Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (14 page)

“Wouldn’t catch me flying them. Give me the thrust of a strong aircraft carrier catapult trying to rip the skin off my face as it throws a well-armed F-14 Tomcat wrapped around me from zero to two hundred miles an hour in six seconds. I want to feel the power between my legs when I hit the end of the flight deck, just after that brief period of weightlessness when the jet engines take over and whip you into the skies. Now, that’s reliability and confidence.”

“On the other hand, Admiral. If that Harrier pilot has a problem, he or she can sit the aircraft down anywhere and most likely walk away from it.”

Dick Holman nodded. “I would say, Leo, the main difference between a Harrier having a problem on launch and an F- 14 Tomcat experiencing difficulties is that the Harrier pilot has a slightly longer time to pray.

“Different subject, Leo,” Dick said before his Chief of Staff could reply. “The carrier. Have we heard anything from CINCLANT Fleet as to when the carrier is going to show up?” Dick asked, referring to the four-star admiral in Norfolk, Virginia, who was Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Fleet.

The smell of burned jet-fuel exhaust drifted over the bridge wing, stinging their eyes slightly before the wind swept it
across the signal bridge overhead and out to sea on the starboard side.

“Nothing yet, sir. Commander, U.S. Second Fleet, in Norfolk has been ordered by CINCLANT Fleet to work the issue, but between us, sir, I don’t have a
‘warm-fuzzy’
we’ll have a carrier by the time we reach Liberia. So far, Joint Chiefs of Staff haven’t directed them to release a carrier, so everything that CINCLANT Fleet and Second Fleet are doing may be for naught.”

“That’s not good news, but if we don’t, then we’d better hope all we have to do is evacuate American and allied citizens.”

“Means we’ll remain a battle group rather than transitioning to an amphibious task force. We can expect European Command to designate us as a joint task force once we inchop their area of operations.”

“Ah, what a shame!” replied Dick, smiling as he drew out the exclamation. “Means I will have to stand tall and accept that mantle of leadership they are going to toss my way.” The appearance of an aircraft carrier usually meant the embarkation of a senior flag officer, and nearly every flag officer in the Navy was senior to Dick Holman. Christ! He was still a lonely one-star admiral, and it had been two years since the Navy had bitten its lip and bestowed the coveted silver five-pointed star on his collars. Holman still had enough friends in the Pentagon to know the physical-fitness mafia had shoved their hands into their chests and wrenched their hearts out when he had been selected. Personally, he had never thought that being able to run fast was a good leadership trait.

Without a carrier, the amphibious formation would remain a battle group. He would remain Senior Officer Present—SOP. When warships massed together for a specific mission, they were assigned certain nominative titles; a carrier battle group being the most powerful. The amphibious task force he commanded was the one that projected power ashore. It did it in the form of United States Marines.

From the other side of the USS
Belleau Wood,
the DD-21- class destroyer USS
Stribling
appeared, taking station about five hundred yards behind the amphibious carrier. It would be the plane guard for air operations. Its primary mission would
be to pick up pilots if they ejected during the launch phase. They also pulled from the drink the odd sailor who every now and again was blown overboard. Helicopters hovered off the port side of the
Belleau Wood,
nearer the USS
Boxer
than its parent ship, to assist if an aircraft went into the drink. Nothing stopped aircraft carrier operations except a massive catastrophe, of which Dick Holman preferred not to think. He recalled the film of the USS
Forrestal
fire off Vietnam in the sixties, and the collision of the cruiser USS
Belknap
with the aircraft carrier USS
John F. Kennedy
in the seventies. Carriers were built for survival. That survival depended on the damage-control skills of their crew, and many times their lives.

He leaned against the railing of the bridge wing, bracing himself with his elbows. Through the bridge across the far starboard side, he watched the USS
Spruance
—the first of the DD-963-class destroyers and the oldest destroyer still on active duty—move into position off the port side of the USS
Nassau
. The
Spruance
had a reputation for making every commitment and putting itself in harm’s way so many times that this caused it to be regarded as an old warship fighting to mark its end of Naval service with combat action rather than scattered across America as razor blades. Up ahead, near the horizon, the Aegis Ticonderoga-class cruiser USS
Hue City
sailed. Its air-to-air-warfare capability was able to project destruction hundreds of miles ahead to protect the battle group from air attack. Not that in this era of the twenty-first century he expected any air attacks. The last great superpower that had that capability was the now-dead Soviet Union. Only America and its allies had aircraft carriers today, though the People’s Republic of China was building a couple.

He shook his head. Things had changed so much for a young man such as himself who’d joined the Navy when the Russian Bear was the only enemy and America the only superpower capable of facing it.

“Leo, before you go, what is the latest on the situation in Liberia? Have we heard from Lieutenant General Thomaston this afternoon?”

Leo stopped halfway through the hatch, turned, and shook his head. “No, sir. If we had, you would have known. But I
can have our intelligence officer, Captain Mary Davidson, come up and brief you if you would like. . . .”

Holman pushed away from the railing, paused, and then shook his head. “No, Mary has her hands full trying to develop a disposition of forces in Liberia and identifying target priorities for us. I just wondered if you had heard anything since we saw her at lunch.”

Leo shook his head. “Not too much. Did see a special-category message that came in through intel channels that said the Liberian Army had disappeared.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t surprise me. Those that didn’t change allegiance from Liberia to the Islamic radicals have melted into the rain forests, jungles, and mountains of Liberia. They’ll miraculously reappear when the danger has passed.”

“Just what we need. An army afraid to fight.”

“Wouldn’t know if they’re afraid. I would think in a country where changes of government are violent, weak military institutions, such as the one in Liberia, keep down out of sight until the fog has lifted and the new terrain is visible.”

“How about the situation at Kingsville?”

“Nothing new since this morning. Last word we had was Thomaston was waiting for us. As Mary said, barricades have been erected across the roads leading into and out of the town. Imagery analysis shows several groups, believed to be roving patrols, sent out by Thomaston. Seems to me that Thomaston is doing everything he can to give himself early warning if the rebels move toward them.”

Holman grunted. “It is not a case of ‘if,’ but ‘when.’ Abu Alhaul, this unknown leader of this resurrected ring of global terrorism, is not going to let an opportunity to overrun an American expatriate community pass him by. Wherever this asshole is, he knows he has a few days before we can be in the area. Four, maybe five, days in which to wreak havoc with his warped doctrines against America wherever and whenever he can.” Holman took another puff on the stub of the cigar and then tossed it overboard.

“We could always do what we did in Afghanistan and in Egypt,” offered Leo.

Holman shook his head. “Both places were wide-open spaces. We drove the Taliban out of Afghanistan because of
Naval airpower, Army spec-ops, Air Force bombers and tankers, and the presence of an organic opposition military force. Reopening the Suez Canal when the Islamic Republic of Egypt closed it to Western shipping was a little harder because Egypt had a functioning armed forces that stood their ground and fought. The difference with Egypt was we had to land heavy armor to defeat its ground force. The good news is the new government of moderate Muslims seem to be making headway in forging an Islamic nation that wants to join the twenty-first century. Just like Iraq.”

“Ironic in a way, isn’t it?”

“How’s that?”

“No matter how patriotic and how benevolent religious fanatics are, once they take over a government, if the people don’t worship God the way they want, then they tend to kill them. It doesn’t take long before you realize that zealotry in any religion is worse than zealotry in government.”

Holman chuckled. “Leo, don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think,” he said, his laugh stopping. “Don’t let others hear you say that. You’d be the number one devil on religious programs throughout America.” He reached over and slapped Leo on the shoulder. “You go drop off that watch bill that you surface warriors worked so diligently to produce. I’ll meet you in my in-port cabin when you’re done.”

The noise of a Harrier fighter passing overhead drowned out Leo’s reply as the Chief of Staff departed the bridge wing.

Admiral Holman looked up, shielding his eyes from the setting sun as the Marine Corps fighter aircraft came into view, turned east, and took off ahead of the battle group. At least, the surface commander was getting some maritime reconnaissance accomplished. He had six of the Marine Corps fighters. Should be more than enough for handling Liberia.

Holman pulled out the metal stool stored against the bulkhead of the bridge wing railing, and sat down. Leaning against the railing he raised his binoculars and began the routine he so enjoyed, watching the other ships and seeing what they were doing. You could tell an awful lot by watching the sailors topside on a ship.

THE SIX OFFICERS AND SAILORS MANNING THE BRIDGE EXCHANGED
looks, raised their eyebrows, and shrugged at each other. This Admiral Holman was a different breed from most admirals they had embarked with on other deployments. They liked him, but they would like him even more if he would stay off the bridge. Senior officers made bridge watches nervous.

“Okay, troops, let’s get our attention back on sailing this ship of the line,” the Officer of the Deck said as he raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon ahead of them. He wondered what the admiral saw in those binoculars that always seemed glued to his eyes.

BEHIND THE AMPHIBIOUS CARRIER BATTLE GROUP, THE
periscope slid beneath the waves. The submarine skipper was nervous. He would have preferred maintaining eight knots, but this American fleet was keeping a steady fourteen knots. Fourteen knots made passive sonar inoperable. Of course, on the opposite side of the coin, the two antisubmarine warships with the Americans would be experiencing the same problem with their passive sonars. So, here he trailed the Americans, reporting to his Navy’s headquarters, while he had little capability to discover if American submarines had joined this task force heading toward Liberia. The idea of an American submarine caused a mental itch up his spine.

He doubted the two American destroyers would discover his presence as long as he kept the propellers shielded by the long black hull of this modern nuclear submarine. He had purposely slowed twice today to obtain passive signatures against the task force, and after both slowdowns he had had to increase speed past fourteen knots to regain position. Each time, he ran the risk of cavitation from the propellers and increasing opportunities for some sharp sonar operator aboard an American destroyer to pick up his signature. His orders were to maintain covert presence and avoid detection. He had no illusions about his orders in the event he was detected. He would do what the sealed orders said, regardless of how much it grated on his submariner sense of survival to do it.

He turned to the Chief of the Boat and ordered the submarine to one-hundred-meters depth. The warm seas kept the
sound layer of cooler water lower, giving him safety of depth without losing the sound signatures of the American warships’ propellers. Behind him, crammed across a small lighted table, a holograph projection of the contacts showed the location of the American warships along with his own.

His executive officer asked if he wanted to load the forward torpedoes.
Why would he want to do that?
he asked incredulously. The Americans were, after all, still allies. The reply of his executive officer was that if the Americans were such close allies, then why in the hell were they tailing them? He sighed loud enough to capture the attention of those in the conning tower, and rather than argue with his hotheaded executive officer, nodded sharply and went to his cabin. He needed some sleep. This new strategy of his government—
top secret, according to his orders
—to conduct patrols along the American East Coast bothered him. He had friends in the American Navy. He had even graduated from the Industrial College of the Armed Forces at Fort McNair, Washington, D.C., and when in port he exchanged e-mails with his former classmates. No, he didn’t like this mission at all, but orders were orders and as long as they weren’t illegal, he would execute them. But what if he was ordered to load the torpedoes? What if—? No, he wasn’t going to think about it. He was going to skip dinner and take a short nap. Let the others sip the wine tonight. He knew how the Americans would react if the government in his country did something dumb under the guise of nationalism. Could the socialist government be so shortsighted they would fail to understand where Americans drew their line in the sand?

He reached over, lifted the photograph from the small side table, and looked at his wife and two children. The professional submariner glanced at the clock above the curtain leading to his small stateroom. Right now, Yvonne would be dropping Michel off at school. Louis, his older son, would probably still be in bed. The boy must get a job. If he wasn’t going to university, then he could work. He returned the photograph to the table, threw his arm across his eyes, and in moments was in a light sleep.