The Flash Message from the Virginia had been received only seconds before the carrier battle group made a course change toward the cruiser. The remaining Russian sub trailing the Ike and her escorts made the course change and followed.
The orbiting Hawkeye was directing the CAP Tomcats, “Buzzard” One and Two, to rendezvous with Viking 706 near the Virginia’s location.
A Soviet trawler, sprouting electronic gear and antennas, was shadowing the Eisenhower battle group and eavesdropping on their radio conversations. The Russian submarine skipper stalking the Virginia was fully aware of the impending arrival of the American antisubmarine aircraft and escort fighters. The Soviet sub commander had his orders, orders issued from the Kremlin.
Admiral McKenna stepped into CIC as Texaco 514, a KA-6D tanker, screeched down number two catapult, shaking the Ike from bow to stern.
“What’s up, Greg?” McKenna asked Linnemeyer, as he rubbed his eyes.
The captain had arrived in CIC only a minute before the task force commander.
“Not completely sure, sir. The Virginia sent a message indicating they were at general quarters and requesting ASW coverage. A Russian sub is apparently stalking them. Their LAMPS has confirmed the sub and—”
Linnemeyer was interrupted by the admiral. “They’ve got a helo up in this weather?”
“Yes, sir. Think the skipper is being overly cautious ’cause of the alert.”
“Greg,” McKenna paused, thinking, “can they recover the LAMPS aboard the Virginia in this kind of weather?”
“Possible, Admiral, if the pilot is red-hot and the recovery crew is sharp.” The CO was on a limb. “Fifty-fifty, I’d say.”
Linnemeyer could see the concern registering on McKenna’s face. The task force commander turned to the CIC duty officer, Lieutenant Dyestrom, and asked to be patched to the LAMPS helicopter.
“Yessir,” Dyestrom replied. “His call sign is Seahawk Thirty-eight, Admiral.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” McKenna responded as he placed the receiver to his ear.
“Seahawk Thirty-eight, Seahawk Thirty-eight, this is Tango Fox One. Do you copy?”
Chaveze heard the message clearly. He was shocked. Tango Fox One was the task force commander, the admiral himself.
“Tango Fox, Seahawk. Five by five, sir.”
“Seahawk, this is Admiral McKenna. Understand you have ferreted an unwelcome guest.”
“Affirmative, sir. We are over him now.”
“Good job, son.” McKenna looked at Linnemeyer. “How’s the weather?”
“I’ve seen better, Admiral,” Chaveze replied as he leveled the bouncing helicopter.
“Okay, listen closely.” McKenna paused as he looked at Linnemeyer. “If you have any doubt about landing on your ship safely, any doubt, I want you to head for the carrier and recover here.”
“Yes, sir!” Chaveze grinned at his copilot. “As soon as the Viking relieves us, we’ll be en route to the carrier.”
McKenna smiled. He could hear cheering in the background. Smart young pilot, he thought to himself.
“Okay, son, we’ll have breakfast on for your crew.”
McKenna gave the handset back to Dyestrom and turned to Linnemeyer.
“Greg, I don’t like the smell of this kettle.” McKenna sipped his steaming coffee. “Launch another Viking, along with a tanker, and get two more fourteens airborne, with two on the cats and two standing by, manned.”
“Yessir,” Linnemeyer answered, taking the handset from the outstretched arm of Dyestrom.
Ensign Gill looked over at Chaveze and smiled, slowly shaking his head. “You must be livin’ right. Snatched from the jaws of Simpson with a breakfast invitation from the admiral, no less.”
They both chuckled, along with the crew. This was going to be a piece of cake now.
“Seahawk Thirty-eight, this is Nest Egg,” Simpson called, miffed by the radio exchange between the helicopter and the carrier. It wasn’t good to have your judgement questioned by an admiral, especially the Eisenhower’s task force commander.
“Roger, Nest Egg,” Chaveze was trying to suppress a grin.
“You are cleared to recover aboard the carrier.” Simpson grimaced. “Copy?”
“Copy, Nest Egg,” Chaveze replied, thinking how embarrassed Simpson must feel.
“Seahawk, Killer Seven-oh-six has a lock on your friend. Take it to the boat.” The Viking pilot checked in with Chaveze, not able to resist a jab at the non-aviator who ordered a helo out in this weather. “Man, you shouldn’t be out flapping around in weather like this. Insane, brother, especially in a Spam can.”
“Roger, Seven-oh-six,” Chaveze answered in an even tone. He didn’t want to fuel Simpson’s rage any further.
“Mother is zero-one-zero for two hundred ten,” the Viking pilot radioed. “Got enough gas, Seahawk?”
“That’s affirm, Killer,” Chaveze replied. “Appreciate the help. Seahawk is off-station.”
Chaveze headed for the Eisenhower while the crew raised the sonobuoy and stowed their gear.
“Buzzard flight, Stingray.” The Hawkeye’s airborne controller sounded tired and bored.
“Go,” Jim O’Neill, Lieutenant, USN, replied as he strained his eyes in an effort to see below the cloud base.
The radio crackled, startling O’Neill. “Killer Seven-oh-six is at your ten o’clock, twelve miles.”
“No contact. Seven-oh-six, turn to three-six-zero and flash your lights,” O’Neill ordered as he studied the soft glow of his radar screen. He had the Viking on the scope but not visually.
“I have ’em, Buzzard,” Vince Cangemi, flying Buzzard Two, radioed his leader. The Marine captain was flying wing position on this sortie.
“Rog, I’ve got a tally at eleven o’clock, low,” O’Neill acknowledged, sneaking a peek at his engine gauges. He had been increasingly worried about his starboard engine. The RPM gauge had been surging at sporadic intervals. If the situation hadn’t been so critical, O’Neill would have flown the F-14 directly to the carrier.
“Buzzard flight, Stingray.” Urgent this time.
“Go,” O’Neill answered, watching the right engine surge.
“We’ve got four pop-ups at your eight o’clock, two hundred twenty out, smokin’ like gangbusters.”
“Keep us informed.”
O’Neill looked at his fuel gauges, disregarding the questionable rough-running engine, before making a decision.
“Roger, Buzzard. The bogies are closing at … Jesus, nine hundred knots! Either Fulcrums or Foxhounds.”
“Where’d they come from?” O’Neill asked petulantly, his mind racing for answers. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Came out of a commercial airline corridor,” radioed the surprised controller. “Boom, just exploded on my screen. Man, they have got some speed on.”
“Rog, looks like a setup.” O’Neill pictured a large Russian transport, disguised as an Aeroflot commercial flight, full of fuel and trailing hoses, lumbering along at night over the open ocean. They could easily stash four fighters in tight formation under the wings. The smaller aircraft wouldn’t show on radar.
“Stingray, Buzzard,” O’Neill radioed, watching the right engine surge again. “Any Russian airliners on the corridor near the point they popped up?”
“Ah, stand by,” the now lively voice answered.
O’Neill checked his instruments, glanced at Cangemi, and watched his clock sweep through twenty seconds. “Come on Stingray … we haven’t got much time,” O’Neill said to himself.
“Buzzard, Stingray.”
“Go,” O’Neill said sharply.
“That’s affirm.” The controller released the transmit button a split second, then pressed it again. “Aeroflot flight Seventeen-oh-eight.”