He was beginning to understand something that had puzzled him. It was no wonder Stramaglia had been so eager to go up with Coyote on that last mission. CAG had always been an aviator before all else, and it must have been galling to be chained to this desk trying to coordinate the activities of the entire air wing without going crazy. It made those hated days in Magruder’s Pentagon assignment look like a quiet vacation.
But it was finally starting to come together. From the moment Admiral Tarrant had changed his mind and decided to proceed with the mission, the Air Wing staff had plunged into the preparations with a dedication that made Magruder proud to be a part of it all. If and when the Intelligence types spotted the opening they needed, CVW-20 would be ready for it. It would still be dicey trying to strike a blow against the Russians with their overwhelming air power, but at least now they could do something. At least Jefferson wouldn’t be slinking away with her tail between her legs, defeated. It was a chance, no more, but a chance was all anyone could ask in a situation like this.
In the meeting with Tarrant the day before, after Magruder explained his new idea for evening the odds, the admiral had given Magruder the credit for that chance. I would never have thought of the S-3s for this, Tarrant had said. Back in my day they weren’t fitted for this kind of op. If we win this, it’ll be because of you and your sleight of hand, Commander. Flattering words for someone who had been thrust into the CAG slot without warning and without adequate preparation.
He hadn’t protested at the time, but Magruder knew that the credit for any success they earned now should still go to Joseph Stramaglia. He had been fine-tuning the Air Wing long before Magruder had arrived, and it was his staff — Lee and Owens and others — who were performing miracles to organize the operation. And Stramaglia had insisted on broadening Magruder’s own experience when Tombstone had wanted nothing more than a chance to cling to the past in the cockpit of a Tomcat. That more than anything else was what had earned Jefferson her chance at striking back.
A knock on his door brought Magruder out of his reverie. At his call it opened to admit Lieutenant Commander Owens, his young, eager features little changed by the hard work he’d been putting in all day. The young officer had developed an overprotective attitude toward his new superior, and seemed unduly worried at the pace Magruder was trying to maintain, but he was a rock when it came to the administrative details. If Owens had been a little better used to taking responsibility and making tough decisions, he would have made a better CAG than Magruder.
Not that the tough decisions came any more easily to Magruder. It had taken every ounce of self-control to contemplate the possible results of the Alpha Strike without breaking down entirely. When young Bannon had requested the chance to go back on the roster, it had required a real effort to keep from giving in to his urge to keep the kid out of combat for his own good. And Coyote’s decision to return to duty had been even harder on him, despite their strained relations. Too many friends were at risk in this whole operation, and Magruder had to live with the knowledge that it had been his crazy idea, in Tarrant’s eager hands, which had put them all on a collision course with battle.
“Sir,” Owens began breathlessly. “Sir, it’s going down. OZ has been tapping into real-time satellite data, and it looks like they’re on the move out of Murmansk.”
That made him sit up straight. It was the moment they’d been waiting for, when the Soviets finally committed themselves. The next few hours would tell them where the Russians were going and whether or not Jefferson had a hope of intervening.
They were as ready now as they would ever be. Magruder could only hope and pray that they were ready enough for what lay ahead.
CHAPTER 22
CVIC was crowded, more crowded than the briefing Tombstone had attended with Stramaglia the day after he’d arrived aboard. Was it really less than a week ago?
That briefing had been for ship commanders and other senior officers of the battle group, and it had mostly dealt in generalities. Tonight, by contrast, only Jefferson officers were in attendance, most of them squadron COs and XOs from the Air Wing. And tonight’s session was focusing on concrete plans to deal with the unfolding situation on the Norwegian coast.
Magruder had never been much of a public speaker, but Tarrant had turned the bulk of the meeting over to him so that he could explain the attack plan, code-named Operation Ragnarok, step by step. Watching the reactions of the men who would be executing the operation, Tombstone had started worrying all over again. It was clear that most of them were dubious about the strike. But it was too late now for changes. He had done the best he could in putting together the plan. It was up to these men to take the ball and run with it.
“That wraps up the highlights of the mission profile,” he said as his presentation was winding down. “There are more details in your folders. Familiarize yourself with the operation and then pass on the info to your squadrons.”
He paused and looked around the room again. Admiral Tarrant and his staff were near the front, along with Brandt and his Exec. Their expressions were somber, but receptive enough. Commander Monroe, the Air Boss, seemed cheerful enough, a study in contrasts with the officers representing other parts of the carrier’s Air Department. Getting the percentage of aircraft rated FMC — Fully Mission Capable — to a level that would support Ragnarok’s tough requirements had taken everything from cajoling to threats to bribes, and most of those officers were less than happy with the pressure Magruder had been bringing to bear ever since the admiral had authorized the strike.
But it was the squadron commanders and their executive officers who counted most. Commander Quinn of VA-89 looked especially grim. In Jefferson’s last cruise two full squadrons of Intruders had been deployed on the carrier, but budget cutting had reduced CVW-20 back to the old mid-Eighties organization of one attack squadron. They would be regretting that change in the hours ahead.
The skippers and execs from the two Hornet squadrons formed a tight-knit group. They looked reasonably happy with their roles in the coming mission, taking their cue perhaps from Bobby Lee Benton of the Javelins. His opposite number in VFA-173, the Fighting Hornets, was a craggy-faced lump of a man, Commander Henry “Bigfoot” Henderson, and while Henderson wasn’t as flashy and charismatic as Benton he had a reputation for steady reliability. He’d need it, given the part of the mission Magruder had assigned him to.
Magruder cleared his throat before continuing. “Now for some updates we didn’t have time to include in the formal briefing material,” he said. “Starting just before midnight Zulu time last night, the Russians launched the paradrop we’ve been expecting. Actually it was a series of drops, but satellite recon has discounted most of their operations as decoy deployments to distract the defense. The main enemy landing area is around the port town of Brekke, about halfway up the Sognefjord and maybe eighty kilometers as the MiG flies from Bergen. That conforms with the best estimates Intelligence made originally when we were mapping out our strategy. The location doesn’t change the basic mission profile at all.”