The final elephant dancing onboard the carrier was the carrier’s commanding officer, also a senior, post-command aviator captain as fully qualified as the CAG to run flight operations. In contrast to the CAG, the carrier CO owned the airfield just overhead the flag spaces as well as all the non-squadron maintenance facilities onboard. The ship’s CO also provided the infrastructure for the squadrons and the battle group staff in the form of messing and berthing for all the officers and sailors, medical, dental and religious staffs, communications and the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC. Both the CAG and the ship’s CO were normally rising stars, ones that could reasonably expect to rise to admiral rank and someday own the coveted blue tile passageway themselves.
But Jefferson’s last deployment might have permanently benched the CAG and ship’s CO. Batman had been in command as Battle Group Commander when Jefferson had taken the fatal shot, trapped in the Gulf during what looked to be a final flare-up in the Middle East. As Jefferson escaped the confined waters, she had hit a mine that the mine sweeper had missed. The resulting damage put her out of action, and brought her back here to the shipyards and had probably put a fatal black mark on the CAG and CO’s records.
“The keel is okay, it’s mostly the steel plates. Some damage to one shaft.” Batman’s voice was soft. “I hate to turn her over to anyone else in that shape, Stony.”
“Where do you go from here?” Tombstone asked.
Batman shook his head. “No word yet. The more senior you get, the harder it is to figure out the billets. And getting Jefferson all banged up while I was in command doesn’t help any.”
“You thought about retiring?” Tombstone asked.
“Yeah. I know I’ll have to some time — hey, if you can do it, I can too.” Batman tried on a smile that didn’t fit too well. “Nothing’s decided yet… for now, I’m overseeing her repairs, awaiting further assignment.”
They were silent for a moment, surveying the damage. Technicians scurried around her massive flanks like ants, clinging to scaffolding and ladders. The last of several massive steel plates was being lifted into place, where it would be riveted and welded to complete the repairs. Further down the pier, the damaged plates were piled up like giant potato chips, impossibly warped, burnt and twisted.
“Good thing the United States is ahead of schedule,” Tombstone said. “She can fill the gap, at least for a while. Until Jefferson is repaired.”
The newest addition to America’s nuclear ship arsenal was moored four piers away, and she was a stark contrast to the battered Jefferson. The USS United States had yet to see action, and her hull showed it. She was pristine, gleaming in the spring morning, still waiting for a final coat of haze gray paint that would help her blend into the horizon. Her radar antennas were glistening black, her pennants and fittings impossibly clean.
It wasn’t that Jefferson had been a dirty ship — far from it. But after a decade of being on the front lines of every conflict in the world, her age was starting to show. She had seen more action than any aircraft carrier since the world wars, and although she had held up well, there was no magical potion to restore the fresh gleam of youth to her cheeks. The new steel plates stood out smooth and unblemished like scars against the rest of her worn, oxidized hull.
“United States starts her sea trials today,” Batman said reflectively, turning the conversation away from himself. There was too much uncertainty in the future — he didn’t want to be reminded of it. “Remember those days?”
Tombstone groaned. “Do I ever. Long days, longer nights — God save me from ever having to do sea trials again.”
“I don’t think we’re in much danger of having to.” Batman’s voice was grave. He turned to his old lead and said, “So when are you going to tell me something about this?”
Tombstone shook his head. “When I can, I will.”
As Tombstone made his way home, his mind was racing over the possibilities. For the last two weeks, his uncle and he had been going over every conceivable scenario that might require the services of a covert air group. Between the two of them, they figured they covered most of the bases. Now they were in the final stages of contacting candidates for staff positions and asking them if they were interested in something very, very secret and very, very important. Tombstone had taken it on himself to personally contact the members of his previous pickup game in Hawaii, and was waiting for their answers. His uncle also had a number of men and women in mind, people he had served with over his decades in the Navy. Between the two of them, they were about to embark on a looting mission within the ranks of the United States Navy.
His uncle Thomas Magruder was brother to Tombstone’s father. Tombstone’s father had been a naval aviator during the Vietnam War. During a daring inland mission to destroy a critical resupply bridge, Tombstone’s father had been shot down. For decades, he’d been listed as missing rather than killed. It was only during the last five years, as Tombstone had acquired enough power within the Navy to give him some degree of flexibility in his assignments, that he’d begun to suspect the truth. During an encounter with a Ukrainian naval officer, Tombstone had learned that there was a possibility that his father had survived the ejection and been taken prisoner. Following the old path through Vietnamese prison camps, Tombstone had found evidence that his father had been taken to Russia. In one of his most grueling missions ever, Tombstone had finally found his father’s grave in Russia.
Uncle Thomas, a naval surface ship officer, had stepped into the gap in Tombstone’s life as a surrogate father. He’d been the one to teach Tombstone to throw a killer curve ball, to encourage him in his studies and coach him in his early years in the Navy, to stand by his side as best man when Tombstone finally married Tomboy. And now, as both of their careers were coming to an end, his uncle had been the one to lead him back to his real passion — flying.
As a former Chief of Naval Operations, his uncle’s possible second career opportunities had been virtually unlimited. But instead of signing on as a highly paid consultant to a defense industry contractor, his uncle had heeded a call to head up a specialized black operations unit composed of men and women who were willing to do what had to be done to prevent war before it started. They were so far off the books that their missions were completely deniable.
Foremost among the scenarios Tombstone and his uncle had planned for were ones involving China. The potential for difficulties in that region was enormous. And, with so much of America’s might committed long-term to the Middle East, there was every chance it would flair into chaos in the near future. Tombstone knew those waters well, having dealt with the Chinese on far too many occasions.
Most of the aircraft would be requisitioned rather than permanently assigned, along with the necessary complement of maintenance technicians. That was one way to keep the budget numbers low enough to cause no alarm elsewhere. The cover story made recruiting the most difficult part of it all. Tombstone’s face was too well known to too many of the operating forces all over the world, and there was little chance that he could avoid being recognized. He even briefly considered plastic surgery, but decided against it.
Ever since his return to the civilian world, Tombstone had felt a lightening up of spirit. The tragedies of the last year were no less real, but for the first time, he thought he might be able to survive losing Tomboy during the last attempted invasion of Hawaii. He had watched helplessly as her plane had gone down, unable to save her. In one sense, his life had ended when his RIO wife had died. Had he simply retired from the Navy at the same time, he thought the pain would have been unbearable. But the prospect of flying again full time had been the only sliver of hope and light in his otherwise dark world.