“Yes, sir,” the senior chief responded without looking up. “Come on, men. Hustle up,” he said to the SEALs as they clambered on board the Los Angeles and up the sail. As soon as all the SEALs were below, the senior chief threw the lines of the RHIBs back onto the boats and went below himself.
“Take her down,” the captain said as he descended into the interior of the sail.
The Los Angeles immediately began submerging and heading toward Bunaya.
After only a few hours, the Los Angeles hovered silently off the island. It stopped and settled slowly into the sand, resting on the bottom to check for currents and stability. Bubbles began to rise from the bow as an indiscernible hatch opened in the dark Pacific waters. Four SEALs emerged from the Los Angeles and inflated a buoy which lurched upward, pulling a line behind it toward the surface of the ocean seventy feet above. Two of the divers followed the line up to the surface, propelled by bags that gradually filled with air.
Four more divers followed the first two, taking several satchels of gear up with them. Automatic weapons, a sniper rifle, explosives, several MUGRs—Miniature Underwater GPS Receivers—and several CLAMs—Clandestine Littoral Acoustic Mappers. Armstrong and Lee stayed by the Los Angeles as they watched the rest of the platoon lock out, swim to the surface, and wait for them in a swimmer pool at the buoy. When everyone was out and all the gear had been taken up, Lee and Armstrong gave each other a thumbs-up and followed the line up to the buoy, exhaling all the way. After the gear was distributed, the platoon divided into swim pairs, attached their buddy lines, and initialized their CLAMs with a GPS fix. They turned toward the shore of Bunaya and began swimming.
They swam slowly but steadily twenty feet down, breathing through their Dräeger LAR Vs. There were no bubbles and no lights, just millions of bioluminescent particles trailing behind each swimmer.
Knowing their position was critical to map the approach. Chief Lee was responsible for operating the CLAM that had only recently been acquired by the SEAL platoon. By sending out doppler acoustic signals and reading the returns, they could precisely navigate and record a hydrographic survey chart of the ocean bottom. This was the road map that would tell the Marines where to land. Without it, the landing would be a crapshoot, the craft subject to running ashore or getting stranded on coral reefs as they had in Tarawa. The SEALs weren’t going to let that happen.
The SEALs continued silently toward the shore, then, on Lee’s signal, dispersed to their prebriefed lanes to clear the two-hundred-yard-wide approach corridor for the amphibious landing. They swam the assigned grid pattern in to the shore, looking for any obstacle, natural or man-made, that would threaten the shallow-draft boats that were to bring the Marines ashore in a few short hours.
After an hour of difficult underwater labor in the dark, the SEALs rendezvoused at the center point of the corridor. Armstrong took out his mouthpiece. “Anything?”
Lee nodded. “Coral head, sir, about fifty feet in from the left perimeter a hundred yards out.”
“Can you blow it? Is it a factor?” Armstrong asked, breathing a little harder than he would have liked.
“Yes, sir. We’ll put a little extra charge on it,” Lee said mischievously.
“Two swim pairs enough?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take swim team six with you; place the charges on the coral head and set the timers.”
“Yes, sir,” Lee said. He nodded at his buddy and swim team six, who followed him with their haversacks toward the coral.
The rest of the SEALs treaded water in a swimmer pool, scanning in every direction for any signs of life.
Ten minutes later, “All set, sir.”
The SEALs moved toward center beach and fanned out in the shallows.
Armstrong crawled up farther until his entire head was out of the water. He pulled his mask off and held his monocular night-vision goggle to his left eye. He turned it on and scanned the shore three times. He signaled all clear and the platoon removed their fins and crawled slowly onto the beach in a line, watching for any signs of defense or opposition.
They entered the jungle and removed their underwater gear.
Armstrong looked at his men and each gave him a nod. He moved closer to Lee, who hooked up the CLAM to a laptop computer he produced from a waterproof bag.
“Did you get a good download from the CLAM?” Armstrong asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go ahead and data-burst it back to the Wasp.”
“Wilco,” Lee said, pulling out his radio to transmit the data for the amphibious group. “I hate doing this insecure. Sure hope to shit they don’t have a DF. Here goes.”
“Snake,” Armstrong said, “you and Rodriguez set up your sniper post five hundred yards from the concrete bunkers. You got a good fix on our waypoint?”
“We’re all set, Lieutenant.”
“If compromised, hotfoot it to waypoint Echo and call for hot extraction.”
“Wilco.” Snake had no intention of getting caught.
“Lee and I are heading for those rails that the radar identified. We’ll blow them at L hour. As soon as we blow ’em, we’ll head toward you and rendezvous at your sniper position at 0600.”
Armstrong looked at Lee. “You done?”
Lee was folding up the antenna line. “All set, Lieutenant. The landing is still a go.”
“Let’s do it.” Armstrong adjusted his night-vision goggle and headed into the jungle.
The catapult officer stood back from the group that worked busily around the shuttle. The frenzy of activity was slowing, as a consensus emerged that they were ready to go. The long, dark Predator was attached by a Rube Goldberg system to the catapult. The catapult officer had been opposed to the idea from the first.
Maintenance men worked all around the quiet flight deck to get the airplanes ready for the morning strike. The intense anticipation of the coming day was heightened by the mysterious presence on the catapult.
The Army men, the ones responsible for delivering the Predator to Thailand for the upcoming Cobra Gold exercise, were apoplectic. They didn’t want anything to do with flying the Predator off the carrier, especially attached to the catapult. It had never been done. They knew the ship would break their toy, and they would be responsible. The captain had to intervene. He had done so because of Beth Louwsma.
She had refused to take no for an answer. She had been adamant because the battle group had no eyes, no way of monitoring activity on the island, no way of detecting movement or threat, other than the men on the ground and their usual sensors. No satellite, no intelligence, no communication with the outside world. The President had seen to that.
Beth stood back behind the jet-blast deflectors in a white safety-officer flotation vest and watched the activity. She didn’t venture onto the flight deck very often, and felt uncomfortable there. Especially at night. Those who worked there all the time knew where most of the dangers were. Those who didn’t, didn’t. She continually glanced around for something that was going to blow her over the side or crush her. Dillon stood by her side, twice as uncomfortable as she was.
One of the sailors pulled away fast from the Predator. He shook his hand for a second, trying to ignore the burn he had just received from the hot engine, and crawled toward the center of the deck, giving a thumbs-up.
The catapult officer surveyed the bow to make sure it was clear, then looked at the Predator.
Its propeller spun at full power as it strained at the line holding it to the deck, a line calculated to break at just the right time for the Predator to be pulled off the deck. The engine looked good; the straight wings were ready; the black drone awaited its first combat mission. With its oversized head it resembled an alien space ship. Its operating lights went on, just like an airplane’s.
The catapult officer reached down and touched the deck. The petty officer on the side catwalk determined that the way was clear and pushed the launch button.
The Predator was pulled forw
ard, the line broke perfectly, and the drone began its run toward the bow. Beth held her breath as the small drone was thrown off the bow and sank toward the ocean. It suddenly pitched up and headed for the sky, but too steeply. It had begun to stall when suddenly its nose pitched forward and it settled into level flight through the darkness toward Bunaya.
Dillon rubbed his eyes. He had gotten half an hour of sleep—about average for the officers he was with. He sat in CVIC and watched the early morning brief, live. The rest of the air wing watched via closed circuit television. Dillon stood next to the cameramen and tried to stay out of the way.
The lights came on, brightening the room dramatically. The cameraman waited for the exact time, then pointed at the air wing intelligence officer. Pinkie stood behind the podium with a chart behind him. He became instantly animated, even though it was two o’clock in the morning. “Good morning, Pulau Bunaya!” Pinkie said in his best Robin Williams imitation. “Of course, I am not actually talking to them, I am talking to you, but that’s where you’re headed. For those of you who don’t know exactly where it is, join the rest of the world. Nobody has ever heard of this island and the reason is, it is uninhabited and unimportant. And another reason is, it is one of a zillion islands that make up Indonesia.”
Dillon whispered to Reynolds next to him, “Is he always this flippant?”
“Yep. He’s famous for it. He gives the best briefs in the air wing, the best information, and they all remember it because he delivers it in his own way.”
“He makes it sound like he’s kidding.”
“Look at his eyes,” the aide said. “He’s not kidding.”
“This is the brief for Event One. The event in which we are going to go and beat the shit out of a bunch of people who shot Americans in the head and sank their ship, and killed a frogman from this battle group. As you know, we are now considered a renegade battle group. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I kind of like the way that sounds. In fact, in case some of you haven’t noticed, the battle group has been flying the new group flag.” He removed a large piece of white butcher paper from the board next to the chart and exposed a hand-drawn red and white “Don’t Tread on Me” flag. “Thanks to IS1 Alvarez for her rendition of this old Navy Battle Flag used in the Revolutionary War. For those of you who graduated from high school in the last ten years and therefore by definition don’t know shit, the Revolutionary War was when we fought England for our Independence and kicked their asses. This flag said how we felt then, and I think”—he posted it behind him—“it still does.
“I’ve been thinking that as a newly established renegade battle group, there is a whole list of places we should go after Pulau Bunaya. But they’ll have to wait.
“Event One will go as follows: We will have two F-14Bs from VF-143 flying CAP over the amphibious group which is right now”—he paused and pointed at the chart—“about thirty miles offshore. We don’t expect any air threat, but your CAP station is ten thousand feet over the amphib group. We will be operating in situation Alpha. So Bravo Whiskey will be aboard the Ticonderoga.”
“What’s Bravo Whiskey?” Dillon asked.
Reynolds whispered, “The officer in control of the air defense. Usually a commander, and usually on a cruiser.”
“We will have two F-14Bs from VF-11 that will be CAP in support of the amphibious landing. As you know, the takeoff for the first launch is 0500. You’ll be airborne before L hour. Two F/A-18Cs from VFA-131 will do close air support. They’ll have five hundred-pounders. Two other F/A-18Cs from VFA-136 will be HARM shooters, and the last two F/A-18s from VFA-131 are going to be lobbing their SLAMs into the concrete bunkers that we have confirmed. The ES-3A from VQ-6 Det Charlie will be orbiting east of the island and the EA-6B from VAQ-140…”
Dillon’s attention drifted as he realized he wasn’t understanding most of the brief and was tired of asking the aide to translate for him. He looked at the camera pointed at the flight deck. The deck was bathed in the usual nighttime red light and showed mechanics and ordnance men doing last-minute checks and preparation. The reflective tape on their vests was obvious in the haunting light. He could see them darting in and out of the airplanes, underneath the airplanes, around the tires, looking at the missiles and bombs.
Dillon leaned to the lieutenant. “Shouldn’t we try to reach Washington one last time before going through with this? I could try my phone again.”
The aide shook his head. “They’ll find out soon enough.” Trying to read his suddenly serious face, Dillon’s stomach churned. “Drano,” he said to Reynolds.
Reynolds looked at him, surprised at hearing his call sign from Dillon. “Yes?”
“I’ve got to see the admiral.”
Reynolds looked concerned. “This would not be a good time, Mr. Dillon.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see him.”
“Do you mind if I ask what it’s about?”
“I want to go ashore.”
Reynolds tried to keep from smiling. “I think you heard the admiral say that the COD is down. We can’t get you out of here until probably late tomorrow or the next day. If you don’t want to watch this…”
“No, I mean I want to go ashore with the attack.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to go ashore with the Marines.”
Dillon and Lieutenant Reynolds stood behind Admiral Billings in SUPPLOT. Billings was clearly busy with the preparation for the attack. Dillon felt like turning and running.
“Admiral,” Reynolds said, trying to interrupt.
“Not now.” Billings raised his hand as he spoke with someone on the telephone.
Reynolds turned toward Dillon and held up a finger. They stood there awkwardly. Billings finally put down the receiver and he turned his head toward Reynolds. “What?”
“Admiral, excuse us, but Mr. Dillon has something he’d like to ask you.”
Dillon could tell that Billings was not amused. “What is it, Mr. Dillon?”
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Dillon started. “I would like your permission, Admiral, to go ashore with the Marines when the attack commences.”
Everyone in SUPPLOT had been listening with one ear and most now looked at him. Billings turned completely around in his chair, stood up, and sat on the desk. He cocked his head as if examining a lunatic. “Excuse me?”
“You let journalists go ashore with combat troops, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Photographers are allowed to go ashore, aren’t they?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t want to be just another politician who watches something happen on television, Admiral. I want to see it firsthand.”
Billings glared at Dillon. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”
“I know I could be putting myself in danger, but I’m willing to accept…”
“This isn’t some kind of a game. This isn’t a demonstration we’re putting on for the benefit of politicians.”
Dillon closed his eyes momentarily to avoid the penetrating gaze. “I know that, Admiral. I’m not implying that it is. All I’m asking is for special permission. I’m asking you for a favor.”
“A favor? For the special assistant to the Speaker of the House to go ashore and get his ass shot off? These are real bullets, Mr. Dillon. They will kill people. People are going to die this morning, I promise you. I don’t want one of them to be you.”
“I don’t either, Admiral, but if I go ashore with the Marines, and stay toward the back, I shouldn’t be in too much danger.”
“There is no ‘back’ in an amphibious assault, Mr. Dillon.” Billings looked at Reynolds and jerked his head slightly. “You put him up to this?”
“No, sir. He asked me about it and I said that you would have to make that kind of decision.”
Billings stood with his hands on his hips considering the implications of letting Dillon go and the implications of not letting him go.
“Ops!” the admiral yelled.
“Yes, sir?”
“Any helos going over to the Wasp?”
The operations officer considered the idea of Dillon’s being helicoptered over to the Wasp so he could go ashore. “No, sir. We’d have to put on a special flight.”
“Could that be done?”
“Well, my guess is that the flight deck of the Wasp is about as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, but I suppose if it were directed to happen, it would happen.”
Billings looked at Dillon. “You sure you want to do this, Mr. Dillon?”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure.”
“You realize you might be killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
Billings turned to the operations officer. “Make it happen. Call Colonel Tucker and tell him Mr. Dillon is en route, and that he is to take Mr. Dillon ashore with him as an observer.”
Admiral Jack Blazer stared at the three large screens. The screens on the USS Harry S Truman were exactly like ones that Admiral Billings was looking at, only these screens had complete information. Admiral Blazer was short and stocky, a burly man with no noticeable waist, but no obvious fat either. His personality and voice were both larger than life, but right now he was subdued. At first he had been afraid that he wouldn’t get to the Constitution Battle Group in time. Now he was afraid he would.
“How long till sunrise?” Blazer spoke to the room at large.
One of the enlisted men checked the flight schedule. “Three and a half hours.”
Blazer glanced quickly at the circular clock on the bulkhead. He paused. “Ops?” he said suddenly.
Commander Hugh Morrison lifted his head from a chart. “Yes, Admiral?”
Blazer pointed at the three screens with his chin. “Look at the formations.”
Morrison stared at the electronic symbols on the projected screens. The blue half circles indicated friendly surface ships. “Look at them,” Blazer commented. “The amphibious group has broken off. They’re in position. They’re going in at dawn.” He looked at Morrison to see if he agreed.
Balance of Power Page 34