Tombstone clicked off the cell phone and surveyed the room again with a new perspective. No longer were the men and women crowding into the small room strangers. Instead, they were potential shipmates, officers who had already been drafted to his private staff. Even if they didn’t know yet.
But how to sort them out? How to tell which ones had the brains, the fire in the belly, and a technical expertise to make a difference?
The noise level inside the banquet room was growing. An Air Force master sergeant who appeared at the doorway was mobbed.
Tombstone vaulted lightly onto the bar and headed to the corner where a ship’s bell was suspended from a metal bracket. It was traditionally used to gong someone who entered the club still covered, and announced that the offender would buy the bar a round for his or her transgressions. Now, he used it for the purpose it was originally intended — to get the attention of his crew.
Tombstone grabbed the bell ringer and slammed it back and forth rapidly inside the bell. The harsh, urgent clamor cut through the noise of the crowd. Seeing that he had their attention, Tombstone jumped back up on the bar. He shoved aside an unfinished drink with his right foot, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Now listen up. My name is Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder. I’ve just been on the cell phone with the CNO in D.C.” He pointed at the Air Force master sergeant. “Am I to assume you’re trying to sort out the transportation requirements?”
The Air Force master sergeant slid through the crowd, politely murmuring his excuses as he forcibly parted the waves of people until he stood in front of Tombstone. “That’s correct, Admiral.”
“Good. Stay right there — I’m going to need you. The rest of you, listen up. At this moment, the only military forces in the area are Navy. We have indications that all secure communications in and out of Pearl Harbor have been compromised. The CNO — and I expect to have the backing of the Joint Chiefs shortly — ordered me to assemble a theater battle group command composed of people here, and then get them out to the USS Jefferson. The first question — who’s the senior officer here?”
A murmur swept through the crowd, then a tall, bulky man in tan shirts and a brilliant flowered shirt stepped forward. A fresh sunburn was peeling off of his nose and the tops of his ears. Under short clipped hair, his scalp was scorched fiery red. “I believe that would be me.”
“Yes, sir. May I have your name?” Tombstone asked politely.
“Major General Bill Haynes,” the two-star said. “Infantry.”
“Sir, can I impose on you to join me up here?” Tombstone asked, pointing down at the bar.
The army general forced his way forward with much less difficulty than the Air Force master sergeant had experienced. He climbed up on the bar next to Tombstone, and said, “Looks like you’ve got marching orders right now, Admiral. For the time being, let me know what I can do to support you.”
Tombstone nodded, grateful that a pissing contest with a more senior officer wasn’t going to happen. In a few sentences, he filled General Haynes in on his conversation with his uncle.
“Sounds like a plan,” Haynes said. “Why don’t I take charge of assembling the ground force end of it, including the commander of the landing force contingent? You pulled what you need for air operations and sea operations?”
Then Tombstone raised his voice and asked, “Anyone with special forces experience, amphibious experience, or ground intelligence experience, I need you up here.”
During the next thirty minutes, the two men methodically worked their way through the assembled officers and staff. They compared notes frequently, and Tombstone found General Haynes to be a reasonable, bluntly competent officer. They passed over most of the personnel and support functions officers, although General Haynes insisted on several more supply people than Tombstone thought they might need. Finally, they had their team. Tombstone dismissed the others with thanks, and took the ten officers they jointly selected to a small conference room located on the lower level of the officers club.
“Introductions first,” Tombstone said. “And before you ask any questions, let me point out that the carrier already has a battle group staff on it. We will be their immediate superior, coordinating both the operations of the special forces units ashore as well as preparing for the eventual arrival of ground troops to retake the island. I know who you all are — it’s time you met each other.”
General Haynes cleared his throat, and addressed the group “Major General Bill Haynes, U.S. army. I was here for a CINCPACFLT briefing prior to assuming duties as Deputy Commander in Korea. Most of my time is in infantry, although I’m very familiar with artillery and armored operations. I attended the Naval War College,” he nodded politely at Tombstone, “which is why I decided not to get in the way of the admiral here.”
“Thank you, General.” Tombstone murmured. “Next?” Tombstone pointed at a Marine colonel.
“Colonel Darryl Armstrong, deputy commander I Corps. Two tours in special operations, including a joint assignment to the Rangers, which is why I assume you picked me, Admiral.”
Tombstone studied him for a moment, certain he’d made the right choice. “We will need a commander for landing forces,” Tombstone said. “Are you up for it?”
The colonel nodded. He was a powerfully built man a couple of inches taller than Tombstone himself. Maybe 6'4", 230 pounds, Tombstone figured. Muscles rippled under darkly tan skin, and there was an intense, driven air about him that attracted Tombstone’s attention immediately. His hair was cut so short as to be almost invisible, but Tombstone could see a few streaks of gray at the temples. Ice blue eyes seemed to absorb everything in the room without actually looking at anything.
The colonel nodded. “Honored to be part of the team, Admiral.”
“Lieutenant Commander Hannah Green,” the next officer said. She was a tall, willowy blond with a slim, athletic build. Short blond hair framed a classically beautiful face with blue eyes a couple of shades darker than Armstrong’s. A stunner, Tombstone thought, then immediately chided himself for the thought.
“My primary expertise is in support of landing operations,” Greene continued, transferring her gaze from one officer to the next as she spoke. Each one met her eyes, saw something there that Tombstone himself had detected, and nodded almost imperceptibly. Whatever gender issues still remained in the navy, they wouldn’t be a problem with this officer. “And additionally, like the colonel, I spent time at special forces command. In fact, I believe we met there about eight years ago,” she concluded.
Armstrong nodded. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“Photographic memory,” she said, and left it at that.
“Carlton Early,” the next officer announced. In contrast to the two spoken before him, there was a gleeful, almost idyllic look to his face. “KC-135 navigator. No experience at all with special forces or intelligence — that goes without saying, although I am in the Air Force — but I know just about everything there is about getting gas in the air.” He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Tombstone. “I assume you’re planning on long-range tanking to support operations in theater.”
“I suspect so, Major. Aviation fuel will be the first thing we run out of. From here on out, I want you talking to somebody at Castle AFB every spare second you’ve got. I don’t think coordination will be a problem — at least not when the Joint Chiefs of Staff says for it to happen — but it will be easier if they’re talking to someone who speaks their own language.”
Early nodded. “You got it, Admiral. There are a couple of other places we’ll want to use as well for the other assets when they arrive. But for now, I’ll build a permanent Texaco in the air. Get my best people on it, too, then make sure they don’t send us any no-loads.” For a moment, a dark expression swept across Early’s face.