get to the fantail, you’ll see the . . .’
Spencer glanced up from his watch. ‘Sorry, chief. Pushed for time. Got to get on the roof for the launch. Can we muster them on an elevator?’
They were herded out onto the platform that jutted from the hull. Cain stared at the water creaming below, then up at the great bulk of the ship. Canisters for inflatable life rafts festooned its sides like grapes on a vine. Sponsons, catwalks, splayed safety nets jutting angles and protrusions, made it a citadel overhanging the sea.
The klaxon sounded. They rode up and joined the flat-top. Posts holding a safety cable slid smoothly into the deck. He walked over the cable which fitted into a groove.
‘We’ll take a short cut through the bomb farm.’ Spencer led them behind the island. ‘Some climbing ahead. In here.’
‘Isn’t there a lift?’ Zuiden asked.
‘Sure, but so small you’ve got to be married to ride in it.’
‘Do we get to see Pri-Fly?’
‘They’re a bit busy right now.’
They had to climb six levels before they reached the steel walkway high above the flight deck. By then, the vanished sun was a glow on the horizon. Looking down at the now yellow-lighted deck, Cain was surprised to see planes stacked with tails projecting over the sea. He could feel the huge vessel listing to starboard and looked aft to a curving wake. Behind them and to the side, he saw the running lights of a ship and another light far astern.
Spencer said, ‘She’s coming into the wind. It’s no fun being the plane-guard destroyer captain — watching a floating airport charging in every direction. Carriers are notorious for unannounced turns and speed changes.’
‘So why don’t they communicate?’
‘Because the carrier’s got this permanent can of worms. And the junior grade lieutenant on the greyhound is too intimidated — too scared to pick up his primary tactical circuit handset and front the admiral. Meanwhile the carrier’s fighting the crosswind. For instance, it’s okay for launching one plane but out of limits for another in the pattern. So the PIM’s out the window because she’s got to chase the wind for the birds.’
‘Uh-huh.’ It was double-Dutch to him. He looked at the organised bedlam below. Hurrying figures carrying flashlights, waving light wands. Power cables festooning the deck, yellow plane-handling equipment being moved into position. A chopper took off further aft. ‘What’s the significance of the jacket colours?’
‘The red guys with the carts are ordies — ordnance.’ Spencer pointed down. ‘Blue guys are plane handlers, tractor drivers and so on. Purple are “grapes” — fuel guys. Green’s catapult and arresting gear crews. Yellow for officers handling the show.’
‘And this thing’s powered by a reactor?’
‘Eight — two for each shaft. Driving thirty-two heat-exchangers. Welcome to the world of the supercarrier — grandest expression of the American Empire.
A PA system roared, ‘Stand clear of intakes . . . check positioning of huffers . . . check again for FOD. Aaaaand . . . start ’em up.’
Cain watched, feeling the vibration of the ship. Dim red glows from the cockpits. Plane captains on the deck, waving their blue lights. The whine of a turbine from the deck. Then others, as starter-carts came to life. The racket of the first aircraft engine starting. He took out his earplugs, rolled them into grubs, inserted them.
‘Turkeys are cooking.’ Spencer inserted his own plugs as more engines spooled up. The ground crews were checking control surfaces and hydraulic pressures.
Cain glanced along the line of faces gazing down. He poked Spencer, yelled, ‘Where’s Hunt?’
Spencer got it, more by lip-reading than sound, looked around. Cain walked back along the steel balcony. No Hunt. And no Zuiden. Spencer turned back, shrugged, then went forward through a door at the end of the walkway.
Cain followed him in. The noise level dropped. It was a
Spencer glanced up from his watch. ‘Sorry, chief. Pushed for time. Got to get on the roof for the launch. Can we muster them on an elevator?’
They were herded out onto the platform that jutted from the hull. Cain stared at the water creaming below, then up at the great bulk of the ship. Canisters for inflatable life rafts festooned its sides like grapes on a vine. Sponsons, catwalks, splayed safety nets jutting angles and protrusions, made it a citadel overhanging the sea.
The klaxon sounded. They rode up and joined the flat-top. Posts holding a safety cable slid smoothly into the deck. He walked over the cable which fitted into a groove.
‘We’ll take a short cut through the bomb farm.’ Spencer led them behind the island. ‘Some climbing ahead. In here.’
‘Isn’t there a lift?’ Zuiden asked.
‘Sure, but so small you’ve got to be married to ride in it.’
‘Do we get to see Pri-Fly?’
‘They’re a bit busy right now.’
They had to climb six levels before they reached the steel walkway high above the flight deck. By then, the vanished sun was a glow on the horizon. Looking down at the now yellow-lighted deck, Cain was surprised to see planes stacked with tails projecting over the sea. He could feel the huge vessel listing to starboard and looked aft to a curving wake. Behind them and to the side, he saw the running lights of a ship and another light far astern.
Spencer said, ‘She’s coming into the wind. It’s no fun being the plane-guard destroyer captain — watching a floating airport charging in every direction. Carriers are notorious for unannounced turns and speed changes.’
‘So why don’t they communicate?’
‘Because the carrier’s got this permanent can of worms. And the junior grade lieutenant on the greyhound is too intimidated — too scared to pick up his primary tactical circuit handset and front the admiral. Meanwhile the carrier’s fighting the crosswind. For instance, it’s okay for launching one plane but out of limits for another in the pattern. So the PIM’s out the window because she’s got to chase the wind for the birds.’
‘Uh-huh.’ It was double-Dutch to him. He looked at the organised bedlam below. Hurrying figures carrying flashlights, waving light wands. Power cables festooning the deck, yellow plane-handling equipment being moved into position. A chopper took off further aft. ‘What’s the significance of the jacket colours?’
‘The red guys with the carts are ordies — ordnance.’ Spencer pointed down. ‘Blue guys are plane handlers, tractor drivers and so on. Purple are “grapes” — fuel guys. Green’s catapult and arresting gear crews. Yellow for officers handling the show.’
‘And this thing’s powered by a reactor?’
‘Eight — two for each shaft. Driving thirty-two heat-exchangers. Welcome to the world of the supercarrier — grandest expression of the American Empire.
A PA system roared, ‘Stand clear of intakes . . . check positioning of huffers . . . check again for FOD. Aaaaand . . . start ’em up.’
Cain watched, feeling the vibration of the ship. Dim red glows from the cockpits. Plane captains on the deck, waving their blue lights. The whine of a turbine from the deck. Then others, as starter-carts came to life. The racket of the first aircraft engine starting. He took out his earplugs, rolled them into grubs, inserted them.
‘Turkeys are cooking.’ Spencer inserted his own plugs as more engines spooled up. The ground crews were checking control surfaces and hydraulic pressures.
Cain glanced along the line of faces gazing down. He poked Spencer, yelled, ‘Where’s Hunt?’
Spencer got it, more by lip-reading than sound, looked around. Cain walked back along the steel balcony. No Hunt. And no Zuiden. Spencer turned back, shrugged, then went forward through a door at the end of the walkway.
Cain followed him in. The noise level dropped. It was a
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