Donovan was responsible for several air wings and twenty or more ships assigned to the task force. Cruisers, destroyers, supply ships made up part of the armada, disbursed sometimes up to hundreds of miles away from the carrier. Others stayed close by, leading, following and surrounding the Preston. They were there on an individual, and an integrated mission.
Donovan slid his hands into his back pockets. "How are things going, Craig? All the 'birds' back on deck?"
"Not yet, sir," answered the Air Boss. "Still have four 'felines' making their way in. CIC (Combat Information Center) reported them about 100 miles out. We should have them on the approach radar any time now."
Donovan walked over to the high-backed captain's chair, swiveling it back and forth. His authoritative voice suddenly boomed: "Everyone on station, Mr. Crawley?"
OOD (Officer of the Deck) Lieutenant Frank Crawley answered Donovan with quick precision as to the nautical "where-at" of each vessel. "Just need to check on the tanker, sir."
"Very well."
Crawley stepped outside the bridge, going to the starboard polaris used to take a ship's bearings in relation to the carrier. Making a notation, he came back to the quartermaster's station on the bridge. As he scanned his report, he unconsciously rubbed the bump on the bridge of his nose. In the Wardroom his fellow officers kiddingly called him 'Speedbump'.
"Captain, all vessels have correctly taken their stations."
Donovan nodded as he hiked up his khaki trousers, his protruding stomach more prominent lately. His sweet tooth just kept pushing him to too many desserts. "Excellent dinner tonight, Edward!"
"Thank you, Captain," Edward Mindina answered proudly.
Donovan turned toward XO Masters. "I noticed your plate was wiped clean, XO!"
"Yes, sir. We're lucky to have Edward with us," Executive Officer Masters smiled.
Wayne Masters and Mike Donovan served together previously aboard the Kitty Hawk during the Vietnam conflict. It was a known fact among the officers that the two had their differences, especially when it came to disciplinary action with the crew. Donovan's hard-line attitude didn't set well with Masters, even though he admitted to his fellow officers that there were very few problems among the men. He folded his arms across his chest, watching out of the corner of his eye as Donovan wandered over to the radar repeater.
The Captain's total concentration was on the screen as he eyeballed the green blips and checked his vector board. "Where's that pain in the ass trawler?" he barked softly.
"There it is, skipper, right there." Radarman Second Class Jack Summers rested his elbow on the lip of the table, tapping his grease pen on the screen. He gave a sideways glance at Donovan and frowned, his dark eyebrows resembling thick pieces of rope being drawn together by block and tackle. "But something's weird, sir."
"What's weird, 'Scopes'?" Donovan asked as he leaned closer to the screen, resting his hand on the countertop.
The young radarman avoided glancing at the twisted little finger on Donovan's right hand, a constant reminder of a returning flight to Cecil Field in Florida, when the landing gear of his Phantom collapsed. "Well, sir, he's been movin' around a lot the past couple of hours, never staying on the same course." Summers traced a route on the screen with his pen. "First he was at two seven zero degrees, now he's come around to starboard, heading one four five degrees." He went quiet for a second, then shook his finger in the air, a logical explanation popping into his mind. "Ya know, sir, I bet they're keeping tabs on the Bronson now that she's joined us." He pointed to the screen, "And there's the Bronson, sir. Expect they've lost their interest in us."
Russian trawlers were a common sight, always 'dogging' the American fleet, prowling the waters. Sporting huge quarter length Marconi-type antennas and other intercept designed military-type antennas, radar, and communication gear, they electronically 'eavesdropped' on the Americans and filmed their flight ops. They still didn't have a carrier — they wanted one.
"Tomcats are coming in from the west, sir," the Air Boss reported.
Leaning toward Radarman Summers, Donovan remarked, "Keep an eye on them, 'Scopes'." He patted Summers on the shoulder, his way of showing confidence in the young petty officer. Summers was good, able to juggle an entire task force.
Donovan went over near the Air Boss, leaning toward the window, scanning the water. "Has the Sea King lifted off?" The rescue chopper was always the first aircraft to leave the deck before flight ops ever began and hovered close by till the last plane was launched or returned.
"Yes, sir," Dodson answered, pointing in the direction of the angle deck before he walked back to the Roost.
A Grumman F-14 Tomcat, its landing lights in view, rode the wind rushing beneath its outstretched wings, the fighter resembling a majestic bald eagle floating on the air currents above the Rockies. Inside the cockpit, with one hand on the throttle and the other on the flight stick, the pilot gingerly maneuvered his aircraft, lining it up with the ship.
The pilot, Lieutenant William Fitzsimmons, checked in with the LSO (Landing Safety Officer) then checked his gauges and called in his name, speed and fuel weight. The tension on the arresting wires were immediately adjusted, set to match the weight and speed of the Tomcat.
The arresting wires were forty feet apart, but 'Wired Willy' had a special knack for always catching the number four wire, the last wire. The farthest from the fantail, number four was the pilot's final shot at a safe capture. Missing it meant he'd have to bolter, in other words, hit the afterburners and hope there was still enough deck in front of him. Bets were on throughout the ship. CAG Morehouse had been unsuccessful in curtailing the bets or Willy's number four wire capture.
With full power on, Fitzsimmons' 61,000 pound, missile-laden aircraft slammed onto the deck, his tailhook catching number four wire. But as nerve-wracking as Willy's landings were, he'd never once been given a 'wave off' or missed number four wire.
The arresting wire slithered backward along the deck, recoiling like a massive anaconda, until again stretched tightly, port and starboard sides. The four arresting wires waited for their next capture, and every forty-five seconds, they could expect another.
A black, delta-winged aircraft, its two turbo-ramjet engines spewing orange flames, accelerated down Runway 19. Disappearing into a torrent of pelting rain, the giant 'bird' rose from the earth, pulling effortlessly away from gravity, its afterburners turning white hot. Reaching 25,000 feet, the aircraft immediately linked up with a tanker for in-flight refueling. Since the outer shell was made of titanium, it expanded under extremely high temperatures during flight. The fuel tanks were designed so they would leak until the aircraft was airborne, and then they would continue to expand until completely sealed. Because of this, the fuel was nearly expended by the time the aircraft was airborne.
With refueling completed, the fastest manned, highest flying reconnaissance plane, the SR-71 Blackbird reached farther into the heavens. Within minutes, it was cruising at 2,000 mph, at an altitude of nearly 72,000 feet. This multi-million dollar aircraft, equipped only with a sophisticated camera, radar and infrared systems, feared no one or nothing. Missiles or guns for self-defense were a mute issue. The 'Bird' was designed specifically to fly extremely high and with blinding speed. Even anti-aircraft missiles were useless against it, as witnessed by pilots during the Vietnam conflict. They reported seeing Soviet-made SAM2 missiles being fired at the Blackbird, but being unable to reach the altitude, they ultimately "fell from wends they came."