Tran’s voice came over his headset. “Good work. We’ll check in with the carrier and let them know that they’ve got more to worry about than Chinese fighters.”
Bam-Bam stared at the tactical screen, trying to force meaning out of the movements he saw shown there. The Jefferson was in the center of the formation, her escorts arrayed around her. Cruisers to port and starboard, a destroyer closer in to land, and two fast frigate astern, one in position to serve as plane guard, the other conducting an ASW search. They were still south of the island. To the northeast, a submarine datum reported by Centurion was getting staler as each hour passed. The Centurion was also still in the area, patrolling the area between the carrier and the island.
Over land, picked up by the powerful Aegis radar, six MiG-33s flew CAP stations. Satellite intelligence revealed that another ten were parked on the runway radiating heat signatures from their engines. Warmed up, then, on alert and ready to launch given the slightest provocation.
How could it happen like this? Aren’t there island defenses or something — there have to be, on Pearl Harbor of all places! But who would have suspected the unthinkable? Evidently not Pearl Harbor, no more than Russian security had been able to explain the small private aircraft that somehow sneaked through their defenses to set down in Red Square.
Jefferson had two sets of fighters deployed in forward CAP stations between the carrier and land. Four Tomcats and four Hornets were in alert five on the deck, their pilots and RIOs ready to launch and one positioned on each catapult for immediate launch. Another eight fighters were in alert fifteen, with the balance of the squadron in alert thirty. Except for the hangar queens, every aircraft was ready to launch immediately.
But from the looks of it, the biggest problem wasn’t airborne right this moment. The contact the lookout had spotted was still bearing down on the carrier.
At first glance, it would seem to be no contest. Tons of aircraft carrier, the mightiest fighting vessel ever built, against a small boat whose displacement could be measured in the low thousands of pounds. The airwing with its potent fighters, S-3B antisubmarine and surface capabilities, not to mention the helos and the electronics and refueling support versus a rich man’s toy built for fishing, cruising fast, and pleasure.
But modern technology made evaluating the threat based merely on size a problem. Stinger missiles, with their two-mile and extended ranges, were available to anyone with the right contacts and sufficient cash. In recent years, there’d been reports of Soviet-made antiair systems flooding the weapons markets of the world, along with small and deadly torpedoes and a host of electronic jammers. Even nukes — he shuddered at that particular thought — were reportedly available in small launch containers that could easily be stowed on the deck of a boat the size of the one homing in on them. War had become a wildly chaotic matter of trying to assess threats in a world where everything was a threat.
“Anything from the signalman?” Bam-Bam asked.
“Not yet,” the watch officer replied. “He just got on station.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Roger. How close will you let him get?”
“Three miles,” Bam-Bam said without consulting his standing orders signed by the captain. “No closer.”
Even that was taking a chance. While the maximum range of the new extended Stingers was reportedly slightly less than that, who knew what changes and updates could have been made?
One small missile from a shoulder-held missile tube could wreak destruction if it hit the right spot. Say the hangar bay, launched from sea by a fast and highly maneuverable boat into the massive opening below the flight deck that opened onto the hangar bay. One missile — yes, that would be enough. One burning aircraft under the flight deck, the heat stress on the flight deck and associated gear, the conflagration billowing up into the stored AVGAS and weapons stacked in piles near the island — one missile would be enough if it hit in the right spot in the hangar.
And who would be foolish enough to fire just one?
“Three miles, aye, TAO,” the watch officer echoed. “Weapons free?”
Bam-Bam hesitated for a moment. Giving weapons free would leave the power to decide to fire in the hands of the petty officer manning each fifty-cal gun site. Better to hold weapons tight, deny them the right to fire until he gave the order.
Unless things got busy. Say, with air combat and a splashed bird. Did he really want to risk the delay that weapons tight would involve.
“Yes. Weapons free on any contact designated hostile within three miles of the carrier,” he said finally.
Bam-Bam heard movement behind him and turned to see Admiral Wayne slipping into his chair behind the TAO station. Bam-Bam gave him a brief rundown on the situation, concluding with his decision to grant weapons-free status to the gunnery crews.
“Good call,” the admiral grunted.
Bam-Bam felt a sense of relief — he’d known it was the right thing to do, but even a mighty Navy lieutenant commander didn’t mind having a little positive reinforcement by the man who wore the stars on his collar. “Sir, I’d like permission to set a green deck while we’ve got gunnery stations manned,” he said, aware that it was outside the usual safety regulations. But then, by definition, so was most combat. “A helo and a fighter paired up together might be more useful against a maneuverable target.”
“Go ahead,” the admiral said after a second’s reflection. “But call a check-fire while you’re actually launching. I don’t want to lose a pilot because a gunner got too eager for a shot and forgot about the Tomcat crossing his field of fire after launch.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” The TAO briefed the gunnery crews over his coordination line, affirmed that there were no questions about his orders, then switched channels to the Air Boss. “I’d like to go ahead and put one section of Vikings and one section of helos in the air,” he said. “Helos are already fitted with their side door guns, right? That’s after you launch a section of alert five Tomcats.”
“That’s affirmative on the helos,” the Air Boss answered.
“Good. Green deck. Brief the aircrew that the gunnery stations will be on check-fire until they clear the area, but they better go buster once they’re airborne. Launch when ready.”
“Roger, copy all. Ready now, TAO.” As the Air Boss spoke the words, a low rumble built through the compartment, shaking and shivering every piece of loose gear. The noise built until the edge of the TAO’s computer stand jittered. A Tomcat, first, then, he could tell without even looking at the plat screen. The helos would cause barely a ripple within CDC and the Vikings barely shuddered the coffeepot. Even the potent Hornets couldn’t match the low-throated roar of a Tomcat on the catapult.
A second Tomcat howl joined the first, then the higher-pitched distinctive whine of a S-3B Viking. The S-3B was nicknamed the Hoover, since it sounded like a vacuum cleaner.
Just as the first Tomcat howl started to fade away, there was a soft thunk — the catapult reaching the end of its running and releasing its aircraft off the forward end of the ship. A second thunk followed quickly, and then a softer noise as the S-3B on the waist cat launched. Then two helos taxied forward to launch spot, shuddered and lurched as they built up rotor speed, then quietly lifted off the deck and slid out over the sea. As soon as they were clear, the second set of Tomcats taxied forward to the cats.
On the tactical screen, the symbols were popping into being superimposed over the symbol for the carrier itself, slowly drifting away from the ship and vectoring in on the contact marked as a hostile surface target. The helos followed behind their faster fixed-wing brethren, but soon the air around the one contact was cluttered with air symbols.