Stephen Coonts - Combat

“Mr. Peters, Hu is my sister’s son. I trust him.”

Ottmann could almost hear the wheels clicking in Peters’s skull. “Terry, when Mr. Wei says we need Chinese on the mission, it’s part of the plausible deniability. No active-duty Americans are involved, and we emphasize that PRC pilots flew the mission.”

“I see. We ATA folks are retired while the flight-deck troops are Chinese or inactive American reservists.” Peters winked at the congressman. “A half-truth isn’t quite the same as a white lie.”

Ottmann made a point of shaking hands. “Terry, welcome to the wonderful world of politics.”

It was just past midnight, but the floodlights on the flight deck, and those along the pier on F Avenue, provided ample illumination for the Jet Ranger that Wei had leased. The pilot, who had flown SH-60s, was more than willing to set down directly on Santa Cruz , saving Peters and Robbins a long walk from Navy Landing a mile and a half away. They waved good-bye, then turned and entered the island en route to the bridge.

“Think they’ll miss us at Wei’s reception?” Robbins asked.

“Not likely, with all the free booze and fresh crab. Did you see how our boy Igor was sucking it up?”

On the O–9 level Peters entered the red-lit bridge. He saw an older man, graying with a two-day crop of stubble, talking to the watch officer. “Mr. Tolleson? I’m Terry Peters.”

“That’s me,” the harbor pilot replied. He regarded Peters openly, assessing the aviator who would take this ship to sea. They shook hands. “Our friend told me to expect you.”

“Well, it’s early for the usual watch change, but I think we’ll do all right.”

“I hope so, skipper. I’ve never hijacked a carrier before!” Tolleson smiled. “By the way, do you know your officers of the deck? Mr. Odegaard and Mr. Mei. Gentlemen, this is Captain Peters. He’ll be relieving Captain Albright today.”

Peters greeted the American and his Chinese counterpart. “Yes, I’ve met both these gentlemen.” He knew that Odegaard was a retired reserve commander; Mei had been aboard destroyers and frigates; reputedly he was an above-average ship handler.

“All right, gentlemen, let’s get started. Captain Albright said to expect four boilers on line and four standing by, provisions for two days, and a full complement sufficient for carrier qualifications tomorrow. We’re running under our own power without connections to shore. Also, I’m told we have tugs standing by. Is that correct?”

“All correct, Captain.” Odegaard nodded toward Mei. “We’ve checked with the department heads and we’re ready to go.”

“Very well.” Peters inhaled, held the breath, then let it out. “On the bridge, this is Captain Peters, I have the conn.” He turned to Robbins. “Robo, check with the weapons officer — Medesha? I want you to eyeball the Mark 83s before we push off.”

“You got it, boss.” He disappeared down the ladder.

Peters turned back to his bridge watch. “We’ll light off the other boilers as we clear the channel, but right now it’s important to get under way without drawing too much attention.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Odegaard replied. “The plant is lined up in parallel. We’ll use those four boilers to provide steam for the main engines.”

“Good. Ah, let’s see … I know the elevators are raised. Are they locked?”

“Yes, Captain. We can confirm that with the deck division if you prefer.”

“Not necessary.” Peters strode to the starboard side of the bridge, assessing the topography of his new domain. He turned to the watch standers. “Let’s test the rudders. And I’d like to confirm that we have up radar plus navigation and comm.”

The helmsman was a retired merchant marine and active yachtsman who relished steering eighty thousand tons of steel. He tested the tiller and reported that he had full control of the two rudders.

Mei came to attention. “Captain, I have personally inspected the navigation equipment. I also consulted the communications watch officer. We are ready.”

“Very well, gentlemen.” He looked to Tolleson. “Captain, request you make up the tugs, sir.”

“Right, Cap’n.” While Tolleson communicated with the tugs that would pull the carrier’s deadweight outboard against the onshore breeze, Peters saw to the pierside procedure. He waited for word from Robbins before the remaining brow was wheeled back from the starboard quarterdeck. The call quickly came from the weapons division.

“Weps to bridge.”

Odegaard responded, leaning into the speaker. “Bridge aye.”

“This is Robbins. Tell the captain we’re cocked and locked.”

Peters grinned beneath the brim of his “A-4s Forever” ballcap. “Cocked and locked” was verbal shorthand for the occasion: Robbins had seen the thousand-pound bombs and confirmed that there were suitable fuzes on hand.

At a nod from Peters, Odegaard broadcast over the 1-MC general-announcing system. “Set the special sea and anchor detail. Single up all lines and make all preparations for getting under way.”

Peters waved to his de facto executive officer and the harbor pilot. “Mr. Odegaard, Mr. Tolleson. We’ll move to Aux Conn.” While they stepped eight feet aft to the auxiliary conning station, sailors on the pier removed the first of two heavy lines securing the carrier to each of eight stanchions along the ship’s 1,046-foot length. Meanwhile, Tolleson directed both “made-up” tugs into position at the bow and stern.

Taking nothing for granted, Peters leaned out of Aux Conn, looking fore and aft to confirm that all was ready. He called behind him, “Let go all lines.” The order was repeated, echoing metallically through the moist maritime darkness as pierside personnel released the final eight hawsers linking Santa Cruz to shore.

Peters turned back inboard to face his bridge crew. “Gentlemen, I see no reason to stand on ceremony. Captain Tolleson, you’ll give your orders directly to the helmsman, if you please.” He chuckled slightly. “We do things differently in the Skyhawk Navy.”

Tolleson scratched his beard, beaming his approval of the nonregulation procedure. “Right you are, Cap’n.” He waited until he judged the ship forty to fifty feet from the pier, then said, “Son, give me left standard rudder.” As the helm swung through fifteen degrees of arc, Tolleson announced, “Back one-third on number one and two; ahead two-thirds on three and four.”

Peters watched the “spinning” maneuver move the bow away from the pier, ponderously swinging to port. The watch officer, peering through the window, called to Tolleson. “We’re fair, Pilot.”

Tolleson spoke into his walkie-talkie, clearing the tugs of their chore.

As the big ship maneuvered in the turning basin, Tolleson called, “All ahead one-third.” Santa Cruz grudgingly edged up to five knots as Tolleson smoothly coordinated rudder commands and orders to the tugs. With the bow properly positioned, he turned back to Peters. “She’s all yours, skipper.”

Peters warmly shook hands with the friend of Wei Chinglao. “Nicely done, sir. You’d better catch your taxi if you don’t want to make this cruise.”

Tolleson laughed. “I might enjoy it at that.” He slapped Peters’s arm and disappeared through the hatch, en route to the stern, where he would take a jacob’s ladder down to the tug.

Captain Terence Peters, USN (Retired), felt the faint throbbing of the engines through the soles of his brown aviator shoes. Peering ahead into the Pacific darkness, he modulated his voice in what he intended to resemble confident authority. “All ahead two-thirds.”