Liberia jtf-1

by David E. Meadows

  She pulled the stick back to the centerline. The UFAV leveled itself, but continued descending. Ahead, the helicopters grew in size. Pauline saw movement to the right and the left of the four CH-53’s, and for a moment a chill went up her spine before she recognized them as Ospreys. Somewhere behind them were French fighters.

  “Boxer, Deathhead Two here. What happened to those French fighters?”

  “Wait one, Deathhead Two.” A few seconds passed before Petty Officer Watts replied. “Ma’am, two French fighters are currently engaged with Deathhead Leader and Three. We’ve lost contact with the other three aircraft. Their last course had them on intercept toward your position. Air Search is reporting multiple contacts overhead the French battle group. Commander Wlazinierz believes they are launching more aircraft.”

  “What does that mean?” Valverde asked over their internal communications link.

  “Means multiple aircraft orbiting over the French fleet and three French fighters disappeared heading our way,” Kitchner replied with a deep sigh. “News just keeps getting better and better.”

  Pauline clicked her transmit button twice acknowledging Watts’s report. She reached over and alternated her hands on the stick as she pulled her flight gloves tighter. Reaching over to the intercom system, Pauline nearly switched on the private channel between the four mock-ups, but didn’t. She wanted to. She wanted to find out what in the hell Nash and her ensign were facing. Maybe they needed her and Alan? Then again, maybe they didn’t.

  The data-link contact light blinked red a couple of times before steadying up on green. “What the heck!” She reached up and hit the lamp check switch. All the lights glowed green.

  “Deathhead Two, this is Deathhead Three; Pauline, just had a data-link-interrupt light flash a couple of times.”

  “So did I, Alan.” She bit her lower lip, her eyes turning toward the data-link console where a green contact light shined steadily. “We must have passed through an electromagnetic phenomenon,” she offered.

  “Yeah, they have those out here? As much as I hate to say it, I think we are reaching the limits of our line of sight. That quick flash was probably the transmit system changing frequencies, searching for a better data connection.”

  “If you’re right, Alan, then we’ll see another flicker in a few seconds. Let’s steady our altitude.” She glanced down at her altimeter. “Here, six thousand feet.”

  “Maybe one of us should ascend to ten thousand feet? Then if we lose contact, the lower UFAV will lose it first. Then we can link through the higher-flying UFAV.”

  “I knew that,” she said. “Petty Officer Watts, need to keep one of us at a higher altitude so we can maintain our electronic links between Boxer and the UFAVs. We may be reaching the edge of our transmit range on these frequencies.”

  Before Petty Officer Watts could reply, the red light on the data-control console came on, and this time it burned steady. “Pull up! Pull up!” she shouted just before the screens went dark. “Shit! Alan—”

  “I’ve lost contact, Pauline.”

  She reached down and slapped the switch for the private circuit. “Nash!” she shouted.

  “Pauline,” he said through clenched teeth. “Get off the circuit. Jurgen and I are trying not to get our asses shot down right now!”

  “We’ve lost our links with our UVAFs. I think we passed our line-of-sight capability,” she continued, ignoring Nash’s order.

  She heard the click as Nash disconnected her. Must be bad if he couldn’t talk to her.

  “Deathhead Two, Boxer; Lieutenant, we show you and your wingman in a stationary orbit and ascending.”

  “Pauline, the UFAVs have gone into automatic mode, heading toward twenty-two thousand feet.”

  She felt foolish. “Roger, Alan.”

  As if on cue, the red data lights changed to green as automatic electronic links readjusted and reconnected. Her screens flickered a couple of times before steadying up. She looked to her left to see where Alan’s aircraft was. The nose of the wingman’s UFAV was pointed directly at her.

  “Jesus Christ!” she shouted. Pauline pushed forward on the stick, sending the UFAV into an emergency dive.

  “Alan, pull up! Pull up!”

  “I don’t have contact yet. Wait a minute! Here it comes. Shit! I’ve lost it again.”

  Pauline’s controls shook as the angle of descent grew. She drew up involuntarily waiting for the collision. The renegade UFAV passed overhead. It disappeared for a moment, to reappear on the right screen in a sharp turn to begin another orbit.

  She pulled back on the stick. Nothing happened. She tried with all her strength, but the stick refused to budge. Kitchner pushed down hard on the left flap, putting the UFAV into a left turn, reducing the drag for a moment. She pulled back, and like a large bucket rising from deep water managed to slow the descent. She fought the unmanned aircraft back to a level course. The digital compass showed her on a course of one-nine-zero, heading out toward the empty Atlantic. She pulled around, steadying up on course zero-three-zero. The red light on the data-link readout flickered.

  “Alan, I’m about to lose control again.”

  “Deathhead Two, I have you on course zero-three-zero, altitude eight-zero. The landing force has just crossed the coast. They bear zero-two-five, altitude four-zero. Admiral Holman would like for you to return to ordered position.”

  “Roger, Boxer. I know where I’m supposed to be, but we lost contact for a bit with our UFAVs. We’ll rejoin now. Request you provide ground-control-intercept guidance for us.”

  “Pauline, I’m getting intermittent contact with my UFAV.”

  “Lieutenant, I show you have plenty of fuel,” Senior Chief David Oxford, the intelligence specialist manning the mother console above the four mock-up cockpits, said.

  “Fuel ain’t the problem, Senior Chief. The problem is we can’t maintain data link with our unmanned aircraft unless we have another UFAV orbiting at high altitude to act as a relay.”

  “Uh… that sounds… not so good, ma’am.”

  “Nope. You’re right. I can see why you’re in Intelligence, Senior Chief. It ain’t good. It means we’ve got an aircraft that will orbit until it runs out of gas, and we got a fighter aircraft that can’t go much farther because it doesn’t have the radio range to do it.”

  * * *

  “You heard?” Upmann said to Rear Admiral Holman.

  Dick Holman nodded. “We need to break off Deathhead Leader and Four and vector them toward the landing force.”

  “What about the French fighters?”

  Holman’s eyes narrowed, and then he grinned at Leo. He leaned over and touched Commander Wlazinierz on the shoulder. “Stephanie, get me Admiral Colbert on the circuit.”

  Captain Upmann looked at his boss, his expression questioning.

  Holman nodded curtly at him. “Time to see if we can ease the tension here so we can redirect those aerial vehicles toward our landing force.”

  “Good luck, sir. Admiral Colbert doesn’t strike me the type to have a great sense of humor.”

  “Sir, I have Captain St. Cyr on the black telephone,” Commander Wlazinierz said, pointing toward the black handset resting in its cradle beside the captain’s chair.

  Holman picked it up and pressed the “push-to-talk” button. “Captain St. Cyr, this is Admiral Holman.”

  “Bon jour, Admiral. How may we help you?”

  “I’m trying to help you, Captain. Please pass along my respects to Admiral Colbert. What I would like to know is why are your fighter aircraft dogging our target drones?” Target drones were aerial targets usually pulled behind an aircraft so ships at sea could practice their surface-to-air-missile firing and the ship’s antiair gunfire.

  A few moments of silence passed before the circuit broke open again. “I am sorry, Admiral. We have never seen drones like these before. They do not have American markings on them.”

  “What are your intentions, Captain? We are preparing to fire on those dr
ones, and we can’t do it with your aircraft in the area.”

  Holman held the handset away from him and looked at Commander Wlazinierz. “Stephanie, bring up the fire-control radars on the USS Spruance and USS Stribling and have them paint our UFAVs. It should cause the electronic-warfare alarms on the Super Etendards to alarm and hopefully scare the shit out of those French pilots.”

  He brought the handset back to his ear.

  “Admiral, this is Captain St. Cyr again, sir. Our early warning aircraft — one of your own manufacture — an E2C, has detected what may be helicopters heading into Liberia. I have been instructed to send aircraft to intercept and turn them back.”

  “Captain, do you also see two aircraft orbiting between my battle group and the coast?”

  A few more seconds passed. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Those are F-14 aircraft from the USS Theodore Roosevelt.”

  “Admiral, I think someone is pulling—how do you Americans say—your legs. According to our intelligence, the USS Theodore Roosevelt is in the Indian Ocean and cannot possibly make it here before next week.”

  “Things just keep getting better,” Upmann said.

  “What now?” Holman asked, holding the black handset by his side as he looked at Leo.

  Upmann shrugged. “Don’t know, Boss. I would suggest that arguing with the French uses time. Time in which we can redirect the UFAVs toward the landing force. If the French decide to intercept, at least we’ll have three-and-a-half fighters between them and the landing force. Possibly four, if they reestablish that data link.”

  “Stephanie, take Lieutenant Shoemaker and his wingman and vector them toward the other two unmanned aerial vehicles.”

  Upmann shook his head, putting his hands on his hips.

  “What’s your problem, Chief of Staff?”

  “Why don’t you just say UFAV or unmanned aircraft; or better yet, just aircraft.”

  Holman wrinkled his nose and winked. “You say it your way and I’ll say it the Naval Aviation way.” He tapped the stars on the collar of his khaki uniform. “Besides, I’ve looked over the manning of Joint Task Force Liberia and discovered I was in charge.”

  Holman lifted the black handset. “Captain St. Cyr, you could be correct. I’ll have a talk with our intelligence officer and ask her to confirm what you’ve told me. I wonder who would benefit from trying to fool our Joint Task Force.”

  “Admiral, your fire-control radars have locked on our fighter aircraft. Admiral Colbert demands that you shut down your fire-control radars immediately.”

  “Tell Admiral Colbert to go take a flying leap,” Upmann recommended in a low voice.

  “Captain, tell Admiral Colbert that we’re vectoring our target drones away for the firing. The only radar we have available to keep track of them are our fire-control radars. They should be off your fighter aircraft shortly, or if you vector your aircraft north away from the drones, then they will be outside of the fire-control-radar zone. I’m too far along in the exercise to shut down the fire-control radars at this time. As a precaution, I recommend you recall your fighters immediately. I have a lot of young Navy officers who’re still too young to resist pushing every button they see. I would hate for an unfortunate incident to happen.”

  Holman turned to the deputy operations officer. “Stephanie, where are the unmanned aerial vehicles?”

  “Sir, Deathhead Leader and Four are on intercept course with the other two fighter aircraft—”

  “Stephanie!” Admiral Holman interrupted.

  “Sorry, sir — the other two UFAVs. In two minutes, they will be five nautical miles south of us at altitude six thousand feet on a course of zero-nine-zero, Admiral.”

  “Tactical Action Officer!” the Air Search Radar operator called. “I show the two bandits southwest of us on a northeasterly course heading away. Current course will take them back to the French battle group.”

  “That’s good news,” Upmann offered.

  “Yeah, they could have vectored them toward the landing force.”

  Holman took the handset away from his ear. The French must be discussing the situation, trying to decide what course of action to take. Why did it have to come down to two of the mightiest democracies on earth having a Naval confrontation off Africa? He knew the answer was politics. Politics on a global scale, and what better place to iron out some of the finer points of American-French foreign relations than at sea? History had shown that Naval confrontations ran less of a risk of escalation than those ashore. Holman knew it was because out at sea it was easy for statesmen to put a more positive spin on events that permitted both combatants to back away from a full war. War? Hell of a thought. Could never see America and the country most responsible for its freedom in a military conflict. But here it was, and he was being left out on a limb with no advice from senior leadership on what to do. Just go rescue the Americans in Liberia and return to the United States. Well, he would do that. Those were his orders and orders were to be obeyed, unless they were illegal, and there was nothing illegal about rescuing American citizens in danger of being killed.

  “Commander, I have bogies — four — heading toward the orbiting UFAVs southeast of us.”

  “Where did that fourth one come from?” Holman asked.

  “TAO, Electronic Warfare here; I have hits from Super Etendard fighter aircraft,” the young petty officer manning the AN/SLQ-32(V)6 electronic-warfare console announced.

  Holman looked past the captain’s chair at the glowing green screen of the EW operator. The AN/SLQ-32(V)6 was the latest in early-warning technology. In the automatic mode, the system could take over the electronic-warfare defense of the battle group. This new EW defense included jamming enemy radars and filling the skies surrounding the ships with small bits of aluminum to confuse enemy missile-seekers. This EW system also had a transformational capability of interjecting small bits of radar return that made the enemy operator see multiple targets and inbound missiles. This new technology also caused the enemy radar returns to flicker and change positions so rapidly that it confused the operator. It intentionally slowed computerized analysis of radar and electromagnetic signals.

  “Go automatic, Commander,” Holman said to Stephanie.

  “Aye, sir,” she acknowledged. Then she pushed her button down on her sound-powered telephone. “EW, turn on automatic defensive measures. Link with the other EW systems on the other ships and turn the computers loose.”

  She looked at Holman. “Activate the black program, sir?” she asked, referring to the most top secret of technology the United States military possessed. Technology only authorized in time of war.

  He shook his head. “No, let’s hold that unless we have to do it.”

  She pushed her headset against her left ear. The wing of hair flopped down alongside her head. Wlazinierz acknowledged whatever was said and turned to Holman. “Sir, the four UFAVs are together.”

  “Admiral Holman,” said the voice of Captain St. Cyr over the speaker.

  He picked up the handset and pushed the talk button. “Yes, Captain, go ahead.”

  “Sir, we are confused by your actions. Those drones were not shot down, and now they appear to be orbiting with the two to your south.”

  “You’re right, Captain. After what you told me, I had no choice but to investigate your claims about them not being F- 14’s.”

  Several seconds of silence passed before Captain St. Cyr replied. “And what did your intercept reveal.”

  Holman thought for a moment, and then pushed the talk button. “The intercept told me you were right, Captain St. Cyr. I will have to do some royal ass-chewing within my task force. Seems one of the other ships launched drones also. Now, I have to find out how come we believed them to be F-14’s from one of our many aircraft carriers.”

  “You can say that again,” Upmann added.

  * * *

  “Pauline, I have you in sight,” Nash said over the private circuit.

  “I have you too, Nash. Never
thought I’d like to see you two flying over the horizon at me.” Pauline spent three minutes bringing Nash up to date on what happened and the course of events that occurred.

  “Deathhead Leader, this is Boxer; orbiting UFAV is at altitude two-two. Come to course zero-one-zero. Target is five miles.”

  “Boxer, this is Lieutenant Shoemaker. What are we going to do once we get there? Shoot it down?” he asked with a slight hint of anger over being vectored toward the wayward UFAV. When no reply came, he added, “Just leave it alone and keep a radar watch on it.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Petty officer Turner said. “I just thought—”

  “Never mind, Petty Officer. Give us some time down here to discuss it. We are as close as we need to be right now, and the orbiting UFAV has sufficient fuel for another couple of hours. Why don’t you put the four of us on one traffic controller?”

  “Roger, sir. Change to channel one. Petty Officer Watts will take over. New directions before you go. Admiral Holman wants you to catch up with the landing force. We have four French Super Etendards heading toward the landing force.”

  “Well, if they are any kind of pilots like the two we just played with, they’ll get lost on the way.”

  “Roger, sir. I will pass that on.”

  “Wait a minute, Petty Officer Turner. Don’t pass everything we say on to the admiral. We have enough problems without having flag testosterone bouncing all over the place. Just stay off the circuit for a couple of minutes and let us see if we can fix the problem.”

  “What are you going to do?” Alan asked.

  “We need to recycle the avionics,” Nash offered.

  “Means that you are going to have to shut down while that intelligence specialist, Senior Chief Oxford, brings the system back on-line. Kind of like restarting your computer when the blue screen of death appears.”

  “That may take some time.”

  Nash mentally shrugged. “I don’t see much of a choice, Alan.”