Coach turned the radio back to intercom mode and listened as Brittany questioned, “I gather that Spooky Threenine is our
AC-130U?”
“That’s affirmative. Commander,” Coach answered.
“Patrol sector Avalon will put them just off the Crimean coast, should the President dial nine-one-one.”
“I’m sure glad Spooky Threenine is on our side,” offered Lucky while looking out the windshield in an effort to spot them.
“I got a buddy who flies gunships out of Hurlburt, and from what he tells me, that’s one lean, mean fighting machine.”
Jake concurred.
“In last month’s Airman magazine, they did a feature on the AC-130U. Did you know they’re the only planes in the Air Force that are authorized to display nose art? Most of this art is of various demons, a fitting mascot for a plane armed with a 25mm General Electric Gatling gun capable of eighteen hundred rounds per minute, a 40mm Bofors cannon, and a 105mm howitzer.”
“I read that same article, and was impressed by the way all that firepower is delivered on target,” said Coach.
“An All Light Level Television system, an infrared detection set, and a multimode strike radar are all used to help Spooky carry out its main mission of providing surgical firepower or area saturation during extended loiter periods, at night and in adverse weather.”
“And then there’s their ability to simultaneously engage two different targets with two separate sensors and two different guns,” added Jake.
“Now that’s kicking ass big-time.”
“The trouble is,” Brittany somberly interjected, “if we do need to call in the gunship to protect the President’s motorcade, chances are it will already be too late to make a difference.”
Before the flight crew could discuss this assessment, the intercom activated, and Brittany was called back to Operations for a meeting with the E-4B’s senior officer. Admiral Trent Warner, the current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. She excused herself and headed aft, down the spiral stairway to the maindeck forward entry area. She returned the nod of the security man and passed by the gallery.
By heading forward, one could access the NCA executive compartment. This was where the Chairman’s bunk was located.
Brittany proceeded in the opposite direction, passing through the vacant conference room. The long, rectangular table could seat nine, with a projection screen built into the aft bulkhead.
As she ducked through the hatchway, she entered the briefing room. Its eighteen seats were filled with various personnel in the process of receiving a briefing from the officer standing at the compartment’s forward lectern. A large-scale map of Europe was projected behind him, and as Brittany crossed through the room, she listened as the briefer discussed the communications frequencies that they would be depending upon during tomorrow’s anticipated flight back to Andrews Air Force Base.
Brittany almost forgot that she was flying in an airplane upon entering the next compartment. This was the Operations Area, and it reminded her of the White House military office. A series of twelve computer workstations lined each side of the room.
Each of the consoles was fully staffed, with all of the personnel attired in matching green flight suits.
She briefly halted at the second console on the compartment’s starboard side. Seated here was Master Sergeant Andrea “Red” Rayburn. The trim, thirty-four-year-old African-American was immersed in a telephone conversation while at the same time entering data into her laptop. Even then, the personable systems analyst managed to flash Brittany a warm smile.
Brittany could only imagine whom she was talking to, and the means by which this conversation was being transmitted.
Nightwatch 676 was one of four sites delegated to provide secure command and control of U.S. military forces in support of the NCA. The primary land-based facility was the National Military Command Center, located in the Pentagon, with backups at Site “R” near Fort Ritchie, Maryland, and the Strategic Command underground bunker buried beneath Nebraska’s Offut Air Force Base. Of these locations, Nightwatch was the only mobile facility, offering the NCA a survivable, nuclear-war-hardened platform from which they could exercise their national security responsibilities should circumstances warrant. And it was because of this ability to survive a nuclear exchange that Nightwatch was also known as the “doomsday plane.”
Trying her best not to further disturb Red, whose nickname was derived from her bright crimson fingernails, Brittany used a key to access the file drawer that had been reserved for her exclusive use. She removed the black leather briefcase that lay inside and joined a group of airmen gathered at the console immediately behind Red. It was here that Brittany sighted the distinguished shock of white hair belonging to Admiral Trent Warner. A former submariner, Warner was a recent replacement for General William Ridgeway, who had surprised the defense community three months ago when he announced his early retirement.
Up until that time, Brittany had had limited contact with Warner. But as Chairman, he had become a frequent White House visitor, and she had made it a point to properly introduce herself. During that initial meeting she learned that Warner had received his first submarine command only after passing the scrutiny of the legendary Hyman Rickover. Like Rickover, Warner made a reputation for himself as a strict disciplinarian. His demands were high, his short fuse notorious.
Brittany would never forget the way Warner’s steely-gray gaze had examined her from head to foot. It was like he was holding an inspection, and she found herself feeling uncomfortable, afraid that he’d find a hair out of place or a button unfastened.
Several days later, after lunch at the White House mess, she mentioned this sensation to the Maitre d’, a chief petty officer and career submariner. He revealed that one of his best friends had served on one of Warner’s submarines, and had experienced a similar degree of discomfort whenever he found himself in his skipper’s company.
Now, with each step closer to the Chairman’s workstation, Brittany squared back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and mentally prepared herself to be swallowed by Warner’s dominant will. She was able to derive some semblance of relief when the knot of male officers gathered around the Chairman let loose a peal of shared laughter. Included in this group was the balding, slim figure of Colonel Lyford Pritchard, the op team’s CO.
“And that’s the last time I ever played golf with our esteemed Commanderin-Chief,” said Warner.
Brittany smiled along with the others, even though she’d missed the joke, but her arrival at the workstation generated an immediate change of attitude. The smiles quickly faded, and even the men’s postures stiffened. Once again Brittany felt the discriminatory existence of the old boy’s network. Some things in the military would never change. She had decided early in her career not to fight it, and pushed onward knowing there were some walls between the sexes that could never be breached.
The Chairman acknowledged her with a nod, and the other officers alertly excused themselves, except for Colonel Pritchard.
After Warner made certain that Brittany had brought the briefcase along, he broke the seal of the red file folder he was holding, and reached into the top pocket of his flight suit to remove his reading glasses.
“Commander Cooper,” said the Chairman, his voice deep and resonant, “as you most likely know. Air Force One has landed at Simferopol. Per the continuity of government protocol, now that POTUS is on foreign soil. Satchel Bravo is to be deposited in our emergency actions safe. Colonel Pritchard, if you’ll be so good as to give the Commander her key.”
Lyford Fritchard partially unzipped his flight suit and removed one of two chains that hung from his neck. Both of them held a single key, and he handed one of the chains to Brittany, saying, “Commander Cooper, this key is to be in your possession at all times. It opens one of two locks that ensure the integrity of our emergency actions safe. As op’s team leader, I’ve got possession of the sister key.”