Each aircraft weighed in at slightly over sixty thousand pounds.
Overhead, two E-2 Charlie Hawkeye airborne early warning aircraft orbited, each under the protection of two F-A18 fighters. The Hawkeyes and their escorts had launched an hour earlier, and were keeping a close watch on the airspace in the vicinity of Cuba’s coast. Should anything launch, either aircraft or missiles, the E-2 Hawkeye would catch it on its ALR-73 PDS radar and relay it instantly to the carrier Combat Information Center through a two-way Collins AN-ARC-34 HF or ARC-58 UHF data links. Since the installation of the joint tactical information distribution system (JTIS), the E-2 had become capable of controlling and vectoring the air picture for any combat aircraft in the U.S. inventory.
The catapult officer, a lieutenant who had been on board Jefferson less than six months, shook his head as he looked at the cluster of aircraft queuing up behind the JBDs. Even during workup operations, he’d never seen so many turning at once, never had an opportunity to appreciate the delicate ballet orchestrated by the handler and the yellow-shirted deck crew. Most of the plane captains had already scampered away from the hot tarmac, taking cover in the vicinity of the island to avoid being inadvertently sucked down the throat of one of the screaming engines.
“Get your head out of your ass. Cat Officer,” his earphones thundered.
The lieutenant glanced up at the tower and nodded his head at the air boss, invisible behind the dark glass. It all came down to this, the one moment when he, the catapult officer, released the first aircraft for flight.
Even from his position in the enclosed bubble protruding up out of the flight deck, he could sense the tension.
“Roger, sir.” He made his words sound as calm as possible. In the present mood the air boss was in, it wouldn’t do to irritate him unduly. Not that he blamed the junior captain ensconced above hell, they were all nervous right now.
The catapult officer shifted his attention back to the flight deck and studied the Prowler straining at the shuttle in front of him. A plane captain held up a grease-penciled Plexiglas board to the pilot, showing the aviator his field state, weight, and weaponry. The pilot nodded, and the catapult officer saw the control surfaces on the Prowler waggle up and down. It was called cycling the stick, the last check of control surfaces that a pilot made before being launched.
“Now.” The catapult officer authorized release of the aircraft on deck. He saw the yellow shirt come to attention, snap off a quick salute, and drop to his knees, pointing down the deck toward the bow.
The pilot in the Prowler returned the salute, then leaned back slightly, bracing himself against the seat for the shot.
As always, it seemed to start impossibly slowly. The first few seconds of a cat shot were a study in tension as the massive aircraft slowly gathered speed. Soon, though, the expanding steam behind the shuttle overcame the aircraft’s inertia and the Prowler accelerated from a leisurely roll to a thundering bolt down the deck.
Fourteen seconds later, it was over. The catapult officer stared toward the bow, watched the aircraft disappear from view as it briefly lost altitude, then saw it reappear as it struggled for airspeed. The angle of ascent was minimal at first, gradually steepening as the Prowler overcame gravity.
Seconds later, another Prowler shot off the bow cat, gained altitude, and joined its wingman as they ascended.
Two down twenty-seven to go. The catapult officer turned his attention aft. The JBDs were already lowered, and two Tomcats were taxiing forward eagerly.
It was going to be a long morning.
Thirty minutes later, the deck was still and quiet. The carrier had launched two Prowlers, fourteen Tomcats, and ten FA-18s. Additionally, another EA6 had gotten airborne to replace one that was experiencing difficulties with its CAINS system. Add to that total two KA 6 tankers, and the carrier had a full alpha strike package in the air.
Back behind the carrier, a SAR helo kept station. The catapult officer glanced down at his schedule and frowned. One helo was already airborne why did the schedule call for another?
He wasn’t entirely certain, but he suspected it might have something to do with the small boat launched in the wee hours from the carrier’s aft deck. No matter he hadn’t been briefed on it; therefore, he had no need to know. All he did was launch ‘em-it was up to someone else to decide the whys. He glanced up at the tower. And to get them back on deck.
The second helo’s launch was markedly anti climatic after so many jets.
It quivered slightly on the deck, jolted once, then crept up into the air. It moved slightly to port, away from the carrier and over open water, and began gaining altitude. The catapult officer watched from his enclosed bubble as it headed out due west until it was merely a speck on the horizon.
Not that it ought to be flying at all, the catapult officer thought.
As an F/A-18 pilot himself, he took it as an article of faith that a helicopter had no more right to be airborne than a bumblebee. Only problem was, no one had bothered to tell either the bug or the helo. A collection of one thousand parts flying in close proximity to each other. He shuddered at the old gibe it was too close for comfort. No, give him speeds in excess of Mach 1 and two wings full of weapons over a helicopter anytime. Speed meant safety.
“No, I didn’t bring any doggy biscuits. So shoot me.”
Huerta’s voice sounded sharp for the first time since the mission had begun. “How the hell was I supposed to know?”
“Well, do something,” Pamela hissed. She gestured toward the east.
“When does the sun come up, anyway?”
None of them bothered to answer the question. They still had some time. Not enough, but the covering darkness would last at least another hour. After that, the first traces of light would start illuminating the compound, increasing the danger of detection logarithmically.
“We’re going to have to wait for a moment, then,” Sikes said, his voice low and quiet. He glanced at his watch.
“Another eight minutes, I think. Then we use the silencers.”
“Why not use them now?” Pamela demanded.
Sikes saw the tension in her face, and saw her start to move before she even shifted her weight by much. He grabbed her by the elbow, his hand a steel band around her upper arm, and dragged her back down to the ground. “You shut up and stay under cover or you’ll jeopardize the whole mission. I don’t want you here but we’ve got a job to do.
You’re not gonna screw it up, not like you did before. Now shut up.”
“But what are you,” she began.
Huerta slapped one massive hand across her mouth, catching her head in the crooK of his arm.” you heard the commander,” he said. “You stay quiet voluntarily or I crush your larynx.” He smiled congenially. “I can do that, you know. Wouldn’t even kill you, just make you mute for the rest of your life. You got that?”
Huerta felt her head move in his tight grip as she tried to nod. He rewarded her by loosening his hold slightly, while still keeping his hand lightly over her mouth. “We wait eight minutes, like the commander said. When I want you to do something or say something, I’ll tell you.”
Garcia took out his silenced pistol and checked it for the thirtieth time, even though they all knew they were as ready as they would ever be. Eight minutes. They waited.
“Everybody’s here. Bird Dog,” Gator said impatiently.
“What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”
“Nope,” the pilot said cheerfully. God, it was good to be airborne again! And on a strike mission, too. Nothing could match the heady feeling of a Tomcat with wings dirtied, antiair missiles and five-hundred-pound bombs slung up under the wings on hard points, just waiting to be used. It made the Tomcat a bit more ungainly, true, but the added inertia during turns and maneuvers kept him conscious of the enormous firepower now under his command. “One more guy’s gotta finish tanking a Hornet, topping off his tanks, of course. I’m telling you.