The Americans intentionally allowed a rumor to leak out about the Bronson. It may have been just a trickle, but it was enough. After all, this was the Cold War, and the order of the day was to scare the living hell out of the other guys. This mere trickle, though, opened up the floodgates within the Communist world. With orders from the General Secretary, the Office of the KGB and Internal Affairs Office of the Kremlin had formed a special task unit of their most talented and cerebral individuals. Their assignment was to organize plans for the capture of the Bronson and her technology. A few select Party members knew the Bronson to be more than just rumor, and leaving their options open, let the decision that had been made go forward. The Communist leadership had no other alternative but to activate Russia's mole, and the USS Bronson would be his objective.
The nuclear carrier USS John Preston, a Kitty Hawk Class ship, carried with her 2,800 crew members, an additional 2,500 men from the five air wings out of North Island Naval Air Station, Marine aviators from Twenty-Nine Palms, and 72 Marines. Her after flight deck, starboard deck, and hangar bay were covered with diverse types of aircraft grouped in tight formation: F-14 Tomcats; A-6 Intruders; EA-6B Prowlers; F-4 Phantoms, and A-7 Crusaders. Four Navy E-2-C Hawkeyes were disbursed above and below deck, along with a variety of helicopters, including: CH-53 Sea Stallion Marine assault helos; SH-3G Sea King rescue choppers, and LAMPS' SH-2F ASW choppers. All these accounted for the 80 aircraft aboard the Preston.
Air crewmen and plane captains wandered through the rows to ensure the aircraft were ready for flight. With flight deck space as much at a premium as property in Malibu, aircraft wingtips were folded upward or arranged one over the other.
Making a visual inspection of the flight deck one last time from "Vulture's Row", Commander Dean Morehouse, CAG (Commander of the Air Group), gulped down the last, cold mouthful of his second cup of coffee. He stepped back into the Roost, the cramped area jutting out of the superstructure on the port side, just aft of the bridge. It was from this vantage point that he, the Air Boss and Assistant Air Boss watched and directed launches and landings. He tossed his worn leather flight jacket over the arm of the swivel chair, then rolled down the neck of his yellow pullover jersey, the three inch black stenciled letters "CAG" visible across the back and chest.
"Colder than hell, huh, CAG?" Marty Whitney clattered his teeth together and grinned. On his first cruise as Assistant Air Boss, Whitney still proudly displayed his yellow jersey with the words 'Li'l Boss.'
"Damn right, it is," Dean shivered, "colder than a witch's tit. Expect it's gonna be colder before daybreak."
The past three days the 'Siberian Express' had been blasting across the North Pacific, but luckily this night saw calm seas with little surface wind, which was uncharacteristic for the Pacific in January. But it was a good night for flying.
Morehouse glanced upward at a golden moon and partly cloudy sky. Reality told him the peacefulness around him was a facade — all was not well with the world.
"Another cup of coffee, Mr. Morehouse?" asked Navy Steward Mindina, as he held up the Wardroom's sterling silver coffeepot. Mindina was noted for being the most meticulous steward ever stationed aboard the Preston. His white uniform jacket was always impeccable. Most of his lessons came early on in life. Growing up in Manila with a household filled with nine children, he being the oldest, his mother and father ensured that all of them were prepared for life.
"Thanks, Edward," CAG smiled as he held out his white ceramic cup. The steam from the hot coffee briefly fogged up his steel-rimmed glasses as he took a sip of the hot brew. The natural oil from the beans floated on the surface of the dark brown liquid, and he stared into the cup. "Good stuff, Edward," he chuckled as he turned away, mumbling to himself, "That's some ass-kickin' shit!"
Morehouse walked forward to the bridge, glancing at the Air Boss Captain (Select) Craig Dodson, who was being his usual, jittery self. Morehouse smiled. Dodson was acting more and more like a grandmother nervously watching over grandchildren left in her care. As Air Boss he was the key safety officer, the flight controller, ultimately having final responsibility for the launching and receiving of all aircraft. One sleeve of Dodson's yellow jersey was pushed up to his elbow, revealing a white grease pencil tucked under the stainless steel band of his Rolex.
CAG admitted it was times like these when he felt the same nervousness. With just the sheer number of men and aircraft, the experienced sailor knew that the likelihood of an accident was probable, loss of life likely. Every ninety seconds a plane is launched off each of the four cats. In the blink of an eye, it would only take one mistake, oversight, or a moment of carelessness, and a life would be snuffed out. A careless sailor, not paying attention, would end up 'hamburger meat' in the intake of a jet aircraft or blown over the side by powerful engine blasts. The strong current surging against this 1,000 foot vessel, all but assured certain death.
And to pilots flying at 10,000 feet, a four-acre, rolling, pitching flight deck looks like a postage stamp. The odds of an accident increases during night traps, as pilots lose their visual references because of their inability to see the horizon or the ocean. The only visible lights are tiny white lights, recessed in the deck and spaced apart every eight feet, lighting up the center of the landing area, with yellow lights running down each side. Pilots can only see the lights once they approached the carrier from the fantail. A miscalculation can send a multi-million dollar jet aircraft careening into the fantail, or "ass end" in Navy talk.
Morehouse sipped at his coffee as he returned to the Roost. Tapping his grease pencil against the window, he looked toward the horizon, waiting for any sign. That corner of the glass was clean now, all previous black marks removed, marks that helped him keep track of the earlier flights; he knew the exact position of his 'birds', the F-14 Tomcats. He thought about all the planes, all the flights he'd been associated with. There was pride and satisfaction knowing that he never lost a plane or crew member since reporting for duty aboard the Preston a year and a half ago. Four months of the cruise were already gone. He couldn't believe his tour was almost over, and in Navy terms, that meant he was getting short.
He remembered another carrier, four years earlier, when planes and men were lost daily, never to return from Southeast Asia. His recollections of that time brought back feelings of failure. He failed at his job, failed his men, unable to bring all of them home. Four years seemed like a lifetime ago.
Now, he was 2,400 miles from the waters off Vietnam and cruising fifty miles off the northeast coast of Japan, waiting for final orders that would send the fleet into the Sea of Japan. This time, instead of fighting in a war, the Navy was trying to prevent what could turn out to be a nuclear holocaust. The tension associated with the crisis was impossible to ignore, as it touched every man in the task force in one way or other.
Snapping to attention, a boatswain's mate announced the Captain's arrival. "Captain's on the bridge, sir!"
Captain Mike Donovan nodded, "Gentlemen." Donovan's Marine escort followed closely behind, immediately taking his position next to the door, standing at attention.
CAG turned and walked back onto the bridge. "Evening, Captain." Air Boss Dodson nodded with his typical unsmiling fashion, "Captain." He resumed his pacing.
Mike Donovan glanced at the stocky-framed Air Boss, thinking back when he held that same position and how much he had despised the ulcerous assignment. Yet, here he was with his first command of a carrier. The only other person on the carrier that was senior to him was Admiral Stanton Hewlett, whose only assignment was to ensure the task force completed its mission. It was Admiral Hewlett's flag the carrier was flying on this cruise.