Tombstone smiled. “Tell me that again after you get through revamping the flight schedule, and after Seventh Fleet gets back to us. I have a feeling that the flight deck’s going to be a bit busier than we originally planned!”
Bird Dog threaded his way aft through the maze of passageways to his stateroom, avoiding the heart-to-heart chat his backseater had insisted they needed to have. Gator was a good RIO and an even better all-round officer, he thought. His advice undoubtedly would have proved helpful. But there were just some things a man had to sort out for himself.
Nothing that day had turned out like he’d thought it would. He’d lost it on his first pass at the carrier, and then mouthed off to the Admiral. Besides that, the VF-95 Executive Officer was on his tail about overdue enlisted evaluations, and islands were blowing up out of the sea when he got near them. Hell, the battle group had been so hyped up over the rock exploding that CAG hadn’t even gotten around to chewing him out for screwing with the Aegis cruiser.
On top of everything, he had a host of problems to sort out with his work center, the AE Branch. No, he concluded, life as a naval aviator was not a whole lot like it’d been advertised.
He remembered the day he’d first reported to the carrier. Sure, he’d been on carriers before during qualifications, but this was different. This was his carrier, the one that’d be his home for his first deployment. He had stared up at the tower that loomed over the deck, wondering for a moment if he would ever be sitting up there as Air Boss or Mini Boss.
The petty officer running the desk in logistics had given him terse directions to the Admin and Berthing offices. Bird Dog had hauled his gear down six decks to turn in his orders, pick up a checkin sheet, and get a room, and then back up six decks to his stateroom. He’d tossed his duffel bag on the unoccupied bunk and set out to locate the VF-95 squadron Ready Room.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d met the VF-95 XO and been introduced to Chief Franklin, the chief petty officer in charge of his squadron branch. After over three years of training commands and Navy schools, Bird Dog had finally arrived at his first Fleet squadron.
“You’re getting a good group of people, Lieutenant,” Chief Franklin had said as they shook hands.
The Chief seemed to fill the wardroom. Two inches taller than Bird Dog, and at least thirty pounds heavier, the senior enlisted man in the AE Branch was corded with muscle, a massive, powerful presence. A regular at one of the Jefferson’s three weight rooms, Bird Dog guessed. His dark hair, edged with gray, was clipped short. He looked older than his rank suggested, his face worn into grooves by the long hours, constant stress, and deprivations of life at sea. A hint of resigned good humor played around his dark eyes, which were circled with white where flight deck goggles had shielded his skin from the sun.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but Bird Dog felt as if the Chief were eyeing his shiny bright railroad tracks, as the lieutenant collar devices were known, with a jaundiced eye. “You’re getting smart twidgets. We’ve got damned few discipline problems, pretty decent morale, and some strong petty officers. We keep ‘em flying right steady — not often one of our birds will be down for an electrical gripe,” the chief said.
“That’s good to hear, Chief,” Bird Dog said heartily. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
“If there’s anything you need, Lieutenant, you can reach me down in the Chiefs Mess. I’ll introduce you to the troops tomorrow at quarters, if that’s okay. I imagine you’ve got a lot of settling in to do. This your first cruise?”
“Sure is. I’m damned glad to be out of the training pipeline, too. Three years, and I’m finally getting to my first ship.”
“We’ll do everything we can to help you get used to the way things run around here, sir. You got any questions, you just ask. Nothing wrong with not knowing something, sir. There’s a lot they didn’t teach you in Aviation Officer’s Candidate School.”
“Thanks, Chief. Maybe we could get together a few minutes before quarters? I’d like to go over my priorities for the Branch with you.”
“Your pri-uh, sure, sir. Whatever you say.”
Bird Dog had watched the chief leave, puzzled by his reaction. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to be doing as a Branch Officer? Setting the right tone, leading the men and women assigned to him to great achievements? Somehow, he got the impression the Chief didn’t think that was in Bird Dog’s job description.
Now, two months later, his relationship with Chief Franklin had cooled to slightly above freezing. Bird Dog had made several suggestions about how the branch might work more efficiently. At first, Chief Franklin had resisted, taking hours to explain why things were set up as they were, and what problems Bird Dog’s changes would cause. Bird Dog had finally ordered the Chief to implement the changes, and given the Chief some literature on Total Quality Leadership to read.
Since then, the Chief had been formal and polite. All of Bird Dog’s suggestions were implemented immediately, without discussion or argument from the Chief.
Within days, the Maintenance Officer was chewing on Bird Dog’s butt in public for disrupting standard operating procedures in the department. When Bird Dog visited the branch work spaces, the chatter and joking between the enlisted men and women responsible for all the electrical gear on the birds died away. It took Quality Assurance inspectors longer to get around to certifying electrical branch repairs, and Chief Franklin had just dumped a two-foot-high stack of repair part inventories on his desk, with a note attached saying that the Chief was sure the pilot might have some input for the latest parts requirements request. While Bird Dog’s peers seemed to spend more time in the rack than they did in their work centers, Bird Dog’s in box was filling up at an alarming rate.
The problems just convinced Bird Dog that Electrical Branch was even more in need of his personal attention than he’d originally thought. And as for Chief Franklin, Bird Dog hoped that a little more of an officer’s leadership would bring the man around to the new Navy way of doing things.
CHAPTER 3
Captain Wayne studied the satellite imagery carefully, and then compared it with the one from the day before. No doubt about it — the South China Sea was missing one rock.
“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, as he leafed through the rest of the briefing package. Even after his months at the Pentagon, the capabilities of satellite surveillance still stunned him. Pictures of events happening over five thousand miles away were hand-carried to his desk by an armed courier before the on-scene commander even had time to figure out what had happened.
“Not a chance anyone survived that blast long enough to drown, Batman,” Admiral Dunflere said. “Hell of a way to go. It’s not like that boat could even fight back.”
Both men shivered slightly. The idea of being trapped in a small boat, at the mercy of almost any other platform, was repulsive to any fighter pilot. At least in the air they’d die fighting back.
“Where was this, Admiral?” Batman asked his boss. “Anywhere near Mischief Reef?”
“Five miles to the south,” Admiral Dunflere replied. “That whole area’s thick with reefs, shoals, and rocks. The Vietnamese outposts are damned near within spitting distance of the Chinese ones. That battle group commander must be sweating some water space management problems just trying to keep from going aground. And if he has to maneuver worrying about sea-skimmers … better him than me. Interesting tactical situation, don’t you think? Suggest anything to you?”