Unlike the AD-1s, the AD-2Ws were two-seaters. Superficially, they didn’t look like it. The pilot sat under a bubble canopy identical to the AD-1s. The immediately obvious difference was the mushroom-shaped bulge under the aircraft’s belly. That was the search radar, the latest variant in a family whose development had started back in 1942. Then, the intention had been to spot U-boats running on the surface. Over the years, the function had evolved. First to pick out the snorkel heads of a submarine charging batteries while submerged. Then, more added functions, searching for surface ships and monitoring aircraft movements. The radar operator sat inside the AD-2Ws cavernous fuselage, without windows to distract him from his radar screen or to let in light that would dim the displays.
On Eye’s A ‘Poppin, the screens showed the picture the searching Adies were looking for. Over to the east, a jumbled mass of chaotic returns marked the position of the storm that had swept across the Atlantic. Now they concealed whatever was still within it. As it had cleared to the east, another contact had emerged. A hard, distinct contact whose slow movement revealed it to be a formation of ships. Around it were some faint, yet still clear marks; ones moving in an arc that ran from due north of the enemy formation to south west. It was the German’s own picket line. The Germans didn’t have surface search radar, not on carrier aircraft. Only the big maritime reconnaissance birds, the Me-264s and the Ju-390s carried them. Whittling those down had been a Navy priority for a long, long time. The enemy search would be visual.
“We got them boss.” Sergeant Kudrich passed the word up to his pilot. “Surface units, medium sized formation, with air activity. It’s the carriers.” It was the golden strike, the jackpot. Battleships were obsolete, floating targets; it was carrier aircraft that were the center of an enemy fleet. Destroy them and the battle was over. “I’m radioing in the position now.” That was another bit of doctrine. The American carriers were running blacked out; not a light showing, not a radio transmission made. All the communications were to them, never from them.
“Any sign of enemy fighters coming out?”
Kudrich shook his head, then remembered nobody could see him in this black pit. “Search aircraft only. No sign of interceptors. Uh, Boss, there’s a hunter-killer group south of us, they’re in the search arc of the enemy aircraft. Better give them a head’s up?”
“Call Wild Bill on Gettysburg first, then let the hunter-killer group know what’s heading their way. Threat says the Kraut carriers have only Ju-87s for search; they’re not fast enough for a threat to develop that quickly. You know Wild Bill; he gets really upset if he’s the last person to find out what’s going on.
“Sir, message from the scouts. Enemy warship group spotted, 220 nautical miles east south east of our position, Medium sized group with air activity. Scouts believe it is the enemy carriers Sir.”
“Confirmation?” Admiral William “Wild Bill” Halsey was not a trusting soul at the best of times.
“Multiple Sir. Three of the Adies out there got solid radar hits. They’ve spotted the enemy scouting aircraft fanning out. They’re monitoring the enemy formation, undisturbed as yet.”
“Anything else?”
“Sir, a Rivet Joint, an EC-69 out of Keflavik has been picking up a lot of communications. The Krauts are using TBS radio pretty freely. Probably think they can’t be picked up if we’re over the horizon. There’s chatter between the ships in the group the Adies spotted and another location still within the storm line. Traffic analysis and some intel Washington sent us confirms it; the Hun battleships are out.”
“Battleships. Ain’t that just like the Krauts. Bringing their fists to a gunfight. Right. Signal Biloxi to launch a seaplane to TF58.5. They’ll take the enemy carrier group down. They’ve got the moxie to do it by themselves. That way, the Hun main force will think it’s just the group we normally have screening a convoy. The rest of us will get bombed up and ready to go as soon as the battlewagons stick their nose out of that storm. Strike waves will launch at 15 minute intervals from lights-on.”
Halsey knew well how the maths ran. Five carrier groups, two deckload strikes per group, a total of ten waves. The last wave would be on its way two hours and thirty minutes after TF58 switched its radios and radars on and started to launch aircraft. An hour out, 15–20 minutes for the strike an hour back and then a few minutes to recover.
It meant that the first wave would be returning just as the last wave of the strike would be on its way. Half an hour to rearm and refuel the survivors of that first wave, push the aircraft too badly damaged to reuse over the side and the whole process would start again. A continuous stream of attack aircraft that would swarm all over the enemy fleet until nothing was left. Once, when Wild Bill had been a child (something his staff refused to admit as a possibility), he had put the stream of water from a hose on a pile of dirt and watched the mound crumple and washed away under the unrelenting jet of water. Now, he was going to do the same thing again; only this time with the dark blue fighter-bombers on his carriers.
At least the weather had cleared. The met guys said the storm would pass to the east and that there would be relatively mild seas in its wake. They’d been right. Aircraft operating weather about as good as it was going to get for the North Atlantic this time of year. Gettysburg was still making heavy weather of it though. She was pitching badly due to her extra length and taking a lot of water over her bows and amidships. Halsey had heard that the second group of CVBs would have a their bows redesigned with the hull plating carried up to the flight deck. It was supposed to be a big improvement.
“Send a courier to Task Force 50.” That was the support group of escort carriers bringing up the rear. Their melancholy job was to supply replacement aircraft and crews to offset the losses from enemy fighters and anti-aircraft guns. “Warm up the replacements. Priority will be Adies, then Mames, then Corsairs. We’ll have to eat our Flivver losses.”
“One more thing Sir. There’s a hunter-killer group, Sitka, south of us. They’re in the enemy search arc. The Adies have tipped them off. They’ll be launching Bearcats to get the enemy scouts.”
Halsey nodded. “Add a warning to all messages. There’ll be gray and white Bearcats around; make sure of target identification before shooting them down. Try to make sure the Corsair drivers realize not everything with straight gray wings is a Ta-152.”
“Got it!” The comms Lieutenant was exultant. They’d seen the seaplane land and be recovered by the USS Montpelier. It had been a few minutes before the signal lamp had started to flash and the message it had transmitted had been a long one. “It’s the enemy carrier group. Roughly 180 miles out, bearing 129 true. There’s a wave of Kraut search planes coming this way.”
“Right. Order San Jacinto to launch her dash-sevens to intercept any that annoy us, and any others that they run into of course. She is to get her dash-fours ready for combat air patrol. Boxer and Macedonian are to ready their Flivver squadron and an Adie squadron each for the first wave, Valley Forge, their Flivver Squadron and a dash-4 squadron, we’ll do the same. Second wave. Two squadrons of dash-fours from Boxer and Macedonian. Valley Forge will send both her Adie squadrons; we’ll send both our Mames. That’ll leave us with a squadron of dash-sevens each for CAP and one squadron to assist Sitka. Clear?” Admiral Peter Knudson knew it was a rhetorical question. This was a well-rehearsed drill. The first wave, the Flivvers to sweep any enemy combat air patrol out of the way plus a light strike of fighter-bombers and some Adies to soften up the target. Second wave the heavy strike with fighter-bombers to suppress flak and a heavy punch of Adies and Mames with torpedoes. More than 250 aircraft in total.