Colt's Crisis

by Tom Carroll

  “You should probably start making the arrangements, Steve,” Colt told him. “My new job makes this mission on Reagan secondary at best, and I’d like to get working on any departmental changes we have to make. Is there anything on the hot burner that we need to discuss?”

  “Funny you should ask. I’m looking right now at a copy of a communique from our friend in Pyongyang to POTUS that came in yesterday. North Korea is claiming to have intelligence that Seoul grabbed some of our bio warheads back during the Bush 41 administration and has them hidden someplace in-country. I know it sounds crazy, but now he’s reneging on his pledge to start disarmamant because of this new “threat,” as he calls it. At first, we all thought it was just another excuse to delay and get us to lift the sanctions, but some of his information regarding the mysterious warheads is very specific. So, I have the Agency and the Army digging into it. If it’s really true we lost some warheads, and South Korea has them, delay in the reunification of the Korean Peninsula could be the least of our concerns.”

  “Unbelievable! Let me know as soon as you verify the weapons loss. What is State saying?”

  “They want to wait until we verify the loss. If it’s true, they’re not certain the international support for the sanctions will hold up. I have a meeting with the National Security Council later this evening to talk about options. I’ll get back to you with their recommendations. Oh, and one more thing, I’ve deployed a Nightwatch aircraft to Tokyo to support you, and to provide transport home. As defense secretary, you’re supposed to have one whenever you travel overseas or are not able to immediately access a DOD facility.”

  The Air Force maintained four E-4B Mercury “Nightwatch” Airborne Command Post aircraft at Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska, and operated by the 1st Airborne Command and Control Squadron of the 55th Wing. Called the NAOC (National Alternate Operations Center), these aircraft were also known as The Doomsday Planes because, in the event of a nuclear strike or other major attack on the U.S., they could be used to give the National Command Authority, which is the president and the secretary of defense, a means to launch weapons of mass destruction and talk with anyone, anywhere on the planet. The planes were modified Boeing 747-200B jumbo jets and also included a very modest executive suite with two beds. One aircraft was specifically assigned to the secretary of defense for his use.

  Colt smiled, thinking how much Lenny Wilson would appreciate having a real bed —finally.

  Ready Room 4, the Reagan

  Colt Garrett and his newly appointed special assistant Lenny Wilson sat in the back row of Ready Room 4, the combination brief room, clubhouse, and coffee shop of Electronic Attack Squadron 132. Its commanding officer, Commander Tom Robinson, had invited Colt and Lenny to stop by this morning to meet the officers in Dan’s squadron. The two men had entered the space via the rear door and sat quietly through the squadron’s weekly training session. Tom Robinson noticed them when they came in and was surprised at the presence of Special Agent DeSantis standing at the rear of the room. She looked every part the executive protection agent with her dark business suit and the weapon on her waist that was concealed yet slightly noticeable to the trained eye.

  Since before World War II, Navy aircraft squadrons were assigned spaces in carriers that were virtually identical to this one. The room was filled with aluminum-framed reclining armchairs with folding tables and storage compartments below. The upholstered seats and chair backs were covered in a bright red vinyl material that resisted coffee spills and perspiration from men and women who had just survived another carrier landing. The chairs were arranged in five rows of seven, with four chairs on one side of a center aisle and three on the other.

  Secured to one wall was a coffee station with its rows of ceramic coffee mugs neatly hanging from hooks. Each mug donned the squadron’s logo and the callsign of its owner. Most people assumed Navy callsigns reflected the personal and heroic attributes of the officer. It was much more common, however, for callsigns to be “earned” during flight training for some small mishap or error in judgment, either in the air or out on the town, as best exemplified by Vice Admiral Shaffer’s callsign TEDDY. There were few MAVERICK or ICE MAN callsigns in the fleet.

  Mounted on the back of the door at the rear of the room, the “Greenie Board” documented each pilot’s ability to safely execute the supreme test of aviation skill: an arrested gear landing on an aircraft carrier at sea. Every landing was graded by the white-vested Landing Signal Officers (LSOs) who stood on a small platform dangerously close to the plane landing area on the carrier’s stern. The grading system intended to encourage pilots to work on improving their skills when conditions were good in order to increase their chances of landing safely when the visibility, weather, seas, and a violently pitching deck combined to challenge even the most skillful pilot.

  The LSOs were young pilots who had been specifically trained to help guide a pilot through the final stages of landing on the ship. After each recovery, they would visit the ready room to debrief the pilot on his or her landing and rate their performance using a four-point scale:

  A 4.0 grade, called an Okay, indicated a perfect landing, or pass, and earned the pilot a green square opposite their name on the board, hence, the Greenie Board. A 3.0 grade, or Fair pass, indicated the pilot needed to make a few minor corrections. A 2.5 grade called a Bolter meant the pilot had failed to catch an arresting gear wire and needed to try again. A 2.0 grade was given for a below-average pass, also described as Safely Ugly. Further down the scale was a grade of 1.0 for a Wave-Off, which was defined in the LSO instruction as “unsettling dynamics, potentially unsafe.” The worst possible grade was a 0.0, for a Cut, for unsafe conditions inside the wave-off window. It was every pilot’s goal to earn a GPA above 3.0, which indicated he or she was professionally safe. When landing on an aircraft carrier, to be safe was a very good thing.

  The public acknowledgment of a pilot’s skill didn’t end with the Greenie Board. At the conclusion of a number of weeks or even months — depending upon how long the carrier had been continually operating at sea — all of the squadrons would gather for Foc’s’l Follies, an irreverent celebration with skits and other pranks. At the end of the evening, the aviators with the highest landing grades were recognized, and the most proficient pilot earned the title of Top Hook.

  Colt glanced around the Ready Room until his eyes rested on a large, rectangular-shaped quilt hanging from the bulkhead. The quilt was covered with hand-embroidered messages from loved ones waiting back home at Whidbey Island. The quilt was there to soften the space and perhaps make it feel more like home. But it simply wasn’t home, and as a young man on a long deployment, Colt recalled, he found it more helpful to focus on the mission rather than think about home.

  Today’s training lecture was led by Lieutenant Katrina Pierce, the NFO usually paired with her good friend and aviator Dan Garrett on this deployment. Katrina, callsign HURRICANE, had also been raised in the Pacific Northwest, graduating with a degree in history from Central Washington University in Ellensburg. An attractive blonde in her early 30s, Katrina was happily married to Gene Pierce, a 737-captain flying for Alaska Airlines. Gene had flown C-141 Starlifters for the U.S. Air Force and now used his skills to fly the C-17 Globemaster one weekend a month for the Air National Guard when not flying for Alaska. HURRICANE had earned her callsign not only from a devastating storm in 2005, but also because of her quick wit, sarcastic attitude, and bold delivery. Commander Robinson had assigned her as squadron training officer because she commanded attention during even the most mundane of training topics.

  “This morning’s topic is active shooter defense,” she began, “and the reason we are all here today is because not a single one of you mental giants have taken the mandatory online training that I assigned two months ago!” Responding fearlessly to the heckles and jeers from the room, Lieutenant Pierce shouted, “Knock it off, boys and girls! You had your chance to get this done on your own time, and now you’re going to have to
sit through it, keep quiet, and learn something!”

  Katrina began the training, which was based on the Department of Homeland Security’s Run, Hide, Fight model. The strategy recommended, first, immediately running away from an active shooting scene and preventing others from entering the area. Second, if unable to run, it recommended hiding from the shooter by barricading oneself in a locked room and turning off all cell phone alarms. Third, if the active shooter persisted and entered the hiding space and you were with others, you were advised to all band together, grab anything that could be used as a weapon, attack the shooter, and not stop until he or she was completely incapacitated or dead.

  “Okay, pretty straightforward,” Katrina summarized, “run, hide, and only in the last resort, fight. Anybody have questions?”

  Katrina winced when she saw Dan Garrett’s hand go up. Garrett’s callsign — JOKER — had been well-earned. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  Dan stood up as the other junior officers snickered in anticipation.

  “Well, HURRICANE, I actually think you got it backward.”

  “Make your point, JOKER!” urged Lieutenant Pierce.

  “Well, if some dude with an assault rifle strolls into the barracks blasting people away, I figure I should get him before he gets me. I’d grab a fire extinguisher from the bulkhead and smack him on the head. Makes the active shooter training easier to remember, don’t you think? Just Fight!”

  “Oh, really, Dan?” remarked Katrina, rolling her eyes as she sat down next to him and punched him on the shoulder.

  Listening from the back row, Lenny turned to Colt and teased, “You got a pretty smart boy there, sir. If someone threatens me while on board, I’m following his advice!”

  Colt groaned and held his hand to his forehead. Commander Tom Robinson stood and walked purposefully to the front of the room, the noise died down “Good morning, Scorpions! We have a very special guest visiting us this morning, whom I have the distinct pleasure of introducing. Besides being the proud father of our very own Lieutenant Dan Garrett, he is the newly appointed secretary of defense. May I introduce the Honorable Colton Garrett.”

  The startled aviators and NFOs seated in Ready Room 4 suddenly all came to attention as Colt walked from the back row to the front of the room and stood behind the lectern.

  “Please be seated, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you, Skipper Robinson,” Colt began. “I asked the skipper if I could stop by and simply thank all of you for the great work you are doing here. I personally know how hard these long deployments can be on both you and your families. This morning I want you to know how proud our country is of you and how deeply we appreciate the risks you take each day to protect our nation and our freedom. I served in this squadron as an intel officer many years ago when we were flying Prowlers, and I have memories from those years that will be with me for the rest of my life. For now, though, I told the skipper I’d take a few questions. But go easy on me; I’ve only had the job for a few days!”

  “Sir, I’m Lieutenant Commander Wasankari. Can you tell me what the DOD is doing to retain pilots? As we’re all aware, the airlines are replacing their retiring pilots, and the benefits, time off, and pay are much better than we get, while the risks aren’t nearly as high.”

  Colt considered the aviator’s question and then responded, “I can’t argue with you, Commander. I resigned my commission when I was about as senior as you are now. We all have to make career decisions that are right for us and for our families. We are looking at some innovative approaches to creating new career models, some allowing pilots to remain flying and not necessarily pursue a command path. Other ideas include options for officers to move back and forth between military and commercial flying. But I think the bottom line is that we know the pilot shortage isn’t going away, and we can’t just keep doing things the same ways we have in the past. Anyone else?”

  A young ensign in a pressed khaki uniform stood up. “Sir, I have a question.”

  Richard Gundersen was a newly minted graduate of the Naval Intelligence Officer School in Dam Neck, Virginia. He held a baccalaureate in political science from Princeton University and had career ambitions to either become a naval attaché in an embassy or find civilian employment with a three-letter agency in D.C. He had frequently communicated to the squadron his preference to be called Richard rather than the more common nickname.

  “I find it interesting that you served in the very same billet I now occupy. When you were in this squadron, who did you find to be the most arrogant — Naval aviators or NFOs?”

  “Shut up, Dick!” shouted a voice from the back. The room erupted in laughter as a volley of pens and baseball caps quickly cascaded upon the young intelligence officer while he tried to protect himself with an aluminum clipboard.

  Colt laughed with the rest and noted, “I can see things haven’t changed much! But seriously, I think the key to be a good intel officer is understanding that you are here to support these brave aviators who risk their lives every day while you drink coffee in the intel center. You need to earn their respect first, and then they’ll be more receptive to hearing how you can support them.” The ready room erupted in applause from those in the room wearing flight suits.

  “You can sit down now, Dick,” said Katrina, goading him with an emphasis on his forbidden nickname. She turned to Colt at the front of the room. “Sir, I have a question!”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, can you tell us please if Lieutenant Garrett has been a pain in the ass his entire life?”

  Once again, the ready room erupted in laughter, until Commander Robinson decided it was time to wrap things up. Before he did, Colt thought a moment, smiled, and replied, “No, just since earning his wings!” The officers all stood and applauded enthusiastically as Commander Robinson shook Colt’s hand and then escorted the secretary of defense and his special assistant back to Flag country.

  When they had gone, and the officers in the ready room began to move around, Katrina approached and cornered Dan. “Have you had a chance to talk with your mom? How is she?”

  Dan turned to face Katrina. “She’s doing great! Still working out every day at her gym. She complained about some lower back pain, but when I said she should see a doctor, she said what she usually does, that doctors are for people who are really sick. She did mention that Dad had stopped by Olympia on his way out here and that she’s considering joining him in D.C. at some point. And she made me promise to stop blaming him for their separate living arrangements.”

  “Your old man doesn’t seem too bad — nothing like the hard-ass you’ve been telling me about.”

  Dan rinsed out his coffee cup and hung it on a hook above the sink. “Sometimes,” he told her, “people surprise you.”

  Electronic Repair Spaces, the Reagan

  Malcolm Simpson liked his job as a civilian system engineering contractor working for Boeing onboard the Reagan. A University of Oregon engineering graduate, he once had been awarded a full-ride Army Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) scholarship but was removed from the program during his sophomore year after failing a random urinalysis test. During his administrative discharge hearing, Malcolm tried to explain that his positive test results were caused by his attendance at an Oregon football rally where heavy clouds of thick marijuana smoke had drifted through the crowd. But the military had collected data that indicated one could not fail a urinalysis solely because of exposure to second-hand cannabis smoke. Malcolm was promptly released from the Army ROTC program and prohibited from ever serving in the armed forces of his country. He had even gotten dumped by his girlfriend, a nursing student, when he was discharged.

  But it was the loss of his scholarship that was particularly devastating for Malcolm. Since his family was not able to support his college tuition or living expenses in Eugene, he was forced to take a series of low-paying jobs to support himself and cover his expenses. College campus work was difficult to find in the small college town because of the relatively lar
ge number of job-seeking students. When Malcolm finally secured a job as a night janitor with the university, he considered himself extremely lucky.

  The job wasn’t particularly difficult — mostly emptying trash in campus buildings after they had closed for the evening. After a few weeks, Malcolm had determined how to get all his tasks completed within two hours, leaving the remaining two hours of his night shift free for studying, reading, or even streaming a movie. One late evening after emptying trash receptacles in the ROTC building on Agate Street, he passed by Colonel Webster’s office at the end of the hall and realized the last time he had been in that room was when he was told that he had lost his scholarship and was being dismissed from the brigade.

  Like most building janitors, Malcolm Simpson had master keys that allowed him access to individual classrooms and offices. He also had a curious eye and would occasionally glance around at things on people’s desks. Later that evening, he let himself into Colonel Webster’s office, where he began looking through the assorted papers on her desk. When he noticed a manila colored folder with the word “Confidential” stamped in red on the cover, his curiosity overcame him, and he opened the folder. Inside, he found reports concerning a recent military exercise that had taken place at Joint Base Lewis McChord. Each of the individual documents was also marked “Confidential” in red in the top and bottom margins. Each paragraph was marked with a red “C” or “U” indicating the paragraph was either confidential (C) or unclassified (U). If this got into the wrong hands, Colonel Webster would be in big trouble, Malcolm instinctively thought. But any concern over Colonel Webster, the woman who had taken away his scholarship, gave way to a promising and creative idea. He picked up the folder and searched for a copy machine.

  The next morning in his dorm room, Malcolm tucked a photocopy of one of the classified documents and a brief, typed note of his own into a plain envelope addressed to the Russian Consulate in Seattle. Several weeks later, he was contacted by a Russian intelligence officer and a meeting between them was arranged — a meeting that would launch a new chapter in Malcolm’s life.