Joint Task Force #1: Liberia

by David E. Meadows

  “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 The tradition of sending formal PERSONAL FOR messages had been replaced by e-mails sent via classified channels, but most of his peers knew Dick’s propensity for staying well clear of computers.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.

  The land disappeared as Shoemaker pulled back on the stick. Clouds raced across the front of his vision. The prototype’s radar reflected Tomcats crossing right to left ahead of him. He watched a
s the radar returns split apart. The electronic-countermeasure suites on the F-14’s weren’t supposed to be able to pick up this new radar, but you couldn’t trust those Navy aviators to play by the rules. You tell them about your systems because of the new technology involved, and the next thing you know they go out and jerry-rig their aircraft to defeat it. He shut his eyes for a couple of seconds. What would happen if they failed this operational evaluation? This guy Holman, commanding the amphibious exercise, was an aviator. Shoemaker felt he was good at reading body language, but when they briefed the admiral in the hangar bay, he couldn’t determine whether Holman believed the program was heresy or a technological breakthrough. But of course, the pilots of yesteryear probably thought it was horrible to go from biplane to a single-wing contraption. Wonder what he really thinks.

  “Avatar Two, this is Avatar Leader; break left and commence a rear hemispheric approach against the bogie to your left. I’ll take the one to the right.”

  A Tomcat blacked out his vision ahead as it passed in front of Shoemaker, its afterburners blazing. Startled, Shoemaker jerked back against the seat. His view vibrated as the jet wash caused the smaller fighter to be tossed about in the air. Dunning won’t be happy if I lose this jet. Of course, then you have to ask yourself the question as to when has the man ever been happy?

  Shoemaker glanced down at the display. Avatar Two was doing okay. He couldn’t see anything to indicate the F-14 was even aware of Valverde’s approach. How in the hell did this Tomcat get this close? The red electronic-warfare light flashed in his cockpit. Damn! The F-14 pilot had radar contact and he didn’t have a damn thing. He pushed down and to the left on the stick while simultaneously pushing his left foot down, allowing the right one to ease up slightly. The maneuver brought the fighter around. The F-14 shot by him, the afterburner rocking the prototype slightly as the faster Navy fighter twisted into a hard left turn. Shit! The F-14 was bouncing him all over the sky and he couldn’t find a moment of advantage. This was not looking good.

  “Tallyho! I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” shouted Ensign Jurgen Ichmens. “Take that you human no-load!”

  “Such language for a young man,” Valverde broadcast.

  “I find it sexy when he talks like that,” Pauline added. “Switching radar signature to simulate F-14 Tomcat. That should confuse them.”

  “If you two would focus on the job at hand, you might be able to find your targets,” Professor Dunning said. “Pauline, if you are going to fool with the electronic-warfare system—”

  “Doc, it’s just a matter of punching in the right code. Right?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “So, there you are.”

  “—we were going to do this exercise with our high radar. The stealth mode.”

  “Hate to tell you, Doc,” Shoemaker said. “But the stealth mode—she no can to be working. Either these jocks know the electronic signature, or it just doesn’t work.”

  “They may know,” Ensign Jurgen Ichmens said. “But the exercise doesn’t call for them to use it. It calls for us to use our stealth mode and them to use—”

  “There you are, Doc,” Pauline added. “The thing doesn’t work because we know Navy officers would never cheat during an exercise. Especially pilots. Of course, I could simulate an F/A-18 Hornet?”

  Shoemaker grinned. What would they do without their ensign? Every officer ought to have one. Every chief petty officer had one, why shouldn’t they?

  A glint of sunlight caught his attention. There he was. The F-14 was in a left-hand bank. Shoemaker waited until the F- 14 was two thirds of the way into the turn before pulling the stick hard left. With his right hand, he gave it full throttle. The gauge indicated he was pulling just under an eight-G turn. In a normal fighter, his body would have been wedged against the seat, blood draining from his upper extremities to pool in his buttocks and legs. He stretched his neck and rotated his jaw. Amazing how he felt nothing, but then he wouldn’t. No one would ever feel a G turn flying these aircraft. “Ain’t technology great,” he whispered softly to himself. He looked up. The F-14 was gone. “Damn!”

  “Avatar Leader, Avatar Four; you call me?”

  “No, Jurgen. Just talking to myself.”

  “Then you need to talk silently, Lieutenant Shoemaker, and not risk the exercise.”

  “Roger, Professor.”

  The electronic-support-measures system on his console started blinking again. Instinctively, Shoemaker turned his head to look behind him before realizing it was impossible to see that angle from his cockpit. He jerked the stick right. Nothing in front. He caught a faint blip on his radar, and then the F-14 disappeared from the scope. How far away was his target when he lost him? He flipped back to the left. Still nothing. He banked farther left, watching the clouds race across his vision as he twisted his head back and forth trying to gain a visual on his target. He glanced several times at the air-search radar, but other than Lieutenant Alan Valverde’s aircraft, it showed nothing. Out there, somewhere, was his F-14 and by God, he was going to find it. The electronic-countermeasures system was still blinking, so the opposing fighter did have him on his radar screen. Shoemaker just couldn’t reciprocate.

  He pushed down, sending the fighter into a left-hand spiral descent. The blinking stopped. “There, at least I’ve lost his radar,” Shoemaker said to himself. A shadow passed down his right side. Shoemaker jerked back on the stick. A series of warning beeps sounded and red lights flickered across his console lighting up like a Christmas tree. Too many Gs, he said to himself, fighting to ease up on the turn. Over 14 Gs! Christ, Dunning was going to kill him. The warning tones stopped. He might not feel the G’s, but the aircraft would, and if it fell apart through his hotdogging, Doc would kill him, if the experience didn’t.

  “He’s not moving!” Pauline shouted. “Dumb shit must think I’m another F-14 coming up beside him. Must be a male pilot.”

  Across the radio came a series of exclamations as Pauline, Alan Valverde, and their ensign reported successful camera shots. Those camera shots recorded successful kills during an exercise. Moreover, here he was the formation leader and he couldn’t get his target to stay still long enough. Movement to his left caught his attention. He glanced at the radar. There he was! The Tomcat was back on his scope.

  “Should have seen the look on his face when I flew down his side,” Pauline said. “It’s times like that when I can understand the overwhelming male desire to moon someone.”

  “Got you, buddy,” Shoemaker mumbled through clenched teeth as he eased his fighter to the left, aligning his nose with the radar return of the Tomcat dead ahead of him. He flipped the radar mode from search to fire control.

  The pilot of the Tomcat must have either seen him or caught him on radar, or his electronic-countermeasures unit caught Shoemaker’s radar shifting modes, for the Tomcat pulled away, running, flames of afterburner shooting from its exhaust. The heavy Navy fighter pulled up, climbing rapidly. No way the prototype could catch a heavy. Big fighters such as the F-14, F-18, F15, F-16, and F22 were called heavies because of their weight, size, and performance characteristics. The Tomcat climbed, quickly going nearly vertical in its haste to escape the telltale radar reflection. Of course, the light weight and flight endurance of the prototype meant they could stay airborne nearly twice as long as a heavy. He watched the F-14 disappear into a small cloudbank as it passed the ten-to-twelve-thousand-foot altitude. Nothing makes a pilot more nervous than to know he or she is on a foe’s radar screen. He pulled up in pursuit. He knew he couldn’t catch the F-14 if the heavy decided to separate, but he had to try. As long as he had him on radar, then he had a fighting chance. If the Tomcat broke off, Shoemaker could always argue that he accomplished the mission because he had cleared the skies of enemy fighters.

  Shoemaker glanced down. The radar painted the Tomcat a couple of more sweeps, then the video return was gone. Shoemaker leaned forward, twisting his head in all directions, searching for the aircraft. Above him,
he caught a reflection of sunlight off the fuselage of the Tomcat. A dark contrail from the Tomcat afterburner broke the summer blue of the sky in front of him, revealing the direction the opposing fighter was flying. Shoemaker pulled back on the stick, switched his radar to standby, and smiled when the Tomcat shut down its afterburner and leveled off. The Tomcat must be running low on fuel by now, he thought. Dogfights sucked up fuel. Shoemaker made a visual approach toward the right rear side of the F-14. The pilot would have to have good eyesight and a lot of luck to see him. Spotting aircraft with the naked eye was tricky when you were engaged in aerial combat maneuvering. He focused on the target, ignoring his console, and hoping he could fly this thing by feel for just a little longer.

  Without warning, the Tomcat rolled right. Shoemaker licked his upper lip. Oh, you’ve done it now, my fine fellow of an aviator. The F-14 engines were pointed toward the nose of his aircraft. Shoemaker reached down and flipped on the fire-control radar, which was connected to the camera. He took several digital photographs as the Oceana aircraft headed back down, rocking and rolling side to side, trying to break fire-control lock-on. Shoemaker glanced at the altimeter: 32,000 feet. Nearly the maximum altitude for this small boy he was flying.

  “Avatar Leader, Avatar Three; mission complete. Request permission to return to Mother.”

  “Avatar Three, what is your fuel?”

  Shoemaker leveled off. He had his photographs.

  “Fuel one-two. Got enough for another couple of hours, Boss. Why? You got another mission for this hotshot FEMOP?” Pauline asked, using the term for “female operator.”

  Shoemaker thought for a moment. “Sure, why not on the way back out to the Boxer, you and Jurgen,” he said, “make a run along the beach and take some combat footage of the Marines. It’d be nice to show the versatility of the prototype program.”