by Robert Gandt
Hakim’s eyes bored into him. Manilov ignored him, thinking about his situation. Life as he knew it was over. He was childless, with a plump and indifferent wife who lived with her parents in Minsk. He had nothing of value in Russia. But at the depth of his being, Manilov knew he would forever be a Russian. Russians were dreamers. Woven indelibly into the Russian psyche was a gloomy belief in mysticism, fate, and an inescapable destiny.
Through the grimy window Manilov looked out at the sprawling remnants of Russia’s once-proud navy. Yes, he thought. Some things were meant to be. He was a Russian dreamer. He believed in destiny.
“I agree.”
Hakim smiled. The men raised their vodka glasses in a toast. You have made a pact with the devil, Manilov thought. So be it. So long as the devil wanted to sink American ships.
Thereafter, his task was to select his crew. He would sail with only eight trusted officers instead of the usual fourteen. He hand-picked a dozen warrants, all known to him and chosen for their loyalty. Only the officers were told of the Mourmetz’s true mission and, as Manilov anticipated, each had agreed. The warrants were not informed until after the Mourmetz departed Vladivostok. Only one, a torpedoman named Kalugin, had flatly refused to cooperate, even when informed about his share of the reward. Kalugin was placed under arrest and confined to the ship’s dispensary.
Six enlisted sailors embarked on the Mourmetz, all recruits still in their teens or early twenties. They were wide-eyed and respectful. Manilov expected no trouble from them.
Captain Manilov would go to sea with half his normal crew complement for a combat patrol. What they lacked in manpower they would make up for in tactical surprise.
The Ilia Mourmetz completed its voyage to the Gulf of Aden in ten days.
<>
“Am I interrupting?” said Claire.
Maxwell looked up from his seat at the wardroom table. She was wearing her working outfit—a blue jumpsuit with a silk scarf that he had given her in Dubai.
He scrambled to his feet and pulled out a chair. “No ma’am. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Claire sat next to him and squeezed his hand. A half dozen officers sat at tables in the wardroom. A white-coated steward shuttled trays of coffee. The gentle motion of the deck beneath was the only clue that the Reagan was underway.
She nodded across the wardroom where Whitney Babcock was holding court with with several reporters. She lowered her voice. “The honorable Mister Babcock is a media hound. He really expects that we will make him out to be the grand poohbah of military affairs in the Middle East.”
“Well, won’t you?”
“I’m a good reporter, but not that good.”
Maxwell nodded. He still hadn’t adjusted to the notion of having the girl he was in love with being aboard his ship—headed to war. The world had changed. So had the Navy.
He felt another pair of eyes on them. Then he remembered B.J. Johnson, seated at the end of his table. She was watching them with a strange look on her face. “Excuse me,” Maxwell said. “Claire Phillips, meet Lieutenant Johnson. Call sign B.J.”
As the women shook hands, Maxwell detected an instant coolness. Claire put on a polite smile. B.J.’s face was frozen in a tight mask.
Claire tried to coax B.J. to talk about it was like to be the only woman pilot in a squadron. B.J. wasn’t having any of it. She replied in terse, wooden answers. Yes, she liked flying fighters. No, she didn’t care if she was the only woman pilot. Yes, she was doing fine, thank you. And so on.
Maxwell watched the exchange with curiosity. He wondered what had come over B.J. Until Claire arrived she had been carrying on an animated discussion about the history and topography of Yemen. In the ship’s library she had mined every bit of reading material and turned herself into an expert on the ancient country. He decided that B.J. Johnson was the one to give the in-country brief on Yemen to his squadron.
B.J. was now as talkative as a clam.
Claire had an idea. “B.J., would you consider doing a taped interview for the evening report?” She glanced at Maxwell. “With your commanding officer’s approval, that is?”
“No,” said B.J.
“But you’d be perfect. You’re so. . . you’re unique. Our viewers would love—”
“No interview.” B.J. folded her arms across her chest.
Claire looked to Maxwell for help.
He shrugged. “I think she means no.”
“What a shame,” said Claire. “It would be a great human interest piece.”
A silence fell over the table. B.J. seemed to be focused on a spot on the far bulkhead. Claire drummed her fingers on the table, saying nothing. Maxwell tried to think of something cheery. He couldn’t, so he summoned the steward to bring them more coffee.
Women. He had never understood them. Never would.
<>
“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary, you can count on it.”
Whitney Babcock hung up the secure phone and tilted back in his chair. Before he went back into the conference room to inform the officers about his conversation with the Secretary of Defense, he wanted to indulge himself.
He gazed again at his image in the mirror over the desk. He was wearing his favorite shipboard outfit—starched khakis, aviator glasses, collar worn open in the MacArthur style. He tilted his chin and struck another pose. Yes, in fact, he definitely looked like a young MacArthur, with that flint-eyed, aristocratic gaze, the keenly intelligent eyes. It was a face that would grace an upcoming cover of “Time.” The caption, he expected, would read something like Whitney Babcock: Warrior-Statesman.
He rose and strode into the adjoining room. Seated at the conference table were the battle group commander, Admiral Fletcher, his Group Operations Officer, Captain Guido Vitale, and the flag intelligence officer, Commander Spook Morse. In a huddle by the coffee mess were the Reagan’s skipper, Captain Sticks Stickney, and Captain Red Boyce, the Air Wing Commander.
Everyone in the room looked up. Babcock waited a second, extracting the maximum dramatic effect. “It’s a go,” he said, enjoying the moment. “The President has authorized a strike on the terrorist base in Yemen.”
Murmurs passed through the room. Fletcher nodded his head approvingly. Stickney and Boyce exchanged sober glances.
“The joint chiefs are signing off on the op plan, and we’ll be getting it within the hour. The Reagan battle group gets to carry the ball on this one because of the political sensitivity. We can’t launch strikes from bases in any other Arab country. There’s a symbolic issue, also. The terrorists attacked the U. S. Navy, and it is appropriate that we carry out the reprisal.”
“An eye for an eye,” said Admiral Fletcher. “Something the Arabs understand.”
Babcock gave the admiral an indulgent smile. Fletcher was full of banal little aphorisms like that one. Babcock had tapped him to be the replacement Battle Group Commander precisely for the reason that he wasn’t one of those old Navy mossbacks who thought they knew more than their civilian commanders. At one time it was unheard of that the Carrier Battle Group Commander was not an aviator, but in the new Navy, that was changing. Fletcher was a pragmatist. He could be counted on to implement, not interpret, the policies of his civilian chiefs.
The others Babcock was less sure about. The Group Operations Officer, Vitale, was an aviator, and he seemed to be a team player. Captain Stickney, who commanded the Reagan, accorded him a cool respect, but nothing more. He had not welcomed Babcock onto his bridge or invited him to his table. Stickney was due for a lesson in deference.
Boyce, the cigar-chomping Air Wing Commander, was one of those dinosaurs from the old days when fighter pilots thought they ran the Navy. Babcock had already tagged Boyce for an early departure from his air wing command.
Morse, the flag intelligence officer, was a wild card. Like all intel types, he had the maddening trait of hoarding critical information and then parceling it out in incremental pieces. He possessed that air of intellectual superiority that made everyone,
Babcock included, want to smack him down.
But there was another side to Morse, one that intrigued Babcock. The man had a formidable knowledge of Middle East geopolitics. Unlike most of the others in this room, he actually cooperated with Babcock and his staff. With a little urging, Morse might be a useful player.
“How much time do we have to do the load out?” Stickney wanted to know.
“We sail into the Gulf of Aden tonight,” said Admiral Fletcher. “By tomorrow morning we’ll be at the launch point. The Arkansas will deliver a salvo of Tomahawks in coordination with the Reagan strike group. It will be a concentrated air strike, nothing more.”
“No assault force?” asked Boyce. “Isn’t the Marine Expeditionary Unit going to clean out the terrorist nest?”
“No,” Babcock interjected from across the room. “Absolutely no American troops on Yemeni territory. The President has ruled that out.”
Boyce shook his head. “You really think we’re gonna put this Al-Fasr away with just a single air strike?”
“Certainly,” said Fletcher. “When you see the reconnaissance data, you’ll get the picture. Their shacks and storage buildings are out in the open. The bivouac areas will be easy targets for your laser-guided weapons.”
“What if we have downed pilots? We gotta have SAR and gunships and covering troops.”
Fletcher was getting annoyed. “That won’t be a factor. Commander Morse has shown me the intel data, and I can assure you, our adversary does not have the assets to bring down any of our strike aircraft.”
Boyce’s eyes narrowed. He removed the cigar from his teeth. “Sir, with all due respect, I have to tell you we always run the risk of having pilots go down. Even in a peacetime exercise. If I’m gonna run this strike, I intend to inform my pilots exactly how we’re gonna extract them if someone goes down in Indian country.”
Fletcher had no answer. He looked to Morse for help.
“The admiral has already covered that,” Morse said. “Let’s not waste time going over the same subject. Anyway, the post-strike details will be handled by the flag intel department. You’ll get the information in due time.”
A thundercloud passed over Boyce’s face. He glowered at Morse as if he wanted to seize his windpipe and throttle him. Air Wing Commanders didn’t take rebukes from intelligent officers like Morse.
Morse ignored him while he scribbled a note on his yellow pad.
Watching from the head of the table, Babcock smiled his approval. This was going better than he expected. He liked it when a squarehead like Boyce was put in his place.
“I’m expecting a call from the Pentagon,” said Babcock. “We will adjourn until Admiral Fletcher’s staff has had a chance to review the op plan, then we’ll schedule a full briefing.”
Boyce was about to raise another troublesome question, but Babcock cut him off. “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”
Chapter Five
Feet Dry
Gulf of Aden
0430, Monday, 17 June
He lay awake, the questions flowing through his mind in an endless stream.
What if they have SAMs that we don’t know about?
Air defense radar?
MiGs?
A hundred what ifs.
At half past four Maxwell gave up trying to sleep and went to the shower. Standing under the hot water, he thought about the mission. Why were air strikes always launched in the morning? It meant that pilots lay awake all night in darkened rooms thinking unthinkable thoughts.
After he’d showered and shaved, he donned the camouflage flight suit. Sitting on the bunk, he pulled on the steel-toed leather boots. Unlike the olive drab flight suits they normally wore, this one bore no squadron or air wing patches, no symbols of rank. The desert-colored camouflage scheme was intended to blend into the Middle East landscape if a pilot went down.
He was almost ready. One item to go. He unlocked the door of his desk safe and pulled out the leather gun case. He removed the Colt .45 and held it under the light, feeling the heft and density of the big pistol. The bluing was faded, and the pearl handle insets were yellowed and worn. It was a Model 1911 military pistol. On the slide action was the inscription: Lt. Harlan Maxwell, USS Oriskany, 1965.
The Colt had been his father’s sidearm during two combat tours in Vietnam. It was a gift on the day Brick won his Navy wings, delivered not by his father but by Josh Dunn. He’d worn it ever since.
He checked that the magazine was loaded, then shoved it into the grip. When had he last fired it? He couldn’t remember. Not for years, and he’d never been able to hit anything with it anyway.
It didn’t matter. He’d gotten used to the gun, even though the Navy had long ago switched to the smaller and more efficient Beretta nine millimeter. He slipped the pistol into its leather shoulder holster and headed for the ready room.
<>
By zero-seven-thirty, the ready room was filled with pilots. Maxwell stood up in the front and said, “Seats, gentlemen. Lieutenant Johnson has a briefing for you that might just keep you alive.”
B.J. clomped up to the lectern that faced the rows of chairs. Like the others, she was dressed in a desert camo flight suit, wearing a holstered sidearm. For today’s strike, she was assigned as the skipper’s wingman.
As she rolled down a map of Yemen, several pilots exchanged amused glances. The Alien.
She began with a discussion of Yemen’s history, from the Ottoman empire to the creation of the Suez canal and British rule, until the present.
“The Republic of Yemen was created in 1990 by unifying the two warring countries of South Yemen and North Yemen. In 1994, fighting broke out again between government forces and southern secessionists. Since then the government has had to cut deals with different factions in order to stay in power.”
“Al-Fasr being one of them?” asked Hozer Miller.
B.J. nodded. “Terrorism is to Yemen what drugs are to Columbia. It’s their number one exportable product. It protects the government and provides a cottage industry for the peasants.”
While B.J. went on, Maxwell watched the pilots’ expressions. It had been his idea to have B.J. deliver the in-country briefing on Yemen. Since she downed the MiG in Iraq, the squadron pilots had developed a grudging respect for her. Most had gotten over their entrenched bias against women in fighters, but not all. To a few, the women would always be aliens.
Now they were wearing a new expression. They looked perplexed.
Bud Spencer raised his hand. “Excuse me, B.J., where did you learn all this stuff?”
“Ship’s library. The internet. The intel office. When I heard we headed into the Arabian Sea, I dug up everything I could find about the place.”
Maxwell could see what they were thinking now. Maybe this chick knows what she’s doing after all. . .
She went on, talking about the prevailing weather, which at this time of year meant monsoon winds that howled in from the sea. Sometimes, at least along the coast, it even rained.
Then she got into the part nobody wanted to think about.
“The highlands of northern Yemen, where we’re going, are rugged but habitable. There’s plenty of vegetation, terraced fields cut into the hillsides, even stands of forest. If you go down, you’ll find cover. Stay in the hills, hide in the brush. Don’t approach the farmers or villagers. Most will be carrying a curved dagger called a jambiyya. They will probably be sympathetic to the terrorists, or at least be frightened enough to slice your throat just to save themselves.”
At this, several aviators stirred in their chairs. A few felt compelled to check the magazines on their service pistols.
<>
At 0800, Spook Morse’s face appeared on the ready room television monitor. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. The Reagan is currently steaming ninety miles from the coast of Yemen, abeam the port of Ahwar. The coordinates of our launch and recovery positions for today’s strike on Al-Fasr will be on the screen at the end of the brief. Now, here are your en
try and exit routes.”
The camera switched to a colored chart of Yemen. Large arrows defined the path over the Yemeni shoreline, northwestward to the Al-Fasr target in the highlands. Another arrow leading due southward described the exit route from the target.
“The strike package will be led by Commander Maxwell. It consists of four elements—an element of HARM shooters composed of sections from all three Hornet squadrons, an LGB-dropping element from VFA-36, another LGB element from VFA-34, a cluster bomb element provided by VFA-35.
“Tanking will be provided by four KS-3 Vikings, who will shuttle from a pair of Air Force KC-10s on station over the Gulf. Note that the only CAP assigned will be the Tomcats on MIGSWEEP, due to the remote likelihood of enemy air opposition.”
“The surface-to-air missile threat is considered negligible. Any sites that light up will be taken out by the HARM element that precedes the strike package. You might get some small bore anti-aircraft fire. Respect your minimum release altitudes, and it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Morse then went over the fine points of the mission: mode one and two transponder squawks, the avoidance of collateral damage to nearby villages, lost-communications procedures, bingo fuel requirements, bullseye navigation reference points, code words, weapon loads, search and rescue contingencies.
From the Roadrunner ready room, Maxwell watched Morse’s briefing. A cut and dried operation, he thought. Almost like one of the scripted air wing exercises they ran monthly while the Reagan was at sea.
Something nagged at him. It was too cut and dried. The target was too accessible. He couldn’t get over the uneasy feeling that something was missing. What the hell was it?
<>
She caught him in the passageway to the flight deck escalator.
“Hey, sailor,” Claire said. “Leaving without saying goodbye?”
“Just taking a little airplane ride.”