Countdown

CHAPTER 9

Batman had already been on his way to the Viper Squadron's ready room from morning chow when the alert came over the 1-MC speaker mounted on the bulkhead. "Now General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands, man your battle stations!"

Before the announcement ended, Batman had broken into a run, forcing his way through passageways and up companionways suddenly filled with young men ― and a few women ― each of them bent on getting somewhere in the least possible time with the greatest possible efficiency. The scene was at first one of chaos, but it was soon clear that each person had a place to go and a task to perform, and there was actually very little confusion or wasted effort as six thousand people turned out in this ship-wide evolution.

Batman banged through the door to the Viper ready room at a fast jog, just ahead of half a dozen other VF-95 aviators and RIOs. Attached to the main ready room area, with its rows of wooden desks like some 1950s-era schoolhouse, was a dressing area with lockers and a small shower head, where the squadron's NFOs could stow their uniforms and don the flight suits that helped keep them from blacking out in the high-G maneuvers of aerial combat.

As he swiftly unbuttoned his khaki shirt and pulled it off, Batman was marginally aware of the fact that several of the people crowded shoulder to shoulder into the dressing room with him were women. Normally, VF-95's flight officers had shared the dressing area through an unspoken agreement, taking turns and allowing fellow members of the squadron who happened to be of the opposite sex some small measure of privacy, but in an all-hands evolution, where seconds counted, there was no time for such civilized niceties. A few feet to his left, Cynthia Thomas was just shrugging out of her bra. On his right Chris Hanson bumped against his hip as she wiggled into the lower half of her tight-fitting, cold-water survival suit, a rubberized garment worn under the flight suit, always an awkward maneuver even when there was space enough to move around.

The room was crowded, noisy, and tense, but no comment was made by anyone at the display of skin, no lewd wisecracks, not even a peremptory "Keep your eyes to yourself!" In minutes, Batman was tugging the last zipper on his flight suit shut, grabbing a clipboard with its attached checklist, pen, and notebook, and heading back to the ready room proper.

A large television monitor was suspended from the overhead at the front of the ready room next to the PLAT monitor, and someone had already switched it on. The PLAT screen was showing one of VFA-161's Hornets preparing to launch off the angled flight deck from one of the carrier's waist catapults, but the big TV showed only the crest insignia of the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson, a stylized CVN seen bow-on, with the motto "COMBAT READY."

Batman slumped into a seat next to his usual RIO, Lieutenant Commander Ken Blake, a sandy-haired guy from southern California who went by the handle "Malibu." Seconds later, Jefferson's insignia on the TV screen was replaced by Tombstone's face.

"Good morning, Air Wing Twenty," he said, speaking directly into the camera. "I'll keep this short and sweet. A few minutes ago, our AEW patrol picked up a large number of Russian aircraft taking off from military fields in the northwestern regions of the Kola Peninsula. The figures go up every time a new update comes through, but at this point we are estimating at least one hundred twenty aircraft. Several flights have already crossed the Norwegian border and are on a direct intercept course with the carrier group."

Tombstone was addressing all of Jefferson's squadrons simultaneously from the TV studio up in the Carrier Intelligence Center, the CVIC, or "Civic" for short. Batman knew him well enough to know he must wish he were here, with the Vipers, but as CAG his responsibility was for the entire wing, from the two squadrons of Tomcats to the HS-19 squadron of SH-3 helos.

"The battle group has already assumed a defensive posture along the threat axis," Tombstone continued. "Admiral Tarrant has ordered that all radar and radio traffic aboard Jefferson be shut down. CATCC will go back on the air only when we have to start bringing you in for rearming. All combat communications and command control will be handled through the Shiloh."

That particular ploy had been worked out back in the early eighties and had been used successfully on numerous occasions since. As large as it was, an aircraft carrier could virtually disappear if all of the radar and radio transmissions that could light it up on the enemy's screens like a New York City skyscraper at night were shut down. The Aegis cruiser would take over all radar and combat command control duties, making itself a target in the process, of course… but it would be a very well-defended one.

"Shiloh's call sign for this op will be Hotspur," Tombstone continued.

In concise, rapid-fire words, he outlined the entire wing's deployment. Four VF-95 Tomcats were already aloft on CAP and were being deployed into an advance BARCAP, or Barrier Combat Air Patrol, positioned 250 miles ahead of the Jefferson, squarely between the approaching enemy aircraft and the carrier. Four aircraft from VFA-161, the Javelins, that had been on Ready Fifteen, set to launch within fifteen minutes, were now being sent aloft in their air-interceptor role, leaving bombs and ground-attack rockets behind for Sidewinders and AMRAAMs.

The rest of VF-95 would launch next, moving forward to reinforce the BARCAP. It was vital to get as many Tomcats in the sky as possible since out of all the aircraft aboard, only the F-14s could carry the AIM-54C Phoenix.

The second Tomcat squadron, VF-97, was being armed at that moment with full Phoenix warloads, six AIM-54s on each aircraft. More of the Javelins' Hornets would be launched until VF-97 was armed and ready, and then the catapults would begin putting them up.

Ultimately, both of Jefferson's Tomcat squadrons would be in the air, positioned to launch their long-range Phoenix missiles against the approaching Russians. Once they had expended their munitions, they would return to Jefferson and recover for rearming, while the two Hornet squadrons moved in to take on the surviving Russians close-up. The carrier's EA-6 electronic warfare planes would be thrown far forward, to scramble the enemy's radar and communications. Her sub-hunting Vikings would be deployed to maintain an ASW screen around the battle group; her ground-attack A-6 Intruders, useless in a fight such as this one, would stand down and stay out of the way.

"I must emphasize," Tombstone said, "that we still don't know for certain whether the Russian deployment constitutes a full-scale attack, or if they're just making a feint, warning us off from their coast. BARCAP will be positioned to test them, and by the time the rest of you get airborne, we ought to know one way or the other. Until we do, however, weapons will be locked, and released only upon direct order from the Combat Information Center. Once it has been determined that the Russian force is intent on hostile action, weapons-free will be issued by the Shiloh CIC."

Tombstone concluded with several more items about deployment, and a report from the Met Office ― sky clear, ceiling unlimited, winds from the northeast at ten knots.

"That's it," Tombstone said at last. "Good luck, men. And God go with you."

Amused, Batman wondered if Tombstone's use of the word "men," obviously an oversight in the pressure of the moment, had bothered any of the women.

None of them appeared to have noticed.

Good. This was no time to let petty sexual politics interfere with the smooth operation of the squadron.

"Okay, people," Batman said, raising his voice to blanket the room. As the Viper XO, he was squadron commander in Coyote's absence. "You all heard the man. Let's go kick ass and take names!"

"Yeah!" Slider Arrenberger yelled back, punching his clenched fist at the overhead. "Today we kick Russki ass!"

Arrenberger hadn't been aboard on Jefferson's last deployment, during the fiercely fought battles over Romsdalfjord or off the Lofoten Islands. The chances were all too good that, while the American aviators were kicking Russian ass, the Russians would be kicking their share of American ass as well. Some good people were likely to die today.

Batman was no more superstitious than any other naval aviator, but he suddenly remembered the date ― Friday the 13th. Bad luck for who, the Americans or the Russians?

As the squadron rose with a scraping and squeaking of chairs, Batman noticed Striker ― Lieutenant Strickland ― reach out and grab Lieutenant Hanson's arm. When she turned, he leaned over and gave her a quick, hard kiss on the mouth.

No one said anything, but Batman felt a small twist in his gut. Any PDA ― public display of affection ― was both inappropriate at the moment and strictly contra-regs. He'd already heard scuttlebutt about those two and hoped they didn't get into trouble for it.

He remembered Tombstone's concerns about sexual relationships between members of the squadron, though, and thought he understood. It was embarrassing to admit it, even to himself.

Twenty-nine years old, and Edward Everett "Batman" Wayne was unmarried.

At the moment, he didn't even have a girlfriend, though he was notorious for his skill in acquiring attractive dates when he was ashore. Ever since his experiences in Thailand a few years ago, however, he'd found himself increasingly dissatisfied with his lifestyle and unable to pinpoint the cause.

Now he was beginning to think it was time to settle down, maybe even get married.

Well, maybe he wouldn't go that far. But he recognized a certain small, sharp pang each time he saw a couple who obviously shared a deep, mutual affection. It wasn't jealousy, not really, but it was an awareness, a reminder that his life wasn't complete.

Sometimes it hurt.

"Let's go strap on an airplane, Batman," Malibu said, punching him in the arm and jarring him from less-than-pleasant thoughts. "Betcha Chief Leyden's already got Two-oh-two opened up and warming for us." Leyden was the crew chief for Tomcat 202, Batman's and Malibu's aircraft.

The passageways and decks between VF-95's ready room and Jefferson's flight deck were still crowded as the carrier's crew proceeded with their assigned battle station duties. Out on the flight deck, the scene was one of frantic, purposeful activity; of steam and thundering, brawling noise; of dozens of men in color-coded jerseys carrying out their assigned duties in surroundings that might have been lifted from one of Dante's hells.

Moving this many of Jefferson's complement of combat aircraft to the proper place at the proper time was a fantastically complex operation, one requiring split-second timing and precision to carry out. At any given time, roughly half of the carrier's aircraft were stowed on her hangar deck, and these had to be fed up to the flight deck in just the proper order and at just the proper times to replace the aircraft that were even now shrieking skyward off Jefferson's catapults.

Jefferson had four catapults and could hurl aircraft aloft two at a time, one off the bow, the other from the waist. However, it took nearly thirty minutes to ready most aircraft from a standing start, and space both on the flight deck and below on the hangar deck was sharply limited. Though the launch order for today's operation had been worked out previously in painstaking detail, Jefferson's Deck Handler and his crew in Flight Deck Control would have their work cut out for them.

The "Mangler," as the Handler was called, was responsible for moving aircraft from the hangar deck up to the flight deck by way of just four elevators, mapping out each movement with the aid of large maps of both decks, plus precisely scaled plan-view silhouettes of each aircraft. Getting the right aircraft to the right place at the right time, without creating bottlenecks at the elevators or while feeding into line, without brushing against another aircraft in tractor-towed maneuvers carried out with scant inches to spare, always seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Sprinting across the flight deck to Tomcat 202, Batman and Malibu saw that Chief Leyden already had the aircraft hooked up to external power cables and the "huffer," a small tractor that injected air through a hose directly into each engine's turbine fast enough to allow the engine to run on its own.

Though Leyden and the blue shirts working with him had already inspected the aircraft, Batman gave it a quick external, checking the fuselage for obvious damage or open access hatches, tugging on the deadly, white darts of the AIM-54Cs to make sure they were secured and wouldn't drop off during the stress of a cat launch. He traded a jaunty thumbs-up with Leyden, then climbed up the Tomcat's access steps and settled into the cockpit. He felt the aircraft rock as Malibu dropped in behind him.

Quick check… donning helmet and mask, checking oxygen lines and electrical connections, removing safing pins from the ejection seats, fastening seat belt and chest harness. He brought the canopy down.

As Batman began flipping console switches and bringing the F-14's engines on line, he thought again about Tombstone. When he'd first come on board the Jefferson, Stoney had been all but an object of worship for the young Lieutenant Wayne, despite the royal ass-chewings the younger officer had received from him a time or two for hot-dogging. Now, Stoney was a friend, and he was carrying one hell of a burden on his captain's epaulets. It would be especially rough today. As superCAG, he normally would direct the operation from Jefferson's CATCC rather than fly with his pilots, and Batman knew that was hard on the man. Worse still, today's battle would be run from Shiloh's CIC, leaving Stoney in a more or less supernumerary position.

Batman decided that he didn't want to be in the CAG's shoes for anything.

His engines were running, the blue shirts had broken down 202's chains and chocks, and a plane director was signaling for him to come ahead. Gently, Batman eased his thirty-ton charger forward, maneuvering toward the catapults.

Coyote put the F-14 in a gentle starboard bank. The BARCAP was on station now, at an altitude of 32,000 feet. Early morning sunlight sparkled off an ultramarine sea. His wingman, Mustang Davis, was holding Tomcat 206 some fifty feet off Coyote's starboard wingtip. Nightmare Marinaro's 204, and his wingman, Slider Arrenberger in 209, were about ten miles behind and to the north of Coyote and Mustang, positioned to get maximum information from their powerful AWG-9 radars.

The Russian force was close enough now to track. When set to pulse-doppler search, or PDS, the F-14's AWG-9 radar could determine range and speed on a five-square-meter target out to a distance of 115 nautical miles ― over 130 standard miles. Their radar was now showing a heavy clot of blips, crossing the Norwegian coast near North Cape and still heading toward the CBG. The nearest targets were already within sixty miles of the orbiting Tomcats.

"Hotspur, Gold Eagle One," Coyote said, calling Shiloh's Combat Information Center. "Request weapons free."

"Gold Eagle, Hotspur. Negative on weapons release. Situation still confused. We need confirmation of hostile intent."

"How much confirmation do they need?" Cat asked from the back seat.

"Yeah," Coyote replied. "They've already crossed Norwegian airspace, and that doesn't look like the formation for a welcoming parade."

"Uh-oh," Cat said. "I've got…"

"What?"

"Wait one. Okay, we're reading J-band pulse-doppler. Coyote, I think we've got some Badger-Gs out there."

"Shit," Coyote said. "Okay, send it."

This did not sound good.

The E-2C Hawkeye was still following the massive aerial deployment of aircraft, now crossing the Norwegian coastline near Tanafjorden, less than one hundred miles to the southeast.

"Echo-Tango, this is Gold Eagle One," sounded in the air controller's headset… a woman's voice. Gold Eagle One must have a female RIO.

"Gold Eagle, Echo-Tango Seven-six-one. Copy."

"Echo-Tango, we're picking up attack radar from the bogies. I've got steady J-band transmissions. Sounds like Shorthorn."

Shorthorn was the NATO code for a particular type of Soviet weapons/navigation radar. It was carried by naval aircraft armed with AS-5 and -6 antiship missiles.

The Hawkeye's radar operator flicked a dial, narrowly watching several of his dials. "That's confirmed, sir. J-band, weapon control radar. I think we're tracking Badger-Gs."

"Send it," the CIC officer said. Holding his headset mike to his lips, he said, "Gold Eagle, Echo-Tango Seven-six-one, we confirm Shorthorn. BARCAP is clear to go to Tango-Whiskey-Sierra. Let 'em know you're there."

TWS ― shorthand for track-while-search ― was the AWG-9 radar mode that allowed the F-14 to track enemy targets. When switched on, it would light up Russian threat warnings up to ninety nautical miles away.

On the radar display, meanwhile, the blips marking approaching Russian aircraft began to spread out, to resolve into clusters of three and four separate targets in tightly grouped formations. Suddenly, the radar operator leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Sir! I have a launch!"

The CICO had already seen the same thing, smaller blips detaching themselves from the larger ones.

If the firing aircraft were Badger-Gs, the missiles slung under their wings were AS-5 or AS-6 air-to-surface missiles, ship-killers with one-ton HE warheads.

"Hotspur! Hotspur! Echo-Tango!" he called. "Launch, we have cruise-missile launch!"

"Ninety-nine aircraft" came the call back from the Aegis cruiser Shiloh, using a code phrase meaning all aircraft. "Ninety-nine aircraft, Hotspur.

Weapons free. I say again, weapons are free!"

The message was instantly relayed via data link through the E-2C to every American plane already in the air. The Battle of North Cape had begun.