Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  “After the first pass, sir, the Falcons will reform southwest of us for the intermediate phase of the exercise, sir,” Kincaid began. “They will orbit until we give the word, and then the four Air Force fighters will simulate a multiple air attack.”

  “Lieutenant, I want our fire control radar, once they’ve locked on to the aircraft, to maintain that lock on as long as possible.”

  “Sir,” Kincaid said while allowing his headset to drop around his neck, “I told the fire control technicians to drop lock once the aircraft passed overhead.”

  “I know,” Troy said, “but I want them to train on maintaining a fire control picture even when the target is opening up distance from us—good opportunity to get as much training as possible.” He turned and smiled at the young Mesa Verde lieutenant who was concentrating on the grading sheet on his clipboard.

  “Yes, sir,” Kincaid responded. He put the headset back on, pressed the red button on the ICS system, and passed the new orders to the AAW team.

  Petty Officer Schultz dropped his headset. “Lieutenant Kincaid, sir?”

  Kincaid leaned forward around Troy and lifted his headset. “Yes, Petty Officer Schultz, what is it?”

  “Sir, if we keep our fire control radar locked on to the Air Force fighters as they fly southeast, there’s a chance we’ll illuminate the French reconnaissance aircraft.”

  “Well, they shouldn’t be in the area,” Troy said.

  Shultz nodded, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” The second class petty officer lifted his headset and readjusted it on his head, thinking, Then you officers sort out that shit. Lord knows I tried to warn you, but I’m just a poor enlisted fool, so what in the hell do I know?

  Troy turned back to Kincaid, whose eyes met his. While Troy met his stare eyeball to eyeball, Kincaid slipped the right earpiece back in place and slowly turned back to the consoles in front of him.

  When the fighters reformed southeast of them, Troy would have the technicians tweak the fire control radar for a few seconds—tweak it in such a way that it locked onto the French reconnaissance aircraft. He’d have time to maintain the lock-on for a few minutes while the Air Force fighters orbited, waiting for Churchill and Mesa Verde to assess performance. During that time, attention would be focused on him and the Mesa Verde observer, who would be providing an initial debrief of their performance along with his indepth professional opinion on areas to improve. Grades were either satisfactory or unsatisfactory. It would be after the eight o’clock reports tonight before Troy would receive the formal report. While the observer debriefed him, his fire control radar would be painting the French reconnaissance aircraft. All he had to do was look surprised when the French aircraft dove for sea level and turned toward the Ivory Coast, flying as fast as any two-engine turbo-prop aircraft could fly.

  No, the F-16s would orbit long enough for him to include the Atlantique in the exercise. Long enough to scare the French out of the air. He shouldn’t do this, and he wouldn’t if he were where newspapers and television reporters were within reporting distance, but this was off the coast of Africa. Nothing was ever here. Plus, distance makes the facts grow fainter; and in basic FXP exercises, mistakes happen. He laughed quietly to himself. Yeah, mistakes happen. So sorry. Won’t do that again, sir!

  “What’s the holdup, Lieutenant Kincaid? We going to start this exercise or not?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kincaid replied. “A few more minutes and they’ll start their run.”

  “You’ve already said that. A minute here, a minute there, and the next thing you know we’re talking hours. Let’s get this show on the road, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Always the same level tone of voice. Can’t tell what you’re thinking, but I’ll break through that façade one of these days. Yes, I will.

  Troy watched the CIC team for several moments. The murmur of lips speaking into mouthpieces as they exchanged information or relayed instructions to each other. Young sailors wearing sound-powered headsets moved within the limits of the lines connecting their huge headsets to the sound-power system.

  Troy turned his head slowly, taking in the CIC team as they did their work in the shadows of blue light. Darkness breeds quiet. An intrinsic primal instinct, enduring through the eons from when mankind huddled around fire, whispering for fear of what lurked outside its meager light. He zipped up his jacket halfway against the extraordinary air conditioning that cooled and protected the sensitive electronics in CIC. The Electronic Warfare operator rested both elbows on the small table under her polar scope. A thumbed paperback book lay on the deck near her feet. Sailors were notorious readers, and none more so than on his ship. The AN/SLQ-32(V)6 EW systems she manned were flush against the forward bulkhead. Her blond hair, bunched up by the headset she wore, fluttered out both sides like misshapen wings, blocking from sight most of the EW display.

  Troy looked at the bulkhead with its yards of electrical runnings and pipes carrying water to the cooling systems on the ship. On the other side of the thin half-inch forward aluminum bulkhead behind the EW suite were the vertical missile launchers, the bulk of the ship’s firepower. A shifting pattern of light caught his attention, drawing him closer to where the fire control operators sat.

  Someone had updated the Tactical Holograph Display. The holograph display was the greatest piece of visual technology yet to come out of the Navy’s systems command. It provided commanders a pictorial profile of the battle space that surrounded their ships—air, surface, and subsurface. From any altitude to any depth. You programmed and it provided. The Navy leapt ahead in technology with the installation of holograph displays, leaving behind every navy in the world as it jumped from manual tracking where operators used pencils, trace paper, and calipers to three-dimensional, digital-quality holographic projections hovering over a lighted table. When the system was secured—turned off—it became a table. Still, it was a sensitive information system, and it drove Troy up the wall when he saw a cup of coffee or some other drink or food sitting on it. It was worse when the holograph was functioning and you looked at the bottom of the technology sea being displayed to discover little items of trash.

  Kincaid glanced from his clipboard to the clock. “Ten minutes, sir. Might be—”

  “Ten minutes!”

  “—slightly longer because one of them is having a slight problem with his connection. He’s broken off twice and this is his third time reconnecting. The others are orbiting, waiting for him to finish.”

  Troy looked at the clock. In a way, this delay was good, even if it went against his grain to start things on time and finish them on time. If God didn’t want you to do things on time, he wouldn’t have made clocks. He nodded, reached forward, and pushed the “talk” handle on the 22MC sound-powered speaker. “Bridge,” he said into the metal grill. “This is the skipper. Ask the XO to join me in Combat.” If anyone would do what he wanted, it would be his fawning, useless executive officer. When in doubt, bring in the ‘yes’ men. He ran his hand through his hair. No doubt, he knew what he was doing.

  A sailor apologized as he walked between Troy and the vacated operations console, drawing Troy’s attention to his reflection on the inactive screen of the console. Troy was a true professional, and it bugged the shit out of him when people questioned his orders. Plus, this wasn’t something he wanted to argue or discuss with his officers, and definitely not with the observer from the USS Mesa Verde. You couldn’t trust officers and sailors who weren’t part of your command to have any loyalty to you.

  “Roger, sir,” the metallic voice of the OOD responded.

  “Captain,” Kincaid continued. “For the second part of the training, the Intermediate Anti-Air Warfare exercise, the Falcons will simulate an attack from the southeast, sir. We’ll separate them ten or fifteen miles apart before they start the multiple air attack run.”

  Troy’s eyebrows bunched into a V. “I know that, Lieutenant,” he snapped. Did I ask him and forget? he wondered.

  “Yes, sir. I k
now you do, sir,” Kincaid replied in his monotone voice. “I was following your earlier order to repeat the exercise requirements to ensure everyone was aware of what to do. I wanted to show the captain that I knew it. With your permission, sir, I will wait until after the basic exercise before I remind the crew of our duties for the intermediate exercise. This would help avoid any confusion of the chronology of the exercises.”

  Chronology of the exercises! What crap! Oh, he was smooth, that one. He may have the contacts Troy could use, but he also had a smart-ass mouth that would get the fine career, Navy-family Lieutenant into trouble. Troy was no one’s fool; he wanted to befriend Kincaid, but he also knew that the young officer didn’t care for him too much. He sucked in his lower lip. Regardless of the pull and clout a junior officer thinks he or she has, the commanding officer of anything in which they serve could squash them like a bug. And, don’t think I don’t know that.

  “The radar return is starting to break apart, Skipper,” Petty Officer Schultz offered. Troy stepped over to the air traffic controller’s suite. On the panoramic screen, the large radar return created when the United States Air Force F-16/Falcons flew under the huge wings of the KC-135, combining the individual returns into one huge one, was beginning to break apart as the Falcons finished their refueling. A trained operations specialist such as Schultz could tell with a glance when he was seeing multiple contacts just from the size of the radar return.

  “They’re finishing their drink,” Troy said to no one in particular. “What about the Atlantique?”

  Schultz’s head tilted back as he looked down at the right hand quadrant of his scope. “The French reconnaissance aircraft remains in orbit southeast of us, Skipper,” Schultz said. “Figure-eight racetrack pattern from the track history trail on NTDS.”

  “Probably knows we’re going to do a cruise missile exercise, Skipper,” Kincaid added. “We’ve been in clear communication with the Mesa Verde during the morning, moving her position to off our starboard quarter so the metal mass of the Amphibious Transport Dock ship won’t create havoc with our electronics.”

  Troy turned as his Command Master Chief, Boatswain Mate Master Chief Timothy Watson, walked up. “Yes, sir, Skipper. As much as I love the Amphib Navy, every one of those huge ships is just a sailing jumble of antennae, disrupting everything and anything in the air waves.”

  “Thanks, Master Chief. And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

  Watson put his hands behind his back and slowly rocked on his heels, his legs spread slightly in the event the ship rolled suddenly. “Done with my paperwork, Skipper, and just did my ‘management through walking’ tour of the ship. Morale remains high, the food is good, coffee is hot, and the ship is clean. Life don’t get much better than this, sir.”

  Troy felt a tremble coming. He crossed his arms and fought to relax the muscles in them so it would go away. He only had these trembles when he tightened his muscles. The doctor at Portsmouth Regional Naval Hospital said it was caused by stress, but Troy discounted the diagnosis. Surface Warfare commanders didn’t get stressed. He looked up at the smiling master chief and sighed. He thought, What the hell! Why do glad-handling, cheerful shits surround me? “Thanks, Master Chief. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Troy looked forward and caught Lieutenant Kincaid’s eyes sliding off him and back onto the scopes in front.

  Master Chief Watson leaned over, tapped Kincaid on the shoulder, and winked when the Lieutenant turned. “Lieutenant, how are you, sir?”

  “He’s fine,” Troy interrupted. “We’re in the middle of an exercise, Master Chief.” Being at sea was where you made your bones, as an old Navy captain had once told him, but Troy also knew that being at sea meant being out of sight of seniors who ranked you against your peers. You could be the best damn sailor in the world, but if you were out of sight, you were definitely out of mind.

  “Master Chief, why don’t you go up and observe the exercise from the signal bridge.” The signal bridge was directly above the ship’s bridge. “Take one of our photographers with you and get some photos we can use.”

  “Sounds like a great idea, Skipper,” Watson replied. Troy saw the forced smile. “Should be fun. How often do four single-seat fighter aircraft fly completely across the ocean to conduct a simulated attack on Navy warships! Sir, if you need me, I’ll be topside enjoying some of this west African sunshine. And, if we’re lucky, the Air Force will complete their mission before they exceed their air time and have to stop to take crew’s rest.”

  Troy watched for a moment until the Master Chief, standing in the stairwell leading to the bridge, pulled the watertight door shut behind him. The less distractions the better. Master Chiefs were the top one percent of the Navy. No other promotion opportunities remained, so not much you could do to them and all of them seemed to believe in truth, honor, and the American way. Lord, protect him from people who had no chance for promotion. They could afford to be above the rabble of competition. He didn’t want anyone not associated with this exercise mucking around in Combat while they did their exercise and while he rid them of the French.

  The watertight hatch leading from the aft passageway opened and Troy’s lanky XO stepped into the Combat Information Center—Lieutenant Commander Joe Richman, a great American and patriot, strong like a rock; swift like a tree. Richman would be coming from Engineering. That was where Troy sent him this morning, and, unlike when Troy was an XO, Richman would have stayed in Engineering until summoned. All Troy wanted was for the man to review the engineering logs, check the fresh water and fuel supply, and do a courtesy inspection of the fresh water plants. His XO was a true example of work expanding to fit the time allotted. If he told Richman to turn out the lights in Engineering, the man would do it, do it gladly, and stay there motionless in the dark until someone told him he could leave.

  Troy watched as the man from Iowa, that silly grin on his face, weaved his way between the consoles, and leaned down to say a few words to the operators who all greeted him as he passed. Troy’s left arm trembled, forcing him to close his eyes and mentally relax his muscles. At night, he would lay on his back in his rack, concentrating on his breathing while his thoughts moved from one part of his body to another, relaxing the muscles one by one until eventually he fell asleep.

  He was the commanding officer and, when he asked— no, told—someone to come, they should be heading toward him as if their hair were on fire. Not meandering along as if out for a Sunday stroll. The XO and Master Chief acted most times as if they were on equal terms with his command of the Winston Churchill. The Master Chief found pleasure in telling him things he didn’t want to know about. Oh, no, he’d act as if he hated to do it, but deep down, Troy knew the man was dancing with glee whenever anything happened that was bad for the ship.

  The XO never told him anything he didn’t ask. The tall potato boy from Iowa would grin and agree with anything Troy said. Or is it Idaho where potatoes come from? Richman expected him to recommend the junior commander for command, but how could he—a dedicated Surface Warfare Officer—recommend an officer who showed no initiative for command? Richman was so lax and laid back that Troy doubted he would argue with the adverse Fitness Report sitting in the safe in Troy’s inport cabin. It would also show the board that Troy Harrison was not above identifying those unfit for leadership. It would be an oblique feather in his cap for Captain, and with enough small examples of objective leadership, the scrambled eggs of an admiral’s hat weren’t far away.

  “Captain, you call, sir?” Richman said, saluting smartly.

  Troy thought, Can’t you speak to me without whining? Without returning the salute, Troy replied, keeping his eyes on the consoles arrayed in front of him. “Yes, I did, XO.” Then, he turned and looked Richman in the eyes for a moment. Reaching out, he took Richman by the arm. “Step over here near my chair, Joe. There’s something I want you to personally oversee and do. Something to help us do our best in the exercise.”

&n
bsp; Richman allowed Troy to pull him the ten feet or so away from Kincaid, Schultz, and the thin observer from the USS Mesa Verde. When Troy reached his chair, he dropped his grip and looked around the compartment, making sure they could talk without anyone overhearing their conversation. The captain’s chair in the center of the compartment blocked the view of anyone watching them. People always watched the CO and XO when they talked. They were the two whose decisions affected each and every life on board the Winston Churchill.

  He went over in detail what he wanted the XO to do, then did it again. Richman’s head bopped like those heads on figurines bought and stuck in the rear window of cars. Troy never knew when the XO truly understood what he was to do or not until the man either screwed it up, which was often, or returned to report it being accomplished. Iowa, Idaho, the southern states in toto—nothing but country bumpkins, rednecks. Christ! Glad I’ve never been stationed down there with their ‘y’alls,’ ‘yonders,’and ‘yokels,’ he thought.

  He was going to go over it one more time with Richman, when Lieutenant Kincaid interrupted them to report the basic AAW exercise had commenced. The Air Force fighters were making their approach.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Troy snapped. “I wanted to know when the exercise was ready to begin, not after it was already underway.”

  “Aye, my fault, sir. I thought I had mentioned it was going to begin in ten minutes, about ten minutes ago.”

  There it was again—the tremble. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Kincaid. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You may return to your station.”

  Kincaid was putting his headset on when Troy turned to Richman one last time. “You understand what you’re to do?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. And it will be done as you directed, sir.”