Island Warriors

EIGHT

Coyote stared down at his cup of coffee, fascinated. The surface of the liquid jittered with standing waves, the concentric circles radiating out from the center, a response to the vibrations thrumming through the ship.

It was odd to feel the carrier trembling under his feet. Odd to actually feel the power of her four turbines driving her four shafts, the slant on the deck as she made turns, the dip and yaw as she smashed through the seas.

Normally, the carrier had no more sense of motion about her than an office building. The deck was stable underfoot. Coffee cups and plates did not slide around on tables. Things stayed where you put them. Except for the howl of aircraft and the reverberating slam as aircraft hit the deck — and the occasional typhoon, of course — you could have been ashore.

But not now. Flight operations actually provided the most stable times, since the carrier reduced speed from flank, sought favorable winds and kept the deck level to within a few degrees of roll. But once a flight cycle was completed, the carrier immediately ramped back up to flank speed, channeling every atom of superheated steam from her reactors into pounding the ocean into submission with her propellers.

Coyote glanced up at the tactical plot and saw that they were making excellent time. Would it be fast enough? Hard to say — but short of fitting the carrier with jet engines and turning her into a hovercraft, they were making the best time that was humanly possible.

Could have been a bit faster, I suppose. But a carrier without an airwing and qualified pilots isn’t much use at all.

CAG had gotten the airwing onboard in record time. The deck was still clobbered with the newly arrived squadrons sorting out people and planes, looking for assigned spots, and generally going through all the gyrations that they would have had a couple of weeks to work out normally.

But the air wing wasn’t the only problem. In addition to Lab Rat’s people, there were hundreds of additional personnel to embark, and in between fighter traps and carrier quals, the decks were crowded with C-2 Greyhound CODS disgorging massive loads of people and gear. While they were still within range, the heavy transport helos picked up part of the load, but soon they would be out of the helos unrefueled range, and the CODs would have to handle the rest of it alone.

And the carrier quals — my God, had there been such an increase in new pilots into squadrons in the last year? It seemed like every third pilot was completely out of qual and had to get ten day traps and five night traps to even be considered minimally safe. And that didn’t even count the ones who needed a few extra looks at the deck to get back into the saddle.

Yes, getting the airwing back onboard and up to speed had cut into their speed of advance, or SOA. But there was no help for it. Cutting corners would just get people killed down the road.

“How long, do you think?” Coyote asked. He glanced over at Captain Ganner.

“I think we’ll make it in three weeks, easy,” Ganner said. “We might shave off a couple of days along the way if everything works well.”

“Let’s just hope China doesn’t bomb Taiwan back into the Stone Age while we’re hauling ass across the ocean. Dammit, what were they thinking, leaving the area without a carrier around?”

Ganner cleared his throat. “Sir, we could cut some time off if we proceeded ahead alone. I don’t like the option, and I know you don’t either. But the support ships and small boys are slowing us down. Between refueling and a slower speed of advance — well, I wonder if you’d reconsidered.”

Coyote grunted. What Ganner was proposing was something that they’d all known, but hadn’t had the balls to say out loud. The United States was powered by a nuclear reactor. She didn’t need to take on fuel, except when the hungry aircraft finally depleted her massive stores, and that wouldn’t be for quite a while. And she had storage space and reefers to hold more than enough food for the transit. Oh, sure, they might run short on FFV, or fresh fruits and vegetables, but it was something that they could deal with in the short run.

The escort combatants and supply ships, however, were in an entirely different situation. Not only were they conventionally powered and needed fuel en route, but they also had slower max speeds. Sure, some of the gas turbine ships could keep up, but not without taking a terrible toll on equipment and personnel. Speeds that translated to a little roll onboard a carrier were gut-wrenching and exhausting rolls and yaws on a small boy. The motion would make solid sleep virtually impossible when every movement of the ship threatened to throw you out of your rack, and eating was a constant challenge. And that wasn’t even counting the sailors — about a third, Coyote reckoned — who would be seriously sea sick most of the time. All it took was one sailor puking in Combat to set off the rest of them.

And the replenishment ship — well, there was no way that they could match the United States’s speed. And that included the USS Jefferson.

“Jeff holding up all right?” Coyote asked.

Ganner nodded. “For now. The fact that she’s underway at all…”

Ganner didn’t need to finish the thought. Jefferson—and Batman — had pulled off something like a miracle. Coyote shuddered to think what corners might have been cut in getting her seaworthy, but in a frank conversation with Batman, the more senior admiral had assured Coyote that Jeff was more than capable of giving the newer carrier a run for her money. Although the flight deck and associate gear was not fully operational, Jefferson was fully loaded with everything that both carriers would need for the deployment. Everything from bullets to beans, as the saying went. During the two days she’d spent in dry dock, supply troops had packed every empty inch of her hull with the stores intended for the United States, and those supplies would be ferried to her via helo. Logistics make or break a battle group, and having Jefferson along had solved at least one major problem for Coyote and his staff.

“But she’s stressed just like the rest of them, not as much from the seas as from being shorthanded,” Ganner continued, bringing a surface sailor’s perspective to evaluating the issue, one that Coyote acknowledged without fully comprehending. There were things his COS knew deep in his bones, intuitions that he had about surface ships that Coyote would never be able to match. But then again, the COS would never really understand at a gut level how a barrel roll or a wingover affected a pilot and crew.

“Letting them drop behind is a ballsy move,” Coyote mused. He stared at the plot, imagining the howls of protest he’d get from the small boys. And how would Batman onboard Jefferson react?

None of them would want to be left out. To let the carrier go ahead of them, unprotected, would go against every fiber of their being. The cruisers and destroyers, he suspected, would be poised on the edge of virtual mutiny at the idea. Sure, they’d understand the necessity and they could damned sure do the numbers themselves. But protecting the carrier was their primary role on this mission, and to be left behind would be a direct insult to their capabilities.

Still, with over-the-horizon targeting and non-organic sensors, the cruisers could still provide some potent protection to the carrier. And if it looked like things were starting to go down, he could always slow and let them catch up.

“Get the staff together,” Coyote ordered. “We’re going to take a hard look at this. I’m leaning toward doing it, COS, but I have to admit it worries the hell out of me.” He stared glumly at the tactical plot, already imagining the storm of protest he’d face. “Draft the message. Let’s have it ready to go.”

Batman stared down in disbelief at the message in his hand. “What the hell — he can’t do that!” he roared. He slammed the message down on the desk. “This is insanity.”

All around the battle group, similar reactions were taking place in the other wardrooms. Pens were picked up as skippers drafted hasty howls of protest, and the communications circuits flamed with P4 and highly classified messages. Washington and Seventh Fleet got into the act as well, albeit without the sense of personal outrage that the escort ships had.

Twelve hours after Coyote recovered his last aircraft and send the message off, the decision was made. The situation in Taiwan was critical, so critical that it justified the risk. The USS United States would proceed at flank speed toward the island and her escorts would catch up as they could, having due regard for the safety of their ships and crews.

“Well, I’m not going to stand for it.” Batman turned to his chief engineer and fixed him with a steely glare. “You make sure I’ve got the juice to keep up with her. We have to stay within easy aerial resupply range, you got it? No excuses — not now.”

The most immediate result of Coyote’s message was an impromptu naval Olympics, as Batman’s orders were echoed on every surface ship attached to the battle group. The competition between the surface ships to maintain position on the carrier was fierce. As they chivvied for position, each one eking out a few extra turns on the propeller and sacrificing a few hours of sleep for speed, it quickly became apparent that despite her injuries and hasty repairs, the USS Jefferson would be the winner.