Chapter 4

The approach to the United States was rough. The weather was rainy and the seas were running high -- whitecaps disintegrating at the tops of 7 ft. swells. At 1,500 feet, the carrier's flight deck was one of the longest in the world. Approaching at 250 knots from 2,500 ft., the ship looked like a toy bouncing up and down in a swimming pool. On the glide path, the A-2 made a full throttle landing on the rolling deck; the arresting cables stopped the 35,000 lb., 150 mph airplane in less than 2 seconds.

Inside, Lt. Parker grimaced as her mass came down on the hard surface of the flight deck with the plane and again when forward momentum came to an abrupt halt, slamming her against her restraining harness. Gates was whistling; not that Tracy could tell -- the whine of the fan-jets was so loud. Schlumburger had pulled out her intercom cable and was running the checkout list as the A-2 was rolled into its parking position on deck.

Cmdr. Darnell Davies met her as she climbed out of the plane. The deafening roar of turbines, the rattle of arresting gear and hiss of steam catapults at the same time lent an almost hellish atmosphere to the image of hundreds of orange-clad men and women scurrying across the pitching flight deck. At eye level, Tracy could barely make out either end of the carrier. Even in her flight suit and helmet, she felt the wet cold of the spray and the unreal sensation of slick and unstable asphalt under her boot-clad feet. Cmdr. Davies was 1st Officer.

He greeted her, and she gave him a quick salute, "Permission to come aboard, sir," Tracy gave the mandatory delivery. Returning her salute, Davies said, "Permission granted, Lieutenant. We have a bunk, some chow, and a few messages from CINCPAC for your eyes only. If you'll follow me. After a bit, Admiral Thomas would like to see you." Davies led Tracy from the howl and roar of the flight deck and to the lift where as they descended, he added, "I'm afraid we've been instructed to keep you in cognito to an extent. So, there will be some restrictions for the next 6 hours. Sorry." Tracy knew this was routine for SOU. But, it was probably the first time a carrier had been used to ferry a SOU to a jump. "He's probably full of questions," thought Tracy as they finally entered the hallway to her cabin.

Inside, door locked, Tracy looked around. On the bed was a small pile of envelopes -- including her sealed orders transmitted by courier and electronically. A pair of coveralls without rank or id in pilots' dark green was spread out next to the envelopes; some wrapped sandwiches, an electric pot of coffee and the ship's commemorative mug were on the nightstand next to the bunk. Tracy wearily lifted the visor on her helmet, pulled it off, and gave her head a toss to release the tangles in her hair. Removing her boots and flight suit took a bit of time. But, once out of their confinement, stretching her arms towards the low ceiling of the cabin, she began to relax. She had 6 hours before leaving for rendezvous with her transport: the Wahoo, an old fleet-type diesel submarine used by covert operations crews for silent penetration and shallow depth approaches.

In the fluorescent light of the cabin, Tracy's skin looked grayish. Bare-legged and barefoot, she was dressed in only her bra and panties. Some of the id markings in blue ink peeked out beyond the straps and cups of her pale undergarments. With her hair tousled and skin goose-bumped from the transition from cold flight deck to the undress of the cabin, although she didn't know it, she looked very much like the afternoon she first made love to Tom. Pondering her next action, she decided that she was going to relax and had no intention of putting on any more clothes for a few minutes more. Sitting on the bunk, it was time to review the messages left for her.

Capt. Clement passed on the most important news. According to sources, the bomb was a Russian type: 15 kilotons, very dirty. Designed during the disintegration of the Soviet Union, it incorporated various microprocessors and memory chips in its trigger. This was good news. "The more high-tech they make these things, the more low-tech the solution," Tracy noted to herself. A TZ-425, Mark 3 device, she knew that the removal of SIMM 1 from bank 2 on the trigger board would leave the bomb a radioactive nuisance -- useless as a weapon unless Aziz planned to throw it at someone. "Getting to it," thought Tracy, "Now, that's the trick."

The second envelope was confirming orders for the captain of the sub. She'd keep them unopened: for his eyes only. It probably contained tactical information, coordinates and navigation codes. The 3rd note was from SOU -- generic, providing updates and directions on the use of 2 new pieces of field equipment; first, a new lightweight pistol: 7.62 mm, 21 round clip, short bore with silencer, gas propelled, high-velocity; the second, the new automatic based on the Uzi: 7.62 mm, 51 round clip, flash guard and silencer. "Don't get them dirty," Tracy mocked as she read the text to herself.

The final note was hilarious. It was from the Navy Department confirming her enrollment to the MIP for another year. Included was a booklet describing compensation for various forms of dismemberment and death. Tracy started to laugh aloud; shaking so hard her breasts bounced up and down from the convulsions. Squeezing herself very hard, she looked around; her face became very serious. "Snap out of it, Trace, " she told herself. "You've never felt this uneasy about a mission. Why are you getting so mushy about everything as though it was your last time?" She thought about her DI's admonishment on dying. At that instant, she suddenly noticed that the cabin had a shower. "Nice," she whispered to herself, slipping off her bra and her panties. A quick stretch, rubbing her legs, scratching her ribs, her buttocks and breasts and she walked over to the shower curtain in the private head. Pulling it back, she turned on the water and adjusted it to warm. She stepped in.

After the shower and lying in damp, naked bliss on the bunk for an hour, Tracy pulled on her underclothes and slipped on the coveralls. She combed her hair out. Having no hair dryer, she toweled it as thoroughly as possible. She looked into the mirror: "You look like a 12 year old boy," she remarked to the image in the glass. "Some way to look in front of the Admiral." She quickly turned and opened the cabin door.

A marine corporal was standing guard. He looked down at Tracy from 6' 6" up and immediately stared straight forward and snapped to attention. "At ease, Marine," Tracy tried to relax the young man. "Would you mind showing me to the CON?" "The Admiral is waiting in his stateroom, ma'am," the Marine snapped back. "I'm supposed to escort you there at your convenience." "Well, then," Tracy remarked lightly, "lead on." And the Marine giant and Tracy, looking very small, went down the corridor together.