“Sir, did we get the Aussie tanker?”
“Yes,” Johnson said, then turned to the watch captain and had him expand the screen. The RAAF tanker was crossing Sumatra. “White” civilian air traffic was south and east of Hancock.
“That tanker will be in the vicinity when you return… should be here in time for your mission tankers to fill up before they go back to catch you. I’m telling you, Flip, the submarine threat is spooking me big time. Do the best you can at Blood Moon but this is it.”
With time slipping, Wilson needed to go. “Admiral, any tipper info from them?”
“No. Right now we believe they just have standard alerts set, and I’m sure they’re wide awake right now. No indications they are massing a counterstrike. Damn, I wish I could be surer about Yawu. At Song Ca we have indications their EW and SAMs are active, despite being hit yesterday. Oh, and their new cargo seaplane took off from Hainan yesterday. You may come across it.”
Wilson nodded. “All right, sir, we’ll see you in a little bit.”
Johnson extended his hand. “Have a good hop, Flip, and good hunting.” With a confident smile, he held Wilson’s hand for an extra count. Both knew what was at stake, and the risks Wilson and Carrier Air Wing Fifteen were taking.
Wilson bounded forward with purpose, and the imposing sight of him in full flight gear caused sailors in the passageway to brace up against the bulkhead so he could pass. Late, he entered the “dirty-shirt” wardroom and found it abandoned. The aircrews were already on deck, and he could hear the clattering of bow catapult steam piping. He gobbled down a biscuit and two sausage links, and gulped a glass of milk in what passed for his prestrike meal. He then grabbed an apple and stuffed it in his g-suit pocket.
Wilson retraced his steps aft, and next to him inside the ship the massive Cat 1 shuttle roared past like a freight train and stopped with a boom as it hit the water brake forward. The catapults were warmed and tested, and, as Wilson moved further aft, he heard the deep humming sound of E-2 props spinning one deck above.
He was nervous. In three hours he would be running for his life from Blood Moon, or floating in the South China Sea… or worse. Not having current satellite imagery, he and the others did not know what they would face when they got there. The Chinese could have a picket line of DDGs waiting for them, or alerted S-400s with interlocking rings. While Gumby had planned and briefed the strike, it was Wilson, leading the Snakes and the train of strikers behind him, who would enter the caldron of Blood Moon first. At a familiar frame number in the labyrinth of Hancock, he turned left.
His legs carried him up the ladder, and his arm lifted the dog-bar to open the hatch at the base of the island. He was on autopilot now, having come onto the flight deck like this hundreds of times in his long career, a career longer than Cajun’s. Cajun walked these same steps that night, on a different ship in a different sea. So had Annie, not knowing what was in store over the horizon. So had the namesake of the new DDG on the horizon: Michael S. Speicher. Wilson stepped out onto the dark, wind-swept flight deck as they had, as hundreds of thousands had over many decades off Korea, and Norway, and Kuwait, and Lebanon…. And Hainan Island, so many there, five decades ago in another conflict over the same South China Sea.
Twenty-five knot winds raced down the flight deck as Wilson tramped to his jet parked across the landing area just as the boss called away engine starts. He was late, and the growing din of fighters starting up added to his unease. He was supposed to be inside a cockpit and strapped in when he heard that noise, and fought to compartmentalize as four dozen jet engines roared to life around him.
In the darkness he found his jet, NL 100, parked on the waist. His Wing Maintenance Officer was waiting for him.
“CAG, we are loading up a HAVE REEL in your avionics compartment. Should be another few minutes, sir.”
Wilson had to shout to be heard. “Does everyone else have one? All the Rhino strikers?”
The officer shook his head. “No, sir. The lieutenant in one-oh-seven doesn’t. And one of the Growlers doesn’t.”
The electronic protection of a HAVE REEL was important, especially for the strikers going to Blood Moon. In an instant, Wilson made a decision. The lieutenant they called Breeder would get it.
“CAGMO, put mine in one-zero-seven.” Despite the dark, there was enough light for the Maintenance Officer to see Wilson’s eyes and understand his meaning. He did not argue with his wing commander. There was no time.
“Aye, aye, sir,” CAGMO shouted. He turned to the troubleshooters, who removed the cannon plugs and carried the black-box to 107 as directed.
Wilson climbed the ladder, and, assisted by the plane captain, strapped in with muscle-memory sequence. “Have a good flight, CAG!” the young man shouted, and Wilson shouted back his thanks. When the canopy rail was clear, Wilson lowered it and the piercing jet-engine din of the flight deck was replaced by the sound of his deep breathing.
In the western sky a bright moon shone on the Celebes Sea, and to starboard Wilson could make out the lines of Cape St. George. The Aegis cruiser had not left Hancock’s side since they left San Diego. Would the Chinese attack today? If they did, good old CSG would have to defend them, again. However, another Aegis ship had downed an American jet hours earlier. Wilson and his fliers had to comply with return-to-force procedures, and the escort ships had to make difficult decisions from the behavior of blips on their radar screens. In seconds. What was more dangerous? Attacking Blood Moon or coming home?
The E-2s and tankers were lining up on the bow cats and the stars rotated as the ship turned to launch heading. All on the flight deck and in the cockpits were familiar with the sequence, knowing what was supposed to happen and when. Once airborne the aviators knew how to join up and where, and who got what tanker fuel and from what tanker. They knew how to arrange themselves in formation and knew the expected route of flight: at night, down low, headed for Blood Moon. However, once over the South China Sea, much more would be unknown than known.
“Bai Quon, I must leave.”
Liu Qi shook Bai awake. He groaned and looked at the clock: 0250. She was right; she should have left hours ago. Bai was to take off at sunrise for combat air patrol over the outposts. They had both fallen asleep… he needed the rest, and the loving attentions of Liu. For a few hours, he was not fighting, not running from the Americans. He had been safe in the arms of a woman who loved him. He needed it, no deserved it, and felt entitled to Liu Qi as a prize given to a warrior.
“I must return to my dormitory before my companions awaken,” she said, tugging on her blouse. She was worried about the early hour, afraid she would be discovered, and nervous at what she had done. She loved Bai and could forgive his preoccupation. The Americans were attacking the Motherland, and these outposts belonged to China! Bai would save her and China from the barbarians. Giving herself to him was all she could offer, and she hoped for a quick end to the fighting so Bai could return to her with loving eyes, tender words, and a strong embrace that would never release her. She was in love and hoped she had not acted too soon sleeping with Bai.