Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  “Good,” Troy acknowledged. One thing about his sycophant XO, he knew the man would do just what he was told, when he was told, and how he was told. Of that, Troy had great confidence. What Troy lacked was confidence that his XO understood what he was being told most of the time. If only the man had better comprehension skills, they’d have less mishaps and misunderstandings. It never occurred to Troy that fault may lie in his direction. For some unknown reason to him, he had more than his share of officers and sailors on board his ship with whom he interfaced daily who seemed confused over what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted something.

  “Okay, XO, go make it happen.”

  “Yes, sir. You can trust me.”

  “I have never lost my trust in you, XO.” But then again, I’ve never had any to lose. He smiled at his silent joke.

  Troy moved back up to his position near the TAO and the exercise observer.

  “Captain, with your permission, sir, I’ll have the Air Force fighter comms piped through the speaker.”

  “Make it so, Lieutenant,” Troy said. He glanced toward his chair. He really should be sitting in it and having his officers and crew approach him with their information. A slight muscle spasm vibrated his left leg. Sure, he was nervous, but navy heroes through history had been nervous when they were doing something for their nation.

  Troy briefly had second thoughts about having the XO assume control of the fire control operator and directing the sailor to switch off the fighters for a moment and lock onto the French reconnaissance aircraft.

  If he didn’t do it, there were no lost opportunities; but if he did it and the French stayed away, the slight hiccup in the exercise report could be exploited as a future covert method to rid themselves of unwanted company. The lawyers wouldn’t be happy, but when has anyone ever seen a lawyer with a smile?

  What was the worst that could happen? he asked himself. Well, worst case was that the French would complain to the U.S.; but in today’s Navy, having a ‘French whine’ was slang for doing something right.

  “Skipper,” Lieutenant Kincaid said. “They’ve returned to the staging point, regrouped—”

  “Regrouped? Why in the hell did they turn back, Lieutenant Kincaid?”

  “Sir, you wanted to watch the exercise from beginning to end, and they were only about a minute inbound, so actually we hadn’t started the exercise. It only took a few minutes to return them to the starting point. They’re now in position and we’re ready to commence when you are, sir.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Pipe their communications over the speaker so we can hear them. Is the Mesa Verde in position?”

  “Yes, sir. The amphib has completed its shift and is off our port quarter, four thousand yards—two nautical miles. She’ll be able to watch and enjoy the spectacle while our fire control radars and guns revolve with the inbound aircraft.”

  Troy ran his hands through his sandy brown hair. “Not the same thing as it was when I first came in the Navy eighteen years ago. Back then we had missile batteries above deck and you could track the target from topside by watching the batteries turn in unison with the fire control radar. Now, with the missiles below deck in a vertical launch position and hidden by covers from prying eyes of the enemy, you can only watch the fire control radars and you never know if they’re on target or not. Not the same, but technologically superior.”

  “Yes, sir. Not the same as when you came in,” Lieutenant Kincaid said.

  Troy cut his eyes to the left, trying to tell if Kincaid was serious or being sarcastic. Of course, eighteen years in the Navy was a long time, and with the exception of Master Chief Watson, who had twenty-six, and a couple of the senior chiefs and one chief petty officer, Troy had the most years of Navy service. Kind of a badge of honor to be brought up when he knew he led the pack.

  “Alpha Whiskey, this is Falcon leader,” came the broadcast from the speaker directly overhead. “We are ready to commence. Be advised that after the final exercise we need to be freed to continue to final destination— Monrovia.”

  “Probably crew’s rest,” Troy mumbled.

  “Roger, Falcon Leader, understand. First exercise is basic anti-air warfare AAW-1-1. We will have Aegis fire control radar operating in lock-on mode. Missiles are disconnected and disarmed. Rules of engagement are one Falcon simulating cruise missile while three remaining aircraft fly same path at current altitude. Our challenge is to track inbound F-16 with air radar, switch to fire control radar, simulate engagement, and maintain lock-on as aircraft departs area. As F-16 nears five-nautical-mile range, we will activate Close-In Weapons System—CIWS. This should provide us with tracking, long-range engagement/shootdown, and close-in engagement shootdown training.”

  “Roger. Understand. Air Force standing by to provide United States Navy training it needs.”

  “Tell him I send my compliments and appreciation for them taking time out of their transit to help us in this exercise,” Troy said to Lieutenant Kincaid.

  Kincaid passed the compliments as Troy listened. Kincaid went through the engagement checklist, which took a minute longer than Troy wanted—he looked at his wristwatch, ensuring the young Lieutenant saw him do it— before Kincaid asked the skipper for permission to commence the exercise. Troy was thinking more of the expression on the French faces aboard that reconnaissance aircraft when they found themselves lit up and locked on by the Winston Churchill’s fire control radar. What he wouldn’t give for photographs of the event! Unfortunately, although the French aircraft was within visual range because of its altitude, it was too far away for easy eyeball contact.

  The low murmur common to the Combat Information Center rose slightly as everyone prepared for the exercise. Speckled throughout CIC—a compartment that stretched the entire width of this Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyer—the sound-powered telephone talkers relayed information to the watches topside, the bridge sound-powered talker, and to Engineering. Huge black helmets with headphones inside of them worn by the young sailors manning this critical information link reminded Troy of giant insect-like mandibles. Sound-powered telephones had been a staple of Navy warships since World War I. Regardless of the condition of the ship—it could be burning, powerless, and drifting with the current—as long as the sound-powered lines remained intact, the crew had internal communications. Sound-powered telephones were manned constantly when a ship was underway, with topside watches checking in with the bridge and combat whenever a visual contact was made. Within combat, a sound-powered telephone talker was always present, and at each console was the capability to join a sound-powered circuit. When a ship went to General Quarters, as the Winston Churchill was at this minute, additional sound-powered positions were manned to include Engineering and the damage-control stations.

  Troy moved to the holograph display to watch the exercise. He listened to Lieutenant Kincaid give the Air Force fighters directions for their approach. To his right, standing over the shoulder of the fire control technician who manned the venerable AN/SPY-1 Aegis radar system, stood his executive officer, whose head rotated between Troy and the presentation on the Aegis fire control polar screen.

  Troy had spent two weeks in Commanding Officer School relearning the specifics of the Aegis radar. People called it a radar system, but since its entry into the fleet in 1977 aboard the test platform USS Norton Sound, Aegis had blossomed into the workhorse combat system of the fleet. It wasn’t just a radar. It was four megawatts of advanced combat weapons control system that was continuously searching, tracking, engaging, and controlling multiple missiles in flight against over a hundred targets. No modern warships, excluding warships like that damn amphib he was escorting to Liberia, sailed without Aegis, to his way of thinking. Ships like the aged Spruance-class destroyer ought to have been mothballed or sold for razor blades decades ago. If he went through Jane’s Fighting Ships and ‘X’ed’ out every warship that had obsolete information systems, the U.S. Navy would be half its present size. People like his C
ommand Master Chief were another anachronism. If you can’t keep pace with technology and its impact on warfighting, then—by God—put your papers in and walk the sideboy gauntlet. Let those like Troy who prided themselves on keeping up with the information world keep the Navy moving forward.

  “Skipper,” Richman said, catching his attention. About ten feet separated them.

  Troy nodded.

  “Sir, how long you want to illuminate the French Atlantique?”

  He shut his eyes. He opened them to see the surprised expression on Lieutenant Kincaid’s face. He eased around Kincaid and moved to where the XO stood.

  “Long enough to get his attention, XO, and keep quiet. I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry to know what you’re doing. Now, listen to me, when the Frenchie turns away toward land or takes evasive action, drop the lock-on. But,” he warned, “you’re going to have keep your lock on the four fighter aircraft simultaneously as they fly away from our position.” His smile was intentionally tight. “Don’t want them saying we specifically targeted the French.”

  “Skipper,” Lieutenant Kincaid interrupted.

  Troy looked over his shoulder to see the TAO standing there. Kincaid held his headset in his right hand, the cord trailing along the deck to where it was connected ten feet away.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, if you’re about to do what I think you are, I respectfully recommend you reconsider. Sir, if we intentionally lock on to an aircraft—or even a ship—of another nation in international waters, then, sir, we invite them to take appropriate action to defend themselves.” Kincaid’s voice seemed almost pleading.

  Troy thought, Well, where’s your monotone voice now, young man?

  “I know,” Troy snapped. “This is not an intentional lock-on. It’s just serendipitous that the Atlantique happened to be in the fire control radar cross-section of Aegis when our fighters fly off in that direction.”

  “Sir—”

  “That’s enough, Lieutenant. I don’t wish to discuss it. This is my decision. Your job is to focus on the exercise. My job is to take whatever actions I deem appropriate to enhance the security of our small naval force. We don’t want another USS Cole incident—”

  “Sir, the USS Cole was in port and—”

  “Lieutenant, go do what you’ve been ordered to do. Thanks for your advice. If I want more, I’ll ask for it. Meanwhile, you make sure we pass this basic exercise.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Kincaid said. He turned away, lifting his headset and readjusting it on his head.

  Troy looked past Kincaid. The Mesa Verde observer had been watching them. For a moment, he wondered if the visiting officer had heard their conversation, but then he relaxed as much as he could—the muscles in both thighs were trembling. He couldn’t have heard enough to figure out what they were talking about, if he had heard them at all.

  “Captain, you think Lieutenant Kincaid is right, and we should, maybe, not do this?”

  “XO, don’t be an ass at this time. Riches go to those who reach for them. Besides, what possible action could an unarmed French reconnaissance aircraft take against us? Fly overhead and flush its honey bucket across the ship?” He stopped abruptly. His voice had been louder than normal. “You do what you’ve been ordered to do. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Richman said.

  Troy turned away and returned to his previous position. What if Kincaid is right? he thought. What if this backfires? A ship’s crew needed confidence in the man— and sometimes woman—who led them. Sure, he’d been the commanding officer for ten months, but this was the crew’s first time deployed with him. This was an opportunity for him to show that the “old man” wasn’t adverse to taking actions against forces that threatened the USS Winston S. Churchill—Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyer, hull number DDG-81. Others in CIC pulled their headsets back onto their ears. He thought, Had they been listening?

  As he walked behind Lieutenant Kincaid, the man turned. “Captain, I really do believe it would be in our— your best interest not to do this,” he said in a soft voice.

  “It doesn’t hurt for us to flex our muscle every now and again, Lieutenant. I thought a brief flash of the fire control radar, just enough to light up their early warning devices, might cause them to abort their mission. But, you may be right. I’ve told the XO not to do it,” he lied.

  “Yes, sir. I think it’s the right decision, sir. They’re operating in international waters, conducting a peaceful mission much like our own reconnaissance missions. If we did this—”

  “If we did it, Lieutenant, we wouldn’t see them conducting hostile reconnaissance missions against U.S. Navy forces in this area for a long time to come,” Troy scolded, each word spoken clearly and firmly in his best leadership voice. He mentally patted himself on the back. Even on the best-run ships, such as his, the crew needed to be reminded periodically who the commanding officer was. “So, I don’t want to hear anymore. Your objection was noted and acted upon.”

  Kincaid nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  There it was, back again—the monotone voice. Troy smiled. This was the first time he could recall when Kincaid had stepped out of character, when his voice actually took on some life. There may be hope for the man after all.

  Kincaid turned his back to Troy and leaned down over the air intercept operator’s shoulder. Troy stared at Kincaid’s back for a moment and then stepped to the right where Petty Officer Schultz watched the air picture as the assigned air traffic controller.

  From the speaker overhead came the voice of one of the F-16 pilots. “Alpha Whiskey, this is Falcon four; I am your missile for this afternoon’s event. I am descending past angels two-zero heading for angels three. My range to you is thirty miles.”

  “Roger, Falcon four; we have you on radar. Falcon leader,” broadcast Petty Officer Schultz, “we have you on radar, sir, at angels two-seven, heading one-five-zero at four hundred knots. Request confirm.”

  “Alpha Whiskey, Falcon leader; confirm altitude, heading, and speed. Request instructions.”

  “Alpha Whiskey, Falcon four; passing angels ten, descending angels three.”

  “Roger, Falcon four; continue descent. Continue reporting, Falcon leader. Continue current heading and speed. Maintain current altitude unless told elsewise.”

  The sound of a microphone being clicked twice acknowledged the ATC’s instructions.

  Troy glanced at the small fighter aircraft icon on the holographic display as it entered the outer range. He moved to the display to watch events unfold. Everyone had his or her assigned duties. Wasn’t much he could do to change events now. They either performed well—which they would—or would face his wrath in training and training and more training.

  Thirty miles wasn’t much. Aegis could cut through radar and environmental clutter up to a hundred miles away, and with the right conditions could bend its signals to the curvature of the earth for another fifty to hundred miles. This AAW exercise also taught the crew how to use the ship’s weapons to fight a close-in air attack, so the rules of engagement tying their hands to fully use the Aegis weapons systems was limited to exercise restrictions.

  He remained quiet as the air tracker reported an inbound missile. With a critical eye, he watched Lieutenant Kincaid direct the fire control technician to switch on the fire control radar function of Aegis. A few seconds later, the FTG manning the console reported lock-on. Five minutes later, the fighter aircraft simulating an inbound cruise missile reached five nautical miles from the ship. Its altitude continued to drop, passing a thousand feet and continuing to descend. Lieutenant Kincaid ordered the Close-in Weapons System to take control.

  TOPSIDE, MASTER CHIEF WATSON RUSHED FROM ONE SIDE to the other; the young third class petty officer operating the 35mm camera ran to keep up with him. They took photographs of the CIWS mount as it twisted and turned, its gatling gun protruding from the slit in its white dome. The gears whirled, and a faint metal-on-metal screech rode over the co
nstant noise of a working warship as the guns tracked the inbound aircraft in unison with the CIWS fire control radar. The ship maneuvered right to left and then took sharp turns back to the right as it shifted its heading to increase the firing zones for the weapons. These moves also created a zigzagging in hopes of fooling a modern cruise missile. The CIWS turned nearly vertical as the aircraft flew directly over the ship.

  “How about that, sailor!” Master Chief Watson shouted, pointing at the CIWS mount. “Make a mark of it, because you won’t get to see that often.”

  The sailor raised the camera and clicked off a shot at the CIWS.

  “Now, don’t take photographs of everything I point out to you. I don’t want to run out of film before the exercises are over.”

  The sailor shrugged. “I got loads of film, Master Chief,” he said, patting the pouch strapped to his waist. “Loads of film.”

  Over head, contrails marked the presence and course of the three other Air Force F-16s as they flew by the Surface Action Group. Master Chief Watson shielded his eyes as they followed the low-level fly-by and as he watched the fighters pass overhead. Beside him, the clicking of the sailor’s camera accompanied the young man’s constant murmurings of awe: “Oh, God. Oh, God!” Watson smiled. Nothing new under the sun, except to a young man or woman who had never seen it.

  The fire control radar of the starboard-side Vulcan Phalanx took over from the port-side CIWS and tracked the simulated cruise missile outboard from the USS Winston S. Churchill as the fighter aircraft began to ascend to rejoin the F-16 formation. The Aegis radar was integrated into the hull of the ship along the forward forecastle. Aegis did its job digitally, so no noise or indication of a change of radar tracking and fire control lock-on was visible or audible to those topside or below decks. Boy, he missed the old fire control radars with their quick, sharp jolts as they tracked aircraft along their narrow beams.

  TROY GRINNED. HE WATCHED THE RADAR REPEATER AS THE Air Force fighters passed over the Churchill and continued on their southeasterly course. As the Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyer continued on its course at twelve knots, it caused the F-16s to initiate a left-bearing drift to track the ship. Was he great or what! He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. Two minutes—max—he estimated, and you’d be able to run a straight line from the Churchill through the F-16 formation directly to the French Atlantique reconnaissance aircraft.