“Yeah, Froggy, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” responded Bonicelli with a nervous laugh. “I’ve got a bulletin for you, Frog. Our radar isn’t comin’ up.”
“Figures. Only works when we don’t need it,” replied Karns in his usual, relaxed manner. “If it goes tits up, Bone, we’ll pass the lead to Hersh and go visual.”
“Rog.”
The sophisticated AWG-9 weapons control system in the Tomcat, augmented by the supersensitive radar, could detect and count engine turbine fan blades in approaching aircraft at a range of over a hundred miles.
“You up, Two?” Karns called over the radio to Hershberger, flying Gunfighter Two.
“Oh yeah, Frog, we’re go.” Hershberger glanced at the forbidding sky and angry sea. “Beautiful day for flying.”
The fighter pilots and their RIOs, racing to get airborne, had no idea who or what the adversary might be. Their mission was to “scramble” off the carrier as quickly as possible, then confront the unknown gomers. The anxiety level was high and the aircrews tried to dispel their apprehension with light banter.
The Ike was straining and groaning in the turbulent ocean to maintain a twenty-seven-knot speed into the wind. The fighters had to take off and land into the wind, as they would from a shore-base runway, and the carrier steamed as fast as possible to assist the aircraft in getting airborne.
The enormous collisions between ship and thirty-foot ocean swells sent cold spray raining down on the F-14 canopies, obscuring the pilots’ vision in the semidawn and low cloud cover. The flying conditions were abominable.
The yellow-shirted catapult officer signaled for the deckedge operator to take tension on the F-14 piloted by Karns. At the same time a green light from PRI-FLY, the control tower of the carrier, indicated clearance to launch the two fighters.
“You ready, Bone?” Karns asked as he advanced the twin throttles to military power, then into afterburner. The aircraft was straining and vibrating under the tremendous thrust of the big GE turbofans.
“Actually, I was really looking forward to breakfast,” Bonicelli responded with a chuckle.
“I s’pose you want me to call room service,” laughed Karns as he snapped off a salute to the cat officer, signifying that his Tomcat was developing full power and ready for launch. The catapult blast deflectors, now raised behind the F-14s, were glowing cherry red from the tremendous heat of the powerful engines.
“Naw, I want—”
The statement abruptly ended as the cat officer leaned forward and touched the flight deck, sending a signal to the deckedge operator, who pressed the launch button.
The Tomcat, engulfed in swirling clouds of superheated steam, exploded down the catapult track in a thundering roar.
Helmets pressed back into head restraints. Breathing was impossible, even with masks supplying 100 percent oxygen. Eyeballs flattened, causing momentary tunnel vision and a graying-out effect. The excruciating G-forces rendered the crew semiconscious during the violent launch.
The catapult stroke hurled the 70,000-pound fighter plane from zero to 170 miles per hour in two and a half seconds. The sensation was impossible to imagine without experiencing it firsthand.
“Good shot,” Karns said, snapping the landing gear handle up. His breathing and pulse rates were returning to normal.
“Are we still alive?” Bonicelli asked, happy to have lived through another launch in abysmal weather conditions.
The Tomcat continued to accelerate in afterburner as Bonicelli looked back over his left shoulder. He glimpsed Dash Two accelerating down the catapult.
“I’ve got a visual on Hersh — off the cat, closing,” reported Bonicelli, as Karns cleaned up the Tomcat and swept back the variable-geometry wings.
“Okay, Gunfighters, let’s go button seven and talk with the saucer,” Karns said into his radio as his wingman smoothly slid into a loose parade formation.
“Two,” replied Hershberger in the abbreviated style the fighter jocks had developed during the Korean conflict.
“Stingray, Gunfighter One up, flight of two, six missiles each, state seventeen point two,” Karns said as he advanced the throttles to continue the climb now that his wingman was aboard.
“Roger, Gunfighter. Initial heading zero-two-two at one hundred ninety-five. Bogies descending out of angels three-eight and indicating four hundred sixty knots.”
“Okay, Stingray, we’re outa’ twenty-one and a half. Stand by one.
“You got anything on the radar?” Karns queried Bonicelli, hoping the gremlins had vanished from the intricate black boxes required to see the enemy at long range.
“Sorry, boss. The tube is down for the count,” Bonicelli replied, thinking about all the imbroglios the flight crews had gone through with avionic technicians.
“Hersh, you and Gator have a lock?” Karns urgently asked.
“That’s affirm, Frog. Want us to take the lead?” replied Hershberger, realizing the flight would rendezvous with the Soviet aircraft in eight minutes.
“Yeah, Hersh, take the lead and let’s go combat spread,” Karns directed, as he passed control of the intercept to the Tomcat with the functioning radar system.
“Stingray, we’ve switched the lead to Dash Two. Our radar is bogus,” Karns stated with a trace of irritation in his normally relaxed voice.
“Understand, Gunfighter.” The Hawkeye coordinator had a tense, controlled voice. “Targets at zero-two-four, one hundred ninety, descending out of angels three-four. We confirm two Backfires and a flight of four fighters.”
From the repeater television screen in CIC, Lieutenant Commander Stevens had watched the CAP Tomcats roar off the pitching deck, shrouded in clouds of catapult steam.
Stevens, lifting his phone handset, swiveled in his chair and punched the code to connect him with the commanding officer.
The CO, Capt. Greg Linnemeyer, was exhausted. He had fallen into a deep sleep after a strenuous night supervising air operations.
“Captain,” a groggy voice responded.
“Captain, this is Frank Stevens, the watch officer in CIC. We have a situation developing that I believe you need to be aware of.”
“Alright, Frank,” replied Linnemeyer in a raspy voice, “what’s the problem?”
“Well, sir, we launched the CAP. They are intercepting two Russian Backfire bombers and four escort fighters. We haven’t had any conf—”
“Goddamn,” Linnemeyer interrupted tersely, “go to general quarters, launch Ready Two CAP, and notify the battle group commander. I’ll be in CIC in five minutes.”
Linnemeyer juggled the phone, almost dropping it, as he transferred the receiver to his left ear, the ear not so damaged by years of jet engine noise. “How far out are the Russian aircraft?”
“Sir, the bogies are …” Stevens leaned over to see the latest plot, “one hundred eighty at zero-two-two, descending from three-three-zer—”
“Move it, Frank!” Linnemeyer brusquely concluded the conversation, slamming the phone receiver down and reaching for his work khakis.
“I’ve got a tally,” Karns radioed to Hershberger and Kavanaugh. Stingray was also monitoring the frequency.
The F-14s had broken out of the overcast, rain-filled clouds into a bright blue sky blazing with early morning sunlight. Karns could see the Russian aircraft seven miles ahead.
“Looks as if Ivan is angling slightly away from the carrier,” Karns said as the Tomcats rapidly closed the distance between the Soviet and American aircraft.
“I’ve got the lead,” Karns radioed Hershberger as he resumed command of the flight.
“Rodney,” replied Gunfighter Two, deliberately foregoing the traditional “Roger.”
“Two, you fall in behind the shooters and we’ll take the heavies,” Karns instructed his wingman.