“Can you get around the stern of her again?” the copilot said. He leaned forward slightly in his seat, oblivious to the ejection seat straps holding him in place. “Because I think I see — hell!”
“What is it?” Rabies goosed the S-3B up to top speed of four hundred and twenty knots, and everything in the cockpit started rattling.
The copilot yelped, dropped his glasses momentarily, and shot an angry look at Rabies. “She was designed for this speed twenty years ago. Don’t press your luck, asshole.”
Rabies refrained from rejoinder.
“Sir, you’re going to be out of range of the sonobuoys,” the AW in the backseat complained. “I’m already starting to lose contact — damn.”
“Well, it’s not like you were holding contact on anything, was it?” Rabies replied, a practical note in his voice. “That diesel’s gone sinker, and you’re not going to see her until it gets dark.”
“You never know,” the AW muttered darkly. “If she takes a shot at the carrier and we’re not on station — ”
“Our primary mission is to keep an eye on that bastard conceived-in-hell aircraft carrier,” Rabies replied. “And if my beloved copilot wants a closer look at her ass, then that’s where we’re going.”
“Holy shit. I’m not believing this,” the copilot said, stark horror in his voice. “Not the carrier, but the ship next to it. It’s a fucking amphibian transport.”
“What?” demanded Rabies.
“The stern just levered down into a ramp, and seawater’s flooding the back of it. You know what that means, don’t you.”
Rabies nodded glumly. He did indeed. It meant the ship was equipped with a well deck, which meant that she had a covey of nasty little target boats inside of her capable of transporting men and equipment to shore. Easy targets for the most part — the max speed, unless they were hovercraft, was usually well under twenty knots. Not even with a harpoon — he’d get in close and take them with guns.
“Any boats coming out?” Rabies asked.
“Negative. It’ll take them a while to flood the well deck if they’re anything like our transports,” the copilot replied.
Rabies picked up the mike. “Homeplate, this is Dragon Zero Seven,” he said. An answer came back from Jefferson immediately.
“Roger, Jefferson, got a visual on the second big bad boy. My copilot reports that it’s an amphibious transport. The well deck’s flooded — once they get it stabilized, I suspect we’re going to see mama laying some eggs. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Dragon Zero Seven, wait. Out.”
Rabies sighed. Typical of the new Navy. If he had his way, he knew what he’d do — make an approach on the boat immediately and start strafing those little bastards as soon as they got spit out the ass end. Waterborne turds, that’s what they were — might as well kill ’em at sea before they had a chance to make landfall.
He glanced up at the airspace over the carrier and revised his plan. Might not be such a good idea to wander into the middle of that cluster fuck of fighters while he was armed with torpedoes and harpoons. He doubted if any of the nimble MiGs would stand still long enough for him to take them with guns. Still, he was willing to give it a try if Jefferson said so. He’d never had a chance to use the ejection seats in the Viking, and it might be interesting to —
“Dragon Zero Seven, this is Homeplate. Weapons tight — I repeat, weapons tight. Maintain briefed distance and continue observations. We’re sending you out some playmates.”
There were two sighs of relief from the backseat as it became clear that Rabies would not be allowed to enter the airspace around the Chinese aircraft carrier. Even the copilot looked relieved. Rabies’s tendency to shoot first and ask questions later was well-known amongst the community.
Rabies sighed and tapped impatiently on the throttle cluster. “Damn. And I was hoping to be an ace.”
Batman listened to the report from the translator with a grim expression on his face. “A full division crammed inside those amphibs? He was certain? And a submarine in the area, too?”
The translator nodded. “He was certain, Admiral. Especially about the submarine. He’s the equivalent of one of our sonar technicians, and he knows that they’ve anticipated having to deal with at least one U.S. submarine.”
Batman was silent for a moment, then said, “So why’s he talking? Does he think we’ll torture him?”
“As I understand it, he’s planning on asking for political asylum.” The translator pursed his lips for a moment, deep in thought. “As there’s something more that’s motivating him, I’m certain. He kept mentioning a senior pilot by the name of Chan. Chan Li. Evidently this fellow thinks Chan is out to get him.”
“Okay by me,” Batman answered. “I don’t care why he’s talking, as long as he’s talking.” He turned to Bam-Bam. “Get a message to Centurion. She’s been holding contact intermittently on something, and if we give her an exact classification, it’ll help her localize it.”
Lab Rat broke in with, “In these waters, ASW is going to be difficult, sir. Especially near the harbor. The water’s not bad, but the ocean floor is littered with metal. It’s going to be difficult for the airborne assets to depend on their MAD contacts.”
They all fell silent for a moment as history hit home. That the remnants of that gallant fleet on the seabed should make their problem now more difficult seemed cruelly ironic.
“The floor’s charted,” Lab Rat added. “There’s no area that’s been mineswept more thoroughly. That’ll help.” He left unspoken the last thought — it would help, but it might not be enough.
SEVENTEEN
After two hours of humping tie-down chains, watching aircraft, and conducting FOD walk-downs, the four aviators had a new appreciation for the complexity and skill required of the enlisted flight deck technicians. They’d all seen the other ratings in action time and time again, ever since their earliest days in flight training, but they’d never actually had to perform the work themselves. They quickly discovered how very little they actually knew about what goes on behind the scenes.
Hot Rock was taking a break from hauling sonobuoys up from the ammunition locker to the flight deck when he ran into Lobo. He slipped behind the island with her and wiped the sweat off his face. “You always see those guys crashed out just inside the passageways with their headphones still on during flex deck operations. Man, I never realized how tired you got doing this stuff. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” Lobo’s voice was confident, but Hot Rock noticed how she winced as she settled down onto the nonskid next to him. “You’re right, though. It is hard work. Just had a chief order me to get out to the LSO platform and take them some water and some paper cups. You want to go?” Just then the 1MC went off overhead.
“Launch the Alert Five Tomcats, the Alert Five Hornets, and all backup sections. Stand by for full flex deck operations. Green deck; green deck.”
Hot Rock and Lobo scrambled to their feet and dashed toward the island. Hot Rock stopped just short of the hatch, and Lobo crashed into his back. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked angrily.
“You forget — we’re grounded.” Lobo could hear the frustration in his voice. “They’ve got more than enough flight crews for all the aircraft — no way we’re getting on the schedule, not even in a full Alpha strike.”