Johnson’s tough question was met with silence. It was expected that Wilson would have an answer, and he spoke first.
“Sir, we come at them, draw their fire, and bug as soon as they have a missile in the air. We should be able to do that beyond no-escape range.”
“How do we know when they fire?” Johnson asked.
“We’ll have to have the JSFs on Solomon Islands tell us, sir. They and our EW assets may get some indications of missile launch. Also, we put HAVE REEL on the jets. We’ll spoof them, and chances are they shoot on a synthetic track.”
“What if they have a long-range IR search and track?” Johnson probed. “HAVE REEL can’t help us spoof an infrared sensor, and we’ll have no indications.”
“They may, sir… but outside their range we, or a flight of Raptors, may be able to lob an AMRAAM at them. The E-2 grabs it and guides it. The other weapon we have is to jam their link.”
“Yes, like the H-6 strike on Iwo Jima. You ready to depend on it? And what if they have if/then logic for graceful degradation? That would give them a degree of autonomy if we jammed a ground link.”
“Sir, if we have to fly under these things, they are going to schwack us, and that doesn’t take into account the SAMs they have on their outposts. Then we’ll have to deal with their CAP fighters. Recommend we eliminate the UCAVs so we can focus on the surface threat, and we’ll have to take some jabs to see what we’re dealing with.”
“Blower, what do you think?” Johnson asked.
Leaf considered the question. “Sir, Flip’s right, but, even if we knock down four of these UCAVs — quite an accomplishment — that’s only one percent of what’s airborne. We need time, and we’re going to need a lot of missiles.”
An uneasy silence returned. They needed time, missiles, and intel they didn’t have.
“Well, there’s more, Blower. We’re going to the Celebes Sea. High-speed night transit from a position off Leyte tomorrow night. We get into the sea and push toward Borneo, staying at least 100 miles off. Flip, once we are on station, we’ll be about 600 miles from Blood Moon. We can do that with our own tankers. Stingray Reef will be that much closer. Lucky us,” Johnson deadpanned.
The men studied the Celebes Sea. Blower used his fingers to measure distance on the chart. “Four hundred by three hundred,” he muttered to himself.
“That’s right, Blower, and you can expect our good buddies Cape St. George and Earl Gallaher to be right with us. Seventh Fleet promised me an attack boat and P-8 and Triton help, but we are going to be thrashing around in there for two days, maybe three, before we run back out to refuel. We’ve got to attrite their defenses and sink ships where we encounter them. Right now, their airfields, and the airplanes on them, are pri one.” Johnson wasn’t finished.
“And, Flip, we need to give half of the HAVE REEL boxes to John Adams.”
Disappointed, Wilson shrugged and said, “Yes, sir.” He would not argue the point. “But, sir, I do have a question. We are down two catapults; why are we the forward ship?”
“Fair question, and it’s my call. John Adams is intact, but the crew and aircrew are new to each other and their escorts. You guys are all familiar with each other, and familiar with Cape St. George and Earl Gallaher. That’s a force multiplier. Keep bobbing and weaving, Blower, and Cape is riding shotgun on us.”
Johnson then changed his tack.
“Tomorrow, guys, we need to send our first probe to the SCS. Flip, assign one of your guys the lead. Tonight we need alerts. There are fishermen all around, and some of them must be Chinese. If they were smart, they’d just act as tattletales and lay low so we don’t blow them out of the water. We’ve got our ESM Romeos to sniff ‘em out. Flip, who is leading the CAP effort?”
“Mother Tucker, sir. His jets have shorter legs and quick reaction suits them. Gotta have my Rhinos with HAVE REEL for the long-range stuff.”
“Can the Panthers handle it, Flip?”
“Yes, sir. Can’t say they are overjoyed about it, but his Marines are sharp and quick on the uptake. Most of them are experienced working CAS in Afghanistan, and that means high-stakes decisions. I’m confident in them, sir.”
“Good,” Johnson said, then added, “You guys are dismissed. Flip and Weed, stay behind, please.”
All stood as Blower and Johnson’s staff departed. Alone, The Big Unit motioned his two senior aviators over and spoke in a low voice.
“Guys, do you really think Mother can handle this? He’s got a scowl on his face every time I see him, and my guys have overheard him in the wardroom griping about how Marines are tasked here.”
Wilson’s blood pressure spiked.
“I’ll ensure he’s on board, sir. We will not have any problems with the Panthers.”
“Good, good.” The Big Unit nodded with relief, then added, “Because we don’t have time for everybody-gets-a-lollipop tasking out here. I hear Marine Force Pacific is whining that his helos got kicked off Solomon Islands, and the Army wants to send a division to the PI to do who knows what. And our Air Force friends are whispering to Washington that they want to take the lead in this SCS operation and control us. Cactus Clark is not having it, and McGill remains the lead. We cannot fuck this up, or we are going to get service parochialism big time and we’ll be hating life.”
Johnson saw the gears turning in Weed’s mind. “What do you want to say, Weed?”
Weed fought to suppress a smile. “Nothing, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”
Johnson, knowing Weed had a quip at the ready, wanted to hear it to help break the tension. Smiling, he became The Big Unit of his squadron days. “Weed, out with it.” Wilson wanted to hear it, too.
“Well, sir, I was thinking that with a broke-dick flight deck and an 800-mile trip to the SCS — with armed UCAVs above me and double-digit SAMs below me—that was hating life. But now, sir, I know that if we piss off the Marines and Air Force, we’ll be really, really hating life!”
“That’s right!” Johnson agreed as he picked up his mug. “Hell hath no fury…. Now, you guys go and engage in an air/sea fight with China. Nothing more, okay?”
With faint smiles, Wilson and Weed nodded and excused themselves. Once in the passageway, Wilson motioned for Weed to follow him into his stateroom. Inside, Wilson pointed to his J-dial phone.
“Weed, please get Mother up here, and I want you to stay.”
Weed dialed Ready Eight and spoke to the Duty Officer. Replacing the receiver, he turned to Wilson.
“He’s on his way.”
“Good. Let’s sit here at the table. This won’t take long.”
“Roger,” Weed replied as he took a seat next to Wilson that faced the stateroom door.
“You gonna fire him?” Weed asked.
“No, but hating life comes to mind. I’m hating my life now. Besides, I’m not sure handing the squadron to his major is the solution with combat tonight.”
“You have to do this,” Weed said. “I’m right with you.”
Wilson nodded and remained focused on the door, his hands clasped in front of him on the table, his face blank. They waited in silence.