Joint Operations c-16

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Joint Operations c-16 Page 5

by Keith Douglass


  Tomboy’s face was pulled into the hard mask that he recognized as her command face. “I’m not relying on somebody else’s prioritization of passengers. There’ll be pilots and aircraft at Base Ops. That’s all I need to get back to Jefferson.

  “You’ve got a pilot right here,” Tombstone said. “Half the problem solved.”

  Tomboy nodded. “I’d thought of that. And you’re current, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed I am.” Just before departing on their honeymoon, he’d spent a couple of weeks in Norfolk scraping the rust off. “Card-carrying naval aviator, I am.”

  “I probably ought to take a combat pilot, though, if I can,” Tomboy said thoughtfully. “Whatever’s happened, we’ll need warfighters more than planners.”

  A cold chill seeped through Tombstone. Had she really said that? Implied that there would be someone more useful to her in the air than her husband? Some twenty-something-year-old nugget with maybe one cruise under his belt? Who’d never taken on a MiG one-on-one, flown combat missions over hostile territory?

  “I fly missions,” he said thickly.

  She shook her head. “No, you don’t. The Navy’s not paying you admiral’s pay to sit in a cockpit. You’re the front end of the solution, the one who figures out how to keep pilots from getting killed. Not the one who flies the mission.” She glanced over at him, suddenly aware how it’d all sounded. “Not that you’re not a fine pilot, Stony.”

  “Sure. Just not the one you want to fly with.” The words he’d intended as a joke came out entirely too harshly.

  “Don’t be an ass,” she said sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  The bitch of it was, he did. Jobs for a combat pilot got scarce as hen’s teeth as you got more senior. You flew a desk more often than a Tomcat. His uncle had realized that, and had come up with the solution that would make best use of his nephew’s combat experience and practical knowledge — troubleshooter. Not for paperwork and administrative problems, or for the various political situations the navy faced today. No, Tombstone was the warfighter that his uncle, the CNO, sent into sticky situations and nasty little wars. The sort of problems where nobody could figure out how to achieve their objectives without losing a lot of men and women and aircraft in the process. A troubleshooter who not only knew the enemy, but had killed his fair share in the past decades.

  “Let’s see if they’ve got an aircraft,” he said, putting aside for the moment the question of who’d actually fly it out to the ship. There was no point in pointing out that he outranked everyone that they were likely to run into at Base Ops, and if he wanted an aircraft, they’d damned well come up with one for him. And no one, not even his pretty little tiger-wife, was going to stop him.

  Base Ops

  0715 local (GMT –10)

  A COD was just pulling up in front of Base Ops as they pulled into the parking lot. A stream of passengers clad in survival gear was already heading toward the loading area.

  “Not a full load,” Tomboy noted. “If we hurry, we can be on it.” She opened the door and hopped out before Tombstone had even brought the car to a full stop. “I’ll get our names on the manifest.” She was out of sight before Tombstone could get his own seat belt unfastened.

  By the time he made it into Base Ops, Tomboy had already filled out their next of kin cards and added their names to the manifest. She tossed him his cranial and floatation vest, then pointed toward the waiting COD. “Two minutes. Let’s get our asses in gear.” They pulled on the safety gears as they ran for the turbo-propped transport aircraft.

  The aircraft was just over half full. An enlisted aircrewman directed them to seats in the middle of the aircraft, then trotted back down the ramp to check for any more late arrivals. He was back within moments. He slipped his headset on, and Tombstone saw his lips moving as he talked to the aircrew up front. The ramp that served as a boarding ladder pulled up and joined with the fuselage of the aircraft. The passenger compartment was plunged into darkness broken only by the feeble overhead bulbs few and far between.

  Tombstone glanced over at Tomboy and saw her shut her eyes for a moment. She was a RIO, a backseater, used to having someone else doing the driving, although he thought she probably did understand just how much he hated being a passenger on any aircraft.

  He’d been a passenger far too often in the last year, he decided. Enough was enough.

  “Listen up, please. Magruder?” an enlisted sailor standing in the aisle shouted. “Magruder?”

  “Which one?” Tombstone asked.

  “Oh, there are two of you, sir,” the sailor said. “I thought it was just a mistake.”

  “There are two,” Tombstone agreed.

  “And you’re both billeted onboard Jefferson?” the sailor asked.

  “She is,” Tombstone said, pointing at Tomboy.

  “And you, sir? Because right here — sir, I’m sorry, but if you’re not assigned to the ship, I need to put someone in that seat who is. Mission essential only, it says. Sir.” The sailor was clearly not comfortable making his point to the admiral, but he stood his ground.

  Not mission essential. Tombstone stood and coldly stalked off the aircraft. As soon as he’d cleared the flight deck, he pulled out his cell phone. They’d just see who was not mission essential in this Navy.

  FOUR

  The Chief of Naval Operations

  Washington, D.C.

  1216 local (GMT –5)

  Admiral Thomas Magruder had just finished a hard-fought battle of racquetball when the news first reached Washington D.C. His aide, Lieutenant Commander Henry Williams, tracked his boss down in the shower.

  “Admiral! The Chinese have just attacked Pearl Harbor!” Williams was already rustling up towels, making sure his boss’s clothes were ready to go as he briefed the CNO. “Evidently three vessels masquerading as merchant ships were actually configured as warships. From all we can tell right now, they launched a missile attack on the harbor followed by a wave of jump jets.”

  All around the shower area, Williams could hear the water being turned off. Almost every person in that room had the need to know, and he didn’t hesitate to continue his brief that inadvertently encompassed a number of other officers.

  “I have Rear Admiral Magruder on cell phone, sir,” Williams continued. “And the National Command Authority on line two.”

  Admiral Magruder poked his head out from the shower, then reached out to grab the cell phone. “Stony?”

  “I’m here, sir.”

  “What happened?” the senior Magruder demanded.

  “As far as I can tell, a missile attack on Pearl Harbor. I’ve been seeing something that looks like a Chinese carrier off the coast for the last hour.”

  “My aide said something about civilian vessels — is that what you saw?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that, sir,” his nephew said. “Tomboy and I were having dinner and observed missile launches from aircraft, but I couldn’t determine their point of origin.”

  The CNO held his cell phone trapped between his shoulder and his ear as he tried to shuffle on his clothes as best he could. All around him, other senior officers were doing the same dance. “Who is there with you?”

  “Tomboy caught a hop back out to Jefferson,” his nephew said. “I’m at the officers’ club — looks like a lot of us are stranded here for one reason or another. The Air Force is sorting out transportation arrangements as I speak.” The elder Magruder could hear a loudspeaker announcement in the background, but couldn’t make out the details.

  The CNO took a deep breath, mentally shifting gears as he slipped his shirt on. “Okay, Stony. Here’s what I want you to do. I’ll formalize later, but we need to get this ball rolling. Jefferson is in the area, but she’s going to need some help. Check around, see who is in the same situation you are. Pick out the good ones and put together a battle staff. Draw from all the services — make sure you get some excellent logistics people from both the Marines and the Air Force. I have a
prepositioned assets ship somewhere in the area that I can divert to you, but you’ll need knowledgeable people to get it offloaded and mobilized. And people — you’ll need people. Have your experts working on ways to get Marine troops out to you.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. I understand.”

  “Anything you need, Stony, you let my office know. My God, an attack on American soil — I don’t need to tell you how desperate this situation is. We’re not prepared for this — we never have been. Every other asset I’ve got is deployed overseas, at least three weeks at flank speed away. And if they’ve got air superiority, there’s no way we’ll get assets in by CRAF. For now, it’s Jefferson and whatever other assets you can rustle up there.”

  Lieutenant Commander Williams tapped the CNO on the shoulder. “Sir? I’m getting reports from intelligence that the Chinese have captured the main communications facility in Hawaii. As well as third fleet and seventh fleet commanders and their staffs. Evidently they were there for a planning conference.”

  The senior Magruder closed his eyes and groaned. Adrenaline pounded through his veins and if there’s one thing he knew, it was that he would need it. “Do we have special forces in the area?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Commander Williams nodded. “SEAL Team Seven, Squad Two. According to the CIA, they’re deployed in the mountains on Hawaii for an international exercise. They’re already talking to them and they’ve got orders to retake the comm center first. After that, well…” The aide fell silent, knowing that “after that” was far above his pay grade.

  “Okay, okay, at least that’s something,” the senior Magruder murmured. “Murdoch, right? Of course it is — Don Stroh would know about this before anyone. Stony, you still there?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “This line isn’t secure,” the elder Magruder said carefully. “So I can’t give you all the details. And from the sounds of it, we won’t have secure communications until you get back to Jefferson — you understand that?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “This pick-up team of yours — keep a sharp eye out for special forces and intelligence people, particularly those working with civilian agencies. You know who I’m talking about using, I suspect. When you get to Jefferson, establish contact with them. Got it?” the CNO asked.

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Very well.” The CNO hesitated for a moment as the enormity of the situation overwhelmed him. By now he was dressed, headed out from the shower room. Williams had picked up the CNO’s racquetball racket and exercise togs and was dutifully stuffing them into the Admiral’s gym bag as he trotted along behind.

  As the CNO headed for his office, with Tombstone still on the other end of the cell phone, the corridors exploded into action. People usually walked briskly down the corridors, carrying with them a sense of self-importance in the urgency that affected every detail of duty at the Pentagon. Now, however, everyone was running. Civil servants, the longtime experts who constituted the corporate memory of the Pentagon, were staying close to the walls of the quarters as officers and enlisted personnel ran at breakneck speed. No one waited for elevators — the doors to the innumerable stairways interspersed between the rings shot open like fans.

  “Stony, be careful out there, okay? But whatever you need, you’ve got. You have any problems putting together this team, call me. I’ll get you some help out there as soon as I can. For now, do what you can to stabilize things and let the special forces take the lead.”

  “Yes, Admiral. This seal team squad — how do I talk to them?”

  “Satcomm. Lab Rat’s still onboard Jefferson?”

  “I’m sure he is, Admiral.”

  “Then he’ll know. Call me back as soon as you have the people you want and plans for getting out to Jefferson.”

  The senior Magruder terminated the call as he reached the door to his office. He paused for moment outside of it, and took the last slow breath he would take for many days. Then he opened the door, a heartbeat ahead of Lieutenant Commander Williams, and stepped into the storm.

  Officers’ Club

  Hawaii

  0720 local (GMT –10)

  Tombstone clicked off the cell phone and surveyed the room again with a new perspective. No longer were the men and women crowding into the small room strangers. Instead, they were potential shipmates, officers who had already been drafted to his private staff. Even if they didn’t know yet.

  But how to sort them out? How to tell which ones had the brains, the fire in the belly, and a technical expertise to make a difference?

  The noise level inside the banquet room was growing. An Air Force master sergeant who appeared at the doorway was mobbed.

  Tombstone vaulted lightly onto the bar and headed to the corner where a ship’s bell was suspended from a metal bracket. It was traditionally used to gong someone who entered the club still covered, and announced that the offender would buy the bar a round for his or her transgressions. Now, he used it for the purpose it was originally intended — to get the attention of his crew.

  Tombstone grabbed the bell ringer and slammed it back and forth rapidly inside the bell. The harsh, urgent clamor cut through the noise of the crowd. Seeing that he had their attention, Tombstone jumped back up on the bar. He shoved aside an unfinished drink with his right foot, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Now listen up. My name is Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder. I’ve just been on the cell phone with the CNO in D.C.” He pointed at the Air Force master sergeant. “Am I to assume you’re trying to sort out the transportation requirements?”

  The Air Force master sergeant slid through the crowd, politely murmuring his excuses as he forcibly parted the waves of people until he stood in front of Tombstone. “That’s correct, Admiral.”

  “Good. Stay right there — I’m going to need you. The rest of you, listen up. At this moment, the only military forces in the area are Navy. We have indications that all secure communications in and out of Pearl Harbor have been compromised. The CNO — and I expect to have the backing of the Joint Chiefs shortly — ordered me to assemble a theater battle group command composed of people here, and then get them out to the USS Jefferson. The first question — who’s the senior officer here?”

  A murmur swept through the crowd, then a tall, bulky man in tan shirts and a brilliant flowered shirt stepped forward. A fresh sunburn was peeling off of his nose and the tops of his ears. Under short clipped hair, his scalp was scorched fiery red. “I believe that would be me.”

  “Yes, sir. May I have your name?” Tombstone asked politely.

  “Major General Bill Haynes,” the two-star said. “Infantry.”

  “Sir, can I impose on you to join me up here?” Tombstone asked, pointing down at the bar.

  The army general forced his way forward with much less difficulty than the Air Force master sergeant had experienced. He climbed up on the bar next to Tombstone, and said, “Looks like you’ve got marching orders right now, Admiral. For the time being, let me know what I can do to support you.”

  Tombstone nodded, grateful that a pissing contest with a more senior officer wasn’t going to happen. In a few sentences, he filled General Haynes in on his conversation with his uncle.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Haynes said. “Why don’t I take charge of assembling the ground force end of it, including the commander of the landing force contingent? You pulled what you need for air operations and sea operations?”

  Then Tombstone raised his voice and asked, “Anyone with special forces experience, amphibious experience, or ground intelligence experience, I need you up here.”

  During the next thirty minutes, the two men methodically worked their way through the assembled officers and staff. They compared notes frequently, and Tombstone found General Haynes to be a reasonable, bluntly competent officer. They passed over most of the personnel and support functions officers, although General Haynes insisted on several more supply people than Tombstone thought they might need. Finally, they had their team. Tomb
stone dismissed the others with thanks, and took the ten officers they jointly selected to a small conference room located on the lower level of the officers club.

  “Introductions first,” Tombstone said. “And before you ask any questions, let me point out that the carrier already has a battle group staff on it. We will be their immediate superior, coordinating both the operations of the special forces units ashore as well as preparing for the eventual arrival of ground troops to retake the island. I know who you all are — it’s time you met each other.”

  General Haynes cleared his throat, and addressed the group “Major General Bill Haynes, U.S. army. I was here for a CINCPACFLT briefing prior to assuming duties as Deputy Commander in Korea. Most of my time is in infantry, although I’m very familiar with artillery and armored operations. I attended the Naval War College,” he nodded politely at Tombstone, “which is why I decided not to get in the way of the admiral here.”

  “Thank you, General.” Tombstone murmured. “Next?” Tombstone pointed at a Marine colonel.

  “Colonel Darryl Armstrong, deputy commander I Corps. Two tours in special operations, including a joint assignment to the Rangers, which is why I assume you picked me, Admiral.”

  Tombstone studied him for a moment, certain he’d made the right choice. “We will need a commander for landing forces,” Tombstone said. “Are you up for it?”

  The colonel nodded. He was a powerfully built man a couple of inches taller than Tombstone himself. Maybe 6'4", 230 pounds, Tombstone figured. Muscles rippled under darkly tan skin, and there was an intense, driven air about him that attracted Tombstone’s attention immediately. His hair was cut so short as to be almost invisible, but Tombstone could see a few streaks of gray at the temples. Ice blue eyes seemed to absorb everything in the room without actually looking at anything.

  The colonel nodded. “Honored to be part of the team, Admiral.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Hannah Green,” the next officer said. She was a tall, willowy blond with a slim, athletic build. Short blond hair framed a classically beautiful face with blue eyes a couple of shades darker than Armstrong’s. A stunner, Tombstone thought, then immediately chided himself for the thought.

 

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