The tall admiral gazed at the screen impassively. His slate-gray eyes were set in the expression of permanent neutrality that had earned him the call sign “Tombstone” at his first F-14 squadron. The shortened version of it, “Stoney,” was an even more accurate description of his usual expression. Aviators who’d flown with him for years swore that they’d seen him smile before, but the TFCC watch team had their doubts.
“Tell Vincennes I said to get her Aegis ass back into screen position,” Tombstone ordered. “Until we know what that was, I don’t want her charging off into the unknown and leaving the carrier unprotected. I’ll be in Supp Plot.”
Supplemental Plot was the high-security intelligence module next door to TFCC. Tombstone ducked out of TFCC, into the common vestibule the two spaces shared, and was inside Supp Plot in four steps. He nodded to the enlisted Intelligence Specialist, or IS, guarding the door, and was met by the watch officer, Commander Busby.
“You crypto guys got any information on this?” Tombstone asked.
“No hard data, Admiral, but there are several possibilities,” Commander Busby said. “The Chinese might be using the island as a depot for material they don’t want to risk underneath their Mischief Reef tree house. Mix volatile compounds with bad safety practices, and you’ve got the right conditions for spontaneous combustion. Or there might have been a fire in the tank. Not a likely explanation. A diesel fire alone wouldn’t cause a fireball that big.”
“Any evidence to support either theory? That rock’s been photographed more times than Cindy Crawford. No signs of oil drums or construction of any bunkers that I’ve seen.”
“No, Admiral. That brings me to the second possibility. A missile.”
“From where? More importantly, who shot it? There was nothing in the area except Tomcat 205.”
“Submarine, maybe. Could be a land-launched sea-skimmer, too. That would explain the blip the RIOs saw. Breaking those things out on the radar picture is chancy at best. They get lost in the sea clutter. But on a nice day like this, sea state one, there’s a possibility of detecting one,” Busby said.
“Same problem as your first theory. We’ve had no contact on any submarines, and no HUMINT on any deployed in this area. And you’re talking about a hell of a long range for a sea-skimmer — couldn’t have been shot from land,” Tombstone said.
“Not according to current intelligence, no. But the range is within the capability of a U.S. Tomahawk.”
“Which they don’t have. That we know about.”
“That we know about,” the intelligence officer echoed. “But the theory fits the facts that we do have.”
“Set Condition Two,” Tombstone ordered. “Until we figure out what caused this, I want every eye peeled for hostile activity. I’ll be in TFCC if you need me.” And all the more reason to keep the Aegis in close. That blasted cruiser’s been more of a pain in the ass than any other ship in the battle group. Killington would choose this particular time to do it, too!
When you got right down to it, he decided, Captain Jake Killington, Commanding Officer of the USS Vincennes, had been a marginal pain in the ass for the entire cruise. Vincennes was often not where she was supposed to be, off doing something more interesting than protecting the carrier or pursuing some tangential interest of her CO. They’d expended more “giant tomatoes,” the inflatable targets used for surface gunnery practice, and more five-inch shells than all the other ships put together. To top it off, after the last onboard conference with Killington and his operations officer, the flag mess chief had reported that two gallons of ice cream and a silver sugar-and-creamer set were missing.
Back in TFCC, Tombstone stared at the symbols crawling across the big-screen display. Wonder if those pilots know how lucky they are? My list of things to worry about was a lot shorter when I was just a pilot. Sure, it’d been dangerous, but it was just me, my RIO, and my wingman.
The more senior Tombstone got, the more people depended on him to make the right decisions to keep them from getting killed. On top of that, he barely got a chance to fly enough to stay qualified. Flying actual combat missions was out of the question. The whole battle group, over ten thousand men and a billion dollars worth of equipment, was his responsibility now, not just a couple of aircraft or even one squadron’s worth.
Add to that worrying about new Chinese weapons systems, ones the intelligence communities might have missed … Tombstone stared at the screen. “If they do have something equivalent to the Tomahawk then we’ve got a serious problem. If the Vincennes is half as capable as she thinks she is, it might be enough — just barely. “Get me a secure line to Commander, Seventh Fleet. I have a feeling he’s not going to be too happy about this.”
It couldn’t have been more than a minute after I saw them. The guy standing outside the tank, one just getting out. One second they were there, then BOOM! It seems like they ought to have known they were going to die. That’d be only fair — some sort of premonition, or something. Bird Dog tried to concentrate on the deck of the carrier, repressing the train of thought that was making him distinctly uneasy.
After taking on more fuel from the KA-6 tanker, Bird Dog and Gator had circled overhead for two hours while slow-flying S-3B conducted a detailed search of the area where Island 203 had been located. Neither the Lockheed Viking nor the SH-60F helicopter had found anything of interest, although both reported an oil slick and small amounts of floating debris in the area. There was no trace of the two men Bird Dog had seen earlier on the rock.
The flight of Tomcats headed back to the carrier. Spider trapped first, catching the three-wire neatly. Finally, it was Bird Dog’s turn to descend from the Marshall stack and make his approach.
The controlled crash that passed for a successful landing on an aircraft carrier stimulated the highest readings of blood pressure and muscle tension of any profession ever measured. For Bird Dog, moving his hands, feet, and eyes in the intricate patterns necessary to land, coupled with the expected stress, always acted like a strong dose of caffeine. Time slowed down — except when the approach went wrong — and he found his mind racing over myriad details unrelated to the landing.
“Wave off, wave off!” the LSO yelled over the circuit. “Go around, Viper 205. Let’s give it another shot. And this time, when I say you’re high and fast, I damn well better see you bleeding off some frigging airspeed and altitude! You got that, Bird Dog?”
“Roger,” Bird Dog acknowledged, suppressing the impulse to swear at the landing signals officer. He hadn’t been high on final approach to the carrier; he hadn’t! What the hell did the LSO know? He wasn’t flying this Tomcat!
The LSO was stationed on the port side of the aircraft carrier, slightly below the level of the flight deck and in front of the meatball. It was his job to guide the landing aircraft into the perfect approach profile, supplementing the visual clues that the Fresnel lens, or meatball, provided to the approaching pilot. Too high or too low, and the pilot’s lineup with respect to the meatball would make the lighted signal appear red. In the groove, at the right altitude and range from the deck, and the meatball glowed green. The meatball provided guidance, but the LSO, an experienced aviator himself, was the final word on whether an approach was safe or not.
“Take it easy, Bird Dog,” Gator said quietly. “Little off, that’s all. You’ll snag it next time.”