Target Lock

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Target Lock Page 8

by James H. Cobb


  These days he spent fully half of his time in the field with his combat elements. Accompanied by a minimal tactical staff, he utilized the advances made in military telecommunications to the maximum, remaining electronically linked with his headquarters responsibilities while working face-to-face with his unit commanders.

  Within NAVSPECFORCE, it had been learned that the phrase “Eddie Mac will be on the ground in half an hour” could be spoken at any time, day or night. Depending upon the situation, this could be cause for relief or trepidation.

  MacIntyre would agree that perhaps it was an unconventional way to run a major military command. However, peering down at the frost and jade wakes of his ships cutting across the Red Sea, he would also state it was a hell of a personal improvement over staring at a briefing-room flatscreen.

  The desert-camouflaged Sikorsky S-70 gingerly eased in over the Carlson’s flight deck, its Saudi air force pilots demonstrating an understandable lack of familiarity with a shipboard landing platform. Eventually the landing gear of the export variant Blackhawk bounced down onto the deck, and the Saudi airmen throttled back to idling power. As the aircraft’s side doors slid open, MacIntyre led a mixed dozen of U.S. Navy enlisted hands, CPOs, and junior officers out of the helicopter’s cargo bay and onto the LPD’s deck.

  In his own personal operating style, the admiral carried his own luggage off the aircaft; as per his standing orders within NAVSPECFORCE, no ceremony heralded his arrival beyond the small group of officers clustered at the head of the helipad.

  Keeping the bill of his uniform cap tugged down against the rotor wash, he ducked across to his waiting officers. Straightening, he turned and saluted the colors aft, then turned to reply to the crisp volley of salutes offered to him.

  “Request permission to come aboard, Captain,” he yelled to Commander Carberry over the rotor thunder.

  “Permission granted, sir!”

  Deckside communications then became temporarily impossible as the Saudi helicopter lifted off behind them. As the aircraft hauled away toward the Saudi coast and the sound level dropped, MacIntyre gave his cap a final settling tug. “Well, that’s an improvement. Commander Carberry, it’s a pleasure to see you again. And you, Commander Rendino … and you, Captain Garrett.”

  As always, MacIntyre found himself stricken with the poise and natural regality of Amanda’s bearing and, dammit, by the striking and unself-conscious beauty of the woman, the rich reddish brown of her hair and the golden glow of her skin contrasting with her tropic whites and rakish black Sea Fighter beret.

  “It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, sir,” she replied in her purring alto. “Chris says that you have an interesting job for us.”

  “Among other things. But first be advised you can expect about a dozen more Saudi helos in this morning. Beyond my staff people, we have personnel transfers for both the Carlson and the Cunningham, and some sling loads of parts and munitions. You’ve got company coming aboard.”

  Even as the noise of the departing Saudi aircraft faded in the distance, a new droning, differently toned, grew in intensity. Four dark specks in an echelon could be seen against the intensely blue sky, crossing the coast outbound for the task group.

  Amanda Garrett’s golden hazel eyes widened. “You’ve got them for me!” she exclaimed, taking a step forward.

  The admiral was pleased at her pleasure. It was a rather unusual gift to bring to a lady, but then, Amanda Garrett was a most unusual lady.

  “When I talked to Cobra a couple of days ago, he claimed they’d need at least another month of work-up before they’d be ready to come aboard,” MacIntyre said. “But when I mentioned that we had a potentially fangs-out job going out here, he said, ‘Hell, if you’re talking about operating, we’re set to go now.’”

  “That’s Commander Richardson for you, Admiral.” She shot an amused glance back at MacIntyre. “So that’s what you were doing in Riyadh?”

  Eddie Mac nodded. “I had to dicker for the loan of the SAAF air base outside of Mecca. Military Airlift Command brought Cobra’s lead detachment in yesterday. They worked all night assembling their aircraft so they could stage aboard the task group this morning.”

  Amanda shook her head slowly, studying the approaching helo formation. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a great day. The Seawolves fly again.”

  And it was, MacIntyre mused. The return of a legend is a rare thing.

  The Seawolves, or, more formally, Helicopter Attack (light) Squadron 3, had been born during the desperate, savage days of the U.S. involvement in the Indochina war. Driven by the necessity of providing immediate on-call air cover for its riverine patrol forces and SEAL detachments, the Navy had created its first and only dedicated helicopter gunship formation.

  Flying their first-generation UH-1B Hueys out of isolated swamp country bases and from the decks of anchored LST “aircraft carriers,” the Seawolves accumulated a list of combat honors second to none in that grim, twilit conflict, along with a reputation for fearlessness, dedication, and bold battlefield ferocity.

  Seawolf was a name to conjure with. MacIntyre suspected that was why Amanda had called for this proud old unit’s reactivation. Battles are sometimes won by factors beyond mere numbers and firepower.

  Drawing closer, the readily recognizable pollywog silhouette of the UH-1 Iroquois became apparent. However, instead of the distinctive twin blade whup, whup, whup of the Vietnam-vintage Huey, these machines produced the vibrant, humming roar of modern flex-rotor flight systems.

  As they swept past astern of the Carlson, a meager hundred feet off the deck, other differences could be noted. A twin-turbine power pack rode atop each squat gray fuselage, augmented with Black Hole and Flicker Flash anti-infrared systems. Hardpoint studded snub wings were set low at the aft end of the cabin, and the ominous, stumpy barrel of an OCSW projected from a chin-mounted gun and sensor turret.

  The breed had improved over the intervening four decades.

  Turning around sharply, Amanda caught the eye of a flight-deck talker standing by with a command headset. “Hey, sailor,” she called, lifting her voice. “Relay this to the task group AIRBOSS. I want one Sea wolf section positioned on each ship. Two aircraft here. Two aboard the Cunningham. Got that?”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am. Two and two.”

  “As you asked for, Amanda,” MacIntyre commented, “UH-1Y gunship conversions. I’m still not quite sure why you wanted the Super Huey rebuilds instead of Whiskey Cobras or armed Oceanhawks. Hell, I could have gotten you Sea Comanches if you’d yelled for them loudly enough.”

  “I had my reasons, Admiral,” Amanda replied. “Cockpit-style gunships might offer more firepower, but they aren’t as flexible for special operations work. A Y-bird can transport and deliver a four-man Marine fire team as well as a weapons payload. They’re also smaller than Ocean hawks, so we can shoehorn more of them aboard our available platforms. These will do me.”

  With her arms crossed and the Carlson’s way breeze tugging lightly at her hair, she turned with the circling Seawolves, following them intently with her eyes. Already MacIntyre could see her projecting possibilities and considering options, weaving his gift into her plans. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “these grand old ladies will do me just fine.”

  The Carlson’s wardroom was large, with a triple row of dark oak mess tables in its center and comfortably outfitted with matching brown leather couches and lounge chairs spaced around its perimeter. Yet, a new ship’s starkness still lingered about it. The accumulation of awards, mementos, and cruise memorabilia that would personalize this living space of the task force’s officers had barely begun.

  Still, some progress had been made. Commander Carberry had a framed set of Treaty-era battleship and cruiser lithographs mounted on the bulkheads. Coming from his personal art collection, they underlined his decided fondness for the days and ways of “The Old Black Shoe Navy.”

  Junior officers had learned to sidle for the door whenever Carberry started to wax elo
quent about some detail or anecdote concerning a Texas-class dreadnought or Milwaukee light cruiser. The next installment of his continuing “What-all’s wrong with the fleet today” lecture loomed.

  And then, of course, there was the palm tree.

  Bearing an ominous resemblance to an interior decoration of the Pearl Harbor officers’ club, it had materialized mysteriously in the corner of the wardroom during the night prior to the Carlson’s sailing, complete with a hand-lettered CAPTAIN GARRETT’S PROPERTY sign spiked into the soil of its redwood planter.

  The officer of the deck, the gangway watch, and the interior security patrols all stoutly denied knowledge of the miniature palm’s arrival. While Amanda thought that the handwriting on the sign bore a significant similarity to that of a certain female intel of her acquaintance, there wasn’t enough definitive evidence to warrant action.

  There was only one possible dignified counter to the Ensign Pulverish prank. Amanda took the little palm under her personal care. Setting a grow light up over the leafy intruder, she bid that it stay.

  The funny part was that she was actually growing rather fond of the ridiculous thing.

  Stone Quillain was waiting for them at the center table. As the task force’s senior Marine officer and Amanda’s personal ground-warfare advisor, she wanted the rawboned leatherneck in on this ad hoc planning session.

  Quillain came swiftly to his feet as Amanda, Christine, and MacIntyre entered.

  “Good to see you again, Stone.” MacIntyre exchanged a handshake with the Marine. “How are your Sea Dragons working up?”

  “Tolerable, sir, tolerable. Of course, so far it’s just been drill work and exercises.” A speculative glint came to the Marine’s dark and rather narrow eyes. “We’re going to have to take some real fire before we can say for sure.”

  Quillain’s 1st Provisional Raider Company, more commonly referred to as the Sea Dragons, was yet another of the “great experiments” Amanda found herself dealing with. A unique five-platoon company, three of its elements, the heavy-weapons platoon and two of the rifle platoons, were standard Marine SOC (Special Operations Capable) line units. The remaining two platoons were fourteen-man Marine Force Reconnaissance units specialists in deep battlefield infiltration and covet intelligence gathering.

  I warned you about being careful of what you ask for, Stone,” Amanda murmured. “Wishes can sometimes get granted at the most awkward of times.”

  Coffee mugs were filled from the big stainless steel urn, more by reflex than from any real desire, and the four officers clumped at the center table.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” MacIntyre began, “let’s use the short form. The National Command Authority has handed off this Indonesian piracy problem to NAVSPECFORCE. In turn I’ve passed the baby on to the Sea Fighters. You’ve been given the word on what we’re facing and you’ve had a couple of days to work the problem. What are your intentions and what else are you going to need get the job done?”

  Amanda exchanged glances with her two junior officers. “Well, there’s one thing we’re certain of already: Absolutely nothing conventional is going to work.”

  MacIntyre grimaced and took a sip of coffee. “I was afraid of that.”

  “That’s just how it cuts, Admiral,” Quillain added. “The Indonesian archipelago’s the goddamnedest littoral combat environment on the planet. Even if we had the whole combined 7th Fleet and 1st Marine Expeditionary Force committed to this job, we could be working it for the next ten years.”

  MacIntyre nodded. “I’m quite willing to cede the point. What I want to know is what we can accomplish with the time and the assets we have available.”

  “We do have some ideas,” Amanda resumed. “For a starter, we’re going to have to get clearance to work from inside of Indonesian territorial waters. How are our diplomatic relations with them currently?”

  MacIntyre scowled. “Sore. State’s been pushing them hard over this INDASAT matter, and Jakarta’s getting muley on the whole subject. They’re not doing much about this entire piracy matter and they don’t like having it pointed out to them.”

  “It’s not PC to say it,” Christine commented, “but face still matters a great deal out there.”

  “And that can work very much in our favor,” Amanda added. “Admiral, you still have influence with the secretary of state, don’t you?”

  “Harry Van Lynden and I still swap fishing lies and lures, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Could you get him to do us a favor?”

  MacIntyre shrugged. “It depends on what it is.”

  “Get him to back off. Overtly get him to drop the INDASAT Starcatcher question and Indonesian piracy as a whole. In fact, he could even slip an under-the-table apology to the Indonesian ambassador for our overreaction to the matter.”

  The admiral cocked a gray-frosted eyebrow. “State’s catching hell from certain factions in Congress over this. I’d have to give the secretary an awfully good justification.”

  Amanda smiled. “Because it would give the United States a reason to conduct a goodwill visit to an Indonesian port as a fence-mending gesture of friendship and solidarity with the Jakarta government.”

  Maclntyre’s grin grew to match Amanda’s. “And this will give us our excuse to move into their waters.”

  “Exactly, sir. We’ll lollygag around on our way in and out, collecting intelligence on pirate operations as we go. As Christine has pointed out, the piracy cartel has likely infiltrated both the Indonesian government and their defense forces—or at least they have contacts on the inside. Anything we hope to accomplish must be done independently and covertly. When we zero the location of the INDASAT and the pirate leadership, we make our move and take them out.”

  MacIntyre dubiously scratched the back of his neck. “And what does the Indonesian government do when we declare a private war on some of their own citizens on their own territory?”

  “We give them a choice, Admiral, sir,” Christine answered. “They can either be exposed as a bunch of corrupt and ineffectual bumblers who had to have their mess cleaned up by somebody from the outside. Or they can be our heroic allies in defeating a major threat to the world maritime community.” She propped her chin up on a slim hand. “As Captain Garrett said, face has its uses.”

  MacIntyre stared down into his cup, considering. “This all hinges, of course, on our recovering enough hard intel to find where the INDASAT is hidden.”

  “Very true,” Amanda acknowledged. “Intelligence gathering is going to be the keystone for this operation. Because of that, I’m going to need more collection assets placed directly under my command.”

  “Say the word and you’ll have them.”

  “I am. I want a half-squadron of Global Hawks for the duration of this operation and an advanced base for them in Australia.”

  MacIntyre winced. “It couldn’t be something simple like a few H-bombs or an aircraft carrier, could it? I could pick those up in-house. For Global Hawks, I’ll have to go to the Air Force.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s an asset I’m going to need if I’m going to pull this off real-time regional recon, on call, twenty-four hours a day. That means G-Hawks directly attached to the task force. We have a functional control node setup here aboard the Carlson, and we can fly the systems operators out from Diego Garcia while we’re in transit.”

  “I’ll get them for you somehow,” MacIntyre growled. “I just have to worry about what the bandits in blue are going to want in return one of these days.”

  Amanda smiled over her coffee cup. “I’m pleased to say that’s your problem, sir. I just have to deal with the day-to-day of tracking our pirate king to his lair.”

  MacIntyre chuckled deep in his chest. “I rather like the sound of that. There’s damn little swashbuckling left in This Man’s Navy. If you don’t mind the company on your flag bridge, Amanda, I think I’ll ride along on this one. It’s still your show all the way, but I want to get the feel of how this new Se
a Fighter task structure is going to work.”

  “All I can say is: Excellent and welcome aboard, sir. I suspect that there’s going to be some politicking and diplomacy required on this run, and a vice admiral’s stars pack a lot more weight than a captain’s birds. Beyond that, we’ll be operating in an Islamic cultural environment where having a male senior officer aboard could make things a little less complicated.”

  MacIntyre nodded. “Just leave the assorted pooh-bahs, potentates, and powers that be to me. It can’t be any worse than dealing with Congress. Anything else you’re going to need?”

  “Some additional air logistics. The covert kind. We might have to support a microforce at any point within the archipelago. Can you get me a Combat Talon while you’re picking up those Global Hawks?”

  “Done. What else do we need to consider?”

  “Tactical security,” Stone Quillain said. “Operating inside of an Indonesian port and in their coastal waters can work good for us, but it can work for the bad guys too. They can get at us with their available assets. We’re going to have a lot of ship and personnel vulnerability to sabotage and terrorist action.”

  “Very true, Stone,” Amanda agreed. “And not just from the piracy cartel. This whole operational area is volatile. The Jakarta government is bucking a number of rebellious factions within the islands, and the usual knee-jerk anti-Americanism can also be expected. We’re going to push our shipboard security and anti-boarding drills all the way across the Indian Ocean. How are your boys doing with our crew combat training.”

  “Pretty fair. All hands should have completed the advanced cycle by the time we hit the operating theater. We could do with some spare crew served weapons and a bigger ship’s ammo reserve, though.”

  Amanda nodded. “I’ll see they’ll be on the beach waiting for us in Singapore.” She glanced back at MacIntyre. “One of the programs we’ve instituted within the task force is augmented weapons training. We’re carrying enough small arms, body armor, and units of fire in our arsenals to load out all hands. Stone’s Marines have also been giving us an advanced indoctrination in shipboard and ground combat. If we’re pushed, not only can we protect our ships but we can back up the Raiders with shore assault parties.”

 

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