Karelin thought about it for a moment. "I will tell you, Viktor Ivanovich, I'm not sure. In this case, of course, it is not necessary to destroy the Americans… but only to disorient them long enough for our PLARBs to get away."
"Of course. But I was curious about your estimation of the outcome of the engagement itself. It should be a test of a classic war-gaming scenario."
"Key to a Yankee carrier battle group are two vessels," Karelin said, "and two vessels alone. The aircraft carrier itself, naturally, which is the group's whole reason for being, and the group's Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruiser, which serves as a command and control ship for the formation, coordinating its maneuvers and anti-air defenses.
"Operation Ognevoy will muster some two to three hundred aircraft, including advanced heavy bombers armed with antiship cruise missiles, as well as surface-attack aircraft. Combined with these will be cruise-missile attacks both from shore installations and from submarines.
"What do I think? I think that the battle group's brain ― the Aegis cruiser ― and its heart ― the aircraft carrier ― will both be overwhelmed, completely obliterated in the first wave. The survivors ― the destroyers, frigates, and submarines ― will flee, or be mopped up at our leisure.
"And our Typhoons will be free in the Barents Sea, ready to carry out their orders."
"And those are, Comrade Admiral? Will they be told to launch without warning, or will they threaten first?"
"Their orders will be to make history, Comrade Rear Admiral," Karelin said. "To make history, and to secure ultimate victory for the legitimate government of the Russian Union."
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Tombstone looked up from the expendables report he was working on at his desk. "Door's open."
Brewer Conway walked in. She was a tall, lean, athletic-looking woman, her silver-blond hair kept mannishly short. She was wearing her undress blue shirt and slacks; the Navy woman's traditional blue or white skirt had been replaced by slacks for all but formal dress occasions some time ago. Having women in skirts negotiating the nearly vertical ladders of shipboard companionways had proved to be too much of a distraction for the sailors who, alerted by the almost psychic communications system that stretched from stem to stern on every Navy vessel, tended to congregate at the bottoms of those ladders just as the women began their descents.
"Good afternoon, CAG," she said. Since she was uncovered, she didn't salute, but she came to attention in front of Tombstone's desk. "You wanted to see me?"
"Brewer," Tombstone said, rising. "At ease. Grab a chair."
"It's not necessary for you to get up for me when I enter a room, Captain," she said, moving a chair out from the bulkhead and perching herself on the edge. She seemed tense, Tombstone thought. Or upset.
"Old habits die hard, Commander," Tombstone said, settling back into his own seat. "My apologies. I was raised the old-fashioned way. Thanks for coming in."
"It would be best, sir, if you not treat us any differently from your men. That, after all, is what integration is all about, right?"
"Thank you for the lecture, Commander."
"Sorry, Sir. I meant no disrespect. What did you want to see me about?"
He sighed. "I want your impressions, Brewer. Your honest evaluation.
How are your people settling in aboard the Jeff?"
Her expression was guarded. "Well enough, CAG."
"No problems with privacy? The shower head schedules? Any instances of harassment or unwanted attention?"
"None worth mentioning, Sir."
"But there have been incidents."
"It would be pretty strange if there weren't, Sir." She hesitated, and for a moment Tombstone thought she was about to say something more. Then she pursed her lips and shook her head. "No problems, CAG. None that my people can't handle on their own."
"That's the best way, of course." Tombstone selected a paper from the several scattered on his desk. "I have a request here, though, from Lieutenant Kandinsky. She wants to be assigned with another aviator."
Brewer's eyes widened. "She should have talked to me about that, CAG.
I'll have a word with her."
Tombstone considered this. Lieutenant Thelma Kandinsky, call sign "Sunshine," was a B/N, a bombardier/navigator, the flight officer who rode right-seat in the A-6E Intruder. Normally, she flew with Lieutenant Commander Bruce "Willis" Payne, in Jefferson's VA-89, the Death Dealers. Intruder crew assignments were no more permanent than pilot/RIO assignments in Tomcats, though good teams that worked well as a unit tended to stick together. To have a B/N specifically request a change, however, suggested that there was something wrong.
"Is there some kind of trouble between Sunshine and Willis?"
"Commander Payne can be pretty overbearing at times," Brewer replied.
"He's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't think female NFOs can hack it.
Nothing overt, really, but he'll be talking to some men about how he feels, and pitch his voice just loud enough that a woman nearby can overhear."
"Hmm." His fingers drummed on the desk. "What do you think the solution is here?"
"I wouldn't grant that request, if that's what you mean. Not unless there's something seriously wrong. They ought to learn how to get along themselves, and not come crying to Mamma. Or Papa, in this case."
"I agree completely. If I start shuffling crew assignments, a lot of people are going to get pissed, not just Willis and Sunshine. You'll talk to Kandinsky?"
"Yes, CAG."
"Don't come down on her for going around you with this. Her request is perfectly within her rights. But see if you can find out what the problem is with Willis. Specifics. Meanwhile, I'll have a talk with Willis, get his side of the story. Okay?"
"Sounds fair, Sir."
"What about Slider Arrenberger?"
She shrugged. "He's… opinionated. There've been no problems I'm aware of."
"No friction?"
"Nothing that can't be handled informally, Sir."
"Okay." Tombstone clasped his hands together on his desk. This next was the hard one. "Commander, I've heard… scuttlebutt. About sexual liaisons between the men and the women in the wing."
She bristled. "Are you suggesting we hold bed checks, CAG? Like they do for enlisted personnel?"
"No. But I'm worried about the problems those types of relationships could cause aboard ship. Jealousy. Hurt feelings. Lovers' quarrels…"
"Captain, the personal lives of the officers in this wing is not my concern. They are adults, and they are professionals. I don't-"
"They are adults and they are professionals, yes. But sexual activity aboard ship is still strictly against regulations, Commander. It's our responsibility to uphold those regulations, even though you and I both know that they're going to get bent or broken whenever there's temptation and opportunity."
"There's precious little opportunity for hanky-panky aboard ship, Captain. And to answer your question, I've heard the same scuttlebutt but I don't know anything as fact. You can be sure, Sir, that I will uphold Navy regulations to the best of my ability. But I am not going to start demanding chits from my girls every time they want to leave their compartment to go to the head. Sir."
"I wasn't suggesting that you should, Commander." He unclasped his hands, then looked Conway in the eye. "And you don't have any other gripes?
If you got 'em, I want to hear 'em."
"No, sir. No gripes."
"Okay. That'll be all, then. Dismissed. Thanks for coming in."
But after she left, Tombstone was sure that there was a problem. He just didn't know what it was that was bothering her.
One thing was certain. This sexual integration nonsense was taking up one hell of a lot of man hours ― yes, and woman hours too ― just to make it work. Instead of working like a smoothly functioning machine, the air group's personnel were experiencing friction… and inefficiency. With the chances that the Jefferson would soon be in combat growing greater every day, that friction was becoming dangerous.