Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“This is the plan. We submitted it this morning to the battle group commander, who approved it and sent a message describing it to CENTCOM, the theater commander, who will undoubtedly send it on to Washington. Don’t expect to hear back for a day or two.” Grafton unrolled a map and spread it over the huge photo he had been studying. He had marked up the map carefully and showed them the points mentioned in the plan.

When they had run out of questions, he said, “Still want to give it a try? You can walk away right now without a backward glance.”

“How’d you get into the spook business, Admiral?” Harry Lampert asked.

“Can’t play golf, so none of the defense contractors would hire me.”

“Tough break,” said Chicago O’Hare with a grimace. She was still staring at the map, trying to visualize how it would be.

“So which of you is going to jump out of our sacrificial goat?” Grafton asked.

“How about a game of acey-deucey?” O’Hare said, glancing at Lampert. “Winner jumps.”

“The hell with that,” Harry Lampert shot back. “We’ll do it the tried and true navy way-the senior officer will decide. And I have. I’ll fly it.”

“Oh, be a sport,” Chicago urged.

Lampert made a rude noise with his lips and tongue as Jake Grafton chuckled.

Even though Grafton’s operation had been approved at the highest level of the U.S. government, it took three days before the State Department gave a cautious, qualified approval, and then only after citing a classified National Security document to which none of the people in the military had access. During this time a civilian technician who had flown out to the ship swapped the ALQ- 199 in one of the Horde’s planes for the ALQ-198 Grafton had brought with him. Grafton had also brought a set of backup boxes with him, just in case, but they would not be used unless the first set went into the ocean and the Iranians didn’t try to recover it.

Meanwhile Commander Burgholzer ordered a squadron “safety stand-down day” in which all of the pilots were required to get refresher training on the ejection seat and the ejection sequence while wearing all their flight gear. They even hung in a harness from hooks installed in the ready room overhead while finding and touching every piece of equipment attached to them. Harry Lampert and Chicago O’Hare took their turns with everyone else.

The following day the southern half of Iran was under a low pressure area that generated desert windstorms, so Grafton ordered the operation delayed for a day.

Low clouds covered the Persian Gulf and southern Iran the next day, yet after consultation with the battle group commander, Commander Burgholzer, Harry Lampert and Chicago O’Hare, Grafton said, “Do it.”

The flight schedule had Lampert and O’Hare scheduled for a surface surveillance mission into the Persian Gulf. The carrier was in her usual position, where the Gulf of Oman widens to meet the Arabian Sea, about a hundred and fifty miles southeast of the mouth of the Strait of Hormuz. The E-2 Hawkeye early warning plane would be airborne, the helo detachment had two “up” helos ready to pull airmen from the ocean…

Jake Grafton watched Lampert and O’Hare walk across the flight deck to their planes from a perch behind the Air Boss’ chair in Pri-Fly, the “tower” of the carrier. Both were in flight suits, over which they wore G-suits, which covered their legs and lower abdomen, and over that, a parachute harness and survival vest. They carried their helmets, oxygen masks and charts in a bag especially designed for that purpose.

The Boss and his assistant, the Mini-Boss, were busy monitoring the activities on the flight deck and the arrival of the planes awaiting recovery overhead, under the clouds, so they ignored Grafton, who was, as far as they knew, just another civilian.

Only the officers of the squadron, and other key officers the battle group commander had briefed, knew that Lampert’s plane would not be returning. For everyone else on the ship this was another routine launch, another day at sea, another day far from home.

Grafton’s attention was riveted on Harry Lampert, who preflighted his airplane and the ejection seat, then climbed into the cockpit. The plane captain helped him strap in. Lampert and the plane captain had a lively conversation, and Grafton saw the pilot grin at something the young sailor said.

Ejecting from a tactical jet was damned risky, and everyone who knew the plan was well aware of it. Especially Lampert and Grafton.

Even as Grafton watched, the squadron skipper, Burgholzer, came strolling along the deck. He paused and chatted with Chicago O’Hare, who was now in her cockpit, and then had a word or two with Harry Lampert. He casually looked over Lampert’s jet-said good-bye, probably-and then walked along to speak with the pilots of the other two Savage Horde Hornets going on this launch.

After a glance at his watch, the Air Boss ordered “Start Engines” on the deck loudspeaker and the deck intercom system. Yellow-shirted plane directors twirled fingers, and jet engines came to life all over the flight deck. Out on the angle, the rescue helicopter started its engines, engaged the rotors and took off straight ahead. It would orbit to the right of the ship, ready to come to a hover over any pilot that ejected nearby.

Grafton kept an eye on Lampert’s plane. If Harry had a problem with it, the operation would have to be postponed since only that plane had the ALQ-198 installed.

Would that box fool the Iranians? Would they think Lady Luck had smiled upon them, or would they smell a rat?

The flight deck ballet began. One by one the airplanes were queued up for the catapults. The E-2 Hawkeye went first on Cat Two, then a couple of S-3 tankers were shot off the waist, then the Hornets were launched. Lampert was second in the queue for Cat One. He taxied onto the catapult and cycled the controls. The cat officers today were shooting from the flight deck. Jake saw the catapult officer signal for full power, then afterburner. The cat officer returned Lampert’s salute, looked toward the bow, checking everything one last time, then swept down and touched the deck. One potato, two potato… and the catapult fired. In less than three seconds Harry Lampert was airborne. He made a clearing turn, the gear retracted, then the flaps, and the Hornet accelerated away, between the sea and the overcast.

Jake watched O’Hare launch, then wandered out of Pri-Fly. He found himself going down the ladder toward the flag spaces-TFCC, the Tactical Flag Command Center. The admiral would be there. It was there that the message that Lampert had ejected would quickly arrive. The rescue he li copter the admiral had ordered to practice open sea rescues in a clear area would be immediately vectored northwest, and the frigate would be directed to launch her chopper.

Jake Grafton felt nervous. He hoped to heaven he hadn’t sent Harry Lampert to his death. As he thought about that, he realized he hadn’t even asked Lampert if he was married. Or had any kids. Of course, even single people had parents and brothers and sisters.

Maybe, Grafton decided, he was better off not knowing.

He was only a few steps into the flag spaces when one of the sailors said to him, “Sir, this is a secure space. You aren’t cleared to be in here.”

Jake opened his mouth to speak-and found himself face-to-face with Admiral Bryant, who took in the situation at a glance. “He’s with me,” the admiral told the sailor. He grabbed Jake by the arm and steered him into TFCC.

Harry Lampert was a hundred miles northwest of United States flying on autopilot at twenty thousand feet when he opened the fuel dumps. Jake Grafton wanted this plane to penetrate about fifty to seventy-five miles into Iran and crash due to fuel exhaustion, which would maximize the chances that the black box that was the ALQ-198 would survive the crash. He didn’t want it to fly until the Iranians managed to shoot it out of the sky.