Carleton mulled over that as he studied the projected flight pattern of the air groups recently launched from Kennedy. He preferred to take his chances on the surface. Each pilot understood that his mission was essentially one way — that the Soviet battle plan was to eliminate the carriers first, and that delivering his weapons and escaping the Soviet defenses were just the beginning of his problems.
Carleton considered the location of the Soviet Backfire bombers. They had been launched from untouched fields deeper within the Soviet Union and there was a bit more time for planning than Saratoga had been given, but their numbers were still impressive. It was what had been called a “maximum effort” in World War Two, an all-out attempt to achieve their goal in one attack. Either to allow the conflict in the Mediterranean to be drawn out for more than twenty-four hours, or to concede the prerequisite of the first salvo, would imperil the Soviet thrust into Germany.
With the exception of his visit to Pratt’s quarters aboard Kennedy, Tom Carleton’s time on Yorktown had been spent in a small section of the cruiser. He allowed himself enough time on the bridge to become familiar with the watchstanders and to learn the eccentricities of his ship. The balance of his time had been spent in his cabin, one deck under the bridge, or in CIC (the Combat Information Center) two decks below his cabin. If Yorktown and its AEGIS system were the central nervous system of the battle group, CIC was the brain. It was as desirable and necessary a target to be eliminated as the carrier. The Russians would learn that soon if they were not already aware of it.
“Fresh coffee, Captain?” It was one of the radarmen. “Just brewed a fresh pot.”
Carleton looked in his mug again. “Can you swab this one out?”
“No problem, sir. Cream or sugar?”
He remembered the rancid aroma from the dregs of the cup. “No thanks, son. Black.” An acid rumbling in his stomach reminded him how long it had been since he’d eaten. Except for a courtesy call on the wardroom, any food he’d taken had been on the run. “Wait one, son. I know it isn’t your job, but could you give my steward a buzz and ask him if he’d send a couple of sandwiches in?”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Captain. Any of us are more than happy to do anything we can for you.” He smiled, then added seriously, “It’s good to have you here, sir. We’ve all heard a lot about you.” With that, he was off.
Carleton wondered for a moment at the last comment, then let it pass. There was so much to do, so little time. He saw the blinking lights on the boards indicating the approaching wave of Soviet Backfires. Not too much time until they crossed the line, the imaginary line delineated by the computer when the Russian bombers conceivably could launch their missiles. He knew they wouldn’t. At that distance, the computer projected only one to three percent hits. But as each minute passed, the success ratio improved.
“There you go, Captain.” The radarman appeared at his side with a steaming mug of coffee. There was also a doughnut in a napkin.
Carleton sniffed the aroma appreciatively. “Where’d you find this?” he asked, gesturing with the doughnut.
“Came up from the crew’s mess, sir. The cooks have been baking like crazy since last night. Figured they probably wouldn’t have a chance today. Hope you don’t mind. We’re not allowed to eat ’em in here, but the chief said he thought you might be careful.”
“I never considered that, son. If there’s no food in here, I’ll be glad to have my sandwiches outside. I could use a little air anyway.”
“If it’s all the same, sir, everyone sort of hopes you’ll stay in here — unless you really want to go outside. It makes everyone feel pretty good today to have you around.”
So that was it! It was no secret. There probably wasn’t a soul on the ship who didn’t know that the next couple of hours would make all the difference in the world to them. The captain of the ship was a father figure. Until he proved otherwise, he could do no wrong. They were putting complete faith in a man they’d never heard of until a few days before. Then rumors about him generated stories that each man would accept as gospel.
“Okay, son. If you insist, I’ll break the rules. And the next time I have a few bucks in my pocket, I’ll drop some in the kitty to cover costs.” He looked more closely at the mug. It wasn’t the same one he’d handed the sailor. This one had the seal of Yorktown on one side. Hand-painted on the reverse was “Captain Thomas H. Carleton, U.S.N. — Commanding Officer — U.S.S. YORKTOWN CG-48 — Honorary Radarman.” It was his ship, all right!
“Hope you don’t mind, Captain.”
“Not at all. I hope you’ll let everyone know right now it’s a real honor for me.”
It felt good. There was something special about commanding a ship — nothing like it in the world. He wanted Yorktown to be his for a long time.
The disposition of the battle group spread before him on another board. Surrounding Kennedy were the nuclear cruiser Arkansas, two double-ended guided missile cruisers, Yarnell and Dale, and the two Spruance-class destroyers, Radford and Stump. Wendell Nelson was to the south, toward the Gulf of Sidra, with seven more Spruance destroyers. A combined NATO force, made up of ships from Italy, France, and England, covered the northern flank. The small Italian carrier Garibaldi had reinforced this unit for antisubmarine purposes. To the east were the picket ships, groups of two to four units whose responsibility was both early warning and first-line harassment of the superior force aimed at the battle group.
The initial flight of Backfires had just now passed over the Black Sea into Bulgarian airspace — eight hundred miles distant. A small initial launch of new, untested missiles could be expected at a range of about five hundred miles, when they were over the Aegean Sea nearing Greece. Even then, the odds for these missiles were slim. But the idea was that the Backfires, already harassed by the Hawkeyes and Kennedy’s fighters, would maintain a gradually increasing saturation effect.
The picket groups were not under fire themselves. Attack planes from Kharkov were combining with wolf packs to make life difficult for the easternmost group. The American losses would be heavy out there, but if they could limit the effectiveness of the Soviet attack subs, Kennedy’s group had a fighting chance.
Carleton was tempted to step outside and enjoy the fresh air when his sandwiches came. Instead, he circulated around the darkened room, talking with the sailors, offering the support they were looking for. Then he slipped up to his cabin and penned a short note to his wife. It had become a habit whenever tension set in.
A change of clothes and a quick shave took only moments. To a crew as sharp as this one, a freshly pressed appearance would make all the difference in the world to morale. He also decided it would be a good idea to say a couple of words to them.