CAG and Captain Rogers are out. Where’s Admiral Rafehausen?”
“Sir, I have his flag lieutenant right here. The admiral is injured but should recover, over.”
“Copy injured.” Pause.
“Jefferson,
I’m taking command of the battle group effective twelve forty-nine GMT.”
“Roger, copy.
Fort Klock
has taken command.” The TAO looked around as if he was hoping someone senior would come in the scuttle.
“I’m taking the exercise; effective immediately. I want a status on your fires when you can pass it, and I want to know the fuel status of every plane up, TAO.”
“Air Ops is working on that, sir. We have—” the TAO looked at a sheet of paper being held in front of him—“eleven planes up. Sorry, make that thirteen.”
“Get me their fuel status.”
“I’m on it.”
“You have hull-integrity issues?”
“No, sir. We’ve cleared the fires off the O-2 level, we’re working forward from the bow of the flight deck, and the stern is on fire. I have no working elevator and cat two may be savable. That’s what I know now, sir.”
“Keep me apprised. I’ll get a smallboy on your stern. Does she steer?”
“She does.”
“I have to put out a sitrep to Fifth Fleet ASAP. Any idea of your casualties?”
“No idea, sir. No idea at all.”
Pause. The TAO was looking at the hatch to Air Ops, where an officer was trying to get his attention.
“Stay in touch, TAO.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Madje felt that he knew too much. He was sagging, done with his immediate duty and frightened of the prospect before them. He cleared his throat. “I’ll—I’ll go fight fires. Sir.”
“That sounds like sense to me.” The TAO turned awayfrom him to the officer who had just entered from Air Ops. “Those the fuel figures?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Somebody’s going for a swim.”
“Yes, sir.”
Madje took a deep breath, tried to ignore his back, and got the scared kid at the hatch to let him out. And then he went to fight fires.
5
AG 703
Soleck was keeping his eyes on the air traffic and his brain on the fuel. “Gup, as soon as you get their fuel states, start working out what they need to get to—” He looked down at his card of the day, registered the primary bingo field, the precleared field where planes could land in an emergency, as Mahe. This was certainly an emergency. “—Mahe, India. It’s on your kneeboard.” Guppy looked over at him, trying to say something about being in over his head. “Just
do it,
Gup. Fudge the numbers.
Guess.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” Soleck fed radio one into his helmet and dialed up AG 706 on the squadron frequency.
“AG 706, this is 703, over?”
Pause.
“703, go ahead.” That was Scarlatti, known to the air wing as “Mozart,” a nugget only a little more experienced than Guppy, and
damn
Stevens for taking Goldy. They were an inexperienced squadron and Soleck wasn’t sure he was ready to do what had to be done.
“Mozart, this is Soleck. Listen up; we’ve got all the gas that’s in the air and close to the stack. You and me. We’re going to have to set up a fueling station headed inbound as soon as AW gives us a bingo field, and we tank the Hornets until they can go feet-dry. You copy all that, Mozart?”
Pause. Soleck could almost hear the gears grinding in Mozart’s mind.
“Roger, 703, I copy. What do you want me to do
right now?”
“Stay on your assigned track and altitude until I come up again. Stay on this freq and monitor guard and AW. I’ll get back to you. Soleck, out.”
“AW on one, sir.” Soleck wondered if Guppy had ever called him “sir” before. “And nothing from Mister Stevens.”
The AW said, “703, what is your status and give?”
Soleck was pretty sure that was Captain Lash—Alpha Whiskey—himself, not some designated junior officer. That alone told Soleck plenty.
“AW, this is 703. We have twenty-two thousand pounds to give on original mission parameters. AG 706 has the same. AW, I’m prepared
“Sir, I have his flag lieutenant right here. The admiral is injured but should recover, over.”
“Copy injured.” Pause.
“Jefferson,
I’m taking command of the battle group effective twelve forty-nine GMT.”
“Roger, copy.
Fort Klock
has taken command.” The TAO looked around as if he was hoping someone senior would come in the scuttle.
“I’m taking the exercise; effective immediately. I want a status on your fires when you can pass it, and I want to know the fuel status of every plane up, TAO.”
“Air Ops is working on that, sir. We have—” the TAO looked at a sheet of paper being held in front of him—“eleven planes up. Sorry, make that thirteen.”
“Get me their fuel status.”
“I’m on it.”
“You have hull-integrity issues?”
“No, sir. We’ve cleared the fires off the O-2 level, we’re working forward from the bow of the flight deck, and the stern is on fire. I have no working elevator and cat two may be savable. That’s what I know now, sir.”
“Keep me apprised. I’ll get a smallboy on your stern. Does she steer?”
“She does.”
“I have to put out a sitrep to Fifth Fleet ASAP. Any idea of your casualties?”
“No idea, sir. No idea at all.”
Pause. The TAO was looking at the hatch to Air Ops, where an officer was trying to get his attention.
“Stay in touch, TAO.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Madje felt that he knew too much. He was sagging, done with his immediate duty and frightened of the prospect before them. He cleared his throat. “I’ll—I’ll go fight fires. Sir.”
“That sounds like sense to me.” The TAO turned awayfrom him to the officer who had just entered from Air Ops. “Those the fuel figures?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Somebody’s going for a swim.”
“Yes, sir.”
Madje took a deep breath, tried to ignore his back, and got the scared kid at the hatch to let him out. And then he went to fight fires.
5
AG 703
Soleck was keeping his eyes on the air traffic and his brain on the fuel. “Gup, as soon as you get their fuel states, start working out what they need to get to—” He looked down at his card of the day, registered the primary bingo field, the precleared field where planes could land in an emergency, as Mahe. This was certainly an emergency. “—Mahe, India. It’s on your kneeboard.” Guppy looked over at him, trying to say something about being in over his head. “Just
do it,
Gup. Fudge the numbers.
Guess.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” Soleck fed radio one into his helmet and dialed up AG 706 on the squadron frequency.
“AG 706, this is 703, over?”
Pause.
“703, go ahead.” That was Scarlatti, known to the air wing as “Mozart,” a nugget only a little more experienced than Guppy, and
damn
Stevens for taking Goldy. They were an inexperienced squadron and Soleck wasn’t sure he was ready to do what had to be done.
“Mozart, this is Soleck. Listen up; we’ve got all the gas that’s in the air and close to the stack. You and me. We’re going to have to set up a fueling station headed inbound as soon as AW gives us a bingo field, and we tank the Hornets until they can go feet-dry. You copy all that, Mozart?”
Pause. Soleck could almost hear the gears grinding in Mozart’s mind.
“Roger, 703, I copy. What do you want me to do
right now?”
“Stay on your assigned track and altitude until I come up again. Stay on this freq and monitor guard and AW. I’ll get back to you. Soleck, out.”
“AW on one, sir.” Soleck wondered if Guppy had ever called him “sir” before. “And nothing from Mister Stevens.”
The AW said, “703, what is your status and give?”
Soleck was pretty sure that was Captain Lash—Alpha Whiskey—himself, not some designated junior officer. That alone told Soleck plenty.
“AW, this is 703. We have twenty-two thousand pounds to give on original mission parameters. AG 706 has the same. AW, I’m prepared
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