Flame Out

CHAPTER 1

“Mercury Leader, this is Mercury Two. I’m disengaging now.”

Commander Matthew Magruder, running name “Tombstone,” checked his fuel gauge and eased back on the Tomcat’s throttle. “Roger that, Two,” he said, trying to keep the anxious edge out of his voice. “Hope you left some for me.”

Over the radio he heard Lieutenant Gary “Kos” Koslosky chuckle. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m just a social drinker.”

The young pilot’s casual tone made Magruder frown. His F-14 was down to less than a thousand pounds of fuel, which would keep him aloft for no more than fifteen minutes. Here in the middle of the North Atlantic, a hundred and fifty miles from the carrier deck that was the only place the Tomcat could land, Tombstone didn’t like joking about something so critical.

“Mercury Leader, this is Darkstar,” the tanker pilot’s voice came over the radio. “Mercury Two is clear. Bring her in.”

Tombstone extended the Tomcat’s refueling probe and eased the massive jet into position. The KA-6D loomed above and ahead, a silhouette against the starlit night sky. Behind the tanker, the refueling basket trailed along at the end of a fifty-foot hose, almost invisible except for the tiny circular constellation of running lights that showed the mouth of the hose. In the turbulence the basket floated from side to side, making it difficult to line up on the small target.

The Tomcat rose slowly, smoothly, as Tombstone manipulated throttle, stick, and rudder pedals to urge the aircraft closer. It was one of the most demanding maneuvers an aviator had to master, and it had been nearly two years since Magruder had been called upon to attempt a midair refueling. Darkness and fatigue and uncertain winds were all combining to test skills he hadn’t practiced for all too long.

It didn’t help to realize that his Radar Intercept Officer, Lieutenant j.g. Nicholas “Saint” Whitman, wouldn’t be much help to him tonight. Whitman was young, inexperienced, a “nugget” Naval Flight Officer fresh from a Reserve Air Group. He hadn’t said more than a few words since the Tomcat had first climbed from the runway at Oceana Naval Air Station hours before. Even if he broke his silence now, Tombstone wasn’t sure how much he’d be able to rely on the young officer’s judgment.

Tombstone bit his lip under his oxygen mask as the probe moved closer to the basket. It looked good … good …

Then, at the last possible second, the basket shifted upward about a foot and the tip of the Tomcat’s probe rimmed it at the nine o’clock position. The basket tilted to one side, then slipped away, lost in the darkness above.

He cut the throttle and started carefully backing down and out from the tanker, all too aware of the dangers posed by that unseen basket. It was deceptive the way it swayed on the end of the long fuel line. Moving at close to three hundred knots, that heavy iron-mesh basket was nothing to be trifled with. If its hundred-pound weight struck the Tomcat’s canopy the Plexiglas could shatter, and Magruder had no desire to risk depressurizing the fighter’s cockpit at fifteen thousand feet. Flying this close to another aircraft in the dark could only compound the hazards. He’d seen a pilot lose it once during a refueling accident and slam his plane right into the tanker in the first panicked moments after the canopy was breached.

Tombstone let out a sigh as the Tomcat stabilized back where it had started in the approach position. He couldn’t see the basket now. It was invisible at night outside of a range of four or five yards, despite the lights around the rim. It took experience and practice to judge an approach, particularly in the dark. He pushed the throttle forward to begin another run.

He picked up the lights of the basket on the left side of the Tomcat, and Tombstone edged over to port to line up his probe. When it was properly positioned to the right of the plane’s nose he let the F-14 drift forward slowly. The basket slid along the right side of the canopy and gave a tiny clunk as the probe slipped in. Magruder felt like letting out a triumphant yell, but he didn’t break his concentration. The docking process was only the beginning of the refueling operation, and there was still plenty that could go wrong.

The hose was visible outside the cockpit, marked off with yellow stripes every three feet. Proper procedure dictated that he increase his throttle to push the basket forward along the fuel line by two stripes, which would position the nose of the Tomcat about ten feet behind and ten feet below the fat-bellied Intruder tanker. A take-up reel aboard the KA-6D was supposed to reel in the slack automatically until the basket tripped the pump system and fuel began to flow. Tombstone guided the aircraft forward until the two stripes had disappeared. He looked upward at the basket receptacle in the belly of the tanker above, a circular hole which surrounded the fuel line. On either side of the receptacle lights were mounted, one red, one green. When the green light was lit the pumps were operating, but as Tombstone squinted upward all he saw was the harsh red glare that told him the pumps were off.

“Darkstar, Mercury Leader. Light’s still red,” he reported.

“I copy, Mercury Leader,” the tanker pilot responded. “Try bringing her forward another notch. Maybe that’ll do the trick.”

“Roger, Darkstar.” Tombstone eased the throttle forward a little more. He could feel sweat trickling down his forehead. It took a lot of effort to keep the Tomcat precisely in the groove, and the added strain of the problem with the pumps made it that much worse. The third stripe disappeared, but the red light continued to glow above.

“Still no green, Darkstar,” Tombstone said.

“Copy, Mercury One. Back out again and we’ll recycle.”

Once again the Tomcat dropped aft and down while the tanker crew reeled in the hose and redeployed it again. Tombstone glanced at his instrument panel and felt his throat tighten. Seven hundred pounds of fuel left. If this didn’t work there was no way the Tomcat would reach the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson for a safe landing. Without fuel the engines would flame out and they would have to ditch, and Magruder didn’t like the thought of a night ejection over the rough waters of the North Atlantic this far from a carrier. It might take hours for an SAR helicopter to find the Tomcat’s crew … if they were ever found at all.

“What are we going to do if we can’t refuel, Mr. Magruder?” Whitman asked suddenly over the Tomcat’s ICS intercom. He sounded scared … as scared as Tombstone felt.

Before Tombstone could answer, the tanker pilot was back on the radio. “Try it again, Mercury Leader. We’re ready.”

He glanced at the fuel gauge again as he applied more throttle. Six hundred pounds now. The basket appeared out of the darkness, farther to the right than he’d thought it would be. Tombstone eased the stick over and began to line up.

“Mercury Leader, this is Two,” Koslosky called. “Aren’t you done tanking yet, Tombstone?”

“Negative,” he snapped back, cursing under his breath. The younger pilot’s call had made him over-correct. Now he had to back off or risk brushing the basket …

“Help me watch that damned thing, kid,” he told Whitman. Even a nugget’s eyes would be useful now. When a pilot started paying too much attention to watching his target instead of his controls, it was easy to screw up an approach.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Saint replied. “It’s looking good, real good now …” The Tomcat slid forward slowly …

A solid clunk signaled a good connection, and the hose rippled in a perfect sine wave from the contact. Tombstone increased power and pushed the basket forward, his eyes on the two lights by the basket receptacle. The red one was still glowing.

“Darkstar, still no green,” he said.

“Sorry about that, Mercury Leader,” the tanker pilot responded. “Goddamned thing must be Tango Uniform.” That was maintenance slang for “tits up”—out of order. “Look, we’re pretty far from the Big J. Back her off while I reverse left and we can try again.”

“Negative, negative,” Tombstone responded angrily. It would take two minutes to turn around, maybe longer, and he was down to less than four hundred pounds of fuel. He wasn’t going to waste valuable time waiting for the tanker to get comfortable on a heading for home … not when every minute brought him closer to a flame-out. “Let’s recycle one more time, Darkstar.”

“Mercury Leader, Mercury Leader, this is Domino.” That was the call sign for Air Ops aboard the Jefferson. The voice sounded worried. Had the carrier been listening in on the channel, or had the KA-6 called on higher authority after Tombstone’s demand for another try? “Say your fuel state, over.”

He answered as the Tomcat backed away from the basket and watched it disappear into the gloom once again. “Point three,” he replied tersely. His palms were sweaty now, and he didn’t want to be reminded of his fuel state again. The probe reappeared ahead, almost dead on target, and he started forward once again. Tombstone knew this would be his last chance.

“Mercury Leader, Domino. Recommend you back away now. We don’t want a flame-out that close to the Kilo Alpha. Over.”

Tombstone gritted his teeth but didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to give up yet …

The probe hooked up and he pushed the basket forward. It crossed the first line … the second … still no green light. Magruder muttered a curse against Murphy’s Law, gremlins, and careless maintenance men and edged the throttle further forward. Another stripe disappeared … and another.

The Tomcat’s canopy was only a few feet from the belly of the tanker, and even in the dark Tombstone thought he could see individual rivets in the fuselage.

“Darkstar, I’m pushing her all the way in,” he told the pilot. “Stay frosty and keep her level.”

“Roger that, Mercury Leader,” the pilot replied. “Good luck and may the Force be with you.” Behind the banter Tombstone knew the other pilot was as worried as he was.

The Tomcat inched forward … f … and the green light came on.

“Yes!” Tombstone whooped. He could feel the plane’s weight increasing as fuel flowed into the tanks. The Tomcat started to drop back, but Magruder increased the throttle to hold his precarious position. There was no way of knowing if the avgas would continue to pump if he let the plane slip back to the normal position, and he wasn’t about to try this maneuver again.

“Mercury Leader, Darkstar. Are you getting anything? Over.”

“Affirmative, Darkstar,” Tombstone replied. He looked down at the fuel gauge in time to see it rising above the two-hundred-pound mark. It had been a damned close call.

He concentrated on holding the Tomcat steady as the fuel continued to pump into his tanks, easing back after the gauge reported a thousand pounds to a less dangerous distance. The avgas kept flowing steadily, nearly five hundred pounds entering the Tomcat’s tanks every minute. Tombstone held the aircraft in position until he had 3500 pounds aboard, then called the tanker again. “Darkstar, Mercury Leader disengaging. And we thank you for your support.”

The tanker pilot gave a chuckle on the other end of the line. “Glad to help out. Sorry for the trouble.” There was a long pause. “Oh, yeah, almost forgot. Just before we launched, the boys in Viper Squadron told me to give you a message, Tombstone. Welcome home!”

A man-made island far from the nearest dry ground, the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson, CVN-74, plowed through the cold, dark waters of the North Atlantic, her course north-northeast at a speed of thirty knots. America’s newest nuclear-powered supercarrier, like the other vessels of the Nimitz class, was one of the most powerful ships of war ever to sail the world ocean. She measured over a thousand feet in length, with a flight deck that covered four and a half acres and ample space to house the 5,500 officers and enlisted men who called her home. As the core of Carrier Battle Group 14, comprising seven warships and an Air Wing of over ninety aircraft, Jefferson formed the heart of a naval fighting force of incredible power and versatility.

But sitting near the back of the glassed-in Air Operations room, commonly known as Primary Flight Control, or “Pri-Fly” in carrier slang, Captain Joseph Stramaglia couldn’t help but ponder the limitations of that power.

He had decided to monitor flight operations this evening from Pri-Fly, and had arrived about the time that the ferry mission from Oceana NAS had met up with Darkstar, the KA-6D tanker dispatched from Jefferson to top off tanks that would be running low after a flight of over nineteen hundred miles. That was about the range limit for an F-14, and Mercury Flight was still a hundred and fifty miles away from the safe haven of the carrier. Stramaglia had listened as the refueling problem had developed, feeling as helpless as the rest of the men in Air Ops. For blue-water operations like this there was little margin for error.

When the radio channel finally carried Commander Magruder’s triumphant whoop, a cheer had gone up in Pri-Fly. Stramaglia had taken a long sip from his coffee mug to hide the smile on his face. He was a firm believer in maintaining appearances, and it wouldn’t have done to allow the other men in the crowded little control center to see just how relieved he was at Mercury Leader’s successful refueling.

Jefferson’s Air Boss, Commander Jack Monroe, didn’t bother to hide his feelings. “Hot damn, Stoney Magruder’s back!” he said. “That’s better’n the time he set down with half his turkey shot away and his RIO bleeding all over the backseat!”

Monroe, Stramaglia knew, had been Assistant Air Boss on Jefferson’s last overseas deployment. He was one of the veterans of the carrier’s engagements in North Korea and the Indian Ocean, and it was obvious that he shared in the ship-wide adulation for Commander Magruder, who’d become famous for his part in those operations.

Stramaglia huffed into his coffee. He had known Magruder before the youngster had scored his first kill … and the enthusiasm of men like Monroe never failed to irritate him. Not that he had anything against Magruder. He just didn’t think there was a place for what amounted to outright hero worship aboard the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson.

“CAG?” A young third class looked up from a console nearby. “Tango Two-fiver reports they’ve picked up that Bear. It’s still closing on us. Range is five-fifty, speed five hundred knots. Same course and bearing as before.”

Stramaglia nodded and put down the coffee cup. “Commander Monroe, if the celebrations are over I think we’d better get the Alert planes off. Now, if you please.”

Monroe’s grin faded as the Air Boss turned his attention back to the routine of the flight deck. “You heard the man,” Monroe said harshly. “Let’s get with it, people!”

Stramaglia turned away, ignoring the rising hubbub of voices as Monroe’s white-shirted crew began relaying reports and instructions to and from the flight deck. He knew he was fast earning a reputation for being a tough, heartless bastard, but that was a role he was prepared to fall into if it would guarantee that Air Wing 20 stayed alert and ready for anything. They’d made it through the refueling crisis without having to sacrifice one of Mercury Flight’s planes, but there was more than one problem to keep Jefferson’s crew busy tonight. Like the Soviet Tu-20 Bear bomber they’d been tracking for the last several hours.

It was Monroe’s job as Air Boss to direct operations on and around Jefferson’s flight deck, but Stramaglia had wider duties. His title was CAG — it derived from the obsolete designation of Commander Air Group — and he was the commanding officer of Carrier Air Wing 20, the assortment of ninety-plus aircraft that gave the carrier her teeth. Everything that happened in the air for hundreds of miles around Carrier Battle Group 14 was his responsibility, from refueling problems to Soviet planes to whatever else the fates chose to throw in their path.

And with tensions between the United States and the new Soviet Union higher now than they’d ever been in the bad old days of the Cold War, Joseph Stramaglia was taking his responsibility seriously. That was why he was in Pri-Fly tonight, senior rank and position not withstanding. When his boys were in the air, he didn’t sleep or catch up on paperwork. If he wasn’t up there with them, then he was somewhere like Air Ops where he would be on hand to lend his experience and skill to helping them out if they got in trouble.

Despite the outward show of temper, Stramaglia was proud to be a part of this crew, this boat. As the carrier that had seen more combat service than any ship since the heady days of Desert Storm, Jefferson had a reputation to live up to. “Big J,” they called her.

This cruise, though, was shaping up to be a lot less glamorous, and a lot more dangerous, than her famous tour in the Pacific two years back. Stramaglia had already heard a couple of sailors referring to the carrier as “Big Jinx” after the storm that had wrecked four planes and killed five men, including Stramaglia’s Deputy CAG. The trouble Magruder had run into while refueling had seemed to confirm the new epithet. And there was still this Bear to deal with …

Stramaglia picked up his coffee mug again, but didn’t drink. He stared down into the dark brew as if trying to fathom the future in the tiny ripples there.