Viper Strike c-2 Read online

"Ho, Stoney," Bumer said as Tombstone jumped off the flight deck and into the well behind the windscreen. "With you in a sec."

  Tombstone watched the next Tomcat, the number 203 prominent on the nose, line up for a trap. While Tombstone and Batman had been over northern Thailand, other aircraft from their squadron had been patrolling the skies closer to the Jefferson. Lieutenant Ron "Price" Taggart's 203 ship had been one of these.

  Bumer spoke into his handset. "You're a little left, Price," he said.

  "Come right a bit." Taggart's F-14 corrected. "Good… good… not too much. Deck's coming up."

  The Tomcat shrieked onto the deck, engines revving as the wheels clattered across steel. The arrestor hook caught the number-four wire, dragging the F-14 to a halt.

  "I'll give him a 'fair,"" Bumer said, making a notation on a clipboard in front of him. As squadron LSO, it was Bumer's job to grade every landing each pilot made. The possible marks were "okay," the best possible; "fair," which was average and indicated the aviator had made the proper corrections on time; "no grade," which meant that there'd been danger to the plane, the crew, or other personnel; and "cut," meaning a real screw-up, one which could have ended in disaster. The LSO's grades were a source of intense competition among the aviators, with each week's ratings posted on the greenie board off the hangar deck for everyone to see.

  Bumer looked at Tombstone. "That' it for your squadron, Tombstone. You come to watch Made It?"

  "Is he the last one up?"

  "Yup, Air Boss charlied him again a couple of minutes ago. He's coming around next."

  Lieutenant Commander "Di Di" Roberts stood at Bumer's side. He was VF-97's LSO this afternoon and responsible for getting Made It down on the deck. As Bumer handed him the pickle, he was already speaking into his handset. "A little high." Light glinted from his sunglasses as he spoke.

  "Power down…"

  Tombstone couldn't hear Bayerly's reply, but the incoming Tomcat responded, power dropping, nose rising. Not enough… "Shit-fire, he's afraid of the deck now," someone said behind Tombstone's back.

  "Still high," Roberts said. He glanced quickly at the PLAT screen, then back at the F-14. "Power back, just a tad more…"

  Bayerly's aircraft swept in across the roundoff, chasing its own shadow across the deck, its dangling tailhook sweeping just above the taut arrestor cables. Roberts triggered the pickle in his hand, and the bull's-eye lit up red behind him. "Wave off! Bolter! Bolter! Bolter!"

  The Tomcat's wheels touched with a grating squeal, and then the noise was lost in thunder as Bayerly's engines opened up full. The blue-gray Tomcat flashed past the LSO platform, setting the air above the deck shimmering with the heat of its jet wash. Then the aircraft was dwindling into the sky ahead of the carrier, banking to port.

  "That's okay, Commander," Roberts said calmly into his radio, "Happens to us all. Bring her around again. Third time's the charm, old buddy." He released the transmit switch on the handset and looked Craig in the eye. "He doesn't sound good, Bumer."

  "Rattled?"

  "Something."

  A telephone buzzed on the console, and another officer picked it up.

  "Air Boss, Di Di," he said, holding the receiver. "Captain wants to know if there's a problem."

  "No goddamn problem," Roberts replied. "Just a two-time bolter. He'll make it next go-round."

  Tombstone crossed to the deck railing and looked across the waves.

  Bayerly's Tomcat was a tiny silver speck now, gleaming in the sun far beyond the rescue helo, which was maintaining its position two miles off Jefferson's port beam. Each time an aviator pulled a bolter, it shook his confidence in himself and in his aircraft that much more… making the next attempt harder.

  It had happened to Tombstone more than once, and the feeling was not a good one. He'd known aviators who had pulled ten or twelve bolters in a row before finally making a trap. One had passed out cold minutes after climbing out of his plane; another had walked straight down to the CAG's office and turned in his wings. Of all the operations expected of a Navy fighter pilot, none was more difficult, more out-and-out scary than landing an aircraft on a carrier's flight deck.

  "Right, Made It," Roberts was saying into the handset. "You're lining up fine. Captain says if he can assist by maneuvering the boat, just say so.

  Say again? Okay… roger that. Bring her on in. Soft and smooth… just like you were sticking your best girl…"

  Bayerly's Tomcat pulled into its final break three quarters of a mile behind the Jefferson. Even at that distance, Tombstone caught the signs of nervousness, the slight flutter to the wings as Bayerly overcompensated, corrected, then corrected too far. He was fighting his Tomcat, wrestling it toward the trap.

  Not good…

  "You're lined up fine." Roberts's voice was a soothing balm. "Still a bit high. Slack off some. More…"

  "Shit!" someone behind them snapped. "He's still too high!"

  Roberts grimaced, shaking his head. Tombstone saw the same thing, felt the same worry; Bayerly was still afraid of the deck after his first two close calls. He was going to bolter again.

  "Wave off!" Roberts pressed the pickle switch. "Wave off!"

  1529 hours, 14 January

  Tomcat 101

  Bayerly saw the red wave-off signal and bit off an obscenity. What happened next passed too quickly for the luxury of decision or reason. He had to get down on deck, had to land before his already shaken nerve went completely and he made a fool of himself in front of every man in the squadron, in front of the wing, in front of Magruder.

  The thought of death didn't even enter into the equation. With a savage yank on the throttles, he cut back the engines until they were barely idling, and brought the nose up… up… He heard Di Di Roberts shouting at him, but he was already committed. His F-14 plummeted.

  The tactic, known as "diving for the deck," was not an approved technique for carrier landing. Screw that, Bayerly thought. Any port in a storm…

  As the deck rushed up to meet him, he throttled up. His tailhook snagged the number-four wire just as his landing gear slammed into the deck with a jolt that slammed Bayerly's tailbone and elicited a yelp of surprise or pain out of Stratton. He cut back the engine, then sat there, unable for a moment to move. The sheer shock and… not joy, precisely, but surprise of being down and in one piece were overwhelming.

  He pulled his oxygen mask away from his face and ran his hand over his eyes. His glove came away slick with sweat. But he was down!

  1705 hours, 14 January

  CAG's office, 0–3 Deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Commander Marusko leaned back in the chair with a squeak of casters.

  Tombstone and Made It stood at attention side by side, facing him across his cluttered desk. He ran one hand across his balding scalp and burned the two of them with his blackest scowl.

  "So, are you hotdogs going to tell me what the hell that was all about up there, or just stand there looking at me shit-faced?"

  Both of the aviators avoided his eyes, focusing on some point behind his shoulder. They'd changed out of their flight suits and wore their khakis.

  The office was small and cramped, as were most such spaces on board the Jefferson. This one reflected the man who occupied it: framed commendations and degrees adorned the bulkheads… those not taken up by book shelves or filing cabinets. A plastic model of an F/A-18 perched on a shelf above the IBM Selectric on its typing stand. Books on engineering and flight avionics were interspersed with quarterly fitness reports. A color photograph of an attractive woman and a pretty teenaged girl rested atop a ship's library copy of Moby Dick.

  The title CAG ― commander Air Group ― was a holdover from the days when a carrier fielded an air group rather than an air wing; Navy tradition being what it was, the older term was still in use, like the word "head" in a Navy where the enlisted men no longer went to the "head" of the ship to relieve themselves.

  More and more, the carrier Navy was coming to use the concept known as "SuperCAG," where the wing commander acted strictly as an administrator and never, as in Vietnam days, actually flew. That, Marusko had long since decided, was his real problem. He still found time to get in his qualifying hours in the air, but he no longer flew on a regular basis with the rest of the aviators. For someone who loved flying as much as Marusko did, that was a constant, gnawing pain.

  "I don't know what you mean, Sir," Bayerly said. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his middle fingers correctly aligned with the crease in his uniform pants.

  "We'll start with you, mister," Marusko said. "You violated the Rules of Engagement for your mission on at least three points. You went below the hard deck, you crossed the border into Burma… and don't give me that hot-pursuit shit. And you engaged in close combat with unknown forces in everything but the shooting. God damn it, you were this close…" He held up thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. "This close to getting into a shooting match with those people. What do you have to say for yourself?"

  "Sir, we… I mean, our orders indicated we were to fly cover for our That allies. I understood that to mean protecting them from hostile aircraft.

  I had to go below ten thousand feet to position myself in case I had to engage. Sir."

  "Mmm. And your little joy-ride into the Shan District of Burma?"

  "I was on the bandit's tail, Sir. I… uh… was escorting him to the border. And with the other bandit on my six, I couldn't get clear without exposing myself to possible hostile fire."

  "Bull," Marusko snapped. "You were gambling that you could get a shot off if the bandit on your tail launched." He looked hard at Tombstone. "And you. What's your excuse, Magruder? You went below the hard deck, engaged in violation of standing ROES, and came within a few feet of scattering a very expensive aircraft across the mountains in a midair collision with a foreign national."

  "There's not a whole lot to say about it, CAG," Tombstone said slowly.

  "It was pretty tight up there. I thought Commander Bayerly might need assistance. The bandit didn't react when I got a lock on him. Shaving him off was the only way I could think of to do it without opening fire."

  "And if that bandit had pulled something as stupid as your stunt, you wouldn't be here right now. And your uncle would be trying to explain the loss of you and forty million of the taxpayers' dollars to CINCPAC and the Pentagon and the CNO and for all I know the goddamned White House too."

  Marusko stared at him a moment longer, then at Bayerly. When he spoke again, it was with quiet deliberation. "You gentlemen are expected to practice your career calling aboard this vessel in a professional and workmanlike manner. I needn't remind either of you that the Navy has invested a great deal of time, effort, and money in those careers, and it expects you to take them seriously. We're not out here to play games, but to carry out our orders precisely as they are given to us. We do not play tag with unidentified aircraft. We do not let ourselves get suckered across international boundaries. And we do not engage in aerial games of chicken that could result in toasty international incidents! Do I make myself clear?"

  Their response was a lopsided chorus. "Clear, Sir."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "The two of you are fine aviators with excellent records, both squadron commanders entrusted with grave and far-reaching responsibilities. You, Magruder, should have known better. I think your uncle would expect better of you. I know damn well that I do! Understood?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  Marusko slumped back into his chair, toying with a pen scooped off his desk. He could tell he'd touched a raw nerve with Tombstone. He'd probably gone too far there, he decided, with the crack about the guy's uncle. "I understand your motivations, Magruder. You saw a buddy in trouble and went to bail him out. If this were combat, I'd have to commend you for quick thinking." He slammed the pen down on the desktop before him. "But damn it, this wasn't combat today. Your orders were to support Royal That Air Force operations over the Nam Mae Taeng."

  "Begging the CAG's pardon," Tombstone said, the words clipped and tight.

  "But what the hell does support mean if we can't engage the enemy?"

  "It means, in this case, that you were up there to show the flag, to demonstrate U.S. support for the That government… not fight their damned war for them!"

  Marusko sighed. In all probability, everyone from the admiral clear up to the President would love to see this whole thing covered over. That simply wasn't possible, though. The incident had been seen by too many people, from the pilot of the surviving That aircraft to radar operators on board the circling Hawkeye and the Aegis cruiser Vicksburg. And God knew how many others had been watching, across the border in Burma, or even farther north, in the People's Republic of China. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep such things private anymore.

  "Okay," he continued at last. "Like I said, Magruder, I understand what made you do it. This time we'll leave it at an ass-chewing. Next time-" He made a sour face, "You had better make goddamn sure there isn't another time.

  Get me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Interpreting your orders to suit yourself is a damned raggedy-assed sea lawyer's stunt. Pull it again and your ass is mine. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Get the hell out of here."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Bayerly, you stand fast."

  Tombstone wheeled and hurried out the door. Bayerly remained standing at attention. Marusko considered the man for another moment. He had on the desk before him the report from VF-97's LSO. He wasn't concerned about the bolters ― every aviator ran up a string of those at one time or another ― but the no-grade mark was serious. Bayerly had endangered himself and his shipmates by that juvenile dive for the deck, and that couldn't be allowed to pass unpunished.

  "Bayerly," Marusko said slowly. "You and me have a problem. If it was just the ROES, I'd kick you out of this office like I just did Tombstone. But your little trick up on the roof this afternoon worries me. You dived for the deck… and you came damned close to wiping yourself out, along with your RIO and half the guys on duty up there." He waited for a response. "Well?

  Anything to say?"

  "No, sir. I guess… I guess it was a bad call on my part, CAG."

  "A bad call. How about bad judgment?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Marusko studied the big aviator for a moment. "Son, you've been moody as hell for weeks now. Ever since Wonsan, in fact. Am I right?"

  "If you say so, CAG."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "Nothing to talk about, sir." He shrugged. "I screwed up today, that's all."

  Marusko shook his head. "I'm taking you off flight duty, Made It.

  You're in hack until I tell you otherwise."

  Bayerly looked stricken. "But, CAG-"

  "Save it." He tapped the reports on his desk. "You're grounded, pending further investigation."

  "Yes, sir." Bayerly's face was emotionless once more.

  "Dismissed."

  "Aye, aye, sir." Bayerly spun smartly and departed.

  Marusko stared at the closed door for a long moment after Bayerly had left. He didn't like doing what he'd been forced to do, but there was no alternative that he could see. Bayerly's attitude had verged on sullenness ― since Wonsan. That was always a bad sign, and when an aviator's emotions began affecting his performance, it was only a matter of time before there was an accident.

  In the meantime, Marusko had to figure out how he was going to word his report. He didn't want to see Bayerly's career endangered, but the guy was skating close to having his flight status jerked for good. Sometimes, Marusko did not like his job.

  1712 hours, 14 January

  0-3 Deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  Tombstone was waiting with Kid and Dixie in the passageway outside the CAG department suite. They turned when Bayerly stepped out of CAG's office.

  He looked pale.

  "What happened?" Tombstone asked.

  "Yeah, Made It. We heard some shouting."

  "Nothing." Bayerly rubbed his mustache with a stubby finger, and frowned. "Listen, Magruder. I can get on just fine without your covering for me." He pressed past Tombstone in the narrow corridor. "Get out of my way!"

  "Whoa, there, buddy!" Tombstone felt a flash of anger at Bayerly's rebuff, but he contained it. Something was bothering Made It and now was the time to have it out. "You've been running ballistic for weeks now, and today you just missed buying the farm! What the hell is with you anyway?"

  Bayerly scowled. "Forget it, Magruder. Your fancy medal doesn't cut it with me." He turned and continued down the passageway.

  "Shee-it," Dixie said wonderingly. "What gives with Made It, Tombstone?"

  "I don't know, Dixie." Worse, he didn't know how to find out. The problem was something personal, but what? Bayerly's mention of the medal suggested jealousy, but such petty motivation seemed totally out of keeping with the man's solid record for professionalism. Tombstone watched Bayerly's stocky form retreating down the seemingly endless succession of cross-passageway frames and wondered how he could clear the air between them.

  Probably, what Bayerly needed most was time. Tombstone decided to approach him again, but later, after things had settled out a bit. Maybe after the Jefferson reached Thailand…

  CHAPTER 4

  1900 Hours, 14 January

  CVIC, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  "Gooooood evening, Jeffersons!" Master Chief Raymond C. Buckley, Jr., beamed into the camera and delivered his best Pat Sajak imitation from the lectern set up as his number-one prop in the television broadcast he made twice each day to the carrier's crew. The room, called CVIC ― pronounced "civic" ― for Carrier (CV) Information Center, also served as one of Jefferson's television studios. Banks of lights glared at him from three directions as he launched into the familiar patter. "This is the Chief of the Boat, coming' at you with another edition of What's the Gouge…"

  The master chief of a modern supercarrier was the one direct link between the enlisted crew and the ship's officers, known by all, respected by all, likely to turn up almost anywhere within Jefferson's two-thousand-plus compartments and passageways with a friendly word or good advice. Captain James Fitzgerald, the ship's Commanding Officer, and Captain Vincent C.