Flame Out

CHAPTER 21

The folding chairs in CVIC had been taken down this morning, replaced instead by television cameras and a team of technicians from the OE Division. Admiral Tarrant watched them checking over their equipment one last time as he waited to one side of the lectern for the closed-circuit broadcast to begin.

The director, a first class petty officer, stepped forward and started the countdown. “Ten seconds, people,” he said, pausing and glancing at his stopwatch. “And five … and four … and three …” Then he stepped back and pointed at Master Chief Petty Officer Mike Weston, Jefferson’s grizzled Command Master Chief. As Chief of the Boat Weston was a crucial link between officers and enlisted men. He hosted a daily program of announcements and general information … but today he was giving it up so that Tarrant could make his own announcement.

“It’s 0800 hours,” Weston began. “And time for this morning’s edition of Attention on Deck. Today, instead of the usual announcements, we’ll be hearing from The Man himself, Admiral Tarrant.” He paused, stepping back from the podium. “The admiral.”

Tarrant stepped forward and looked toward the camera. His prepared speech began to scroll across the teleprompter.

“Most of you know by now that the situation here in the Norwegian Sea has turned serious in the last few days,” he said without preamble. “Two days ago the Soviet Union launched a major attack on the U.S. airbase at Keflavik, Iceland, and when Jefferson fighters attempted to intercept the attackers they were ambushed by Russian planes. The fighting on Thursday was a major escalation in hostilities, and proves beyond a doubt that the Soviets are willing to go to any lengths, even outright war with the United States, to pursue their Scandinavian invasion.”

He paused. Words were hardly adequate in this situation. American lives had been lost, and it was a dead certainty that more would die in the days ahead. A discussion of global strategy and politics couldn’t convey the realities of war, the danger that each new incident would lead inevitably to the ultimate horror of a nuclear exchange. He felt he had to give these men some idea of what they faced, but listening to the bald words he wondered if anything he could say would prepare them for what was to come.

“Our orders, confirmed overnight by the President himself, are to support the Free Norwegian forces around Bergen until other U.S. forces can be deployed there. I can’t pretend this task will be an easy one. This battle group is up against the full strength of the Soviet Union’s Red Banner Northern Fleet, a powerful force of ships and planes backed by ground-based air and lurking attack subs. The odds against us are steep, and before my discussion with the President I was forced to consider the possibility of withdrawing from these waters on my own discretion in order to protect the lives entrusted to my command.

“But retreating in the face of Soviet aggression now would expose our allies in Norway to certain defeat, and the successful consolidation of Russian control over Scandinavia would destabilize all of Europe. As long as there is any chance that we can make a difference in this conflict I intend for Carrier Battle Group 14 to remain in the Norwegian Sea and make every effort to hamper the enemy advance. It is absolutely essential that we do everything we can in support of the President’s policy of defending Norway from aggression.”

If the President had only reacted faster, Tarrant thought bitterly, things might not be so bad now. The President’s so-called policy had been forced on him by events, and even now, judging by what Tarrant had heard in his voice, Connally wasn’t eager to pursue this confrontation. But that decision wasn’t his to make anymore. The Russian attack on Keflavik made continued hesitation impossible.

Magruder was going ahead with plans for an Alpha Strike, and after his talk with the President Tarrant had dispatched orders committing the battle group’s two attack subs, Galveston and Bangor, to action. There would be no turning back, not this time.

“We will carry out this policy,” he continued out loud. “It will call for maximum effort from every man in this battle group. The Air Wing staff is even now putting together a detailed plan of operations which we will put into effect against the Soviets as soon as conditions are ripe. This could come tomorrow, or it might not happen for weeks. We have no way of being certain when the best time for a counter strike against them will present itself. Therefore we must be prepared to act on short notice, and that will require intensive preparations on the part of all of us. I want to emphasize that each of you, no matter what your rating or your job, has a vital role to play in this operation, in the very life of this ship and this battle group. There are no unimportant jobs, and I need each and every one of you to give me a hundred and ten percent in the days ahead. Together we can show the Russians that they cannot drive America from the world’s oceans. Together we will show them once and for all that no power on Earth can suffice to ruin the proud name of Jefferson.” He paused and looked straight into the camera. “Thank you all … and God keep you.”

Willis E. Grant leaned against the rail and looked out across Jefferson’s flight deck, shivering a little despite the warm afternoon sun.

He had been discharged from Sick Bay two hours earlier, along with John-Boy. Doctor Chapman had been reluctant to release them at first, but with the Air Wing needing every man they could muster he had eventually given in. Coyote was glad to be out of the ward, but in a way he wished Chapman had been less inclined to give in to pressure from the admiral to certify his patients as ready for a full return to duty.

If the Medical Department had kept him out of the coming fight, Coyote would have loudly protested … but something inside him would have welcomed the excuse not to go back up there again. Now he had to make a choice on his own, and it wasn’t a choice he relished.

Down on the flight deck a Tomcat was roaring off the number-two catapult. He recognized the markings identifying it as one of the War Eagles, VF-97, the carrier’s second F-14 squadron. The tail number was 101, but he knew that Commander Alex Caton, the squadron’s CO, was in the squadron’s offices hard at work on his contribution to the plan of battle for the Alpha Strike Magruder was organizing.

The activity on the deck showed just how intense the preparations for action had become. From his vantage point above Pri-Fly Coyote could see work crews in their colored jerseys swarming over a line of parked aircraft, Hornets and Intruders for the most part. Further down the flight deck more handlers were servicing all ten of the S-3B Vikings from the King Fishers. It was odd to see the whole sub-hunting squadron on deck at the same time. The carrier’s helos would be doing extra duty looking for Soviet submarines until the Vikings returned to duty again.

The thought of helicopters made Coyote glance off the port side of the carrier, where the Ready SAR helo was keeping station. It sparked unpleasant memories.

He turned away and watched the dance on the deck again. An EA-6B Prowler was coming in on final approach. Built on the Intruder’s versatile frame, the Prowler was an Electronic Warfare aircraft designed to jam Russian radar and communications signals. The scuttlebutt Coyote had heard below decks maintained that the five Prowlers from the VAQ-143 Sharks had been doing rotating flight duty since early the night before, doing their best to make Russian lives miserable.

It was an all-out effort, just as the admiral had indicated in his closed-circuit TV speech. He still didn’t know any details of the plan Magruder was putting together, but he knew any fight with the Soviets would be a desperate one. And after the last fight, Coyote wasn’t sure he could face another one.

He thought back to the night Magruder had come aboard. She must love you bugging out for sea duty again so quick, Tombstone had said. And he had made a flip reply. You know Julie. No complaints there. He had always looked at it from his own selfish point of view, never seen what Julie must have gone through each time he let his love for blue skies and thundering jets lure him back to duty. Magruder had lost Pamela Drake over the same stubbornness. Pamela had been strong-willed and forceful, willing to fight for her side. Julie wasn’t made of the same stuff, so she had let Coyote leave her time and again.

His latest brush with death had reminded him of what he’d almost lost. He had almost given up flying after Wonsan, but that had been an instinctive reaction to the whole situation he’d been through in Korea. In the long run he hadn’t changed his viewpoint that much. This time it was different. This time, Grant knew, he could finally say for sure that his family meant more to him than anything else. He couldn’t keep playing the daredevil flyer when each time he went up he might never make it home to his wife and daughter.

His hands gripped the rail more tightly. That left him with a tough decision to make right now. Any aviator could turn in his wings any time, just walk away from duty if it got to be too much, if he thought he had lost the edge. There was nothing to stop Willis E. Grant from doing the same right now … nothing except his own sense of duty.

It’s your instincts I need. Your nose for tactics. Magruder had turned to his experience when he needed help. And although Admiral Tarrant had been talking to everyone, his words had hit home too. Each of you has a vital role to play.

Batman Wayne was more than capable of taking over command of the squadron … but Coyote couldn’t just turn his back on his men now. Viper Squadron was down to half its original strength, and they needed every pilot they could muster. He couldn’t leave them in the lurch now, on the eve of their most difficult test. Even if it ended in disaster, he had to go up with the others.

He turned from the rail and headed for the ladder, his mind made up. When he got home — if he got home — he would find out what Julie wanted. He would give up flying, even give up the Navy, if she asked him to. But in the meantime, he couldn’t let his shipmates down.

Lieutenant Roger Bannon raised a hand to knock on the door, then hesitated. He had screwed up his courage to come to see Commander Magruder, but now that he was here he found it hard to go ahead with his plan.

He couldn’t keep postponing this movement. Bannon gritted his teeth and rapped softly on the door.

“Come!” Magruder’s voice called out, sounding distracted.

The commander was sitting at Stramaglia’s old desk, pouring over an open file folder that matched ten more stacked beside his elbow. It was plain that Magruder hadn’t taken any time to clear away his predecessor’s personal effects. A mug on the desk still held a pair of Stramaglia’s notorious cigars, and there was a picture hanging on the bulkhead beside the door of Stramaglia and his teenaged son at an air show Stateside. It was hard to believe Stramaglia was really dead. It looked like Magruder was just keeping his chair warm until CAG turned up again.

But he was dead, and now Magruder was in charge. The commander looked tired. If he had managed more than six hours sleep in the last forty-eight it didn’t show. He had thrown himself into his new job with a single-minded determination, but the talk in the other offices of the Air Wing hinted that he would burn himself out if he kept pushing himself at this pace. Looking at him now, Bannon was forced to agree.

Magruder held up a hand as Bannon came in and said, “Wait a moment.” He never even looked up from the folder. Bannon waited, hoping his resolve wouldn’t wilt in the meantime.

Finally Magruder put the folder aside and looked at him. “Oh … Bannon. Didn’t know it was your shift yet. Did you bring the report from Lieutenant Lowe?” Lowe was the chief of S-6 Division, responsible for Aviation Supply.

“Uh, no, sir,” Bannon replied. “I’m still on my own time, sir. I … needed to see you about a personal matter.”

Magruder frowned. “I don’t have a whole lot of time, Bannon,” he said. “Make it quick.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Bannon hesitated again, reluctant to go on despite Magruder’s admonition. “Ah … well, sir, the fact is, I’ve been thinking about what I should do. The way you told me to the other day.”

Magruder looked blank for a moment, then seemed to remember the conversation that had started on the hangar deck. “If you’d rather not stay stuck on the staff, I can probably put you in a slot as Assistant LSO for the Death Dealers. That’ll free up Jeffries to fly. Talk to Owens to take care of it.” He reached for another folder.

“Uh … that’s not it, sir,” Bannon said.

The commander’s frown deepened. “Look, Bannon, I don’t need this. I’ve got maintenance men giving me a dozen reasons why they can’t get enough planes in the air to make this strike work, and about twenty different variable plans to put together before we get word the Russians are moving. So spit out whatever it is you want and then get the hell out of here!”

“Yessir!” he responded automatically. There was nothing left now but to take the final plunge. “Commander, I want you to restore me to flight status. I want to fly the strike when it goes in.”

Magruder leaned back in his chair and studied him through narrowed eyes. The scrutiny made Bannon feel uncomfortable, and he had to fight to keep from fidgeting. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” The tone suggested that Magruder was anything but sure of Bannon’s competence.

“Yes, sir,” he said again. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.” It had kept him awake nights, until he’d finally managed to talk out his problems with one of Jefferson’s chaplains. Lieutenant Commander Stocker hadn’t said much, but in the course of the talk Bannon had come to realize that he couldn’t just give up. Nothing he could do would ever bring Commander Greene back, but Bannon owed it to Greene, and to himself, to try again. He needed the chance to prove himself once and for all … or die trying.

Magruder kept studying him for a long moment, and Bannon shifted uneasily. “I can do the job, Commander,” he said. “I know I can.”

“You sound sure of yourself,” Magruder said quietly. His hand absently picked one of Stramaglia’s cigars out of the mug. He toyed with it for a second without even seeming aware of what he was doing. Then he went on. “But I wonder if you’re that confident on the inside.”

He started to make a glib reply, then hesitated. “No sir,” he admitted at last. “I’m not. But it’s something I have to do. Please don’t refuse this, Commander. It’s important.”

There was another long silence. Then Magruder nodded suddenly. “All right, Bannon,” he said. “Lord knows we need every pilot we can get for this. Keeping the strike ready to launch is going to be hard on everybody, and the more spare officers I’ve got on tap the better prepared we’ll be.” He pointed the cigar straight at Bannon’s chest, a gesture that reminded him of the old CAG. “Just don’t screw this up, Bannon. If you can’t pull your weight, don’t drag the rest of your buddies down. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Owens you’re back on the roster and report to your CO. Dismissed.”

Bannon’s mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions as he left the office. He knew he had made the right decision, the only decision … but Magruder’s words had reinforced his own doubts and fears. If he lost it up there, would he end up killing another of his shipmates?

Tombstone Magruder leaned back in his chair and looked up at the overhead, rubbing his eyes. He had snatched a few hours’ fitful sleep, but now he was back at his desk grappling with the details of the proposed Alpha Strike.

As a squadron CO he’d faced his share of paperwork, but somehow the magnitude of the burden of running a full air wing had never hit him until he had to do it himself. In the movies, the carrier pilots just climbed into their cockpits and went off to do battle with the enemy. But in real life, there was a lot going on behind the scenes to make that possible. CAG had to work out battle plans with the admiral, with Captain Brandt, and with each individual squadron commander. He had to coordinate activities with the Air Boss and S-6 Division and half a dozen other individuals and groups, and any one of them could throw a monkey wrench into a complex plan. He’d learned that lesson after Maintenance had written up down gripes on two Hornets and thrown his entire carefully prepared launch schedule out the window.

He was beginning to understand something that had puzzled him. It was no wonder Stramaglia had been so eager to go up with Coyote on that last mission. CAG had always been an aviator before all else, and it must have been galling to be chained to this desk trying to coordinate the activities of the entire air wing without going crazy. It made those hated days in Magruder’s Pentagon assignment look like a quiet vacation.

But it was finally starting to come together. From the moment Admiral Tarrant had changed his mind and decided to proceed with the mission, the Air Wing staff had plunged into the preparations with a dedication that made Magruder proud to be a part of it all. If and when the Intelligence types spotted the opening they needed, CVW-20 would be ready for it. It would still be dicey trying to strike a blow against the Russians with their overwhelming air power, but at least now they could do something. At least Jefferson wouldn’t be slinking away with her tail between her legs, defeated. It was a chance, no more, but a chance was all anyone could ask in a situation like this.

In the meeting with Tarrant the day before, after Magruder explained his new idea for evening the odds, the admiral had given Magruder the credit for that chance. I would never have thought of the S-3s for this, Tarrant had said. Back in my day they weren’t fitted for this kind of op. If we win this, it’ll be because of you and your sleight of hand, Commander. Flattering words for someone who had been thrust into the CAG slot without warning and without adequate preparation.

He hadn’t protested at the time, but Magruder knew that the credit for any success they earned now should still go to Joseph Stramaglia. He had been fine-tuning the Air Wing long before Magruder had arrived, and it was his staff — Lee and Owens and others — who were performing miracles to organize the operation. And Stramaglia had insisted on broadening Magruder’s own experience when Tombstone had wanted nothing more than a chance to cling to the past in the cockpit of a Tomcat. That more than anything else was what had earned Jefferson her chance at striking back.

A knock on his door brought Magruder out of his reverie. At his call it opened to admit Lieutenant Commander Owens, his young, eager features little changed by the hard work he’d been putting in all day. The young officer had developed an overprotective attitude toward his new superior, and seemed unduly worried at the pace Magruder was trying to maintain, but he was a rock when it came to the administrative details. If Owens had been a little better used to taking responsibility and making tough decisions, he would have made a better CAG than Magruder.

Not that the tough decisions came any more easily to Magruder. It had taken every ounce of self-control to contemplate the possible results of the Alpha Strike without breaking down entirely. When young Bannon had requested the chance to go back on the roster, it had required a real effort to keep from giving in to his urge to keep the kid out of combat for his own good. And Coyote’s decision to return to duty had been even harder on him, despite their strained relations. Too many friends were at risk in this whole operation, and Magruder had to live with the knowledge that it had been his crazy idea, in Tarrant’s eager hands, which had put them all on a collision course with battle.

“Sir,” Owens began breathlessly. “Sir, it’s going down. OZ has been tapping into real-time satellite data, and it looks like they’re on the move out of Murmansk.”

That made him sit up straight. It was the moment they’d been waiting for, when the Soviets finally committed themselves. The next few hours would tell them where the Russians were going and whether or not Jefferson had a hope of intervening.

They were as ready now as they would ever be. Magruder could only hope and pray that they were ready enough for what lay ahead.