Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 23

Bien ran his hands over his face, trying to erase the tiredness he was sure showed there. Mein Low’s comments had kept him tossing half the night. Participating in the Chinese strike on the American battle group was unacceptable, yet the plan he’d presented to the American ambassador was almost as risky. He’d awoken at 0400 and finally decided to go to the Operations Center. It was better than lying in bed worrying.

After two hours of paperwork and staring at charts, he’d heard Mein Low’s grating voice in the hallway outside his office. Seconds later, the Chinese commander had entered his office without knocking, and was now helping himself to tea from the hot plate on Bien’s credenza. And using Bien’s own mug. Now, settled into a chair on the other side of the room, Mein Low fixed his Vietnamese counterpart with a cold glare.

“You have two choices,” Mein Low said. His voice carried no inflection to betray the least bit of emotion or weakness. “You may either execute this plan as I have given it to you, or I will have you shot. I will proceed thusly through your subordinates until I find one officer capable of obeying orders. And should anyone disobey me while we are in the air, my deputy here in the center will execute your men. Is that clear to you?”

Bien stared at the small Chinese general. So it finally comes to this. Even though I have warned Ngyugen, and set all the necessary plans in place, it is actually happening. Odd that I never really believed it would — that I never understood how eternal and deadly the Chinese drive for dominance is.

Aware that the man was waiting for an answer, Bien nodded abruptly. “We will follow your plan.”

“Eagerly, I hope.” The commander’s demeanor thawed slightly. “After all, it is to your advantage as well to have the Americans out of the South China Sea. Your country, of all those in this region, should understand how devastating American attempts to intervene in Asian affairs are.”

Again, Bien nodded. And China is a more merciful alternative?

“As you see from the plans, your Flankers and Foxbats will lead the attack on the carrier. It is our wish to allow Vietnam her rightful place as a leader in the region, and since the battle group is closer to your coast than our islands, we decided it was only appropriate that your aircraft lead the strike. Much glory will accrue to you and your pilots if you succeed in making the first direct strike on the American battle group.” Mein Low smiled. “My forces will be immediately behind yours, to provide second strike capability as well as vectoring and surveillance services.”

“We are, of course, honored at your trust,” Bien said smoothly, masking his feelings behind a bland expression. Although you have neglected to mention the real reason for placing us in the front — to make sure that we do not waiver in our determination. With the Americans in front of us and the Chinese behind us, we are truly left with no alternatives. As soon as the Americans see the raid inbound, they will use their surface-to-air missiles. Undoubtedly our faithful allies hope to use my forces as a missile sponge. Once the American fighters engage, the Americans cannot risk their shipboard weaponry. There will be too much danger of hitting their own aircraft. “And your Flankers,” Bien continued. “What will their weapons loadout be?”

“Not just Flankers,” the Chinese commander said deliberately. “In a gesture of friendship, we will be augmenting our normal complement of Flankers with our most advanced aircraft. My own personal aircraft, the F-10, is being flown south as we speak. I have had the responsibility for developing and testing it, and I will now provide its worth in a strike. The details of weapons loadout and fueling will be handled by our crews, as always.” He shot a sharp, searching glance at Bien. “We will both fly this mission, of course. There is no other way to lead men except from in front. We launch in twelve hours. Our planes are ready now. Make sure yours are as well.”

Tombstone studied the satellite picture that had been faxed to the carrier from the NSA over secure, highly encrypted circuits. “Looks like they’re getting ready to launch,” he said.

The IS, a photo-interpretation specialist, nodded. “That would be my call, Admiral. How long will it take to get all those aircraft in the air?”

Tombstone studied the massed formations of aircraft. “If they space them at thirty seconds apart, almost an hour. Drop it down to ten-second intervals, and you’re looking at twenty minutes. They’re going to wait until at least half of them are airborne, maybe all of them, mass up into a strike force, and then head our way. We’ve got a little time — not much, but enough.”

“Guess we got pretty lucky, getting them to launch just when we’ve got satellite coverage in the area,” the IS said, smiling. “Makes this job a lot easier when you get good data points.”

“It might be luck, son. But it might just be something else as well,” Tombstone said gravely. “Sometimes you create your own luck by playing on the other fellow’s perceptions, feeding him misinformation.”

“Is that what happened today?” the IS asked, surprised.

“I can’t tell you. But there’s one thing you probably already know. Commander Busby is one hell of a fine intelligence officer.”

“We know that, sir,” the IS said. “A little paranoid sometimes, maybe, but you gotta like that in an intelligence officer.”

“I know I do,” Tombstone murmured as he reached for the bitch box toggle switch. “TFCC, this is Magruder. Get those JAST birds in the air, and launch the alert EA-6B Prowlers. Make sure everyone down south is tanked to the gills. I want them bustering back up here. Chinese raid is inbound now!”

As Tombstone pulled open the door and strode down that passageway back to TFCC, he could hear the Prowlers’engines spooling up to full military power. Within thirty seconds, the train-rattling sounds of catapults lumbering forward shook the overhead, ending in the gentle thump that signaled another aircraft airborne. Moments later, a second and then a third Prowler took to the skies. It was time for the second phase of the plan to begin.

Eighty aircraft ringed the airfield, their engines turning as the pilots performed preflight checks. The air around the field shimmered as unburned fuel floated through the air. The rain yesterday had left the ground around the strip soggy, and the hot, humid air seemed to concentrate the fumes. Red streaks of dirt crisscrossed the runway, evidence of the maintenance truck’s trips out to the waiting aircraft.

Poised at the end of the runway, ten Vietnamese Flankers and sixteen MiG-23’s followed a similar routine. The roar of their jet engines igniting was completely drowned out by the larger Chinese force. Even though both countries were flying the same airframes, Bien thought he could tell the difference between the Chinese engines and those of his own country’s aircraft.

Bien circled his silent aircraft, preflighting the exterior by checking that each panel was dogged down tight, that there were no leaks or unexplained puddles of liquid around the jet, and that the tires and landing gear appeared to be in good repair. He then climbed into the cockpit and began going through the preflight checklist automatically. His earlier confidence had gradually eroded into a numb certainty that this was his last flight. The familiar details of preflight steadied him.

He glanced down to the last aircraft to start its engines. Mein Low had walked out to the airfield with Bien, then broken off to head for his aircraft without even a word of good luck. Now the five F-10’s, sleek and deadly, shimmered in the heat waves coming up off the tarmac.

At last, Bien started his Flanker’s engines. The engines spooled up, slowly at first, then the RPMs rising quickly as the stator gained momentum and overcame initial mechanical friction. The sound slid up octaves in seconds, and had soon picked up enough harmonics and undertones to be the normal full-throated scream of raw power.

His radio popped and crackled for a moment, then began spitting out permission for the Vietnamese fighters to launch. Bien led the two squadrons into the air. He quickly ascended to four thousand feet, and then began orbiting, waiting for the rest of his squadrons to join on him. He heard the voice on the radio change, and the language shift from Vietnamese to Chinese. He could see the Chinese fighters beginning their roll-out, rotation, and initial climb. The Chinese squadrons were joining up to the south of the airfield, the Vietnamese ones to the north. Evidently the spirit of brotherly cooperation did not extend to sharing airspace.

Finally, the signal came, first in Chinese then repeated in Vietnamese. Bien turned east, increasing his speed to 420 knots and climbing to seven thousand feet. His wingman bobbled for a moment and then settled down to his left, and the rest of the circling wolf pack of fighters broke into their respective flights. Behind them, the Chinese were settling into the fighting formation that Bien had seen entirely too many times in the last five months.

Seventy miles to the east, the American battle group waited.

“Well, will you look at that?” Tomboy said softly.

“Got them?” Batman asked.

“You betcha. Looks like about eighteen — no, make it closer to twenty-five high-speed contacts leaving the coast. Tight formation. Any other bird, it’d be difficult to break them out in this soup.” She twiddled with the radar, tweaking and peaking. “But I got them — oh, yeah, do I got them!”

“Best we wake Mother up, then,” Batman said, a tight note creeping into his voice. “I think we might just back up off the front line a little, too. At least until our posse arrives.”

“Concur. We just did our job at the OK Corral.”

“Homeplate, this is Doc Holliday,” Tomboy said into the mike. “Suggest you wake up Wyatt Earp.”

Wyatt Earp could have done with snipers, Tombstone thought, staring at the TFCC screen and waiting for the air battle to unfold. Snipers provide a force multiplier that can’t be beat. If a year at the Naval War College had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that operational planning was the key to winning an engagement. Define the desired end state, and plan for that state to exist. We studied enough military history and strategy planning to have a variety of examples, both good and bad.

The shoot-out at the OK Corral and the Peloponnesian wars. It was a combination that he didn’t think had even occurred to his professors.

“Could be another feint,” Batman said neutrally.

“Not with that many aircraft,” Tombstone said. “It’s gone on too long. We’ve held off long enough to convince them that we’re lulled. They’ll take advantage of our complacency. They’re convinced now.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“Neither can they. But look at it from their point of view. We haven’t reacted to the last two probes. In this sea state, they’re going to feel a little more confident that their submarine can get in close, and that our radar may be degraded. They’ve got to know that we’re tired, and they’re launching so that the sun will be in our eyes when we intercept them.”

“I almost hope so, for the aircrew’s sake. They can’t take much more of this, Tombstone.”

Tombstone shot his old wingman a hard look. “You think I don’t know what they’re going through? It hasn’t been that long, Batman, since you and I were pulling alert five.”

“We never pulled this many in a row, shipmate — not on top of normal operations.”

“I know that. But there was no other way. I know this air wing. They’re tired, but they can do it.”

“I hope you’re right, my friend,” Batman said softly to himself. “Because if you’re not — the options become unacceptable real fast.”

“As long as the Vietnamese do their part,” Tombstone said. “Feels really strange, depending on them.”

“You’re the one who’s always telling me that war is more than blowing aircraft out of the sky.”

“Let’s just hope the politicians understand that part of it. Because if they didn’t, that’s all this is going to amount to.”

“That’s it!” the TAO shouted. “Admiral, you were right! Tomcat’s reporting numerous fighters inbound!”

“TAO, get a raid count from that Tomcat,” Tombstone said quietly, ignoring the jolt of adrenaline flooding his body.

“Gunslinger 101 estimates ninety aircraft, Admiral,” the TAO replied. “Feet wet off the coast of Vietnam five minutes ago. Air boss requests permission to set flight quarters.”

“Do it,” Tombstone ordered. “And tell him I expect to see a new record set on launching the alert CAP.”

Ten seconds later, the thunderous roar of a Tomcat at full military power shook the space. Tombstone glanced at the CCTV and saw the afterburners light the deck in an eerie hell-like fire. Five seconds later, the catapult sang its rattling song, ramming forward to toss the first alert fighter off the deck.

The carrier shook with the differing rhythms, as a forward catapult, followed by the waist cat, then the other forward catapult launched the alert package. For ten minutes, the refrain was Tomcats. The lighter-voiced scream of the Hornets picked up the second verse, followed by the rumble of a KA-6 tanker.

Within twenty minutes, the carrier felt eerily silent, the last of the alert aircraft launched. Overhead, he could hear the odd rattlings and vibrations that came from aircraft being moved around the deck in preparation for normal launch.

Tombstone felt strangely disconnected from the battle. Unlike every other time in his career, this time he’d be following it on the communications net and from the radar screen instead of in the air. His hands curled, missing the feel of the vibrating throttle beneath them. Watching red symbols track across a screen was a poor substitute for the actual sight of the enemy raid.

Over the tactical net, he could hear the Hornet pilots snapping at each other, chivvying to be the first in line to top off from the tanker and get into the fight. The longer-legged Tomcats were already underway to the fight. Had he been able to come up with an excuse — any decent excuse would have done — he’d have been up there with them. But, as CAG had reminded him, it was time to turn the fight over to better eyes, faster reflexes, and the next generation. His place was here on the ship. The harder job, perhaps, except for the dying — watching it instead of doing it.

“Admiral! S-3 SUCAP reports a visual on a periscope!” the flag TAO said. “Where?” he demanded.

“Thirty miles to the east, sir. DESRON is vectoring them in for the intercept.” The TAO paused, and a frown crossed his face. “Lost it. It went sinker as soon as the S-3 got overhead.”

“I’ll save DESRON the trouble of asking the next question. Tell that Viking he’s weapons free, and to watch out for those Grails,” Tombstone said immediately. The TAO nodded, and passed the word up five decks to the DESRON.

If he’d had any doubts about the Chinese intentions, the sudden appearance of the submarine had cured them. No matter whether it was a Kilo or a Han-class boat, it had just surfaced for the last time.

CHAPTER 24

Thursday, 4 July

1815 hours (Zulu -7)

Handler’s Office USS Jefferson

Good hunting, Lieutenant,” Chief Franklin said.

“Thanks, Chief,” Bird Dog said absently, his mind already forty feet away in the cockpit of the Tomcat. He scribbled his name in the maintenance log, acknowledging he’d read the “gripes,” the maintenance action forms, filed in the compact folder. He patted himself over one time, carefully checking that he had his water bottle, candy bar, gun, and all the other paraphernalia that pilots tucked into the pockets of their flight suit. He gave the crotch straps on the ejection harness one last tug to tighten them. As dangerous as ejection could be, loose straps could result in permanent damage.

He pushed open the hatch and felt the heat and the noise of the flight deck assault him. He scanned the deck and found Tomcat 205 waiting near the handler’s shack. The plane captain, a slim, coverall-clad figure, was dogging down one last panel.

Shaughnessy! Bird Dog stormed back into the handler’s office. Chief Franklin was still there, leaning on the counter and chatting with the handler.

“Chief! What’s she doing on my aircraft?” Bird Dog demanded.

Chief Franklin slowly straightened up, and his face lost all expression. “She’s preflighting, Lieutenant. Plane captains have their own routine for certifying the aircraft safe for flight.”

“I know what a plane captain does, damn it! What’s she doing on my aircraft?”

“Take it outside, gentlemen,” the handler said abruptly. “We’ve got work to do in here.”

Bird Dog followed Chief Franklin out of the shack and around behind it. The massive bulk of the island masked part of the screaming jet noise and made conversation in normal tones of voice almost possible.

“I don’t want her on my Tomcat,” Bird Dog said. “And I’m surprised you’d even consider it, Chief. What the hell were you thinking? Putting a plane captain that I’m sending to captain’s mast on my aircraft?”

“What I’m thinking, Lieutenant, is that you are one arrogant, ignorant son of a bitch,” the chief said. “Who the hell are you? You really think that girl would do something to your aircraft just because you assigned her some extra duty? If that’s the way you think of these plane captains, you better find a new career. Because today, and every day that you fly, you’re going to be depending on those people for your life.”

“You’ve got other plane captains!”

“And let me tell you something else. Yes, I do have other plane captains. But Shaughnessy is the best damn one of the lot. You’re the most inexperienced pilot in this squadron, sir. I don’t know whether you or the plane captain missed that hydraulic leak a couple of days ago. What I do know is that it killed a sailor. Given that, what makes sense to me is to put my best sailor on the job to make sure you don’t fry your young ass or kill someone else in the process. And if you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with the Maintenance Officer. Sir.” The chief turned abruptly and stalked away.

Bird Dog stared after him for a moment, and then started after him. As he reentered the Handler’s office, he saw Chief Franklin’s broad back disappearing down the passageway. He started after him.

“Lieutenant!” the Handler said sharply. “You’ve got a mission to fly. I suggest you get your ass out to that aircraft before your event gets canceled. And get your head in the game. You got problems with your chief, you leave them down in your Branch spaces. Don’t be airing your dirty laundry up here.”

Jesus, was everybody in the whole air wing out to ream him today? Bird Dog stopped short of snapping out an angry response and nodded abruptly. There was some truth to what the Handler said. Always, the mission came first.

He turned and headed for the hatch again, ready to start his preflights. He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of the slim figure framed by the entrance.

Shaughnessy. How long had she been standing there? He glared at her. Everything that had gone wrong so far had been her fault. If she’d just worn her cranial on the flight deck like she was supposed to …

“Just coming in to sign your aircraft out as safe for flight, sir,” she said. Her voice sounded tight. “Could I have the MAF, please?”

The Handler slid the multipart form across the desk to her. She ran her eyes down it and then scrawled her signature across the bottom. “Your aircraft, sir.” She started toward the hatch.

“Shaughnessy-” Bird Dog started.

“Sir. Excuse me, but I’ve got three other aircraft to preflight,” she said, finally looking up at him. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her face looked thinner than it had the last time he’d held quarters inspection. “Could it wait?”

“Of course,” he said finally. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

She nodded abruptly and led the way out to the aircraft. As Gator and Bird Dog performed their preflights, she followed them around the aircraft, occasionally double-checking a panel fixture or wiping a smudge off the fuselage.

Finally, Bird Dog clambered up into the cockpit, and Gator followed. Once they were seated, Shaughnessy followed them up, stepping carefully on the pull-out steps on the fuselage. She checked to see that the ejection seat pins had been removed, and double-checked the ejection harness connections to the seat. Finally satisfied, she gave both of them a weary nod. “Good flight, sirs,” she said, fixing her eyes on Gator.

Gator waited until the canopy slid into place and then said, “Sometimes you can be a real asshole, Bird Dog.”

“Seems to be the unanimous opinion today,” the pilot snapped. “You want to go fly or you want to share more of your exciting insights with me?”

Gator sighed. “Let’s just get airborne, Bird Dog. At least I know that you know how to do that.”

Bird Dog taxied forward, following the Yellow Shirt’s hand signals and carefully sliding the Tomcat into position on the catapult. Halfway to the catapult, the fear hit him again. He was so tired — oh, Jesus, was he tired! Two days of flight-deck operations, launching alert aircraft every time the Chinese sortied, struggling to get back on board the pitching deck at night, fighting not to think about the monster that grew larger every day! It was past the point of mere preference and into the issue of safety. Even the surge of adrenaline that had hit him when he’d heard about the inbound raid had faded away to a dull, aching jangle of nerves. Had Airman Alvarez been this tired when he’d wandered behind the Tomcat that night? What had it been like — to be so tired he hadn’t seen the danger, so tired he hadn’t noticed the screaming F14 turning on the deck? Alvarez would have been thinking about his rack, six decks below, calling to him. Maybe he’d even felt a momentary gleam of hope — Bird Dog’s event was one of the last to launch, and Alvarez could have looked forward to perhaps almost an hour of unconsciousness before he’d have been called back onto the flight deck to start recovering aircraft. Not in his rack, no. Not with that many aircraft airborne, due back on deck too soon. Alvarez probably would have simply gone down one deck and stretched out full-length in one of the passageways that crisscrossed the interior of the carrier like a maze.

When did he realize what had happened? When the jet’s sucking pull first hit him? The second his feet left the deck? Or had it taken a few milliseconds, long enough for him to come fully awake only as he was hurtling through the air, suspended in the air between the ship and the jet engine?

How many times had he stepped over the exhausted plane captains lining the passageways? Cursed as he tripped over a sound-powered telephone cord stretched across the linoleum to an outlet, the earphones still clamped firmly to the plane captain’s head? Had he ever even stopped to think that the flight deck crews had no mandated crew rest requirements between flights, or that too few of his fellow officers ever gave a thought to the countless bone-tired enlisted people it took to get the elite aircrews off the deck?

“Bird Dog! They gonna start charging us rent, man,” his RIO said into the ICS.

Bird Dog was suddenly aware of the waving green lights in front of him. The Yellow Shirt was motioning frantically for him to move forward, to clear the way for the next aircraft.

Was he safe to fly? Bird Dog hesitated, and then slowly eased the throttle forward. He held the image of Alvarez’s face before him for a moment, then forced it back into the compartment of his mind that held everything not associated with the immediate mission.

Suddenly, a figure darted across the flight deck toward the catapult. Lights flashed red as the air boss called a foul deck. Bird Dog craned his neck to try to see what poor fool had just incurred the wrath of the tower.

For the third time in the last hour, he choked on Shaughnessy’s name. What in the hell was she doing now! She’d already formally certified the Tomcat as safe for flight and turned over responsibility to the Yellow Shirt and the pilot.

The young airman was pointing at the left side of his Tomcat and making jerking motions with her hands. The Yellow Shirt shook his head no. The airman put both hands on her hips and leaned forward, standing close and screaming in the senior petty officer’s ear to be heard over the noise. The Yellow Shirt shrugged, then nodded. Bird dog saw his lips move as he spoke with someone on the flight deck circuit. Finally, he looked back up at Bird Dog and shook his head from side to side.

Enraged, Bird Dog began demanding answers. “Your aircraft is down,” the Handler replied. “You might have a control surface problem — we want to get it checked out. You need to move back off the cat.”

“Damn it, this aircraft is fine!” Bird Dog yelled. “It feels fine! Don’t you think I’d know if I had a control surface problem? Look!” He cycled the stick again.

“Off the cat, mister,” the Air Boss snapped. “You want to argue, you come up here and see me!”

Bird Dog swore and backed the Tomcat off the catapult. He taxied back to the spot and shut down. He jammed the canopy back and vaulted out of the aircraft, ignoring the steps and welcoming the hard shock of hitting the deck.

“What the hell are you doing!” he swore at the plane captain. “This your idea of revenge? You just bought your ass another trip to Captain’s Mast!”

Airman Shaughnessy ignored him. From the handler’s shack, Chief Franklin came over at a trot and interposed himself between the pilot and the plane captain. Bird Dog tried to get around him, but the chief grabbed Bird Dog’s shoulder and slammed him up against a buffer, shouting, “Hold still, you arrogant son of a bitch!”

Bird Dog watched Shaughnessy pop one panel open, then another. She hauled herself up to the fuselage, and the upper portion of her torso disappeared into the airframe, leaving only her legs sticking out. For the briefest second, Bird Dog remembered how Alvarez had looked as he disappeared into the sucking maw of the jet engine. He shuddered, part of his anger dissipated by the horrendous memory.

Gator stood by the half-visible airman, talking to her as she rummaged around in the guts of the hydraulics system, electrical lines, and avionics that controlled the Tomcat. Finally, even over the shriek of the flight deck noise, Bird Dog heard her exclaim, “Got it!” Her butt wiggled as she backed herself out of the airframe. Gator caught her waist and helped her lower herself gently down to the deck.

Her eyes shining with triumph, Shaughnessy held up her prize. Clutched in her left hand was a wrench. “It was jammed up next to the actuator, Chief!” she said excitedly. “When I saw 205 cycling on the cat, something looked funny to me. You know how it is, you get familiar with how your birds look. Just as the surface dropped, I thought I saw a little hitch. Kind of a bobble, just like a second or two when it wasn’t traveling smoothly.”

The chief nodded. “Couldn’t have caught it in your preflight, though. And if that bird had launched with it, there’s a damned good chance those control surfaces wouldn’t have responded when the lieutenant tried to level out after his climb. He would have been stuck at full flaps — rolled over on his back, and come right back down onto the flight deck!”

And, sir,” he added, meeting Bird Dog’s eyes with open challenge on his face, “you probably wouldn’t have gotten out.”

Bird Dog turned pale as the full implication of Shaughnessy’s find sunk in. “I didn’t know,” he said finally.

Gator put one hand on the airman’s shoulder. “That was damned fine work, and one of the sharpest problem catches I’ve ever seen. Thanks. You made a big difference today.”

Shaughnessy nodded, her eyes suddenly bright. “It’s my bird most of the time, sir,” she said to the RIO, carefully avoiding looking at the pilot. “It’s only yours when it’s in the air.”

“True enough. Would you please preflight this turkey again so we can get back onto the cat?” Gator asked.

“Sure thing, sir. It’s your bird in five minutes.” She darted off to get another MAF.

“And you,” Gator said, turning to Bird Dog, “really screwed the pooch this time, asshole. The only way you could make matters worse right now is if you don’t put this outside the cockpit and fly this damned mission as hot and tight as you’ve ever flown one. You owe these people that much.”

Sun flashed off the nose of the Tomcat, leaving red specks flickering in his vision. Bird Dog blinked and waited for his vision to clear before easing the throttle forward.

Flying — any sort of flying — would have also let him escape his thoughts for a while to concentrate on the almost-reflexive actions of bonding with the Tomcat. Sitting on the flight deck, with only Gator and the chatter on the flight deck circuit for company, it was too hard to escape thinking about the Chief’s words.

Arrogant, was he? He tried to summon up the anger he’d felt when the Chief said that, but all he could feel was embarrassment. Shaughnessy had just saved his life by catching the control surface problem. Bird Dog shifted uneasily, telling himself that it was the stiff new lumbar support pad that caused it.

Sure, he’d made some assumptions about his enlisted troops, probably some that weren’t entirely fair. But hadn’t they taught him that in Aviation Officer’s Candidate School? That it was up to him to supply leadership and direction to his troops? That the chiefs would depend on him for guidance, discipline for the men and women in the branch? Hell, everyone swore an oath to obey the orders of the officers appointed over them, didn’t they? Didn’t that include Bird Dog’s orders?

He thought of his drill instructor, the Marine gunny sergeant who’d shepherded him through those endless months of AOCS. Now there was an enlisted man who’d never disobey orders, he was certain. Shouldn’t the Chief be the same way?

Probably not, he admitted. He tried to imagine giving Gunny MacArthur an order to do anything. But that had been different, some part of his mind insisted. Gunny was the one who knew how things worked. It was his job to turn the raw civilians he’d been given into officers.

This was different, though. Bird Dog knew naval aviation now. He’d had classes on leadership, courses on motivating and leading people, in addition to his bachelor’s degree in psychology. This was stuff he understood, and he was right!

Yeah, and I walked right out of ground school and flew a T-34 by myself too. Sure he had — after countless hours of dual-controls flight with an instructor, simulator training, and a careful practical walk-through by more experienced aviators.

Maybe the same principles applied to learning to be a leader. It was possible — just barely possible — that he’d been wrong.

The heat in the Tomcat’s cockpit seemed more bearable than it had a few minutes earlier. When he got back, he’d go have a chat with the chief. It might be time to listen instead of talk for a while.

Bird Dog felt the Tomcat shudder, and steam pressure immediately began building in the steam piston below the decks. The shuttle holding the aircraft on the catapult transmitted the vibrations to his bird. A Yellow Shirt darted forward and out of view under the aircraft. He came out carrying six red streamers — Bird Dog counted them carefully as the ragged ends whipped in the wind. They were the safety pins on his weapons, which were now fully operational.

Another Yellow Shirt held up a white board with grease-penciled numbers on it, giving the Tomcat’s takeoff weight as it was currently configured. Two Phoenixes, two Sparrows, and two Sidewinders hung beneath his wings, a full range of ACM weaponry. Bird Dog begrudged the Phoenixes the space they took up; he would have preferred to have a full load of the more dependable Sidewinders.

Bird Dog nodded vigorously at the Yellow Shirt, confirming the launch weight. The Yellow Shirt held up his thumb, and then snapped his hand up in a salute, the signal that he was transferring complete responsibility for the aircraft to Bird Dog. He returned the salute. Somehow, the simple flight deck ceremony took on more meaning for him now. It was no longer an archaic ritual that impeded his speedy progress off the deck, but an exchange of responsibility as significant as any in the Navy. It was given and received as a sign of respect between men and women who shared similar responsibilities and burdens of serving their country, regardless of their education, background, or pay grade. It made them, for that split moment, anyway, equals.

He dropped his salute and shoved the throttle forward to full military power. A split second later, the Tomcat slammed him in the back.

Airborne!