Ben turned and squared his body to her, then he narrowed his eyes. “No, ma’am. I served on the Bonhomme Richard back in the day. Have a lot of good memories of her, and I don’t like the idea of sinking her just so the flyboys can test some new missile.”
Like most sailors, Ben had his superstitions. She’d spent her entire adult life sailing the world’s oceans and understood how the Master Chief felt. A Navy ship imprinted on her sailors’ souls and became a part of their identities. She looked around the bridge, knowing that the Mobile Bay would hold a special place in her heart. Especially after this, her final voyage.
But as an officer, Beth knew that it was also for the greater good. Even after the reckless pilot had endangered her ship and crew the night before, she knew an aircraft carrier was powerless without the aircraft it carried. She didn’t like the idea of sinking a former Navy ship either, but the “new missile” Master Chief referred to would enhance the Navy’s lethality. And they needed it to face off against their future enemies.
“Happens all the time, Master Chief.”
“Still don’t like it, Skipper.”
Beth leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Last summer, I was with the Carl Vinson Strike Group in the Hawaiian Island Operating Area when we sank the decommissioned guided-missile frigate Ingraham.”
“I got no problem with sinking a frigate,” he muttered.
She ignored the comment. “Jets from the carrier and the Third Marine Air Wing combined with Submarine Forces Pacific and the Army Multi-Domain Task Force to sink the ship.”
The Master Chief didn’t roll his eyes, but she could tell he wanted to. “But why does it have to be the Bonhomme Richard?”
She knew the answer to that because she had asked the same question when the admiral gave her their orders. The former Bonhomme Richard was a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship that had been home-ported in San Diego before a fire broke out on a lower vehicle-storage deck while undergoing routine maintenance. After four days of fighting the fire, the ship was scrapped.
“The version of the Joint Strike Missile they are testing has a larger warhead and is designed to penetrate an enemy carrier’s defenses and sink it. They needed a vessel large enough to replicate the Russian Kiev-class and Kuznetsov-class carriers, the latter being the basis for Chinese aircraft carrier design. The former Bonhomme Richard is just under two hundred feet shorter than the former Soviet carrier, Varyag, that was sold to China and recommissioned as the Liaoning.” She grinned, then added, “As my dad used to say, it’s close enough for government work.”
“What about that new Chinese carrier? What are they calling it?”
“The Fujian. Yeah, that thing’s just as big as our Nimitz-class carriers.”
“Will this Joint Strike Missile have any effect on that?”
Beth shrugged. She wasn’t an expert in air-delivered ordnance by any means, but as Alpha Whiskey, she made the effort to read everything she could on anti-ship missiles. “I don’t really know,” she said. “But the Naval Strike Missile delivered the knockout punch on the Ingraham.”
“How’s that different than this?”
“Same missile, pretty much. Raytheon designed the Joint Strike Missile to fit inside the F-35’s internal bay, providing an air-launched weapon capable of attacking both sea and land targets at ranges over one hundred nautical miles.”
A commotion off her left shoulder caught her attention, and Beth looked away from Master Chief to the lieutenant standing Officer of the Deck. She saw him pick up a phone and speak into it before pulling up a chart on the Electronic Chart Display and Information System. When he saw Beth looking at him, he covered the handset and said, “Ma’am, the Coast Guard is sending the cutter Blacktip to Santa Cruz Island for a search and rescue operation.”
“Will they be in our operating area?”
He held up a finger while he quickly plotted the cutter’s location on the chart and compared it to the area where the missile test was to occur. She saw his body relax, then he looked up at her and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Very well. Ask the Coast Guard if they require any assistance. As long as it doesn’t prevent us from completing our primary mission, I’m all for helping the puddle pirates out.” She turned to the Master Chief. “Isn’t the air det scheduled for a gun-ex before range clearance?”
Ben nodded, confirming that they had planned on allowing their helicopter detachment to practice shooting their .50-cal machine guns before clearing the target area. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s go see our airdales and get them prepared to spin up.”
Lieutenant Brian Little stood on the aft flight deck and watched his sailors pull the MH-60R Seahawk helicopter from its resting place in the Mobile Bay’s hangar. What had been an offhanded suggestion by the ship’s captain to prepare for a search and rescue operation had turned into a direct order from their detachment Officer-in-Charge. Whether the Coast Guard wanted the help or not, he would be flying his Romeo over the beach.
“Sir, we still loading the fifties?”
Brian looked at AWR1 Rose, the First Class Petty Officer who had been assigned to his bird for the mission, and grinned. “Maybe we can get a night shoot in,” he said hopefully.
Rose disappeared back into the hangar to collect the gear they would need for the mission. Though they normally flew in support of anti-submarine operations for the strike group, their squadron trained for a wide range of missions. The Raptors of HSM-71, or Helicopter Maritime Strike Squadron Seven One, flew the most advanced helicopter in the fleet, and their aircrewmen were among the best trained in the Navy.
From supporting Naval Special Warfare and Combat Search and Rescue to conducting over-the-horizon anti-surface strikes, the Raptors were prepared for anything. And part of that was because guys like Brian saw the benefit in conducting live-fire training when opportunities presented themselves. This mission would be no different.
Sailors began crawling over the helicopter to prepare it for flight, and Brian turned back into the hangar to get dressed in his gear. As the HAC, or Helicopter Aircraft Commander, he was responsible for ensuring both his bird and his crew were ready for the mission. He spotted Lieutenant junior grade Dillon Bush, his H2P, or Helicopter Second Pilot, and walked up to him.
“I told Rose to go ahead and load the fifties anyway,” Brian said. “If the SAR mission goes nowhere, we might as well get some training out of it.”
Dillon ignored the comment. “So, they’re actually going to send us after some missing hikers?”
“Isn’t this what you signed up for?”
“Honestly, I thought I’d be doing something more exciting.”
Brian slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get suited up. I’m sure we can find some excitement before the night is over.”
32
Almost an hour into their flight, Colt followed Punky’s guidance and steered the Carbon Cub toward the vast and multi-hued green agricultural fields of the Santa Maria valley. Their flight up the coast had been quicker than he expected, and he thought there was still a chance they could make it back to Camarillo before Jug returned from his flight.