Outside, they heard footsteps approach, followed by two raps on the door.
“Come in,” Wilson barked.
Mother entered and at once detected something was wrong — and was about to get worse. Nevertheless, he maintained his hard look of condescension.
“Please be seated,” Wilson said, motioning to the chair in front of them.
Mother did as he was told, hands in his lap, and back against the chair. His eyes remained locked on Wilson, and his face showed no fear.
“Lieutenant Colonel Tucker, you can see your Deputy Wing Commander Captain Hopper is with us, but I will do the talking and I won’t keep you long. Rear Admiral Johnson just informed us that his staff has heard you complaining about the employment of VMFA-335. He also said he detects by your body language that you are not on board with my program here on Hancock. Do you care to respond?”
“Sir, am I being charged—”
“No, you are not being charged, but I want to know if my level of confidence in your ability to command one of my squadrons is misplaced, and, frankly, Mother, it’s pretty damn low.”
“Sir, I don’t know what you are talking about.” Mother didn’t flinch, as ready as Wilson for this showdown.
“Your ability to faithfully execute my orders is what we are talking about. So, here are your orders: Your squadron is going to take the lead on armed air and surface combat air patrols around the strike group. Your pilots will report what they find and engage when directed, or in accordance with the ROE. Your pilots will stand alerts as assigned and fly power-projection and antisurface strikes when assigned. Questions?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Good, and let me add that if I see or hear of you expressing emotion when tasked, badmouthing anyone on this ship, or going around me via any means to higher headquarters, I will lose all confidence in your ability to command and give command of the Panthers to your major. Can you, Lieutenant Colonel, lead my squadron the way I need it led?”
Mother bristled inside. That a Navy lowlife like Wilson would consider VMFA-335 his was too much, He would get even with Captain Jim Wilson one day. Swab sonofabitch.
“Yes, sir, CAG. I’m on board,” Mother spoke with convincing firmness and a humble nod of his head as Wilson glared at him. After glancing at Weed, Mother spoke again to break the awkward silence.
“The Panthers will answer all tasking, sir; we’re in a major conflict with a peer competitor. We’re ready, CAG.” Mother fought his instinct to lash out but held his tongue. Live to fight another day.
Without pushback from Mother, Wilson settled back. He had work to do. They all did.
“Very well, Skipper. You may return to your squadron, but let me ask you one more question. Do you lead from the front?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Good. Please ensure you are on the alert schedule tonight. Chances are it will go. We are working south toward the Celebes Sea, and we’ll probably find lots of contacts. You cannot get it wrong, Skipper.”
“We won’t, sir. By your leave?”
Wilson nodded as he looked at Mother from under furrowed brows. “Dismissed.”
Mother left and closed the door behind him.
“Questions?” Wilson asked as he placed his hands behind his head.
“There’s no doubt he knows he’s on the bubble,” Weed said.
“Yes. Would you please write down what just transpired and save it?”
“You got it, Kemosabe, but let me ask you this. You are already at your limit; he’s a wild card and has been from day one. Why don’t you just relieve him?”
Wilson searched his mind for potential reasons. Interservice politics? Even less confidence in Mother’s young XO? Exhaustion?
“This is his last ‘last chance.’ I mean, we’ve got work to do! Maybe, if we weren’t going to war tomorrow with the frickin’ Peoples Republic, I would, but I don’t want to deal with this now. I need the Panthers to do the job, but, if there’s even a tiny hiccup, I’ll act.”
“Roger that,” Weed said. Wilson stood up.
“I’m going up to see Blower. We’ve got a war to fight.”
CHAPTER 50
The December sun was low as three B-1Bs thundered down Andersen’s runway in order, the four giant afterburners of each bomber glowing yellow. The dark gray jets, swing wings extended, made graceful left turns at the runway departure threshold and lifted their noses into steep climbs over the blue Pacific waves that lashed Guam’s eastern shoreline.
Observers across the northern half of the island saw them take off but paid little attention to the familiar occurrence. However, a young Japanese couple on an adjacent beach, posing as tourists on their honeymoon, noted the time and captured the large, black “EL” letters on the tails of the bombers as they snapped photos on their smart phones; those letters would help analysts. The three jets continued north in trail of one another until they were out of sight and sound, but not before the “bride” hit send on what she and her “husband” had just witnessed.
Well north of Saipan, and away from human observers, the B-1s leveled at 25,000 feet and turned west to their first navigation waypoint. There, they would find three KC-135s that had taken off from Wake almost three hours earlier. Using their eyeballs, the pilots scanned the western horizon until they spotted the three Stratotankers in a trail of their own.
Inside ten miles, the tanker crews spotted the bombers. The tankers then reversed their turn and arced west as each bomber climbed to rendezvous on its assigned aircraft. With the sun resting on a mountain ridge of clouds, the pilots had their helmet visors down to shield their eyes from the brilliant yellow orb that turned the tankers into menacing shadows above them. Inside the tankers, the boom operators had their sunglasses off as they looked down on the sleek noses of the Bones—no one called them Lancers—and at the open receptacles aft of the cockpits.
Under radio silence, the “boomers” in their panoramic windows maneuvered the booms into the dustpan receivers and got indications of good contact. They then transferred thousands of pounds of fuel per minute to top off the bombers that had devoured thousands of pounds in their max performance takeoffs.
They flew into the setting sun, the bomber pilots concentrating on maintaining the sight picture under the KC-135s and the boomers maintaining contact as fuel was pumped from one big four-engine jet to another. After each B-1 had topped off, the boomers disconnected from them, each copilot waving at the boomer to say thanks. Once the Bones cleared, the tankers turned back to Wake, over 1,000 miles distant.
The B-1s headed to the Luzon Strait where they could expect to find PLA(N) warships, the Type 052D Luyang III in particular. These guided-missile destroyers, with modern phased array radars, were a major surface-to-air threat that had to be taken out for the Americans to operate inside the SCS with a greater degree of security.
On the long transit west, the horizon burned red as a thin line over the dark gray sea below. The WSOs received data link input from an AWACS orbiting east of the strait. An RC-135 Rivet Joint was also in the vicinity.
The AWACS was tracking two targets, and, as per brief, the B-1 crews targeted the tracks according to plan. At the same time, along the Ryukyu Chain, two B-52s moved into position. They released twelve miniature air-launched decoys, and, once the last MALD was free, both jets banked away to rendezvous with their assigned tanker east of Iwo Jima, the first refueling on their long return flight to Elmendorf.