“What is it then?” Top Anderson’s eyebrows shot up with interest.
“The storm is coming at us hard. It’s been upgraded to a hurricane. We’ve got to get the aircraft into the hangars, and keep a couple of choppers ready to roll out in the event of an emergency operation.”
Anderson smiled and shook his head. “Glad it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Can I count on you to help get this done?”
“Sure thing.” Top Anderson nodded. “I’ve got a few Marines in the turret shop and down in the trailer shop that I can spare.”
“Thanks,” Penton said. “I knew I could count on you.”
“No problem.” Top Anderson chuckled. “We go way back.”
Penton looked over the small office space. The lieutenant had a shiny metal desk with a model of a Harrier perched on top. While Top Anderson’s desk was painted olive drab, the filing cabinet nearby had a camouflage Marines bumper sticker plastered on the side. A poster of a recruit getting throttled by a drill instructor hung on the wall, and a model of Huey with an aerial gunner hanging out the door was on the filing cabinet.
The Brass always go for the fixed-wings, he thought. And the enlisted prefer the rotary-wing. The jets are shiny, but you don’t get to fly in them. Penton smiled to himself and thought back to his flying days out of Marine Corps Air Station, New River in North Carolina. Wind had always whipped off the Atlantic Ocean, ruffling his flight suit as he fired away with aircraft machineguns, dinging metal buoys placed in the water by the military for target practice.
“Reminds me of the storm that hit us in North Carolina,” Penton finally said.
“Had a few of them back at New River.” Top Anderson grinned. “But I remember the one you mean… Hugo. Blew right through the base and tore up a CH-46.”
“Yeah.” Penton laughed. “Tipped over a stake-bed truck, and the metal rails flew into the Phrog. Cut the fuselage up pretty bad.”
“And who left the truck on the flight deck…”
“None other than ole Diddy-Bop Sabini. An Italian stallion from Philly.”
“Believe that Shit-Bird got himself a bad conduct discharge.”
“You should know,” Penton added. “You’re the one that gave it to him.”
They both had a good laugh at Sabini.
Penton gave Top Anderson a slap on the shoulder before stepping toward the door, then he paused. “I’ve got to run down to VMM-262, and tell them the good news,” Penton said, shaking his head.
“The Flying Tigers. Always have been a good outfit. I’d use their birds for any emergency.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Penton smirked. “But let’s not tell the Dragons they’re second best.”
Top Anderson nodded, smiling wide. “Secret’s kept with me.”
Penton started out the door. “Have your Marines mustered at 1300,” Penton said over his shoulder. “And I’d appreciate if you’d help supervise some of this.”
“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Top Anderson said, chuckling.
“Recon sunshine.” Penton had spent much of his career soaking wet. Marines get aquatic training in boot camp, jumping from a diving board with full combat gear. And drill instructors march recruits outside to sit in the rain without a poncho to indoctrinate them into functioning in the elements. Exposure to the weather gets even worse when training in the fleet.
When Penton stepped past the threshold, Top Anderson cleared his throat. Penton faced his comrade and noticed a serious look in the master sergeant’s eyes. “What’s wrong?” Penton pressed.
“We’ve forgotten about VMA-214. Not enough hangar space to hold all of our Ospreys and the Harriers here TAD for the next few months.”
Penton thought about the Black Sheep Squadron of Harriers, stationed at the base for six months while training and deployed. He shook his head and walked into the hangar, wondering what to do with the excess birds.
****
Penton headed off to visit a few squadrons and advise of worsening storm conditions. He told senior enlisted personnel about his plans to have the aircraft brought into the hangars. Everyone moved into action immediately.
Then, he walked over to the ordnance shop for the Flying Tigers. Penton entered through an open door and found Chief Warrant Officer Thomas behind a desk doing paperwork. The shop was sparse and didn’t store any machineguns. Mostly greasy tools and equipment lay scattered about the narrow space.
Thomas looked up and smiled. “Master Guns,” he said. “What brings you our way?”
“Storm has kicked up. And so, we’re telling everyone to get all the aircraft into hangars ASAP.”
Thomas nodded. “Anything is better than sitting around filling out evaluations.”
“Precisely why I didn’t become a sergeant major; too much paperwork.” Penton grinned and placed his hands on his hips. “Going to need you to do something for me…”
“What’s that?” The industrial chair creaked as Thomas sat back to look him over.
“I’d like two Ospreys from the Flying Tigers kept down at the MALS-36 hangar, ready to go in case of an emergency.”
Thomas shrugged. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Penton nodded, then turned to leave.
“What are you going to do about those Harriers?”
Penton turned back and laughed. “That’s what everyone seems to want to know.” He shook his head. “Going to shove as many as we can into the MALS-36’s hangar.”
“That sounds like a plan, too. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Appreciate it,” Penton said and headed out the door.
He went from hangar to hangar, running through the heavy rain. Returning to MALS-36, Penton dripped all over the floor. Top Anderson’s people were mustered around the hatch to the ordnance shop waiting for him.
“You look like a drowned rat,” Top Anderson said.
“This is worse than you’d believe,” Penton said, shaking his head.
“How so?” Top Anderson crossed his arms.
“Wind is blowing hard off the flight line. We don’t have much time.”
The hangar doors opened and rain whipped inside. Several Marines came over from the Flying Tigers, pulling two aircraft with aviation support tractors.
“Get a forklift and move those cargo boxes out by the trailer shop,” Penton said to a few ordnance Marines standing around.
“Aye, aye,” they responded in unison, and quickly moved out.
A few minutes later, the hangar stood clear and a few birds were safely tucked away. Stacked in tight, but they were accessible in a moment’s notice.
“How many Harriers do you think we’ll fit in here?” Top Anderson said.
“Only about half of them,” Penton replied, shaking his head.
“Leaves a handful outside in the storm.”
“Thankfully, you gave a bad conduct discharge to ole Diddy-Bop Sabini, so he can’t leave a truck out there with loose parts to pelt the multi-million-dollar aircraft.”
Top Anderson grinned from ear to ear.
Penton shook his head and laughed at his own comment.
“Those were the good old days,” Top Anderson said. “Back during the Cold War, we could punch someone in the head to straighten them out.”
“No kidding.” Penton grinned proudly.
“Now, you’ve got to sweet talk them into doing their freakin’ jobs or wade through a mountain of paperwork to get rid of them.”
“Sure do miss the old Rehabilitation Platoon.”
“That was a motivator if you ever saw one. Marines would go off with an attitude and come back like they were straight out of boot camp.”
“Suppose having them spend a few months… breaking big rocks into little rocks made an impression.”
“Damn right it did.” Top Anderson laughed and clapped him on the back.
“Yeah, I remember picking up a private after he finished there,” Penton said, shaking his head, amused. “The staff ser
geants were tougher than drill instructors, and they had them all on line, except instead of holding rifles, they held sledgehammers and goggles.”
The two of them broke out laughing, reminiscing about the past.
Then, a look of concern cut across Top Anderson’s face. Penton turned to see what had caught the master sergeant’s attention.
A young Marine squirmed on the flight deck, and a cable used to tether a Harrier had broken loose. The free line whisked around in the wind like a venomous snake.
Penton broke toward the commotion.
He stretched out his strides, but the wind resisted his efforts. Rain pelted him as he ran from the hangar. Penton reached the scene before anyone else reacted. Grabbing the Marine by a shoulder, he yanked him out of harm’s way, and then lunged at the dancing cable.
The line moved, almost partly alive, waving in the air. Penton took a blow to the head. Blood ran down his temple and around his cheek. Everything turned fuzzy for a moment. He gathered himself and snatched out again, grabbing hold of the hazardous cable.
As it writhed in his hands, Penton backpedaled and stretched it out. He pulled the line taut to prevent further movement. Then, he called a young Marine over and had her hold the cable in place. Penton stepped to the eye-bolt in the flight deck and removed the other end. The line went slack. He coiled up the cable, wrapping it around his palm and elbow. And then he handed it to the Marine who’d secured the other end of the line.
Penton crouched by the Marine on the deck and looked him over. A gash in the youngster’s chin dripped blood into a puddle, rapidly expanding from the torrents. The private first class was dazed but not severely injured. He sat up and then tried to get to his feet.
“Stay put for a moment,” Penton said.
“I’m fine.” The kid sounded embarrassed.
“You took a blow to the head.”
“Doing okay now,” the Marine insisted.
“We’re going to get you checked out. This isn’t the time for heroics… we’re not in combat. Better to keep our Marines healthy and able for the real thing.”
The young private first class nodded, acquiescing.
A corporal knelt by the fallen Marine. Penton noticed Aircrew wings and recognized Alvarez from the inventory. She slipped the private first class’s arm over her shoulder and helped him to his feet.
Penton reached for the private first class’s free arm.
“I’ve got it from here, Master Guns,” she said.
“We should get him in a tractor and take him over to Navy Hospital pronto.” Penton stood down as she’d instructed. For some reason, the corporal had stepped onto the scene with authority.
“He’s strong as a bull,” Alvarez replied. “I’ll walk him into the hangar, then drive him over in my POV. We’ll make sure he’s in good hands.”
“You certain that you’ve got him? Maybe you could use some help.”
“If we offer Jonesy any more help, he’d kill us all.”
“He’s your charge,” Penton said.
“Maybe you should head over there with us,” Corporal Alvarez said. “You took a good blow yourself.”
Penton shook his head. “Not much for sitting around Navy hospitals.”
Corporal Alvarez smiled, then she led the injured Marine, ambling toward the hangar. Penton spun around and found himself eyeballed by a bunch of Marines.
“Don’t just stand there,” Penton said. “Let’s get a move on!”
They scattered back to their work-detail assignments. A few hopped into a tractor and started pulling a Harrier inside. Others worked more diligently, unfastening the cables tying the birds to the flight deck. They were more careful to keep a grip on both ends of each line.
Penton walked back into the hangar and found Top Anderson staring at him wide-eyed, with a sardonic grin on his face.
“What?” Penton snapped, not comprehending.
“You… that’s what,” Top Anderson commented as if explaining himself.
“What’s so funny?” Penton pressed.
Top Anderson shrugged, still grinning.
“Really don’t get this…” Penton shook his head.
“Well, you should get my drift.”
“Now, you’re starting to piss me off.”
“Let’s put it this way,” Top Anderson explained. “For a guy on the verge of retirement, you act like someone still trying to move up the ranks.”
“Just trying to help out a fallen Marine.”
“Once a Marine, always a Marine,” Top Anderson said. “Not sure how you’ll handle retirement. A younger guy could have stepped over and addressed that situation, but you put yourself in harm’s way… like always.”
“No big deal,” Penton said. “A minor incident.”
“Looked pretty serious to me.” Top Anderson laughed. “Probably should put you up for the Navy and Marine Corps Medal.”
“That’s what they gave JFK for rescuing the crew of the PT 109.” Penton shook his head. “Not an award for something like this. You have to put yourself in a perilous situation.”
“All kidding aside,” Top Anderson said. “You did put yourself in a fairly hazardous situation. Why do you think I stayed right here?”
“Looks like the birds are getting put away just fine,” Penton said, changing the subject. He looked around the hangar, and it was getting jam-packed with dripping wet Harriers, along with the two Osprey.
Top Anderson nodded in agreement. “Yeah, things are coming together, here. So, you should probably get checked out. That was quite a blow. Make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
“Rather head back to my quarters and grab a Scotch.”
“Figured you say something like that.”
“Can you take it from here?”
“Sure thing,” Anderson said. “Go take care of yourself.”
Penton walked across the hangar as rainwater dripped from his uniform, leaving a trail of stippled dots along the dry floor. He headed back to the office, grabbed his cover, and told his assistant where he was going.
Then, he busted out the rear hatch and stepped into a raging storm.
Three
David Hardy rolled out of his bunk and landed on the metal deck, thankful he didn’t spend more time than necessary aboard a submarine. He gently kicked at the bunk below, waking Petty Officer Jacob Stiles from a heavy sleep.
“Time to get a move on it,” Hardy snapped.
“Give me ten more minutes, Chief,” Stiles pled, groggy. Stiles sounded like he was talking to his mother while home on leave.
“Now!” Hardy ordered, kicking the bunk harder. “SEALs don’t get more shut-eye than necessary.”
Stiles whipped back the blankets and sprang to life.
“Fix the rack, and make it like we’ve never been here.” Hardy shook his head. “Then, grab your gear and join me in the briefing room.”
“Aye, Chief.” Stiles hustled to straighten out the bunk. He tucked in the sheets with sharp angles, like a recruit in boot camp.
Hardy grinned, then grabbed his pack.
Opening the hatch, he entered a small passageway filled with gauges and pipes, similar to walking into a boiler room of an industrial building.
He headed aft toward a briefing room, thinking a two-man team might not be the best choice for this operation. But even as a highly decorated senior chief petty officer, with his entire military career spent in the Navy SEALs, he didn’t get to make the final calls.
Walking down the narrow corridor, he stepped through a series of hatches and tread on metal grating. The submarine did not have accommodations found on larger ships. Hardy didn’t mind roughing it. In fact, he preferred being in the field, weathering the elements. Sitting aboard ship led to boredom, but something about the claustrophobic space in a submarine really made him want to get topside and start the mission pronto.
He entered the briefing room. A Navy lieutenant and a commander leaned over a map spread out on a steel table located in the cent
er of the room. They wore khaki dress uniforms and had the same corporate look found on many officers in Navy Intelligence. The railroad tracks on the Navy lieutenant’s collar looked brand, spanking new.
“Afternoon, Chief,” Lieutenant Smith said to Hardy.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Hardy stepped to the table.
“Will Petty Officer Stiles be joining us?” said Commander Johnson.
“He’ll be along in a moment.”
“Not like Navy SEALs to be tardy…”
“Think we’re about 15 minutes early.” Hardy pulled a face.
“Didn’t mean offense.” Commander Johnson forced a smile and raised his eyebrows to Lieutenant Smith, as if indicating the SEALs were testy, or worse, overly sensitive.
Hardy didn’t pay the man any mind. The commander’s job was to feed information to the SEALs so they could go out and get the mission done, while others stayed back in support roles, pushing paper and earning commendation medals to make them feel important.
Stiles busted through the hatch, holding his pack in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “Sorry, I’m late to the show,” he said, even though he was early.
“Now that we’re all here,” Commander Johnson said. “We can get started.”
“Sure thing,” Hardy said, dismissively. He figured Stiles directed the comment at him for failing to keep up with the older SEAL, rather than an admission of tardiness.
“Lieutenant, would you do the honors of explaining the mission?” said Johnson, desperately trying to demonstrate he oversaw the operation.
The lieutenant nodded and smiled. “Gentlemen, please step up to the map.” The young officer indicated toward the chart.
Hardy moved closer to the table, and Stiles stepped alongside him.
Like many special operations, a warrior left the base with a general understanding of the mission, often getting the classified information only after boarding ship. This mission was unsettling from the start, though. Hardy didn’t know much about the task, but the sheer number of just two SEALs felt a bit low, considering the submarine moved through hostile waters.
“We’re located right here.” Smith pointed to the map.
Pacific Rising Page 2