Sea Strike

54

Macintyre and Tallman had been sipping desultorily at mugs of coffee that neither particularly wanted. Now both admirals looked up sharply at the approach of Tallman’s chief of staff.

“The Cunningham reports that her helos are in the air and that she is moving into firing position,” he reported. “The Strike Boss also reports that the line of battle has been formed. We are two minutes and thirty seconds away from launch. The Strike Boss reports all boards are green. He is standing by for strike commit.”

“Any word in the pipeline from D.C.?”

“Negative, sir. We are maintaining open links with both the Joint Chiefs and the National Command Authority at this time. No change in mission authorization. We are still good to go.”

Tallman studied his tepid cup of coffee for a moment more before speaking.

“Very well, then. Inform the Strike Boss that he has strike commit.”

Tallman set his mug on a console top. “Come on, Eddie Mac, let’s go out on deck and have a look at this. It’s going to be something to see.”

The carrier had swung to the east, screening herself with her own helicopters and freeing her destroyer escorts to form the line of battle. Now, off to starboard, half a dozen big Spruances and Ticonderogas swept through the darkness, nose to tail, clearing their firing arcs for an objective far over the horizon.

At one time, massive gun turrets would have been indexing around; now, silo doors snapped open and launcher tubes elevated with a nasal whine of hydraulics.

Down in the Combat Information Centers, firecontrol systems murmured cybernetically across the datalinks, apportioning targets, cycling through prelaunch checklists, counting away the seconds.

The count reached zero, and the human-born cry of “Fire” that sounded through the 1-MC circuits was a mere formality.

Warning horns blared and boosters ignited. The first cruise missile flight salvoed into the night sky, each round trailing a curtain of golden flame. More flights followed, the crackling roar of their launch building and reverberating across the sky.

A mist of luminescent exhaust vapor hung low over the water and the warships were backlit in the glare of their own firepower, a shadow squadron sailing across a sun-colored sea.

For almost five full minutes, the launch raged on. It was one of those moments of piercing beauty that sometimes occur during war at sea, and all who saw it would remember.

The scattering of hands topside abandoned the pretense of going about their duties to stare at the developing spectacle through narrowed eyes.

Finally, the last missile flight hit the sky. Darkness returned as their jettisoned booster packs rained down into the sea like glowing embers. The thunder began to fade as their turbojet sustainers carried them away toward the horizon.

On the Enterprise’s flight deck, a new wall of sound began to grow. The first attack diamond of F/A-22s were on the carrier’s catapults, the magnified vacuum cleaner moan of their engines reaching a crescendo as they spooled up to flight power.

Ponderously, the massive warship turned into the wind.

“Admiral, Captain Kitterage is requesting permission to launch aircraft.”

“Inform the captain that he may launch at his discretion.”

Down on the steam-streaked deck, Moondog 505’s canopy settled onto the cockpit rails, closing out the thunder of the night. “Set?” Digger Graves called over the ejector-seat back.

“Set,” Bubbles replied laconically from the rear cockpit.

Following the directions of a wand-wielding greenshirt, 505 waddled into position at the base of number-two catapult.

Below the Sea Raptor’s nose, one set of flightdeck hands linked the plane’s forward landing gear to the cocked catapult shuttle.

Simultaneously, checker hands verified that all ordnance safety pins had been drawn and that the fighter-bomber’s wings were locked down. They also watched as Graves cycled his control surfaces: rudders, elevators, ailerons, flaps, spoilers, air brakes. They flashed Digger the thumbs-up. All go. Ready for launch.

Jet-blast deflector plates lifted into position behind the poised aircraft. Digger felt his aircraft come under tension as the catapult charged. He flared his landing lights, signaling his readiness to the cat officer, then put his throttles to mode four.

Diamond-studded flame spewed from the engine exhausts as the afterburners fired; the piercing scream of the turbofans became something beyond mere sound.

Digger took a deep, deliberate breath and settled himself deeper into his ejector seat. A night carrier launch is possibly the single most dangerous routine conducted in aviation. There is one plus to it, however: brevity. If you are going to die, it will probably happen within the first three seconds.

The cat monkey made the theatrical windmilling gesture that signaled to the rest of the deck that a plane was about to hit the sky. Dropping to one knee, he stabbed his fist forward.

The cat officer squeezed the launch trigger. Thirty tons of aircraft, explosives, and human life hurled down a hundred-and-fifty-foot track into the darkness.

The stealth bomber hovered off the end of the angled flight deck, balanced on the knife-edge between flight and not flight. In the cockpit, Digger Graves performed a quick series of critical actions.

He had to reorient himself using the glowing HUD display, staving off the vertigo of being flung out into absolute blackness.

He had to retract the landing gear and tail hook. He had to hold Moondog 505’s wings level and he had to keep her nose lifted above the invisible horizon. All within a matter of a few racing heartbeats and all while recovering from the gut slug of a cat launch. To simplify his agenda, Digger didn’t bother with breathing.

Somewhere in the middle of that longest second in the world, the Sea Raptor made its transition from projectile to flying machine. The landing gear thumped into the fighter-bomber’s belly and the flaps went flush with the wings as Digger finished cleaning up the aircraft. The blue glare of the afterburner flame disappeared from the rearview mirrors as he throttled back to climb power. That left only the night and the stars and the dim rogue constellation of the Enterprise’s deck lights dwindling away astern and below.

Digger banked the Sea Raptor toward the distant coast of China, and two protracted exhalations hissed in the plane intercom. “You know,” Bubbles said for possibly the hundredth time, “I really fucking hate that part.”