He rose and strode into the adjoining room. Seated at the conference table were the Battle Group Commander, Admiral Fletcher, his Group Operations Officer, Capt. Guido Vitale, and the Flag Intelligence Officer, Cmdr. Spook Morse. In a huddle by the coffee mess were the Reagan’s skipper, Capt. Sticks Stickney, and Capt. Red Boyce, the Air Wing Commander.
Everyone in the room looked up. Babcock waited a second, extracting the maximum dramatic effect. “It’s a go,” he said, enjoying the moment. “The President has authorized a strike on the terrorist base in Yemen.”
Murmurs passed through the room. Fletcher nodded his head approvingly. Stickney and Boyce exchanged sober glances.
“The joint chiefs are signing off on the op plan, and we’ll be getting it within the hour. the Reagan battle group gets to carry the ball on this one because of the political sensitivity. We can’t launch strikes from bases in any other Arab country. There’s a symbolic issue, also. The terrorists attacked the U.S. Navy, and it is appropriate that we carry out the reprisal.”
“An eye for an eye,” said Admiral Fletcher. “Something the Arabs understand.”
Babcock gave the admiral an indulgent smile. Fletcher was full of banal little aphorisms like that one. Babcock had tapped him to be the replacement Battle Group Commander precisely for the reason that hewasn’t one of those old Navy mossbacks who thought they knew more than their civilian commanders. At one time it was unheard of that the Carrier Battle Group Commander was not an aviator, but in the new Navy, that was changing. Fletcher was a pragmatist. He could be counted on to implement, not interpret, the policies of his civilian chiefs.
Babcock was less sure about the others. The Group Operations Officer, Vitale, was an aviator, and he seemed to be a team player. Captain Stickney, who commanded the Reagan, accorded him a cool respect, but nothing more. He had not welcomed Babcock onto his bridge or invited him to his table. Stickney was due for a lesson in deference.
Boyce, the cigar-chomping Air Wing Commander, was one of those dinosaurs from the old days when fighter pilots thought they ran the Navy. Babcock had already tagged Boyce for an early departure from his air wing command.
Morse, the Flag Intelligence Officer, was a wild card. Like all intel types, he had the maddening trait of hoarding critical information and then parceling it out in incremental pieces. He possessed that air of intellectual superiority that made everyone, Babcock included, want to smack him down.
But there was another side to Morse, one that intrigued Babcock. The man had a formidable knowledge of Middle East geopolitics. Unlike most of the others in this room, he actually cooperated with Babcock and his staff. With a little urging, Morse might be a useful player.
“How much time do we have to do the load out?” Stickney wanted to know.
“We steam into the Gulf of Aden tonight,” said Admiral Fletcher. “By tomorrow morning we’ll be at the launch point. The Arkansas will deliver a salvo of Tomahawks in coordination with the Reagan strike group. It will be a concentrated air strike, nothing more.”
“No assault force?” asked Boyce. “Isn’t the Marine Expeditionary Unit going to clean out the terrorist nest?”
“No,” Babcock interjected from across the room. “Absolutely no American troops on Yemeni territory. The President has ruled that out.”
Boyce shook his head. “You really think we’re gonna put this Al-Fasr away with just a single air strike?”
“Certainly,” said Fletcher. “When you see the reconnaissance data, you’ll get the picture. Their shacks and storage buildings are out in the open. The bivouac areas will be easy targets for your laser-guided weapons.”
“What if we have downed pilots? We gotta have SAR and gunships and covering troops.”
Fletcher was getting annoyed. “That won’t be a factor. Commander Morse has shown me the intel data, and I can assure you, our adversary does not have the assets to bring down any of our strike aircraft.”
Boyce’s eyes narrowed. He removed the cigar from his teeth. “Sir, with all due respect, I have to tell you we always run the risk of having pilots go down. Even in a peacetime exercise. If I’m gonna run this strike, I intend to inform my pilots exactly how we’re gonna extract them if someone goes down in Indian country.”
Fletcher had no answer. He looked to Morse for help.
“The admiral has already covered that,” Morse said. “Let’s not waste time going over the same subject. Anyway, the poststrike details will be handled by the flag intel department. You’ll get the information in due time.”
A thundercloud passed over Boyce’s face. He glowered at Morse as if he wanted to seize his windpipe and throttle him. Air Wing Commanders didn’t take rebukes from intelligence officers.
Morse ignored him while he scribbled a note on his yellow pad.
Watching from the head of the table, Babcock smiled his approval. This was going better than he expected. He liked it when a squarehead like Boyce was put in his place.
“I’m expecting a call from the Pentagon,” said Babcock. “We will adjourn until Admiral Fletcher’s staff has had a chance to review the op plan; then we’ll schedule a full briefing.”
Boyce was about to raise another troublesome question, but Babcock cut him off. “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FEET DRY
He lay awake, the questions flowing through his mind in an endless stream.
What if they have SAMs that we don’t know about?
Air defense radar?
MiGs?
A hundred what-ifs.
At half past four Maxwell gave up trying to sleep and went to the shower. Standing under the hot water, he thought about the mission. Why were air strikes always launched in the morning? It meant that pilots got to lay awake all night in darkened rooms thinking unthinkable thoughts.
After he’d showered and shaved, he donned the camouflage flight suit. Sitting on the bunk, he pulled on the steel-toed leather boots. Unlike the flight suits they normally wore, this one bore no squadron or air wing patches, no symbols of rank. The desert-colored camouflage scheme was intended to blend into the Middle East landscape if a pilot went down.
He was almost ready. One item to go. He unlocked the door of his desk safe and pulled out the leather gun case. He removed the Colt .45 and held it under the light, feeling the heft and density of the big pistol. The bluing was faded, and the pearl handle insets were yellowed and worn. It was a Model 1911 military issue. On the slide action was the inscription Lt. Harlan Maxwell, USS Oriskany, 1965.
The Colt had been his father’s sidearm during two combat tours in Vietnam. It was a gift on the day Brick won his Navy wings, delivered not by his father but by Josh Dunn. He’d worn it ever since.
He checked that a fresh magazine was loaded, then shoved it into the grip. When had he last fired it? He couldn’t remember. Not for years, and he’d never been able to hit anything with it anyway.
It didn’t matter. He’d gotten used to the heft of the gun, even though the Navy had long ago switched to the smaller and more accurate Beretta nine millimeter. He slipped the pistol into its leather shoulder holster and headed out.
By 0730, the ready room was filled with pilots. Maxwell stood up in the front and said, “Seats, gentlemen. Lieutenant Johnson has a briefing that might just keep you alive.”
B.J. clomped up to the lectern that faced the rows of chairs. Like the others, she was dressed in a desert-camo flight suit, wearing a holstered sidearm. For today’s strike, she was assigned as the skipper’s wingman.