by Andrew Watts
“We have five pilots aboard the Farragut, sir. But I would think that the helicopter squadron CO would have to sign off on that…”
The commodore picked up his phone and dialed a number. “CAG, Commodore. I want to steal one of the helicopter pilots on the Farragut and make him my new air ops officer. I’ll bring him over here to the carrier. He can do double-duty and help relieve your helo bubbas if they need it. That okay with you?” The commodore grabbed a pen and paper. “Uh-huh. Okay. Yes, I’ll have him do that. Thanks, CAG.” He hung up.
Boyle looked at his watch. He needed to get ready to head back.
The commodore hung up the phone. “CAG gave his approval. Here, get in touch with the commanding officer of HSM-46 and figure out who you can send over. I’d like him here tomorrow, before you guys get out of range. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Plug’s mouth hung open. Victoria felt bad for him. He didn’t deserve this. But it was slightly humorous to her that a man who had recently stared down death and danger in the cockpit had finally found his fear—paper pushing.
“There must be some mistake.”
Victoria said, “The skipper said he talked to the CO of 74. You’ll still get to fly with them on the carrier.”
“Boss, I’m the maintenance officer for your det. I’ve done a good job, right? I was going to extend for another year. I was going try to be an instructor pilot—maybe see if I could get a slot in San Diego. This isn’t even a job I’m supposed to have yet…and I can’t roll now. How were they even able to cut orders so fast?”
“The Desron commodore wanted an air operations officer. He heard what a great job you’ve done here, and he personally selected you.”
Plug glowered at her. “Really?”
“No. Any helicopter pilot would have done for him, probably. It was our skipper that chose you. He couldn’t send one of the 2Ps, they don’t have enough experience.” Her face said she was sorry, but she was also amused.
“Is this punishment? Is it because I’m a wiseass?”
“No.”
“Will this hurt my career?”
“It’ll probably help it.”
“Why?” His hands were in his face.
“Why will it help your career?”
“No.” Plug let out a huge sigh as they sat on opposite sides of the empty wardroom table. “Why me? Never mind.”
Victoria realized that Plug was just once again making his rapid transition through the different stages of grief. He didn’t want to leave his ship, or his men. He didn’t want to go work for SWOs. Didn’t want to become a staff officer. It would mean less flying. More time in front of a computer, creating briefs and documents for senior officers to scour over.
Finally, acceptance.
“Fuck it. When do I leave?”
She said, “I want you to know that we’ll really miss you. You did a great job here, Plug. I’m completely serious. Even if you did crash one of my helicopters.”
“Don’t get all mushy on me, old lady. And it was a landing. It just happened to be the case that I landed on water.”
She smiled. “The deck hit is at fifteen hundred. Go break the news to your partners in crime and pack your stuff.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Victoria waited until he left and then picked up the phone next to her. It rang once.
“Spike, I’m in the wardroom. Please come see me.” She hung up the phone without waiting for him to answer. He wasn’t in trouble. But there were only a few things in life that could really entertain her right now. Messing with her junior officers by making think they were in trouble was one of them.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Juan “Spike” Volonte crept through the wardroom door in a wrinkled flight suit, his eyes wide with apprehension. From the lines all over his face, she had interrupted a rare nap. “You wanted to see me, Boss?”
“Have a seat.”
He walked over and sat in the seat that Plug had just been in. “Anything wrong?”
“I’m afraid that your performance as the detachment operations officer is no longer going to work for me.”
“Boss, wait. What’s wrong? If you need me to do something extra, I can do it. I…” Spike was as much of an overachiever as she was. He just wasn’t as good at reading people.
“I’m making you the new MO.”
A cloud of confusion formed on his face. “Me? Maintenance officer? Plug just walked by me in the hall. He looked…what’s happening?”
“He’s being sent over to the carrier. So is Murphy. We’re down to one helicopter, and they apparently think that we can manage with just me and two 2Ps.”
“Just three pilots?”
“Yes. It’ll be me, you, and Caveman. Caveman will take over the scheduling from you. You’ll take over the maintenance officer role from Plug. Think you can handle it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Go down and talk to Senior Chief and let him know. Start spending all your free time there. From speaking with the captain, it sounds like we’ll be doing a lot of surveillance flights over the next few weeks.”
23
All three of the US Army Delta Force operators were Asian-American men. Two spoke fluent Mandarin and passable Cantonese. Chase would be their token white guy. Considering where they were headed, he hoped that wasn’t one too many. They had been training together on Guam for the past week and had gelled as a team.
Chase had never heard of the “Bod Pod,” as the US Air Force officer had referred to it. He stood next to a DARPA scientist who had flown halfway around the world to meet with them for thirty minutes, in the middle of the night, in Guam.
“This will be the first time we’ve ever used it operationally. But it has worked with the monkeys.”
One of the Delta guys raised an eyebrow. “Monkeys?”
“Yup. Tested this sucker out with monkeys, just like the space program. I mean, they didn’t have the oxygen masks or communications equipment like you guys will. So you’ll be able to speak with the air crew. The monkeys couldn’t.”
Chase glanced at the Air Force officer and then at the spec ops guys. “I’m guessing that wasn’t the only reason that the monkeys couldn’t talk to the pilots.”
The scientist said, “Quite right. Quite right.” His eyes darted around nervously. “Anywho, you boys will each have your own pod. They’re pressurized, so you won’t need to wear or use your oxygen masks while flying. You won’t be able to move around much. Pretty cramped in there. But try not to fall asleep. We set up a manual switch that you have to press. A fail-safe, so that the pilots can’t eject you without you being ready.”
“Well, that’s nice. So what, we press the button and what…the bomb bay doors just open up and we fall out?”
“That’s about it. Uh. Both you and the pilot have to press the button. And the pilot—”
The Air Force officer said, “It’ll actually be the combat systems officer who you’ll be speaking with. He’ll press the button. And you’ll be able to communicate with him, if you need to.”
“Yes, right,” said the scientist. “The combat systems officer will monitor the navigational track and make sure that the aircraft is set up at the appropriate course, speed, and altitude, and then press their release button. They can’t press theirs until the aircraft’s outer bomb bay is open. That will prevent you from falling three feet onto the closed metal doors of the B-2. That would hurt.”
One of the Delta Force operators said, “And why do we need to do this again?”
“Well, this was the best way to covertly insert you into a modern military’s denied area of operations.”
The Delta operator replied, “This might be the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard of. I’m impressed. You want us to ride inside this little metal pod—the size and shape of a bomb—which is being carried in the bomb bay of a B-2 stealth bomber—and fly…how many hours?”
“Six hours’ flight time,” said one of the me
n wearing a black flight suit from the back of the room. Chase presumed he was the pilot who would actually be flying the stealthy aircraft.
“Six hours in this little metal canister, just waiting for you to open it up and drop us into China. Am I getting that right?”
Another one of the Deltas tapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, but dude, the monkeys didn’t have comms. We’ll have comms. It’ll be great. Maybe they can play us music.”
The Delta operator shook his head and shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll be sleeping. Just yell really loud when we get there so that I wake up in time to open my chute.”
The Air Force officer who was helping with the briefing suddenly looked worried. “Well, you really shouldn’t sleep—it’ll be a HALO drop. So actually, you’ll need to put on your oxygen mask about thirty minutes before drop as well. And you probably need—”
Chase held up his hand. “I’m pretty sure he was just kidding.”
One of the Delta Force men smiled and nodded, his eyes closed as if the conversation pained him. “We’ll be awake, sir.”
“Monkeys,” said one of the others.
The B-2 Spirit took off from Anderson Air Force Base on Guam. It flew up the Yellow Sea and entered Chinese airspace over the Liuhe River delta.
The pilot said to his combat systems officer, “You know, I was just reading an article that says all this stealth technology is bullshit. The Chinese have radars that can pick us up no problem now.”
The combat systems officer, who was also the mission commander, said, “That’s fake news.”
“No, seriously. Apparently, we shouldn’t even call it stealth anymore.”
“Feet dry,” came the call from the combat systems officer as he monitored their progress on the navigational readout.
“Guess we’ll find out,” said the pilot, smiling. A single bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Thirty minutes to drop zone. Hope those guys aren’t suffocated or ice cubes when I press the button.”
Both of the B-2 crewmembers knew that the NSA and US Air Force electronic and cyberattacks were now flooding Chinese air search radars with false contacts. Even if the B-2 Spirit was picked up, it would be one of dozens in its vicinity.
The B-2 barreled to the north at four hundred knots, its black wing-shaped body hidden inside a twenty-thousand-foot overcast cloud layer. Any fighters that were launched to explore the dozens of false tracks in the area would have a very hard time visually identifying them.
When they reached the drop zone, a mountainous rural region fifty miles to the northeast of a large city that the navigator couldn’t begin to pronounce, he followed his checklist, and the outer bomb bay doors opened up. He triple-checked that all of his readouts were displaying the correct numbers and pressed DARPA’s precious green button.
Chase and the three US Army tier one operators, having been cooped up in a torpedo-sized compartment for hours, each immediately pressed their own green buttons, which read “Release Consent.”
Chase then quickly scrunched his arms close to his body and prepared himself for free fall.
But nothing happened.
Chase quickly depressed the button again, trying to control his anger. He could hear the voices of the other operators, yelling into their own pods’ internal speakers. Chase was about to press his own call button to see if the Air Force crew had any idea what was going on when the floor opened up beneath him, the harness above him unlocked, and he fell into the black night sky, somewhere over China.
24
Two weeks later
Admiral Manning stood on vulture’s row—the perch outside his towering bridge that overlooked the aircraft carrier’s flight deck. They were headed into the wind, and their speed through the water added another fifteen knots. White caps dotted the dark blue ocean as far as the eye could see. A gray cloud layer blocked out the sun. He leaned forward, hands on the rail, squinting as he watched the scene below.
At the one o’clock position was the supply ship, the USNS Matthew Perry, inching closer by the second. Her flight deck was clear, but there were dozens of personnel scurrying about on her port deck. A female petty officer shot the line from the carrier to the supply ship. One of her companions patted her on the back when the line hit its mark.
Deckhands on both ships, on opposite sides of the deep blue river of water, were busy staging their work materials for the evolution, moving pushcarts, and forklifts, and stacking elevators with empty netting for pallets. The initial shot lines were replaced with thicker ones that were used to connect the two ships. Large black refueling hoses, looking like sea snakes, were carefully pulled from the supply ship across the water and attached to the aircraft carrier’s fuel intake ports. Thousands of gallons of jet fuel began flowing from the supply ship to the aircraft carrier. Pallets of food and supplies began riding zip lines across to the carrier. The replenishment at sea had begun.
On the other side of the USNS Matthew Perry, the destroyer USS Nitze steamed into position. Soon it would be lined up in the exact opposite spot as the carrier, ready for her own replenishment at sea. The supply ship’s personnel were incredibly skilled. Decades of experience had turned America’s Navy into masters of underway logistics, able to move tons of material and countless gallons of fuel during transit.
The whole evolution took about two hours. MH-60 Sierra helicopters from the USS Ford flew back and forth among the three ships, ferrying pallets and munitions underneath them from one flight deck to another. In between the ships, the salt water sprayed up into the air as the close proximity of the ships caused the sea to swell into large waves.
“Admiral, you have a call from the SAG commander, sir.”
He turned to see his aide standing in the bridge.
“Can I take it up here?”
“Yes, sir.”
He followed the junior officer over to a section of the admiral’s bridge that contained several communications devices.
“Captain Hoblet on HF secure, sir.” He handed Admiral Manning the black plastic radio endpiece. It looked similar to an old landline phone, but without the rounded ends.
“This is Ford Strike Group actual, over.”
“Ford CSG Actual, this is SAG 131 actual. Good morning, Admiral. We are on station in Box Bravo. We have all six of our ships in a line abreast, fifteen hundred miles long. Our helicopters and drones are running search patterns around the clock. And we have an Australian P-8 as well as a US Air Force B-52 set up for maritime search that should be providing us assistance beginning tomorrow morning. Over.”
“SAG 131, this is Ford CSG. That is excellent news. Have you seen any sign of the Chinese merchant ships, over?”
“Ford CGS, this is SAG 131. Negative, over.”
The admiral frowned.
“SAG 131, this is Ford CSG. Understood. Be safe, over.”
“Ford CSG, SAG 131. Roger out.”
He placed the receiver back in its holder. His personal aide, a lieutenant, walked in from the far end of the bridge.
“Admiral, you’ve got a call with CINCPAC in ten minutes, sir.”
“Any luck with satcom?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We’ll still be using HF secure.”
“Hope we get ’em this time. Okay. Lead the way, Suggs.”
Admiral Manning followed the lieutenant out the hatch and down the ladder way, nine floors down. They were both huffing and puffing and trying not to show it when they reached the O-3 level. In every section of the ship where the admiral walked, someone called attention on deck. The officers and crew would then snap to attention until he told them to stand at ease.
They reached his stateroom, and he took a seat. His office had a plush blue carpet with the seal of the USS Ford Strike Group on the floor, a large oak desk, and traditional Navy pictures and memorabilia on the wall.
One of the pictures was of President Gerald Ford in his khaki uniform in 1944, aboard the USS Monterey, a light carrier. Admiral Manning had read up o
n Ford’s military service before he was placed in charge of the carrier. President Ford’s ship had participated in carrier strikes in the Marianas, New Guinea, and the Battle of Philippine Sea, among others.
A knock at the door as it opened, the admiral’s chief of staff entering, followed by a lieutenant from the communications department, here to make sure that there were no issues with the HF transmission.
The admiral said, “We need to get better weather information, COS. We’re blind out here without our satellites.”
“Yes, sir, I agree.”
He turned to his aide, who sat at the admiral’s coffee table, taking notes. “Suggs, you see that picture over there?”
Lieutenant Suggs looked up. “The one of President Ford, sir?”
“Yes. His light carrier was knocked out of commission in 1944. Do you know what happened to it?”
“Yes, sir. A typhoon hit it. The USS Monterey was one of several ships that were damaged in the typhoon that hit Admiral Halsey’s Third Fleet in 1944. Three destroyers were lost, and over eight hundred men died at sea. A fire erupted on the USS Monterey, Ford’s ship. They declared it unfit for sea duty after that.”
“Goddammit, Suggs. You’re a lowly lieutenant. When a flag officer tries to teach you a lesson, sound like you know less than he does, okay? Remind me never to get an Oxford-educated loop again…”
The junior officer smiled. Suggs was a Rhodes Scholar and had studied at Oxford for two years after graduating from the Naval Academy.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll try to sound less informed.” The communications lieutenant shared a smile with Suggs.
The COS ignored the light-hearted humor, buried in his own notes. “Admiral, PACFLEET has announced the ships that will be joining us.”
“Have they? How many has the good admiral decided to lend me?”
The COS brought down his reading glasses. “Seven.”
“Seven?”
“Yes, sir. Four destroyers, two LCSs and a cruiser. Plus we’ll have multiple SSNs underneath us.”