In the rough ballet of the Salt Lake City’s flight deck, danger was everywhere.
The Seventh Fleet’s battle group’s heart was the carrier itself, and the heart would need protection from aerial and sub attack. To provide early warning, prop-driven Hawkeye AWACS, their rotodomes giving 360-degree, sixty-target-at-once capability, were already in the air together with the relatively slow but long-range and effective Grumman A-6 Intruders, each of these armed with twenty-eight five-hundred-pound bombs and sophisticated antisubmarine detection and attack systems. The Intruders’ periscopic booms for in-flight refueling glinted in the late afternoon sun as they passed over the advance screen of destroyers and frigates that surrounded the Seventh Fleet on its mission to “secure the integrity of the sea lanes” from Japan to Korea’s east coast — in other words, to tell the Soviet Eastern Fleet it came south at its peril.
Aboard the carrier, as one Hawkeye AWAC was pushed off the elevator amid the scream of jets and hundreds of other pieces of equipment, crewmen in padded brown vests were already unfolding the plane’s wings, its pilot engaging the hydraulic line that lifted the two-thousand-pound “pancake” dome from flat storage to raised position. In the cramped rear of the plane, its three “moles,” electronic warfare operators, were already going through their preflight checks amid banks of consoles.
It all seemed chaotic to any new men on the ship, but out of the six thousand sailors aboard the carrier, those who worked the flight deck had of necessity to develop the ability to work calmly yet quickly in the sustained roar of sound, yet stay attuned to alarms of their own equipment in conditions where one missed step or the slightest reduction in concentration could cost a man his life. It was a world of screaming engines, of planes taking off and coming in, flashing lights, rising steam from catapults, hot, stinking engine exhausts, and a maze of hand signals from different colored jackets, a world of hookup chains and “mule” tractors.
Inside the carrier’s island, to starboard, it was less noisy but every bit as stressful as anticollision teams in primary flight control, or “prifly,” had to know where any plane on their computer screen was at any moment while staying in contact with the pilots as they were guided in by flight deck control.
As the pilot of one of the returning Hawkeyes brought his aircraft down in the controlled crash the navy calls a landing, its hook seeking the two wire, or arrester cable, the Hawkeye’s twin Allison turboprops were roaring at full power, the plane’s flaps down, ready to lift off if his alignment, or any one of a hundred other things, was not right. The pilot’s concentration was on centering his plane in the “meatball,” the big orange-lit mirror on the carrier. If it came in sight, he was halfway there; if he saw the meatball arrangement of lights was too low, he would have to ease the nose up to center and maybe go for the three wire. He saw the meatball was askew. A green jersey, “A” on its back, turned and waved a “no go.” In a split second the LSO — landing signal officer — pushed the button for vertical red, cutting through the meatball, sending the Hawkeye screaming past the island as the pilot kicked in maximum power, pulling the plane off the deck with only inches to spare. The three wire was showing a stress split visible to only one of the catapult and arresting crew, whose thick ear protectors and jersey disappeared momentarily in the cloud of kerosene exhaust and salt particles that flew up from the deck, stinging his face, the Hawk-eye climbing, a blast deflector now going up on the starboard catapult in preparation to launch a jet fighter to begin its patrol even as the Hawkeye was turning for the rerun.
As the Hawkeye banked, its rotodome a golden disc in the fading sunlight, another AWAC, its green-jerseyed catapult crew sliding under and attaching the restraining and launch bridle forward and aft of the fuselage before scrambling away, readied for takeoff as more AWACS bunched up behind it, the control tower unforgiving in its insistence that at least three launches’ lead time had to be maintained. The unlettered green jerseys of the specialist technicians or “troubleshooters” could be seen nearby through the quivering heat curtain in the event that any of the plane’s electronic components suddenly needed replacing by slide-in, slide-out “black box” units.
The carrier’s commander, seeing the fighter was ready and receiving confirmation of no obstacles on deck, signaled, “Clear deck.”
“Landing light is red, sir,” repeated the executive officer in the tower.
“Very well. Turning takeoff to green,” said the captain, pushing the button for the harsh, metallic “tweedle” sound warning.
“Takeoff is green, Captain.”
“Very well.” Now the captain pushed the backup “horn,” whose sound was so powerful, it blasted its way through the line of roaring, waiting AWACs, above the whining elevator bringing up more planes, and could even be heard by the five-man crew of the orange-silver rescue helo.
The rotodome of the Hawkeye about to be launched was a platinum disc under a partially cloudy sky. Its pilot showed two fingers, signaling he was approaching full power; the propellers made of fiberglass to protect the plane’s radar from metallic-induced Doppler effect were now two black blurs. The pilot, his cockpit already splattered with sea spray, saw the yellow-clad catapult officer’s knee drop, left hand tucked close in behind and against his back, right leg low, right arm thrust forward and seaward. The catapult shooter pressed the button, and one deck below, the controller let her go, the force of the release throwing the plane aloft and leaving a long trail of steam rolling back over the carrier’s deck. The Hawkeye’s pilot was already flying his zigzag pattern at low level to prevent any enemy AWACs detecting his takeoff and thereby pinpointing the carrier’s position.
Down in the pilot’s ready room, the TV monitors were giving the pilots of the Tomcats up-to-the-minute weather information for the first of the patrols that would begin to clear the corridor for General Freeman’s three-pronged attack to be launched from the Saipan and other LPHs — Landing Platform Helicopters — in Salt Lake City’s battle group.
“Why the hell don’t they just bomb the shit out of the supply lines?” asked one of the pilots. “Get some of those B-52s up from Guam. That’ll cut their supply line fast.”
Frank Shirer, one of the F-14 Tomcat leaders, was idly flipping over old magazines, glancing now and then at the monitors. His would be one of the last of the patrols, not due to go out until early next morning before dawn, but often off-duty pilots would sit in on another briefing merely to get the feel of the weather and bone up on any added information that might come in handy. The weather was deteriorating, visibility having dropped from thirty-five to ten miles, heavy cumulus in places, freezing level twenty thousand.
“So why don’t we bomb the crap out of them with the BFUs?” He meant the big fat uglies — the B-52s.
Shirer, twenty-seven but looking older, dropped an old Newsweek, its cover bearing the promise of “New Peace Initiatives in the Middle East,” back into the magazine rack. It struck him as one of the supreme ironies of this war that the Middle East, most volatile area of concern before the war, was not yet involved, at least not directly, as it was generally believed that Israel was doing what it could to help the West. Meanwhile it was surrounded by ever stronger Arab states. Wait until we run out of North Slope oil from the Arctic, thought Shirer, and have to tap the Gulf.
“Hey, Major?” A lieutenant, his Tomcat’s RIO — radar intercept officer — asked him again. “What do you think?”
“Ever heard of the Ho Chi Minh trail?” said Shirer. “We dropped more ordnance on those gooks than we did in all of World War Two.”
The other pilots were now listening attentively. Shirer was held in high respect, for despite his relatively young age, he had been the pilot of one of the three big 430-ton “Doomsday” Boeing 747s on constant alert at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. It was a Doomsday plane that the president would issue his orders from in the event of a nuclear war. Shirer was called “One-Eyed Jack” aboard the carrier because of the requirement of the Doomsday pilot to wear a patch on his left eye so that in the event of a nuclear flash blinding him, he would still have one good eye to fly by. But at the outbreak of war in Korea, Shirer had immediately requested transfer to a combat wing.
The truth was that Shirer, after the initial excitement and prestige of being “the president’s pilot,” had soon become tired of the routine and disillusioned with what he saw as a role of little more than highly paid chauffeur. At twenty-seven he craved some action, and after a while Washington had just gotten to be too small a town. Everybody there had SEXINT, sex intelligence, on everyone else. Not good for the president’s pilot, and why he was careful to “have it off” away from Gossip City. Trouble was that after more than three nights, the women always started talking about serious “relationships,” especially with the new AIDS strain on the march. Some of them were so businesslike about it. In New York two beauties had asked him to have a blood test — in their presence — to see if he tested positive. One of them even had an over-the-counter test kit ready. Put him right off, especially when he was prepared to take precautions anyhow.
“So what about Ho Chi Minh, Major?”
“Oh — supplies kept coming. Boat, oxen, you name it. Disassembled whole artillery pieces and transported them on bamboo poles. Four guys would carry a wheel for a howitzer. Air force always thinks you can bomb everything into submission. It’s not just the gooks either. More bombs Hitler dropped on London, more the Brits dug in.”
“You saying they don’t make a difference?”
“Not saying that, but bombers are only part of the triad-sea, land, and air. We bombed Ho Chi Minh’s city flat till it was nothing but rubble. They lived underground.”
“You think this Freeman guy’s plan’ll work any better?”
“Don’t know. But on the ground you can see more sometimes. High tech’s good, but hell, you bomb out a bridge, next day they float a pontoon link across right next to the old busted-up one, sink the pontoon a foot or so, and from the air, looks like there’s nothing there. Then they move stuff over at night.”
“Our guys’ll be wiped out,” said the RIO.
“Quite possible,” shrugged Shirer, “but it’ll probably buy time. That’s what it’s all about. Anyway, we can give ‘em support. We can make a difference.”
“Jesus,” said another pilot, opening a well-thumbed issue of People Today, flown in with fleet mail the evening before. “Those poor bastards on the Blaine.” The pilot showed the color shots of the frigate in Nagasaki and the wounded being unloaded from hospital planes in San Diego after the flight from Tokyo.
“Old man alive?” asked another pilot.
“Stateside,” said the pilot reading the magazine. “Burned up pretty badly, according to this. Interviews some of his family. Hey — says here his old man was in the navy. Admiral. Brother’s on an SSN.”
An RIO was looking over the pilot’s shoulder. “Who’s the broad?”
“His sister.”
“Man, look at this. Would I like to get into her pants.”
Shirer glimpsed the photo and held his hand out for the magazine. It looked like her, the girl he’d met at a Washington ball-some military outfit had put it on. He couldn’t remember her last name, though, or whether she’d said she had a brother on a U.S. frigate. Taking the magazine, he looked at the photo more closely. It was her. Hair all different — a more sophisticated look than he remembered. The caption said, “Mrs. La Roche.”
For a moment he was back with her. It had been one of the gentler nights. She was beautiful and shy and not sure whether she wanted to do it or not, but along with the shyness there was a grabbing hunger, as if she couldn’t wait, wanting love but afraid, holding back. Then she got all serious and he had her. She’d closed her eyes, sighing deeply when he kissed her, shivering with excitement and fear at the same time — and need. He’d been as tender as he could, but it wasn’t very good. It had soon become evident to Shirer that it was her first time and it had turned into a production, her grimacing, trying not to show the pain but clearly hurting like hell. He’d eased off and she’d been sorry, apologetic — how she hadn’t been fair to him — how she felt like a slut. He tried fooling around a bit to lighten her up for a repeat run, but she’d almost freaked out when he’d put on the patch. They’d gone out a few more times, but it didn’t seem to work. She was too highly strung anyway — beautiful and innocent, but her sensitivity was too fragile for him to handle. Now, from the photos at least, it looked like she’d had a bit more experience, knew who she was, what she wanted. She’d be great.
“Who’s this La Roche joker?” he asked, glancing through the article.
“Her husband. Some cosmetic poof.”
“Well—” Shirer answered. “That’s that.”
“What d’you mean?” asked his RIO.
Shirer handed back the magazine. “I mean that’s it for the skipper of that frigate.”
“Oh, yeah,” answered the RIO. “Yes, sir, he’s down the toilet.”
Shirer was sitting back in the high-backed pilot’s seat, trying to remember the last time he’d had a woman. Felt a hard-on coming. Tried to put her out of his mind, but something about it bothered him. Completely irrational, he told himself, but somehow he felt as if she should have told him when she’d decided to get married. But why should she? A short, brief fling.
“Man,” said another navigator. “She could sit on my face anytime. Anywhere.”
“Look at the board,” said Shirer, nodding toward the TV monitors. Visibility had been cut to near zero about the carrier, one of the things that really spooked the pilots, though they would never admit it. The carrier was no bigger than a postage stamp when you were coming in to hook the wire at several hundred miles an hour. It was nerve-racking enough when you could see.
“You’d better get your minds out of your shorts,” advised Shirer. “And think about Charlie. Now he’s got two things going for him — distance and heavy cloud cover.” He turned to another pilot. “Fisher, that drop tank of yours. Got the release fixed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The briefing officer came in. They stood up and he immediately waved for them to sit down.
“It’s still on for tomorrow morning. We’ll be riding shotgun for the choppers and Prowlers and the Hercules. Drop tanks to give us extra time for strafing and rocket attacks.”
The RIO called Fisher leaned over to his Tomcat’s navigator. “How the hell did One-Eyed Jack know we’d be using drop tanks?”
The navigator shrugged. It meant that they were going in deep. A long way inland.
“Target, sir?”
“You’ll be told later, Fisher. Meanwhile I suggest you get some rest.”
“With this noise?” someone asked.
As the ready room emptied, Fisher turned to Major Shirer. “Sir? How’d you know about the drop tanks?”
Shirer looked around so as none of the others could hear. “I have the knowledge, Fisher,” he said, tapping his head. “Know what I mean?”