“You see that profile on the tube last night?” Wheeler asked, yawning. They were near the end of their patrol period, and he was ready for a few hours’ sack time.
Brown laughed. “You mean that ACN thing? There’s a joke for you.” Jefferson’s five thousand-man community was served by two on-board television stations that showed a mix of canned programs and movies together with shows picked up off satellite feeds. The documentary from the American Cable Network covering the crisis in Norway had been one of the featured programs on Channel Eight the night before.
“‘Nine Soviet aircraft carriers ready to challenge America’s control of the seas,’” Wheeler quoted with a grin. “What the hell are those people playing at anyway? You’d think they’d learn the background before they went on the air with that shit, y’know? At least enough to tell a helicopter cruiser from a carrier!”
It had been greeted with laughs aboard the carrier, but Wheeler couldn’t help but be indignant at the thought of the message the documentary had delivered back in the World. He could imagine his mother and father seeing that broadcast and worrying unnecessarily at the media’s claim that the Soviets had nearly as many aircraft carriers as the United States, and most of them much newer and more modern than the American boats.
Apparently ACN didn’t realize — or hadn’t bothered to report — the truth. Most of the so-called “carriers” in the Soviet Navy were ships of the Kiev and Moskva classes, strange hybrids between cruiser and carrier designs that carried helicopters or V/STOL fighters and served primarily in an ASW role. Of the three true carriers in Soviet service, only one was nuclear powered, and it was still undergoing sea trials in the Black Sea. Unless the Russians were really desperate it was unlikely that she would leave friendly waters. Only the two conventional carriers, Soyuz and Kreml, were anything like the Jefferson. At that they were smaller and much less capable than any of the Nimitz-class ships.
And the Soviets had been using carriers for less than a decade. They still had a long way to go before they would evolve the expertise and experience of their American counterparts. The Russians could be dangerous foes, but it was foolish to believe that they could seriously challenge the United States Navy in a stand-up carrier-to-carrier engagement.
Brown laughed again. “Maybe we should surrender now so we don’t disappoint the newsmen, huh?”
“All right, you guys, let’s can the chatter and concentrate on the job.” That was Lieutenant Commander Jake Braxton, the CIC officer. Despite his words he sounded amused. “Let’s save the battle of the airwaves for when we’re back on the Jeff and stick with watching for Russkies while we’re up here, okay?”
“Aye, aye, oh, lord and master,” Brown responded. As with most aircraft crews the men on Tango 65 were easy about rank, at least in the privacy imposed at thirty thousand feet. Wheeler noted a threat light and checked his instruments.
“The ALR’s picking up electronic emissions. Bearing zero-five-zero, range four hundred.”
“Any idea what?” Braxton asked.
Pursing his lips, Wheeler studied his readouts. “Down Beat,” he said at last, giving the NATO code name for the Russian radar system.
“That’s either a Blinder or a Backfire,” Brown said. “Bombers.”
“You getting anything on radar yet, Wheeler?” Braxton asked.
Wheeler shook his head. “Still out of range.” He paused and looked down at his radar screen. It was beginning to show an irregular pattern of streaks and clutter. “Getting some jamming now. Probably an EW bird out there with them.”
“Great,” Braxton said sarcastically. He turned back to his own station and checked the Link-II data-transmission system that was supposed to relay information back to Jefferson and the rest of the battle group. The CIC officer picked up a radio mike. “Camelot, Camelot, this is Tango Six-fiver. Come in, Camelot. Over.”
Wheeler watched the radar screen and tapped his fingers on the console nervously. It was possible they were picking up a Russian raid against the Norwegian forces around Bergen … but a twisting in his guts told him that this was something else, something bigger.
And Jefferson was likely to be right in the middle of whatever the Soviets were pulling.
CHAPTER 13
They called it the “Dirty Shirt Wardroom” because it was the officers’ mess hall set aside for informal meals, where an officer could eat without changing from his work clothes into the regular uniform of the day. Lieutenant Roger Bannon felt conspicuous in his neatly pressed khakis as he hunted for a place to sit with his breakfast tray. His neat uniform was an unhappy reminder of his new duties, and he felt as if every eye was on him and every tongue was wagging with the story of the crash and his decision to give up flying.
An aviator who lost it, who couldn’t go back up again, became a pariah among his peers, and the center of gossip for half the carrier. Bannon suppressed a shudder as he found a chair. It was hard to face the crowded corridors aboard Jefferson with the specter of failure forever before him.
Probably the crash was forgotten, and outside of his own squadron no one had even noted Bannon’s decision. The half-dozen officers from the Air Department at the next table, still wearing their motley array of colored jerseys that identified their individual duties and roles on the flight deck, were no doubt entirely preoccupied with the increased tempo of operations that had kept them busy ever since CAG had ordered the higher state of readiness for Jefferson’s extra fighter contingent. They looked too tired from duty to be interested in Roger Bannon’s sins.
But that thought wasn’t even comforting. It only intensified his feelings of guilt. When he had taken Commander Magruder’s advice and asked for some time off flight status, CAG had posted him to duty as an aide in the Air Wing office, a job that consisted of little more than running errands and pouring coffee for the regular staff officers. So now, while the rest of the carrier was bracing for the confrontation everyone knew was coming with the Soviets, it was as if he was taking a vacation from his duty.
Yet the thought of climbing back into the cockpit of his Intruder still gave him the shakes. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to fly again without reliving the horrors of the crash and the guilt of losing Commander Greene.
He took a sip of coffee and tried to consider his future objectively. If he turned in his wings and walked away he would have to live with the knowledge of failure for the rest of his life. They probably wouldn’t even let him stay on board Jefferson longer than they absolutely had to. It was never considered wise to keep a failed aviator on his old ship. Short of resigning his commission and looking for a civilian pilot’s job, he might never fly again.
And yet flying was all he had ever wanted to do. As a boy he’d hoped to earn his wings and then look for a shot at astronaut training, but once he’d been in the cockpit it was enough just to be in the air, in control, free of the restrictions of an earthbound existence. Until he’d run up against the Deputy CAG and lost his confidence, Bannon had been in love with flying, and even Jolly Green’s criticism hadn’t been enough to dampen his enthusiasm for his chosen life.
That had only come after the criticism had stopped forever. After Greene’s death.