Event - Hardcover

David Lynn Golemon grew up in Chino, California. He has raised three great children and now makes his home in New York, where he is currently working on the next Event Group novel.

Chapter One 

 

Pacific Ocean, 577 Miles
South of the Panama Canal
 
The USS Carl Vinson sailed smoothly through the calm waters of the Pacific. Her huge mass parted the sea 320 miles off the coast of South America, leaving a wake of incandescent colors and sea life that rolled and churned after her four massive bronze propellers.
 
The Nimitz-class supercarrier was on her way home after a cruise of six months in the south-central Pacific. Her home port was Bremerton, Washington, and that was where most of the crew's families would be waiting anxiously for their men and women to return from their long voyage. Her huge engines pushed her through the Pacific at twenty-six knots.
 
Flight operations on the Vinson were in preparation for the fighter and bomber air wings to lift off the following afternoon for their home bases of Miramar and Oakland. The only planes flying this morning were the carrier's combat air patrol, better known as CAP, and they now cruised at twenty thousand feet and were one hundred klicks out. The morning had been calm and without incident for the two old but formidable Grumman F-14 Super Tomcats when the first radio call was transmitted from the Vinson, call name Ponderosa.
 
"Range Rider flight, this is Ponderosa. Do you copy? Over."
 
Lieutenant Commander Scott "Derringer" Derry had his visor down as he looked into the rising yellow disk of the morning sun, reminding him of the Persian Gulf and his many combat missions over Iraq. As he thumbed the transmit button on his joystick, he looked to his left and slightly behind, eyeing his wingman, satisfied he was still in position and no doubt hearing the Carl Vinson the same as himself. "Ponderosa, this is Range Rider lead, copy five by five, over."
 
"Range Rider One, we have an intermittent contact south at eight hundred miles and closing. Advise this information comes from Bootlegger and not Ponderosa. We have no contact at this time. Over."
 
Under the mask, Derry pursed his lips. Bootlegger was the call sign for the guided-missile cruiser riding shotgun for the Carl Vinson. The USS Shiloh, with her Aegis tracking and fire-control system, could supply better air intelligence than the huge carrier, so her information was always acted upon.
 
Derry once again took a quick glance over his shoulder at his wingman. His partner gave a small wag of the huge fighter's wings, indicating he had the gist of the call.
 
"Range Rider copies, Ponderosa. Inform lead of any target aspect changes, over."
 
"Roger flight lead, Ponderosa will advise. Stay alert to TAC 3, Bootlegger will monitor. Over," the Vinson answered.
 
Derry clicked his transmit button twice in acknowledgment. "Do you have anything yet, Pete?" he asked his radar intercept officer, or RIO, Pete Klipp.
 
"Negative, boss, I don't have a thing on scope at this time."
 
Derry raised the dark visor on his helmet and once again looked down and back at his wingman, Lieutenant J. G. Jason Ryan, call sign Vampire, who was flying smoothly as ever as he brought his F-14 level with his commander.
 
"Does your RIO have anything, Vampire?"
 
"Negative lead, we're clear," Ryan answered.
 
"Understood. Let's go see what we can see," Derry said.
 
The two navy fighters made a slow turn to the south and climbed.
 
 
The Combat Direction Center on the Carl Vinson was darkened to the point where the outlines of the operators were cast in a multicolored, luminous veil caused by the screens they monitored. On one of these screens was an air-search radar patch-through from the USS Shiloh.
 
"Still nothing?" Lieutenant Commander Isaac Harris asked.
 
The radar specialist adjusted the bandwidth on the monitor and looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer; a confused look crossed his features. "Comes and goes, sir, first solid, then nothing. Then on its next sweep it's there, big as a barn, and then vanishes."
 
"Diagnostics?" Harris asked.
 
"Clean, Commander, and Shiloh also reports their equipment is working fine, everything is up and to spec."
 
Harris rubbed his chin and straightened. "This is damn strange." He leaned forward and asked, "Heading change?"
 
"Negative, course still holding on a line to Vincent," the technician answered. By this time a few of the other radar, sonar, and communications operators were leaning back in their chairs and watching with mild concern. Harris squeezed the young man on his shoulder and turned to his station, a large red-vinyl-covered chair raised on a pedestal so he could see the entire floor of the CDC. He lifted the red bridge phone that was mounted on the chair's side and waited, looking hard at his operators until they all returned to their screens.
 
"Captain, this is Harris in CDC, we have a developing situation in our defensive perimeter." He waited a moment for the captain of the Carl Vinson to respond. "Yes, I recommend the Alert One aircraft to be launched and bring the battle group to battle stations."
 
Up on the massive flight deck, an announcement squawked: "Stand by to launch Alert One!" The message was repeated, and then came a call that brought everyone above and belowdecks to their feet running: "General quarters, general quarters, all hands man battle stations, all hands man battle stations, this is no drill, repeat, no drill." On catapult number one, with its locking gear removed, the pilot saluted the plane captain on deck who was in control of the launch. He placed his head and back firmly into the backrest of his ejection seat and held tightly to the sides of the Tomcat's canopy. The first of the two Grumman fighters screamed down the deck at full military power as the steam catapult literally threw it into the air. It was quickly followed by the second F-14 on full afterburner.
 
After the sneak attack on the USS Cole, on October 12, 2000, in the Persian Gulf, American warships had started taking security very seriously. It would be a terrorist's wet dream to strike at an American symbol like a Nimitz-class carrier.
 
 
"Copy, Ponderosa, understand Alert One has been launched. Range Rider out." Derry turned his head slightly to the left after acknowledg-ing the call from the Carl Vinson. "It's go time, Vampire." There was no verbal answer to the flight leader as just two clicks of Ryan's transmit button acknowledged his readiness. "Let's go see what's out there," Derry called out.
 
Both F-14 fighters lit their afterburners as a steady stream of JP-4 jet fuel exploded into the exhaust nozzle of the huge GE-400 turbofan engines, causing the nacelles in the exhaust bell to open wider to allow the expanding gases to escape, creating over fifty-four thousand pounds of thrust. At the computer's directive, the wings on the two Tomcats started to retract to align along the aluminum fuselage as they crept toward supersonic. With the wings tucked in, both Tomcats screamed through the air, their outer skins heating up with the friction of passing air.
 
"I've got it!" Ensign Henry "Dropout" Chavez, Ryan's backseater called. "Five hundred miles and closing."
 
"We have it now," Derringer reported over the secure link. Both aircraft knew their transmissions were being monitored by the Carl Vinson and every ship in Task Force 277.7.
 
"SOB, it's huge," Dropout said into his mask, and then: "Damn!"
 
"What's wrong?" Ryan asked.
 
"Bogey just went ghost on me, disappeared like it was never there."
 
"Derringer, did you copy that?"
 
"We have the same thing; last read was three-fifty and closing. Keep your eyes...