Joint Task Force #3: France

by David E. Meadows

  “Sorry to wake you, Skipper,” she boomed, her raspy voice bouncing off the bulkheads. “Didn’t want to . . .” She stopped for a moment and put her broad hand against her chest. “Whew! Those ladders could kill a girl!” She took several deep breaths, expelling them through her nose.

  The sound reminded Xavier of a horse snorting. He shook his head. Horses were beautiful animals, but women tended to get upset if you compared them to one. Wasn’t meant to be an ill thought. Maybe somewhere within that broad chest hid a bullhorn.

  “There!” she said, dropping her hand from her chest. “Skipper, Admiral Holman is holding on the secure telephone for you.” Her thick eyebrows furrowed into a shallow V as she emphasized the importance of the telephone call.

  Xavier slung the covers back, revealing the gray gym shorts and shirt in which he routinely slept, “USNA” embossed in blue on both. Gym attire was the most suitable alternative for sleepwear in a coed navy. He was up and out of the full-size rack in seconds.

  “I’ll be right there, Ellen,” he said. He yawned, reached up nonchalantly, and ran his hand once through his thinning and graying brown hair. He caught the slight shake of her head from the corner of his eye and wondered for a brief second what that was about.

  Which would win, he wondered briefly? Would he have a head full of gray hair or a head with no hair at all? He smiled at Ellen. She nodded sternly back as if recognizing that he understood the importance of a telephone call from their boss, the Commander Amphibious Group Two. He sighed. His executive officer had little tolerance for those who failed to see how important everything was. He knew she was waiting for him to follow her regardless of his dress, but admirals didn’t hold on telephones, someone else did it for them, so he took his time. It looked as if he was going to have to order her out of his stateroom so he could get dressed.

  As if reading his last thought, Fulbright blushed slightly, saluted, and with marching decibels shouted, “Aye aye, Skipper!” She did a smart about-face and slammed the door behind her. “I’ll head back to Combat and tell him you’re on your way!” she shouted from the other side of the door, her voice fading ever so slightly as she marched off down the passageway.

  “You do that, XO,” Xavier replied softly. No one to hear his comment in the empty compartment. He shook his head and grinned. It wasn’t hard for anyone to realize Elinor “call me Ellen” Fulbright loved her job, loved the Navy, loved the adventure, and loved being XO. If she had a sense of humor to oppose her seriousness, she’d have a lot more fun in the Navy. He chuckled as he recalled, at his urging, her attempt to tell a joke at the last “dining-in” in Norfolk. Admiral Holman had been their guest speaker. Everyone had edged forward on their seats, listening to Commander Elinor Fulbright tell a joke. The wine glass in her hand sloshed the stuff onto the table and on the heads of those with the misfortune to be seated beside her while she stammered through the tale. Some have this intrinsic skill to be able to tell the most casual of tales and have everyone rolling on the ground in laughter. Others take jokes and humor and, with little attempt, kill them at the first word. Ellen was one of the latter. She had finished the only joke she knew and shoved the wine glass forward in a mock toast. This sent the contents halfway across the open area within the tables, nearly splashing Admiral Holman. Laughter brought the place down. Not because of the joke, but because it was the first time any of them had ever heard her try to tell one. The Navy was just going to have to have Ellen as she was. She was ecstatic. Now the challenge had been to convince her that everyone had already heard the lone joke of Ellen Fulbright so she’d never tell it again.

  He pulled a pair of socks from his chest of drawers and tossed them on the bed. Bottom line was she was good. He was happy with her. She met Xavier’s concept of a good XO. Unafraid to tell him what she thought, even when it conflicted with his ideas. Sometimes he agreed, and they went her way. Sometimes not. When they went his way against her advice, an outsider could never tell the two had differing opinions. She was pure Naval Academy, acting as if she fully and wholeheartedly supported whatever the old man wanted, even when he knew in her heart she still thought he was wrong. Xavier long ago discovered the old adage about there being “more than one way to skin a cat” was a good leadership philosophy. Tell them what you want and see how they go about doing it. Sure, they’d do it differently than you would, but in the process they learned, and sometimes you did. It also built loyalty because it showed trust. Allowing subordinates to argue their recommendations was an important element of leadership and developing future captains for the sea. It didn’t matter whether he thought the advice or recommendation was doable or valuable—sometimes he thought it ludicrous— but what mattered was that they knew he would listen. Being a great listener was a more valuable leadership trait than being a great speaker.

  He lifted the report from the bedstand, thumbed quickly through the ten-page, single-spaced package. Several things in it concerned him. The low morale within the wardroom that the lieutenant implied was in itself enough to merit an inspector general visit. But if what his lieutenant, who had been the exercise observer on the Churchill the day of the F-16 formation disappearance, wrote was accurate, then he had more than a legal problem. Why would that upstart Harrison deliberately lock a fire control radar onto a non-hostile aircraft? It made little sense for a man on the fast-track to Admiral to do something this childish, this illegal, and this stupid. International convention marked such deliberate events as acts of war.

  He would do what he always did when confronted with something so important that it could have far-reaching consequences, but didn’t require an immediate decision. He would think about it. Give this one a well-thought-out decision. One to two more days weren’t going to kill anyone— at least he hoped not.

  He knew he was going to have to assign an officer to conduct a Judge Advocate General Manual, a JAGMAN, investigation to gather statements and develop a better picture of what had happened. A regular line officer did these, with the legal animals of JAG reviewing the work when completed. A JAGMAN would provide better information than half-heard and half-seen perceptions from his lieutenant. As he pulled on his underwear, his thoughts were on sending Admiral Holman a “personal for” message later with the details, and sometime today issuing a SECRET operations report on the incident. He knew that when he did, it would be like a dam blowing, releasing millions of gallons of water. The flood of requests, questions, and directions would fill his radio shack and a number of careers could be washed away. Meanwhile, he still had a couple of days to refine his course—or courses—of action.

  Captain Xavier Bennett slipped on his bedroom slippers and stepped into the private bathroom on the starboard side of his at-sea stateroom. With the exception of when an admiral occupied the lone flag suite on board the Mesa Verde, Xavier was the only person on board with his own private head. Another perk of command at sea. He pushed the thoughts of the report aside. Take the telephone call first, then tomorrow morning ask his legal officer to look at the lieutenant’s report.

  The sound of water flushing down the commode filled the background as he quickly finished dressing. Walking toward the door, he pushed the end of his belt through the buckle, pulling it back slightly to lock the clasp. He stepped through the door, gently shutting it behind him.

  The radio shack was nearer, but the people most interested, who would have to act on orders resulting from the upcoming conversation with his boss, the Commander Amphibious Group Two, would be in Combat, so he’d go down the extra deck and cross the extra frames so they wouldn’t feel left out. He smiled, knowing his XO was tapping her fingers on something, worried that his slow pace to answer the call would reflect badly on him and the Mesa Verde. He didn’t worry about the admiral tapping his fingers on the other end, waiting impatiently for him to pick up. The admiral had his time at sea and knew the routine. One of the admiral’s officers, most likely his executive aide, would be the one on the other end waiting patiently for Xavier
to acknowledge his presence. Then the admiral would come on the line.

  Xavier ducked as he stepped through a watertight hatch between frames along the passageway. He smiled, recalling a two-star admiral he served with years ago who enjoyed making his own telephone calls. His favorite game was when someone on the other end made the faux pas of putting him on hold. The admiral would hang up and go about his business, knowing that on the other end, bedlam was breaking out as the officer he called was either dialing him back ASAP, or, worse, the young sailor or junior officer who answered the telephone failed to catch the admiral’s name. When that happened, the bedlam was vivacious, with much wailing and arm waving. Xavier also knew from experience that it was mouth drying, because the admiral had a reputation as a screamer. It had been a mean habit, with only the flag officer enjoying it.

  Ten minutes after Elinor Fulbright had shocked him from sleep, Bennett stepped over the transom of the watertight hatch into Combat. He stopped for a brief moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the soft blue light of the compartment. Then he moved between the consoles, working his way to the Combat Information Center Watch Officer and took the proffered handset from him without a word. The First Class Operations Specialist, the leading petty officer for the mid-watch hours, handed him a cup of coffee. He nodded at the man and took a quick sip as the petty officer faded into the shadows of the darker spaces. Good. No milk. No sugar. And, most importantly, fresh.

  The faint ozone smell of electronics wafted along with the odor of fresh coffee, riding the light breeze of cool air circulating through CIC. Below the soft murmur of CIC conversation and sound-powered telephone reports, a constant hum from the electronics provided a steady background noise. These electronics analyzed and displayed a continuum of data that poured into giant computer servers buzzing away in a compartment several frames from CIC. Giant computer servers, acting like gigantic data mixing bowls, churned the new data, updated the old, and created a common operating picture for the users. Data from organic sensors on the Mesa Verde, data from satellites passing overhead, data riding a line-of-sight communications link from the USS Winston S. Churchill, steaming twenty miles north of their position, and data pushed by intelligence agencies and other commands thousands of miles away in the United States arrived via satellite links into the information cauldron of the servers. The servers then mined the millions of bits of data sent to the Mesa Verde and graphically displayed the results on the consoles. Hidden away from day-to-day operators who used those consoles, a small group of system administrators worked constantly to keep the information flowing by manipulating the cyber world and keeping communication ports and protocols working.

  Xavier pushed the small diamond-shaped transmit button on the red handset. The musical notes of the cryptographic keys synchronizing filled the speaker. “Captain Bennett here for Admiral Holman.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Lieutenant,” he said softly to the Combat Information Center Watch Officer. “Take this off the speaker while the Admiral and I talk.”

  A few seconds later, the Commander Amphibious Group Two picked up on the other end.

  “Harry, Dick Holman here. How’s everything going?”

  Only a few, such as his mother, called him Xavier. Even his wife called him Harry.

  Admiral Holman started to say something and the circuit lost contact, cutting the admiral off abruptly. Xavier waited patiently with the handset to his ear. It was not an unusual occurrence at sea, where most communications were via satellite.

  Hearing the admiral address him as Harry caused Xavier to recall how his oldest, his daughter Mary, had come home upset when she was in the third grade when she discovered her father’s real name was Xavier, not Harry. He grinned at the recollection.

  Static stopped abruptly on the line. Xavier nodded. It meant that the information technicians were resetting something or switching to another communications portal.

  Yes, his daughter had been almost as upset as when she discovered at age sixteen that she had no college fund. Why? she demanded. Everyone at school has one; some have as much as two thousand dollars in theirs. Probably if he hadn’t laughed, she wouldn’t have been as upset as she had been. College funds were unnecessary for a Bennett. Bennetts went to the Naval Academy. He did, his father did, and his grandfather did, and eventually Mary did. He hoped she was enjoying her new assignment as the assistant operations officer aboard the guided-missile destroyer USS Stribling. Her ship was engaged in gunfire support to the Marines ashore in Indonesia. Even though she was a mile or so offshore, he still worried for her safety.

  The static came back for a moment and then cleared.

  “Harry, you still there?”

  “I’ve got you fivers, Admiral. We’re fine out here. We’re still searching for survivors, but after this long a period, it is very doubtful there will be any. The sea’s been calm, increasing our visibility. We’ve found lots of debris, but nothing of the pilots. I believe we’ve found everything floating. Some of the search areas we’ve covered three times, hoping something might pop up to the surface.”

  “I’ve been reading your reports. They’re all starting to look the same.”

  “Like I said, Admiral Holman, we haven’t found anything new in the past thirty-six hours. Most everything we recovered was during the first day of the search.”

  “I understand, Harry,” Holman said. Xavier detected the resignation in his tone. No one wants to give up hope for the fear that a survivor is out there waiting for rescue. Also, there is the knowledge that someday you could be the one floating out there waiting for someone to pull you out of the sea.

  “Admiral, I received the Second Fleet deployment order this morning detailing USS Grapple, ARS 53, from Little Creek to the area to probe beneath the waves. I think it’s the right move. We’ve reached the point where a rescue and salvage ship is the only feasible way we’re going to recover the bodies and possibly additional wreckage.”

  “Yeah, Harry, I talked with Second Fleet before the message went. The Grapple is deploying with one of our two east coast deep submersibles on her.”

  “That’s good. Do we have an arrival date, and do you want me to continue the SAR until she arrives?”

  “What’s your recommendation, Xavier?”

  Xavier smiled. The admiral switched between Harry and Xavier as if unsure which one Xavier preferred. To Xavier, he answered to both as easily as to one. “Admiral, we just ended our third day of searching. The Churchill is twenty miles north of my position—you have those positions, sir?”

  “I got them right in front of me, Xavier. I’m playing combat information command on my desk like a grammar school kid—with a chart, a pair of calipers, and a couple of number-two pencils.”

  “Yes, sir. As you know, we’re conducting a coordinated grid search. My ship is two nautical miles west of the center grid at—”

  “I have the coordinates, Harry.” Xavier heard a huge sigh come through the speaker. “Xavier, I don’t want to tell you to quit, but I agree with you. I think you’ve found all you’re going to. We need to free you up to let you continue on to Harper, Liberia, and discharge the 133rd “kangaroos can do” Seabees. General Thomaston says if they don’t start their work on the port and airport soon, they’ll run the risk of being caught when the monsoons hit next year,” Holman said.

  Xavier hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting retired Lieutenant General Thomaston, late of the 82nd Airborne. General Thomaston was fast becoming a legend not only in America, but throughout Africa. The retired three-star Ranger immigrated to Liberia with nearly a hundred families several years ago. Two years ago, after defeating a rebel army lead by the notorious terrorist Abu Alhaul, General Thomaston had become the president of the interim Liberian government.

  “Roger, sir. I understand. My recommendation, Admiral, is for us to run into Harper and discharge the Seabees. Then, if the situation merits it, we can return to the search area to help the Grapple while its deep submergence vehicle searches for a
dditional debris on the bottom. It’s only a couple of hundred miles from here to Harper. We can leave the USS Churchill as Officer in Tactical Charge of the search effort. My helicopters have the legs to stage from the Mesa Verde flight deck while we’re tied up pier-side in Harper.”

  “Sounds good, Harry. You go ahead and make it happen. That way we can continue a search for survivors while making both the acting president of Liberia and your Seabees happy. I’ve already received two telephone calls from the head Seabee himself stressing the importance of getting them off-loaded and working.”

  “Aye, Admiral. Will make it happen. Anything else?”

  “A couple, Xavier. One, once you reach port, remain port-side until told otherwise. I don’t want you rushing back out to sea unnecessarily.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  There was a noticeable pause before the handset crackled in response to the person on the far end pressing the talk button. “Just you and I on this circuit, Harry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is sensitive, and I’m having my intelligence officer Mary Davidson send you more information.”

  “I’ll be looking for it, Admiral,” Xavier replied, wondering what information could be so sensitive that instead of passing it via secure voice, the admiral insisted on sending it via message. “Anything you can tell me until Mary’s message arrives?”

  “I’ll tell you this, Xavier. There’s a possibility that the loss of those F-16s wasn’t accidental. There’s a chance they were shot down.”

  A chill went up Xavier’s back. Mentally, he quickly reviewed the series of events before responding. “Sir, that would be impossible. There was nothing in the area with the missiles to shoot them down but us, and we didn’t even fire our guns. There were no foreign warships in the area, and the only other visitor was a French Atlantique reconnaissance aircraft, which fled the area when the F-16s collided.”

  “We’re not sure they collided.”