Mother bristled in his humiliation. Others did that stuff — second-stringers — not Marine Corps squadron COs.
“Mother, I admire your courage coming here, and the courage you showed going up to the flight deck at night, and I can see your desire to fight. But I also see your haughty pride, and I’ve heard your snide comments third-hand. It’s a small ship. Right now, you are grounded, and, in time, we’ll discuss your future. After we finish here, I’m going to call DCAG, Captain Leaf, and Admiral Johnson and inform them of this. The way I see it, you are experiencing a physiological or medical issue that can affect the humans in the cockpits in any number of ways; you could have a head cold and be med down from flying this week. You are still the CO of your squadron, but, if you fight me, you’ll be on the next COD out of here. It’s up to you. Do you want to stay here and command, or do you want to go home? Your choice… and I want an answer now.”
Mother shifted in his chair as Wilson glared at him. Two long seconds passed, and, when Mother looked up, he could tell Wilson was ready to answer for him.
“I’ll stay, CAG. I want to stay. I’ll contribute. I’ll command, and I’m buying your program.”
Wilson was on the verge of relieving Mother, and Mother’s answer just got in under Wilson’s mental wire. Wilson didn’t say anything for several moments, another eternity to Mother, who continued to nod his sincere desire to stay. Wilson came down from the ledge, not wanting to deal with it now. Was Mother telling the truth? Wilson wasn’t sure, which, at any other time, would have been reason enough for him to act. But it was late, and he had a war to fight.
“Okay, we’ll discuss later. Get some rest. Dismissed.”
Without saying a word, Mother got up and let himself out. Wilson listened to Mother’s footsteps recede aft as he came down from the emotional stress of the exchange. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, compartmentalizing, and thought again of Cajun.
He thought about his Air Wing all the time: the condition of his jets, obtaining parts to keep them flying, the level of training of his crews, and, at times like these, the individual pilots themselves. Wilson’s squadron COs monitored their people for Wilson, and, of all the COs, Wilson monitored Mother the most, proving the axiom that a fraction of the people cause the majority of the headaches. Wilson had 100 percent confidence in Olive and Gumby to lead airborne formations — and less than that in Mother. Would relieving Mother make things better for him now? He realized the answer was no, even here in the damn Celebes Sea with poor connectivity. Interservice politics was another issue. The paperwork drill would take too much time. He didn’t have time.
Wilson thought of Mary and realized he had not thought of her or the kids for days. Every waking moment he was focused on the PLA, on their Luyang IIIs, their SAMs, Heaven’s Shield, and the J-11s on Blood Moon Atoll. It was show time, and tomorrow night he would be in the lead formation. Mary, who would be encouraging him now as she had in the past, would give him confidence. No email, no SATCOM, not even old-fashioned letters in days.
Without commanding them to, his eyes went to the Bible on his shelf. God had not entered his mind in days either, another signal that he was overly focused. Could he not spare a few moments a day to pray, now when it mattered the most? It shocked him to think that he had not, and he glanced at the paperwork that cluttered his desk and cluttered his mind. Could he not carve out fifteen minutes?
He pushed himself up from the chair and stood to pray.
CHAPTER 53
As dawn broke over the Celebes Sea, the Littoral Combat Ship USS Long Beach, commanded by Commander Bill Sullivan, was running north at flank speed.
The LCS soon stopped engines and drifted 100 miles south of Mindanao. Crewmen lowered a hydrophone over the side that played a sonar signature recording of a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. From a module adjacent to the hangar bay, another crewman energized a black box that broadcast carrier radar “emissions” and recordings of typical UHF comms in the vicinity of a carrier. Hancock was someplace in the central Celebes, and Sullivan had not seen her since she entered it—good.
Sullivan’s deception activities were not limited to sonar and ECM spoofing. On his bow, and built with reinforced PVC pipe, was a mock up of a helipad that hung over his bridge windows and gun mount. On his flight deck fantail was another PVC mock up, this one of a crane. Inside his hangar bay, he kept one MH-60R hidden from view and could operate two Fire Scout UAVs in hours of darkness. The after hull portion of Long Beach was painted black to further confuse observers as to what it really was. Sullivan was simulating the electronic signature of a carrier while passing himself off as an oilfield service vessel to neutral — and to potential enemy — contacts on the horizon.
PLA(N) diesel boats were a threat, and listening devices south of Palawan had detected a Song Class passing into the Sulu Sea ten days ago — before the PLA(N) attack on the Japanese helo carrier. The Song could be in the Celebes Sea now — the things were damn quiet — and others could be operating there or in the Philippine Sea. Sullivan would activate the decoys for a time, and then secure them for a run to another corner of the sea before activating them again. The hope was the Chinese would either detect to engage or be confused with multiple and spurious American signatures. Which one is real? In essence, USS Long Beach was bait — with deception and speed Sullivan’s only real defenses against a Song. His Romeo helicopter could deal with an enemy fishing boat picket if he came across one, but launching the helo meant pushing the crane “camouflage” over the side. Same with the fake helo deck if he had to engage with his 57mm deck gun. It was a game of cat and mouse, and all aboard the sleek but thin-skinned Long Beach knew she, disguised or not, was the mouse.
Six hundred miles away, Bai Quon pulled his helmet off his locker shelf and strode to the flight line.
Yes! he thought. During the night, the command post had received reports the American carrier was being tracked by sensors from Heaven’s Shield. The data was good enough to launch an attack, and Blood Moon would contribute most of the effort with four H-6s escorted by J-11s and a group of strikers, twelve fighters total. Stingray and Yawu were contributing tankers and patrol aircraft to help the bombers target their antiship missiles. Six more bombers were coming from the mainland to enjoy Bai’s fighter protection. Word had it that rocket forces would also attack when their targeting criteria were met, which could be before, during, or after the bomber attack. Bai hoped he could witness a People’s rocket streak down on an American flattop and blow it apart.
The Americans were scrambling. Fishing militia had picked up the American female pilot off Luzon, but, as they fled west, American Special Forces had disabled the trawler and rescued the girl. The Political Officer said the American speedboat had been disabled in the fight, and now PLA(N) and the Americans were trading blows in the Luzon Strait over the capture or recovery of a speedboat — and all because an undependable girl pilot had let herself get shot down! What did the Americans expect? Bai sniffed. In smug satisfaction, he stepped to his jet, the eastern sun on his face. That American men actually let their women fight and die for them was unbelievable. Contemplating the coming engagement, his mind wandered. We’ll see just how “tough and ruthless” this paper tiger really is!