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The Ocean Between Us. Susan Wiggs
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Автор произведения Susan Wiggs
Жанр Приключения: прочее
Издательство HarperCollins
A luminous amber signal on the port-deck edge aligned with a row of green lights, signaling that the incoming pilot was on the proper glide path for a safe landing. The dainty-looking tail hook had a shot at just five wires. Each cable could be used for a set number of traps before it was retired, compromised by the strain of stopping the speeding jets. If something went wrong, it could mean the loss of a sixty-million-dollar aircraft off the deck, and perhaps the lives of the pilot and crew.
Steve noticed a whiteshirt and three other VIPs loaded with equipment. Atwater saw his look and motioned him inside.
“My photographer and videographer and their assistant,” she explained.
He hoped the camera guys had been briefed on safety, too. The videographer appeared clueless as he filmed a turning jet that was on its way to the elevator. He clearly had no idea that the blast might toss him twenty feet in the air. Just in time, the host yanked him out of harm’s way and the group headed to the island.
They met up at deck level, where the floor hummed and a water cooler by the base of the elevator vibrated dangerously. As Francine made the introductions, an ordie in a soiled red shirt stepped inside, slapping a smoking glove against his thigh.
Steve recognized Aviation Ordnanceman Airman Michael Rivera behind the smudged goggles. The sailor quickly came to attention. The photographers immediately aimed their cameras at him.
“Everything all right?” Steve asked.
“Yes, sir. Slight problem with the flares, is all,” Rivera said, removing his goggles and scuffed red cranial. “It’s okay now.”
“Go down to the battle-dressing station and get that hand looked at.”
“No need, sir. Just wanted to get out of the wind for a minute.”
Rivera was Steve’s favorite kind of sailor—professional, dedicated, sure of himself. Not likely to let a smart-ass hotshot fighter pilot intimidate him on the flight deck. Besides that, Rivera’s winning smile and genuine warmth made him a regular recruiting poster boy. His face was covered in grime from a long shift on the flight deck, but that only made his teeth look whiter.
Atwater loved him instantly. Steve could tell from the soft-eyed expression on her face. Hell, he might as well indulge her. He made the introductions, and Rivera warmed right up, probably grateful for a break from the chaos of the open deck.
“And what do you do?” Atwater asked him, pen poised over her notebook.
“I deal with ordnance, ma’am. The bomb farm’s the area between the island and the rail where bombs and missiles are stored during flight operations. From there they’re brought to the aircraft.”
“And there was trouble with a flare?”
Rivera nodded. “Flares are used with F-14 Tomcats as a decoy for heat-seeking missiles. Each flare contains eighty internal units, and each of those burn at sixteen hundred degrees, so we’re real careful with them.” He grinned, and an irrepressible happiness shone from him. “I have even more reason to be careful these days. Had an e-mail from my wife this morning. The doctor found out the baby’s sex. We’re having a boy.” He looked ready to burst with pride. “Our first.”
“Will you be home for the birth?” Ms. Atwater asked.
“No, ma’am. But she’s got a lot of support at home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Whidbey Island Naval Air Station in Washington State. Captain Bennett’s wife has been a real good friend to Patricia,” he added with a grateful look at Steve.
Don’t look at me, Steve thought. He had no idea what Grace was up to, but it didn’t surprise him to hear she was helping out a young airman’s wife. Discomfited, he looked through a viewing pane while the PAO who had been escorting the photographers joined in the conversation with Rivera.
Outside, Steve noticed…something. He’d spent too many hours on a carrier deck to not clue in when something was going on. A subtle change came over the crew charged with recovering the next aircraft. It was like a slight shift in the wind or an invisible spurt of adrenaline, something the reporter or even most of the flight-deck ops would never notice.
Steve excused himself. The CAG LSO, Bud Forster, who didn’t usually participate in a recovery unless things got ugly, was speaking quickly into his headset. “Prowler six-two-three…” he said, and his face was made of stone. Steve knew that look.
And he knew whose plane Forster was talking about. Lamont was driving the Prowler, and whatever was going on had not been in the plans for tonight’s exercises. Forster was handling it, though, and Steve wasn’t about to interrupt his work. He would have stuck around, but when he looked at the deck again, he noticed Francine Atwater and the others following Rivera to the bomb farm. The PAO was nowhere in sight.
None of the civilians would sense the mounting tension, he realized, hurrying down to the deck. But Steve felt it buzzing like an electrical current through his whole body. Shit. He’d have to go round them up like a herd of cats. Your ass is grass, Rivera, Steve thought. And I’m John Deere.
But then he reminded himself that he was the one who was supposed to be in charge of Francine Atwater, and he’d walked away. As he headed toward the ordnance, he thought he saw sparks and a stream of smoke from an aircraft flare dispenser on the deck behind Rivera and the civilians.
He blinked and rubbed his glove across his goggles, and saw it again. They were too far away to hear a shouted warning. But he shouted, anyway, at the same time signaling flight-deck control to sound a fire alarm. During flight ops there was always a fire truck and a team of firefighters standing by with nozzles leading to water tanks and aqueous film-forming foam.
Rivera, who was closest to the dispenser, spun around. He cast about, looking for the source of the fire, and for a second Steve thought he might miss the smoke. Then Rivera grabbed the burning cylinder and headed for the edge of the flight deck. There was a crack like a rifle shot. Sparks and rockets ripped apart the night. Rivera rolled on the ground. His entire arm was a glowing torch.
Steve ran. When he reached the burning man, he plunged to his knees and ripped off his float coat. He used the vest to smother the flames on Rivera’s arm and back, screaming for a medic even though he knew he wouldn’t be heard. It didn’t matter. By now, everyone on the bow of the flight deck would have seen, and help would be on its way. He wanted to stay with Rivera, hold and reassure him, but the dispenser was still smoking. In the cylinder, the internal units were burning with an intensity Steve felt even from three feet away.
If it smokes, get rid of it. The most basic rule of fire control.
He grabbed the handle of the dispenser. His glove ignited and he roared in agony but refused to let go. The damned thing felt like it weighed a ton, yet somehow he managed to rush to the deck edge with it.
A blast of heat and light engulfed him. There was nothing under his feet, and he felt as though he’d been sucked into a tornado. Where the hell was the safety net? That was the only coherent thought he had as he was hurled through empty air. Yet curiously, he could distinguish only one sound through the rush of wind—a throaty and frantic baying sound from the navigation bridge.
It was the special alarm reserved for one of the most dreaded incidents of carrier operations—man overboard.
CHAPTER 2
Prowler 623/BuNo 163530
0015 hours
Landing in the pitch-dark on the moving deck of a carrier was a freaking nightmare. And Josh Lamont loved the fear with a feverish intensity