“I’ll save DESRON the trouble of asking the next question. Tell that Viking he’s weapons free, and to watch out for those Grails,” Tombstone said immediately. The TAO nodded, and passed the word up five decks to the DESRON.
If he’d had any doubts about the Chinese intentions, the sudden appearance of the submarine had cured them. No matter whether it was a Kilo or a Han-class boat, it had just surfaced for the last time.
CHAPTER 24
Thursday, 4 July
1815 hours (Zulu -7)
Handler’s Office USS Jefferson
Good hunting, Lieutenant,” Chief Franklin said.
“Thanks, Chief,” Bird Dog said absently, his mind already forty feet away in the cockpit of the Tomcat. He scribbled his name in the maintenance log, acknowledging he’d read the “gripes,” the maintenance action forms, filed in the compact folder. He patted himself over one time, carefully checking that he had his water bottle, candy bar, gun, and all the other paraphernalia that pilots tucked into the pockets of their flight suit. He gave the crotch straps on the ejection harness one last tug to tighten them. As dangerous as ejection could be, loose straps could result in permanent damage.
He pushed open the hatch and felt the heat and the noise of the flight deck assault him. He scanned the deck and found Tomcat 205 waiting near the handler’s shack. The plane captain, a slim, coverall-clad figure, was dogging down one last panel.
Shaughnessy! Bird Dog stormed back into the handler’s office. Chief Franklin was still there, leaning on the counter and chatting with the handler.
“Chief! What’s she doing on my aircraft?” Bird Dog demanded.
Chief Franklin slowly straightened up, and his face lost all expression. “She’s preflighting, Lieutenant. Plane captains have their own routine for certifying the aircraft safe for flight.”
“I know what a plane captain does, damn it! What’s she doing on my aircraft?”
“Take it outside, gentlemen,” the handler said abruptly. “We’ve got work to do in here.”
Bird Dog followed Chief Franklin out of the shack and around behind it. The massive bulk of the island masked part of the screaming jet noise and made conversation in normal tones of voice almost possible.
“I don’t want her on my Tomcat,” Bird Dog said. “And I’m surprised you’d even consider it, Chief. What the hell were you thinking? Putting a plane captain that I’m sending to captain’s mast on my aircraft?”
“What I’m thinking, Lieutenant, is that you are one arrogant, ignorant son of a bitch,” the chief said. “Who the hell are you? You really think that girl would do something to your aircraft just because you assigned her some extra duty? If that’s the way you think of these plane captains, you better find a new career. Because today, and every day that you fly, you’re going to be depending on those people for your life.”
“You’ve got other plane captains!”
“And let me tell you something else. Yes, I do have other plane captains. But Shaughnessy is the best damn one of the lot. You’re the most inexperienced pilot in this squadron, sir. I don’t know whether you or the plane captain missed that hydraulic leak a couple of days ago. What I do know is that it killed a sailor. Given that, what makes sense to me is to put my best sailor on the job to make sure you don’t fry your young ass or kill someone else in the process. And if you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with the Maintenance Officer. Sir.” The chief turned abruptly and stalked away.
Bird Dog stared after him for a moment, and then started after him. As he reentered the Handler’s office, he saw Chief Franklin’s broad back disappearing down the passageway. He started after him.
“Lieutenant!” the Handler said sharply. “You’ve got a mission to fly. I suggest you get your ass out to that aircraft before your event gets canceled. And get your head in the game. You got problems with your chief, you leave them down in your Branch spaces. Don’t be airing your dirty laundry up here.”
Jesus, was everybody in the whole air wing out to ream him today? Bird Dog stopped short of snapping out an angry response and nodded abruptly. There was some truth to what the Handler said. Always, the mission came first.
He turned and headed for the hatch again, ready to start his preflights. He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of the slim figure framed by the entrance.
Shaughnessy. How long had she been standing there? He glared at her. Everything that had gone wrong so far had been her fault. If she’d just worn her cranial on the flight deck like she was supposed to …
“Just coming in to sign your aircraft out as safe for flight, sir,” she said. Her voice sounded tight. “Could I have the MAF, please?”
The Handler slid the multipart form across the desk to her. She ran her eyes down it and then scrawled her signature across the bottom. “Your aircraft, sir.” She started toward the hatch.
“Shaughnessy-” Bird Dog started.
“Sir. Excuse me, but I’ve got three other aircraft to preflight,” she said, finally looking up at him. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her face looked thinner than it had the last time he’d held quarters inspection. “Could it wait?”
“Of course,” he said finally. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
She nodded abruptly and led the way out to the aircraft. As Gator and Bird Dog performed their preflights, she followed them around the aircraft, occasionally double-checking a panel fixture or wiping a smudge off the fuselage.
Finally, Bird Dog clambered up into the cockpit, and Gator followed. Once they were seated, Shaughnessy followed them up, stepping carefully on the pull-out steps on the fuselage. She checked to see that the ejection seat pins had been removed, and double-checked the ejection harness connections to the seat. Finally satisfied, she gave both of them a weary nod. “Good flight, sirs,” she said, fixing her eyes on Gator.
Gator waited until the canopy slid into place and then said, “Sometimes you can be a real asshole, Bird Dog.”
“Seems to be the unanimous opinion today,” the pilot snapped. “You want to go fly or you want to share more of your exciting insights with me?”
Gator sighed. “Let’s just get airborne, Bird Dog. At least I know that you know how to do that.”
Bird Dog taxied forward, following the Yellow Shirt’s hand signals and carefully sliding the Tomcat into position on the catapult. Halfway to the catapult, the fear hit him again. He was so tired — oh, Jesus, was he tired! Two days of flight-deck operations, launching alert aircraft every time the Chinese sortied, struggling to get back on board the pitching deck at night, fighting not to think about the monster that grew larger every day! It was past the point of mere preference and into the issue of safety. Even the surge of adrenaline that had hit him when he’d heard about the inbound raid had faded away to a dull, aching jangle of nerves. Had Airman Alvarez been this tired when he’d wandered behind the Tomcat that night? What had it been like — to be so tired he hadn’t seen the danger, so tired he hadn’t noticed the screaming F14 turning on the deck? Alvarez would have been thinking about his rack, six decks below, calling to him. Maybe he’d even felt a momentary gleam of hope — Bird Dog’s event was one of the last to launch, and Alvarez could have looked forward to perhaps almost an hour of unconsciousness before he’d have been called back onto the flight deck to start recovering aircraft. Not in his rack, no. Not with that many aircraft airborne, due back on deck too soon. Alvarez probably would have simply gone down one deck and stretched out full-length in one of the passageways that crisscrossed the interior of the carrier like a maze.
When did he realize what had happened? When the jet’s sucking pull first hit him? The second his feet left the deck? Or had it taken a few milliseconds, long enough for him to come fully awake only as he was hurtling through the air, suspended in the air between the ship and the jet engine?