nine, past beacon Bravo Sierra. Permission to join circuit?”

  “Permission granted. Ranger Two Nine. Turn right to course zero one zero. Distance to runway ten miles. You are cleared for pass by the tower for a wheels check, then short circuit, short final for landing.”

  The American captain in the Italian control tower picked up a pair of binoculars he brought with him. He and the other American officers moved onto the small observation deck where others had crowded to watch the damaged aircraft land. He scanned the skies with his binoculars, searching for the EP-3E reconnaissance aircraft.

  “okay, guys, it’s the moment of truth.

  Everyone prepared?” Stillwell asked.

  They both rogered his question. Jasbo grasped the wheel, stretched her fingers briefly as her palms rested on it, before gripping the column so tightly her knuckles turned visibly white against the tan skin earned by her off hours poolside at the Total Motel. She knew she would have little opportunity to correct if the plane lost its maneuverability.

  She rolled her shoulders. Her entire body, from her feet on the pedals, through her legs, up her abdomen, and out through her arms, was one lightly wound mass of feminine muscle prepared to exert every ounce of her 130 pounds to save this plane.

  Chief Henckels reached down and tightened his seat belt before leaning forward, putting both hands on the throttle, prepared to increase the speed of the engines. His right hand held the throttles to engines three and four, while his left gripped the one for engine number two. The fourth throttle for engine number one remained in the off position. The chief glanced at the gauge for engine number two and relayed to Commander Stillwell the fact the engine was operating in the lower edge of the red. If they lost engine number two during their final approach, the plane would roll hard to the right. At the altitude they were flying, he doubted the three of them together would stop Ranger Two Nine from diving right wing first into the dry soil of Sigonella Airfield. What’s the last thing to go through a bug’s mind when it hits a windshield? Its ass.

  Stillwell flicked the switch on his helmet microphone to internal ICS. He briefed the crew on what they were going to do in the next fifteen minutes. First, they were preparing to lower the wheels, and he told them the hard truth of what could happen. He also told them that if the worst happened, they had to remain in their seats and not panic. They would be unable to recover the aircraft if every crew member decided it was time to run and shout.

  Stay calm, and they would get through this.

  “Okay, here we go,” he said.

  He reached beneath the chief’s hands and pushed the levers controlling the wheels down. The sound of hydraulic machinery opening the wheel well doors reverberated throughout the aircraft, drowning out normal conversation. The three red lights in the middle of the cockpit console showed the wheels up and secure. In the back of the aircraft, the lowered wheels bent the sounds and the wind coming through the flak hole at the rear, sending both rushing through the fuselage like screaming banshees demanding their sacrifice. John Andrews made the persona! observation, strapped in at his senior evaluator ditching station, that there seemed to be a lot of eyeballs sweating in this heat. He touched the bandage on his head, thankful the wound was only superficial.

  “One green.” Chief Henckels said. “Nose gear down and locked.”

  Still well and Jasbo took their eyes momentarily away from the cockpit window to glance down at the lights.

  Two remained red, but the port and starboard wheels were always several seconds behind the nose gear wheel.

  “There’s the tower,” Jasbo said, nodding toward her side of the front cockpit window. No way she was going to release her death grip on the wheel.

  “Let’s maintain current course, speed, and altitude until we get greens on the last two wheels. Then we’ll turn slightly to the right so we can pass over the tower.”

  The red light for the starboard wheel blinked to green.

  The aircraft rocked and vibrated, straining to turn farther to the right. Chief Henckels slid the belt out on his seat belt and stretched forward until he could touch the port light. He tapped it twice, more in wishful thinking than expecting it to miraculously glow green.

  “No joy, Skipper, on port wheel. We have two greens; nose gear and starboard wheel.”

  “Chief, increase speed on number two,” he spat out through clenched teeth.

  “Hurry,” Jasbo stuttered, her arms straining to hold the aircraft against the increasing right-hand torque.

  Chief Henckels pushed the number-two engine forward all the way, his eyes looking up, watching the heat indicator.

  The two pilots glanced at the wheel indicator lights briefly. “Could be a faulty connection,” Stillwell offered as the aircraft eased against the right-hand pull of the aircraft.

  Maybe the AAA damaged the indicator line on the port side. It was on the same side as the engine hit by the SAM. Could be a multitude of things. Just because the light indicates the wheel failed to lower and lock doesn’t necessarily make it so.

  “Could be,” Chief Henckels agreed.

  “She is pulling a lot harder to the right with the wheels down, Chief. Keep an eye on number two.”

  “Sir, number two is still in the red.
The needle is easing upward. If we continue on maximum power, we run the risk of her freezing up.”

  “Chief, she can freeze up and frost over for all I care as long as she waits until we’re on the ground. Since we are relying on faulty indicators for the wheels, let’s hope we have one on number two. If she has been operating this long in the red, she can do it a little longer.” He crossed his fingers on his left hand briefly without removing it from the steering column. God, he hoped he was right.

  Aviation mishaps usually don’t give pilots a second chance. You make the right choices the first time, or the second time may be in another life.

  Engine number two operating, at a higher power setting raised the decibel level slightly in the cockpit.

  “Jasbo, let’s edge the aircraft over a couple of degrees so we can fly by the tower. When we reach the tower, I want us to turn left. It’s going to be hard to do against the pull to the right, but we need to expose our belly to the tower. At least long enough so they can see our complete undercarriage.”

  “Anything I can do, Ranger Two Nine?” Shell Leader asked. The S-3 tanker was flying an overhead orbit at ten thousand feet to stay out of the way of the damaged EP 3E as it attempted to land.

  “No, thanks, Shell Leader. You may want to hop down here and land before we go in. I do not know how the runway will be afterward.”

  “Ranger Two Nine, Shell Leader. Thanks, shipmate, but as soon as you touch down, I am off to the carrier.

  Only four of us, you know, and those gas-hog fighters need us gas stations to do their job.”

  “Shell Leader, I look forward to buying the first round when our paths cross again. Ranger Two Nine out.”

  The flashing small red light on the starboard fuel bladder went from blinking to a steady red. They had less than ten minutes to land.

  “Commander,” Chief Henckels started.

  “I know, Chief. We’re empty, flying on fumes.”