Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (4 page)

The USS
Boxer
amphibious task force had six of the prototype aircraft on board, along with a mix of CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopters, Cobra Attack helicopters, and a couple of Harrier fighter jets. Belowdecks, this great amphibious ship carried two LCACs—Landing Craft Air Cushion vehicles—along with a few conventional landing craft.

Those conventional landing craft from the USS
Boxer,
USS
Nassau,
and the USS
Belleau Wood
made up the bulk of Holman’s attacking force. The
Boxer
’s two LCACs, traveling with the two from the
Belleau Wood,
passed across Holman’s line of vision, heading north along the coast. The four air-cushioned vehicles flew across the water like aircraft without
wings. Holman lowered his binoculars. Heavy rubber skirts surrounded the hulls of the LCACs, directing high-pressure air downward to bounce off the surface of the water and ricochet up against the craft, keeping them floating a few feet above the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. Without the drag of having to bore holes through the water, the LCACs were capable of speeds in excess of forty knots. Armor plating surrounded the exposed hulls and decks of the LCACs. Heavy machine guns provided additional protection and limited firepower to support an assault. This was essential because a capability the LCAC had over conventional landing craft was that it could hit the beach without slowing and ride that air cushion farther inland to disembark Marines. With the LCACs, the conventional landing craft, and the versatile Osprey, the United States Marine Corps could disrupt any hostile defense in a matter of minutes.

Unlike conventional landing craft, rough shores and shallow water had little effect on the LCACs’ advantage of being able to slip ashore nearly anywhere along a coastline. They could transition from an at-sea environment, continue over the sand, up the dunes, and through the grasses until terrain, logistics, or operations forced them to stop. LCACs were another transport arm that added to the Marine Corps capacity to attack from more directions than just a sandy, sloping beach.

The four LCACs passed between a second wave of conventional landing craft that were dropping their ramps onto the main beachhead and the third wave approaching from the shelter of the amphibious task force.

“If they knew how much danger those helmsmen in the third wave presented, they’d be at maximum speed and running for cover,” said Upmann.

Holman watched the crossing, his tactical mind churning through the possibilities of how LCACs could disrupt an opposing amphibious landing. Using the same situation he was watching, it would be similar to the old warships of sail whose tactics involved crossing the bow of an enemy ship so all their cannons could be fires simultaneously. Right now, he thought, if those LCACs were enemy, the heavy machine guns on their decks would be sufficient to tear through both waves of unarmed conventional amphibious craft. Not only would it defeat
a beach assault, stranding those already on shore, but also it would destroy the very craft needed to mount a second attack or effect a rescue. He bit his lower lip. It would also send hundreds of Marines to the bottom.

Holman shrugged his shoulders. While he could envision the tactic, he couldn’t see where he would ever have an opportunity to employ it. There were no Naval forces in the world with the capability to mount such a projection of force from the sea. Then he thought of People’s Republic of China. He was one of those die-hard warriors who knew in his heart that someday America was going to have to fight that Asiatic giant. China had been hard at work building its armed forces and increasing its amphibious-assault capability. Its national strategy indicated a belief that the only way to bring
“the rebel province”
of Taiwan under control was through military conquest. He put both hands on the railing and leaned forward, watching the air-cushioned landing craft finish passing. He would write the tactic up and submit it through the chain of command. Holman would incorporate the tactic in his next exercise, and share the lessons learned with his counterpart on the West Coast, Rear Admiral Prentice, Commander, Amphibious Group One. He experienced that little thrill of pleasure that came from identifying an innovative use of a weapon system that only a warrior could appreciate.

Leo finished reading the message. “Sir, should we stop the exercise and reembark the Marines?”

Dick lowered his binoculars and shook his head. That little spark of pleasure evaporated as his mind returned to current events. “Won’t work,” he said, shaking the ashes off the end of his Cuban cigar. “We’re too far along with the exercise to do it properly. All that would happen is we would have a lot of confused Marines milling about smartly ashore, wondering where in the hell the rest of their comrades had disappeared to.” He took a deep puff. “When we reembark, I want them embarked in such a fashion that they are ready to conduct another amphibious operation without us having to pull into port, offload, and reload. Besides, I want to see how this new wave of the future for Naval aviation pairs off against those F-14 Top Gunners from Oceana.”

“Understand, sir; but if we stop now, we should be able. . . .”

Dick looked toward the shore. The second wave had landed their Marines, hoisted their ramps, and were turning back out to sea. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes, he figured, before the second wave would pass through the third wave of conventional landing craft. “No, Leo. The good thing is this exercise will serve as a rehearsal in the event we have to do one once we reach Liberia. Normal steps of an amphibious operation—embark, plan, rehearse, reembark, execute.” He grinned. “Shoot, Leo! We’re already sixty percent ready unless we stop the exercise. If we stop it, then sortie across the Atlantic to arrive without the Marines having had an opportunity to flesh out any operational cliches . . .” He stopped, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. With the slow-burning cigar held loosely between the first two fingers of the right hand, Holman pointed at the message his Chief of Staff held. “Rachel, keep this to yourself for the time being. You may share it with Captain Hudson, but pass along my orders to keep the contents close-hold until I say differently.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she said. She saluted and left the bridge wing.

Dick knew she would return to the radio shack, print another copy of the PERSONAL FOR message, and take it to Captain Jeremiah Hudson, commanding officer of the USS
Boxer
. Only flag officers had the privilege of sending informal PERSONAL FOR messages via official channels. The tradition of sending formal PERSONAL FOR messages had been replaced by e-mails sent via classified channels, but most of his peers knew Dick’s propensity for staying well clear of computers. Computers meant being indoors. Dick preferred the fresh smell of salt water and sea breezes passing over the deck of whatever ship permitted him to embark. Until he was appointed as Commander, Amphibious Group Two—the premier Navy organization for the Atlantic amphibious fleet—PHIBGRU Two seldom went to sea. In the one year since he had taken over, the administration functions of the group had been passed to a subordinate amphibious squadron and he had packed PHIBGRU Two’s seabags and headed out to sea.

So many times at sea that many of the senior captains and
commanders who had fought for orders to the group as their last tour before retiring looked for easier billets elsewhere, which was all right with Dick. If you didn’t want to go to sea, in his book, then why in the hell were you in the Navy? It was like being in the Air Force and refusing to fly, or in the Army and despising camping. He flicked ash off his cigar over the side of the ship.

“Always knew we would have to rescue those Americans in Liberia one day,” Leo said.

“The global war on terrorism continues, Captain Upmann, and Liberia appears to be just another front that has jumped up.”

“Says here,” Leo said, lifting the message in his hand slightly for emphasis, “that the Liberian President, Harold Jefferson, is believed to have been killed when rebels hit Monrovia.”

“Could be. I know there are supposed to be several hundred American expatriates living in the city.”

“Why they ever wanted to move there, I will never know.”

Dick shrugged. “Guess those Liberian passports meant more than the Liberian President thought they would.”

“I read once, about two years after he offered dual-citizenship passports to all us Americans of African descent—
as he phrased it
—that he never expected any of us to emigrate to Liberia. Supposedly, he only made the offer figuring that at thirty-five dollars for a passport and fifteen dollars administrative fee, it would bring in some much-needed dollars to the economy.”

Both men stopped talking as two pairs of F-14 Tomcats from Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach blasted by overhead, drowning out the noise of the ship and their conversation. The Tomcats did a 360-degree roll before leveling out. The decibel level crept lower as the four fighter aircraft reached the coastline, split apart, and made simulated ground-attack runs against the opposing Marine landing force.

“Well, he was right. It did. And with that money, he improved the infrastructure of the country—building roads, electric plants, water-purification facilities. Shoot, Leo. Harold Jefferson was even
Time
’s Man of the Year two years ago. A beacon for what Africa can be and can become. Until this”—
he pointed at the message—“Liberia had been a peaceful democracy for over eight years. Ever since the United Nations peacekeeping force helped orchestrate its return to a freely elected government. Although I don’t believe we played a major role in that political development, Liberia has refused to let the United States forget its historical ties. Even the Liberian democracy parallels our own with a Congress, a Supreme Court, and an Executive Branch. Just like ours. The only thing they were still working at was finishing that Constitution.”

“Well, he got more than he planned,” Leo complained. “What he got was a lot of Americans who not only bought the dual-citizenship privileges of a Liberian passport, but who decided
‘what the hell’
and moved to Africa.” He paused for a couple of seconds. “Some of my friends and friends of my wife’s parents took up that offer. A couple of them even moved to Liberia.”

The Tomcats turned nose-up and ascended.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Holman asked, staring at the Tomcats as they ascended.

“Yes, sir. On liberty once in a bar in Singapore.”

Holman caught a reflection of the sun off an aircraft to the south of the beach. He raised his binoculars. It was the four prototypes. Movement to his right over the beach caught his attention at the same time. It was the four Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, heading back to the amphibious ship formation. It would take a few minutes for them to land, load up again, and take back off. If Dick recalled the operation order for this exercise correctly, the Ospreys had two more sorties to do. The first group of Marines behind enemy lines had just been delivered.

“OKAY, AVATAR FORMATION, THIS IS AVATAR LEADER,”
Lieutenant Nash Shoemaker said into his mouthpiece. “Avatar Three and Four, you take the two Tomcats to your right and Avatar Two and I will take the pair on the left.” He reached over and tugged the flight glove on his left hand, flexing the fingers without moving them off the stick.

Acknowledgments echoed through the earpieces from the three other prototype pilots.

Shoemaker pushed the stick to the left as far as it would go. He glanced left. His wingman was fifty feet away according to the heads-up display and about twenty yards back. A quick look at the display screen in front showed him the location of the two other prototypes. This was a real test. Not some laboratory bullshit where they had every white-robed Naval Research scientist leaning over their shoulders mumbling “uh-uh” and “uh-oh” and not once did he hear the “eureka” he expected from a bunch of scientists. What the hell kind of job is it that you don’t have an occasional “eureka”?

This exercise would determine the future of this black program. Black programs were secret weapons developments designed to boost the United States military far ahead of any enemy if and when war struck. Until then, they remained behind the proverbial green door. This project, for some unknown reason to him, was hidden deep within the secretive and controversial Naval Security Group Command
with their black silent helicopters and trained killers.
Of course, you’d never get his number-two man, Alan Valverde, to admit they had them.

Shoemaker reached forward, pressed a button, and nodded at the results. Small green lights on the console blinked rapidly several times before glowing steadily for four seconds. Then, the system turned the diagnostic lights off. The cameras were ready, armed, and functioning. His F-14 opponents from Oceana Naval Air Station, Virginia Beach, had argued they should have been permitted live ammunition. Leave it to pilots to act like kids who think someone else is eating their ice cream. He grinned. In this case, they were.

“I have bandits at eleven o’clock.”

Shoemaker recognized the voice as fellow Lieutenant Pauline Kitchner flying Avatar Three. She had the lead in the second pair of prototype fighters.

“Avatar Two, Avatar Leader,” Shoemaker said to Lieutenant Valverde. “Full throttle. Let’s go surprise some Navy aviators. Follow me.”

A laugh came across the radio. Pauline’s enjoying this too much, he thought.

“Yes, sir,” his wingman, Lieutenant Alan Valverde, Naval Security Group Command, replied.

“Ma’am, I am in position on your left,” Ensign Jurgen Ichmens said.

“Spoken like a true Naval Academy graduate,” Lieutenant Alan Valverde broadcast.

“Alan, Pauline. Focus on the exercise, please,” Professor Dunning said. Shoemaker grinned. The man’s voice sounded calm, but everyone knew that down deep, beneath that voice of calmness, beat the heart of an arrogant scientist who would gladly sacrifice everyone, including his mother, for the good of
“his”
program. If you ever needed a verb conjugated with the first-person pronoun, then Professor Dunning could do it for you in a heartbeat.