France jtf-3

by David E. Meadows

  Laughter came from the other end. “I know. I’ve had the pleasure of keeping company with the Seabees. I think of them as the other half in a marriage — can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

  He chuckled. “You’re right. Thought I was going to have to take them everywhere twice; second time to apologize.”

  “We’re getting off the subject, Xavier.”

  “Yes, sir. You were telling me about the arrest.”

  “Seems our little government spy had his fat little heart set on selling to our French allies information on a special laser weapons program called “Phoenix.” He had classified CDs on him when they arrested him. Seems to me they took their sweet time in grabbing him off the street. They’d been watching him for months. Only arrested him when they realized he had cleared out his bank account — figured he was about to run. From what they’ve managed to get out of the man, apparently those classified CDs found on him were the final delivery to the French.” He chuckled. “ Ironically, the laser weapons program has lots of problems and has yet to perform to expectations. We think the French were sold a load of crap, which makes me happy from that perspective. The Defense Information Systems Agency did an analysis of the CDs and found test results with recommended technical corrections to the Phoenix program. The problem is, the technical corrections have already been tried. They don’t work. Phoenix still has a long way to go before we can cry Eureka! Guess if we go down enough roads, we’ll discover one that runs all the way.”

  The secure voice synched suddenly, disrupting the conversation as the communications equipment, with the help of information technicians, automatically sought to reestablish secure communications between Admiral Holman and Captain Bennett. One on a ship sailing two hundred miles off the west coast of Africa, and the other ashore in the headquarters building of Commander, Amphibious Group Two, on Little Creek Amphibious Base, Norfolk, Virginia. The link passed between ground and ship through a stationary satellite orbiting over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Xavier lay the handset down after a minute. He’d hear the static announcing circuit restoration when it occurred. He picked up his cup and took a big swig of coffee, shutting his eyes briefly as he enjoyed the taste. Last night had been the first time in three days where he had allowed himself to sleep in his rack instead of power napping in the captain’s chair on the bridge. He looked at the clock on the bulkhead and wondered if he could sneak in another couple of hours before reveille. He heard the burst of static from the earpiece, reached down, and put the handset against his ear.

  Another couple of seconds passed before the communications link reestablished and the digital readout showed the two men cleared to talk at the top-secret level.

  “Sorry about that, Admiral. Must be the summer night.”

  “I had my joys with communications two years ago when I was off the coast of Liberia. You don’t know how important information is until you can’t get it or those whom you expect to provide insight to a situation suddenly seem unavailable.” A grunt came across the handset.

  Xavier had heard rumors of how Holman had been left on his own to handle a French-American confrontation. Apparently, Washington could have disappeared from the face of the earth for the lack of advice and insight they had provided the Commander, Amphibious Group Two. A long, successful career in the Navy, reinforced by two tours at the Pentagon, had taught Xavier that rumors were rumors and most rumors were born from someone somewhere with his or her own agenda and interests. No one ever lied; everyone just had different perceptions of the truth.

  “When you get back, Harry, we’ll have a couple of beers. Throw some dogs and hamburgers on the grill and you can tell me your stories of loading the Seabees and I’ll tell you mine about communications in your area of the world.”

  “Nothing stirs my soul more, Admiral, than talking techno-geek stuff such as communications. You’d better bring more than a couple of beers if we’re going to talk comms long,” Xavier said, smiling. Then he added, “I’ll bring Linda, also. She’ll enjoy learning from your wife.” The communications link dropped again. His mind wandered as he waited for it to be restored again.

  “Good,” Holman said, jerking Xavier back to the conversation. He hadn’t heard the line resynchronize. “Xavier, Commander Tucker Raleigh is arriving in Monrovia tomorrow afternoon on the daily Air Force C-141. Chances are he’ll arrive before you dock in Harper. He’s coming down to help Thomaston train the new Liberian army, so technically he’s not a SEAL for a while.”

  “Roger, sir. We’ll help him when he shows up. Not a SEAL for a while? That must be like being thrown out of the family for one of them.”

  “Could be. Another thing, Xavier. I know you and I discussed this, but I was in Washington last week and had a chance to spend a few minutes with the Vice Chief of Naval Operations. The subject of my replacement came up, since I leave next year. He asked me my thoughts and I told him. I think you’re the right person for the job. He has approved my request to frock you to Admiral when the next fiscal year begins on October first.”

  Frocking was the administrative action of allowing someone selected for the next rank to wear the rank and have the privileges of that rank, but without the pay and monetary benefits. More work for the same pay and privileges.

  “It will give you some time to get used to the stars while you continue as commanding officer of Mesa Verde. Next summer you’ll roll to Fort McNair in Washington, D.C., and go through the flag officer CAPSTONE course to learn the secret handshake, how to hide the effects of that third glass of wine, and what not to do when groupies flock after you — along with other maritime secrets of those wearing the rank of admiral.”

  “You’ve had groupies, sir?”

  “Well, I’ve never had any, but I’ve seen some who have.”

  “You have?”

  “Yep, they retire early, and if they’re lucky, at the same pay grade. Good try, Harry. Bottom line is you’re coming to the vacation spot of the Navy — Little Creek Amphibious Base in Norfolk or Virginia Beach, depending on which mayor is speaking. You’re going to be the next Commander, Amphibious Group Two. And you’re going up to Washington for CAPSTONE where you’ll hobnob for a couple of weeks with future flag and general officers of all four military services.”

  Linda would enjoy the short visit to Washington. She would enjoy remaining in the Tidewater area. When Holman had offered it to him back in February after the flag selection list came out with his name on it, Xavier had been reluctant to accept. He and Linda had been looking forward to returning to their country house in Maryland. They had even discussed planting a half-acre garden. Their friends teased that a half-acre was more farming than gardening. Linda was a Norfolkian. A former cheerleader of Norfolk Catholic High School. Plus, she was quick to point out a long line of ancestors who called Norfolk home. With her younger sister in rehab and her sister’s children staying with Linda’s parents, his wife was sorting through her own feelings of guilt over the chance she might have to leave the family before this crisis was over. The other side was that she really wanted to return to Maryland.

  “Thanks, Admiral. Linda and I have discussed the idea of me relieving you. If the Navy feels I can best serve it as your relief, I would be honored.”

  “That’s good news, Harry. All things being equal, I hope this is something you’re looking forward to and not something you’re accepting out of obligation and Navy loyalty.”

  He grinned. “Admiral, it’s all of the above.”

  * * *

  Behind Xavier, out of sight, commander Fulbright elbowed Lieutenant Embrey. “See, I told ya,” she whispered.

  Embrey rubbed her rib cage. “Yeah, but you’re leaving soon after he does. I have two more years here and it would be just my luck to get one of those testosterone-laden Naval Academy types whose “A-type” personality is tipped with titanium. A tip that will bore through all of us when he realizes his predecessor made Admiral out of his tour on the Mesa
Verde.”

  “Shit, Teresa. Don’t be paranoid. Captain Bennett is Naval Academy.”

  “I’m not paranoid, and he doesn’t count,” Lieutenant Teresa Embrey pouted.

  Lieutenant Patrick Macmillan, the CICWO, leaned toward the two women. “What are you two whispering about?” he asked quietly, his elbow lightly touching Embrey’s shoulder and enjoying the slight pressure the petite woman officer pressed back in return.

  “The skipper just accepted orders to relieve Admiral Holman.”

  “He’s going to be COMPHIBGRU Two?” Macmillan asked incredulously. Then he turned around, bent his head down to the chief standing beside him. Like wildfire, the news about Admiral-select Bennett becoming COMPHIBGRU Two circulated through Combat. A few moments later the sound-powered telephone operators blazed the news through the ship. Nothing made a crew prouder than when one of their own succeeded. Nothing made them sadder than when someone undeserving succeeded.

  * * *

  “Okay, Xavier. I’m signing off. I apologize for getting you out of the rack. You should expect to read the flag message from Chief of Naval Operations sometime this spring directing you to report to Amphibious Group Two as my relief. My staff is already looking forward to you coming. I have told them how you will be a lot more involved than I am in their day-to-day operations, providing minute guidance to make their job easier. Told them the thing I admired the most was your leadership style of gathering the wardroom together every morning around 0800 for a fifteen-minute prayer session to set the tone of the day.”

  “You didn’t!” Xavier gasped.

  Holman’s loud laughter erupted from the other side. “Harry, you should see the number of transfer chits I have on my desk.”

  “Admiral, surely someone on your staff knows me well enough—”

  “Just kidding, Harry. You’re too well-known. I did tell a bunch of junior officers that tall tale, but my chief of staff, Leo Upmann, couldn’t keep a straight face. I may leave him here for you as punishment for ruining my fun.”

  “Thanks, Admiral. I can tell that I can only go up once I relieve you.”

  “Sometimes, Xavier, I think I’m walking a fine line between Washington wanting me relieved and the thoughts of doing it taking over the minds of both Commander, Fleet Forces Command and Commander Second Fleet. There are always toes to step on when tact is a four-letter word.”

  “Would that mean I’d transfer earlier?” Xavier replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “Don’t be too pushy. You surface warfare types are all alike. You see a person with more work than you have and you’re immediately jealous for his job.”

  They both laughed.

  A few more exchanges occurred about the planned cookout before Admiral Holman ended the conversation. Xavier pushed the handset back into its cradle. Looking up, everyone was staring at him. “What?”

  “Congratulations, Boss!” came Ellen’s boom. She started clapping, and soon everyone in the Mesa Verde Combat Information Center joined the applause.

  His face grew warm. A path of red light broke the blue of Combat for a moment as someone entered through the watertight hatch leading from the 03-level passageway. He glanced over and recognized the thin waist and bulldog chest. It was Commander Teddy Klein, commanding officer of the Naval Construction Battalion 133. The sandy-haired Seabee had upper arms like giant pistons that moved when he walked, stretching the short cotton sleeves of the khaki shirt to where Xavier expected the shirt to split at any moment. The Seabee’s legs bowed slightly as if the muscle weight of the huge chest pushed them outward to their limits.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” Klein shouted from the door, smiling, his voice as strong as his arms.

  For a moment, Xavier thought of how much noise and bedlam a bevy of offsprings from the likes of Klein and Fulbright could bring to a neighborhood. He shook his head, ridding himself of the horrible thought.

  The applause died as those in Combat turned toward Klein.

  “Thank you, all! Captain, your ship really knows how to make a sailor feel at home!” Klein shouted, continuing to wave his hands about his head as he walked toward Captain Bennett. A trace of humor rode beneath the comment.

  Laughter filled the compartment. People such as Klein were always good for morale. If he’d only get a haircut. No one could ever accuse Klein of being too military. Klein’s ballcap had the hopping kangaroo emblem of the NMCB-133 sewed above the scrambled eggs on the brim. The emblem evoked the NMCB-133 mantra of “kangroos can do,” which was why Xavier always heard the Seabees respond to orders with a loud “kangroos can do.” Of course, the mantra caused the war-fighting arm of the Navy to roll their eyes when they heard it, but not so those muscle-bound, hell-raising Seabees could see them. You never knew when a Seabee was going to build something or rip it down with their bare hands — bare hands the rest of the Navy would prefer they keep away from them. Seabees sure as hell made life a lot easier for the war-fighting forces when the fight moved ashore. They were renown for their skills in turning swamp-ridden everglades into airfields and barracks with running water. And they could do it nearly overnight. Seabees were legendary, and for the most part forgotten until needed.

  “Captain,” Klein said as he reached the master bank of consoles. “Sir, I wasn’t expecting you to be up at this time of night.”

  Xavier looked at Ellen. “And, I wouldn’t be, Commander, if my XO hadn’t asked me to come to Combat. I would also say the same for you.”

  “I’ve just finished a meeting with my officers, sir. You know we’re nearly six weeks behind. We were a month behind before we left Pascagoula and now we’ve been delayed another week out here—”

  “Three days.”

  “Sir?”

  “Three days. Not a week.”

  Klein nodded, a slight grin complementing the twinkle in his light-blue eyes. It was hard to be upset with this gregarious officer, and the fact that he could easily rip Xavier’s head off and use it as a step stool had nothing to do with it.

  “Yes, sir. Three days. Figured after the past couple of days, you’d be catching up on some valuable shuteye.”

  Xavier glanced at his XO. “I did have a short rest, Commander. Nice of you to ask.”

  “Yes, sir. Captain, do we have a date as to when we’re going to get into Harper, sir? For the past week, even before the F-16s disappeared, we’ve been going over our construction plans, looking for ways to cut days of work. The bad news, Captain, is that regardless of how well we plan, Mother Nature always throws curves at us Seabees, and if we have to face the monsoon season next year—”

  Xavier held up his hand. “Commander Klein, I have ordered the ship to start toward Harper. With luck, we should start off-loading you and your Seabees sometime within the next seventy-two hours.”

  Klein let out a deep breath. “That’s great news, Captain. I’ll tell my men and women tomorrow morning.” Klein nodded once and walked around the captain to where Lieutenant Emery stood.

  Xavier rubbed his right thumb along the side of his hand, a nervous gesture he’d inherited from his father.

  “Ellen, I’m heading back to my stateroom to try to steal a couple more hours of sleep before reveille.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked by her, stopped, and turned. “By the way, XO, leave word for our young legal-beagle to have breakfast with me. I want to go over the report Lieutenant Sanchez wrote with him.” He looked down, biting his lower lip for a moment before he continued. “Did you get a chance to read it?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir, I did. And I gave a copy to Lieutenant Commander Kilpatrick after dropping off the original with you.”

  “Good. Then, I shouldn’t have to prep him about the contents?”

  Fulbright shook her head. “I don’t think so, sir. He’s usually pretty thorough on things.”

  “That may be, but he has a lot on his plate right now with the letters from Pascagoula about our Seabees’ last night in port—”


  “—And the two captain’s masts scheduled for late tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah, those two we may delay until we arrive in Port Harper.”

  “Sir, one of those going to mast is a Seabee. If you wait until we tie up, then he has the option of a court martial. Not to mention, if he disembarks, it will be Commander Teddy Klein who will do the mast.”

  He sighed. “Have Legal draft the paperwork for me to authorize Commander Klein to do the administrative punishment on his people.”

  She nodded.

  “What did you think of the report?”

  The XO’s eyes locked with his. “If half of what Lieutenant Sanchez says is right, then the Churchill has a lot of problems.”

  He bit his lower lip, nodding. “You could be right, but perceptions and half-truths have ruined many a Navy career.”

  Xavier didn’t wait for a reply as he turned and departed Combat to the traditional “Captain out of Combat” cry coming from behind him. On the bridge, they’d duplicate the operations log in Combat with a notated time of his entry and exit from the compartment. His mind felt foggy from the fatigue of being awake for nearly three days with only short naps on the bridge or a few power naps in his at-sea stateroom. This wasn’t his first search for survivors at sea. People lost at sea had only minutes in the worst case, hours in the best, to survive. Many times, it’s serendipitous luck when a ship recovers a survivor. Helicopters cover more surface and have more flexibility to rescue someone than a surface ship that must maneuver against tide, waves, and wind.

  He closed the door to his stateroom and flipped on the bedside lamp. Xavier unclasped his trousers and let them fall on the deck. He lay down, reached over the side of the bed, and lifted the trousers off the deck and tossed them onto a nearby chair. He made the slam-dunk sign with his two fingers. “Dos Puntos!”