“Any more from Providence, sir?” asked the air boss, Commander Chilvers.
“No, just the emergency signal,” responded Captain Kiely, the skipper of the 100,000-ton aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70).
“What’s your plan, sir?”
The Captain turned to Commander Chilvers, the commander of the carrier’s air wing, Air-Wing 15. Chilvers’ himself had been a pilot for a number of years, but now commanded over ninety aircraft from the ‘Island’ as opposed to in the air.
“I’ve despatched a destroyer, that’s all I can do for now. I can’t release anyone else. We have the convoy to protect as well as our next mission once we’re released from this babysitting duty.”
“Not sure how many would have made it without us sir. They’ve pulled out all the stops to get submarines in the vicinity to interrupt our progress.”
“At a price, Kyle. We’ve killed two of them.”
“And a possible.”
“Yes, but that one worries me. Let’s hope to God it’s on the bottom somewhere.”
“And we don’t know what kills Providence has under her belt.”
“Losing that fuel tanker was bad news.”
“We’ll need to be on the alert for some more. If Providence has intercepted more of our Soviet comrades, we could have visitors very soon.”
F/A-18 Hornets blasted their way down the flight deck, joining the squadron that was forming up. They would provide a Combat Air Patrol for the ground-strike force that was also in the process of forming up. Two Tomcats would also be sent up to protect the ever-growing array of aircraft circling above. It wasn’t only submarines that the Soviets were sending to prevent the US convoy from reaching its destination, bringing badly needed supplies, equipment and men to the European continent to help stem the Warsaw Pact tide. Long-range Soviet bombers would also be out hunting.
“What have we got up at the moment — for subs, that is?”
“The usual, sir, but I’ve sent two Vikings fifty miles astern. Have a sneak around for any sign of subs trying to creep up on us.”
“Good. We’ve been promised some air cover from the mainland. The Brits have promised us two or three of their Nimrod anti-submarine aircraft.”
“Good, that will take some pressure off the Vikings.”
“Tomorrow, we go through a full debrief of your air group. Once they’ve completed their mission, that is. The convoy will be ready to go any day soon, so the escort needs to be ready for the return journey.”
“My boys will be ready, sir, don’t you worry about that.”
“I know, Kyle. Right, I’ll leave you to watch over your fledglings. By the way, how are the two new boys doing?”
“Fine, sir. Both have good scores on the greenie board so far.”
“Great. Leave you to it.”
The captain left the CAG to control his air ops and headed for the bridge, high up on the ‘Island’ between the flag bridge below and the Primary Flight Control level above it. He passed through an entryway hatch, turning right, stepping over a ‘knee-knocker’, a tall step over one of the many structural members that gave the Vinson its structural integrity. Then he made his way down the narrow corridor, crew coming from the opposite direction stepping aside to allow their captain to pass by freely. The captain clattered down a set of long metal steps taking him to level-09 where he was able to enter his domain, the bridge.
On the port side, the left of the bridge was his elevated leather seat, currently occupied by his Executive Officer, Commander Chuck Summers. The XO went to rise and give up the seat but was waved back down by his commander.
“All quiet, Chuck?”
“For the moment, sir. I’ll feel better when we get some air cover from the land bases.”
“Me too. Our jet jockeys need to be able to slow the tempo if the Aircraft Maintenance Division are to get on top of the backlog of repairs that are building up.”
“Will they have breathing space after the mission?”
“Twenty-four hours, tops. Once we are out of range of the land bases, we’ll need twenty-four-hour top cover again.” He cast his eye over the computer screens that flanked the captain’s chair. All looked to be in order. Over to the starboard side, stood the wheel, chart table, and the conning stations. Lookouts stood peering through their binoculars, backing up the electronic aids that provided the captain with an electronic picture of the surrounding area. “I want to go through the convoy return plans again later today.”
“You worried, sir?”
The captain took off his dark blue baseball cap, bought by his wife for his forty-fifth birthday, and brushed his fingers through his brown but slowly greying hair. Placing his cap back on, he responded, “Our air wing is primarily for defence, Chuck, not attack. Certainly not attacking land-based targets.”
“Our boys on the ground are putting up a pretty good fight by all accounts, but are getting hit damn hard. A bit of help from us won’t go amiss.”
“I know that, Chuck, dammit. Sorry. You saw the last report. The Soviets are right up against the Fulda Gap. If we can’t support our troops on the ground then the enemy could be at the gates of Frankfurt in less than three days. But air-to-ground strikes are not our forte.”
“Kyle’s boys will do the job, sir.”
A young lieutenant interrupted their conversation. “The escort group has a possible sighting, sir.”
“Bearing?”
“One-Nine-Two, fifteen miles, sir.”
“Right, Chuck, you still have the con. I’m going down to the CDC.”
Chapter 7
Lieutenant Hendricks could feel the perspiration running down his back. The inside of the tank suddenly felt stifling, and there was a huge desire to tear off his MOPP suit. They were at MOPP Level 2 — suits and boots on, gloves and Pro-Mask carried. Although taking his gloves on and off was such a pain in the ass, he’d decided to keep them on. The nuclear and chemical protective suit just added another layer, its bulk preventing the heat that was building up inside from escaping. He wasn’t scared, but there was a heavy feeling of apprehension tugging at his mind. His hands inside his rubber gloves were clammy with sweat. However, he relaxed slightly once he realised he had been clenching and unclenching his hands, forming tight fists as his mind raced.
He started as he heard shells flying overhead, their target the US troops, a company dug in 500 metres further back. Peering through the scope, he watched another Cobra swoop in, drop down below treetop level; then, having been given information by one of the OH-58 spotter helicopters, it popped back up and launched a missile. He watched helicopters progress before it flew to the rear again.
“Tango-One-One, Tango Zero. Enemy four kilometres out. The flyboys tell us that the poor ground is causing them to bunch. Give them hell. Out.”
“Company HQ say they’re getting close, boys. Four thousand metres. Keep focussed, everyone. Malone, you OK up front?” Queried Lieutenant Hendricks.
“Sure, LT. Just let me know when to move, and I’ll have this baby relocated like a shot.”
“Good. Tate?”
“Yessir. Popov’s not getting past us today,” responded Tate, his gunner.
“We’re the best. We’re the Spearhead Division. Right, LT?” added Orfila, his loader.
“You’re right about that. Just keep those rounds coming.”
“Tango-One-One, Tango-Zero. Incoming friendlies. Out.”