Joint Task Force #2: America

by David E. Meadows

  “Hold on, my fine French friend,” Upmann said, holding his hand up, palm out.

  Tucker caught a slight flash of anger cross the Frenchman’s face, quickly hidden behind a forced smile and the nod he gave Captain Upmann. Looking back at Upmann, he saw no recognition that the Chief of Staff understood—or, if he did, cared—the slight he’d given the French teammate. But he also recalled the sense of humor the French had when they would laugh at someone for their faux pas. Where had it been? Oh, yes, Marseilles, 2006, during a port call. He and a fellow male friend had been reconnoitering the dockside bars, soaking in the French social life along the waterfront. He had turned to his friend when they stepped into one of the rougher establishments and said, “Shut the door.” The establishment had gone quiet when they entered. When he said, “Shut the door,” they had erupted into laughter, ordering them drinks and singing drunken sailor songs until the wee hours, asking numerous times for them to say, “Shut the door.” Shut-the-door became more slurred as the night wore on.

  It was only later, near the end of the night—or had it been the beginning of the day—Tucker had discovered that “shut the door” sounded like the French je t’adore, meaning “I love you.” The French sailors had found it amusing for American sailors to keep saying ‘I love you’ to each other.

  “. . . the contact reported before we lost contact with them.”

  Tucker felt foolish. He should be paying attention instead of recalling liberty ports and fun times ashore.

  “What do you think, Commander?” Upmann asked Tucker.

  He didn’t know what he thought. Like a mouse in a trap. “I’m not sure what you mean, Captain?”

  “I mean if the contact reported was last on a northeasterly course . . .”

  “It means the rogue ship is heading toward England, Europe, or will attempt to go through the Strait of Gibraltar,” Tibbles-Seagraves offered, avoiding eye contact with Tucker.

  Marc St. Cyr shook his head, his dark hair remaining immaculately in place. “No, I disagree,” he said in a rising curt voice. “I do not think they will go through the Strait of Gibraltar.”

  “Why?” Admiral Holman asked.

  “Because, Le Admiral, if they’re going to go into the Mediterranean, there are easier and better hidden ways to get there than sail from western Africa through the Strait of Gibraltar. They could have sailed from Libya or Algeria. They could have trucked it across the continent via Turkey and Greece. No, I do not think they will go to the Mediterranean. What I think is that they are heading toward Rotterdam.”

  “You may be right,” Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves said. “But I would have to quantify the destination as Rotterdam. While Rotterdam is a damn fine choice to disrupt the European economy, sailing up the Thames and blowing up this superbomb in the middle of London would be along the lines of this terrorist organization. It would not only be an attack on both an economic mainstay of the global economy but against the Western world.”

  “France is not the Western world?”

  “It could be one of many choices,” Admiral Holman said. He looked at the aggrieved St. Cyr. “The good thing is France, Great Britain, and America are in agreement that the rogue ship is heading toward Europe and away from America. That means we’re shifting from the original operational plan of dispersing our fleet along the East Coast to defend the homeland to one of defending our European allies.”

  “That means we’re going to pursue them?” Tucker asked.

  “Yes, in a way, Commander. We’re going to pursue them, but you aren’t, which is the real reason you’re up here.”

  Admiral Holman moved away from the table and over to the green couch braced against the forward bulkhead. He sat on the edge of an arm of the couch and casually crossed his legs. Tucker expected the Admiral to slide off onto the deck at any second. “You three with the other members of your allied Special Forces are going to be off-loaded. We are sending you back ashore to Little Creek,” Admiral Holman said. “Between the ship heading northeast and the approaching storm, our shores should be safe long enough to hop across the Atlantic and take out this latest threat.”

  “But, sir, if you run into this ship . . .”

  “Commander Raleigh, if we do, then the French- or British-led teams will be responsible for taking it out. You’re going to be detached to Special Boat Unit Twenty under Commodore West. That’s in the event we’re wrong and/or the rogue ship survives being sunk by the storm and is detected off the East Coast.”

  Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves covered his mouth with his fist and coughed, drawing their attention. “Sir, with all due respect, having three teams will increase the flexibility of the operations, and, even if I do say so myself—if they run into more opposition than they can handle, we would be a welcomed asset; I am sure you agree, sir.”

  “You’re correct, Wing Commander. Having three teams would be best, but the agreement between Washington, London, and Paris is we divide this operation into three distinct lines of authority. Right now, Paris will assume command until it is sure the rogue vessel is not headed toward France or the European mainland. . . .”

  Eyes shifted toward Captain St. Cyr, whose head tilted up slightly, chin stiffened, as if slowly coming to attention; the man’s eyes focused on Admiral Holman.

  “In the event the vessel’s ultimate target is Great Britain, command will shift to Northwood, north of London, for their prosecution.”

  St. Cyr’s chin lowered as everyone looked at Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves, who nodded sharply, never breaking his concentration on Admiral Holman.

  “Sir?” Tucker Raleigh asked, raising his hand.

  Holman held up his hand. “We can’t take a chance they may change course and head toward the United States from a different direction. That being said, our agreement also says we will keep our teams within their own areas of responsibilities. The USS Boxer has two other SEAL teams on board that can be thrown into the fray if they need them. Plus we have Cobra attack helicopters that can blow the hell out of the ship if it looks as if the Special Forces team can’t capture it.”

  The three Special Forces men exchanged looks.

  “I guess, sir, if we know where it is then why don’t we just launch some F-18 Hornets and blow it out of the water?”

  “Because, Commander Raleigh, we need to know just what that weapon is they loaded on this freighter. What does it do? Is it nuclear, as the French suspect? We think so. Both we and the British agree with their assessment. Do you know what this does to the war on terrorism if those spreading anarchy and death around the globe have nuclear weapons?” Holman held up one finger. “They only have to have one. They’re like mines. You only have to throw one into the water to make the entire fleet start mine-hunting just to make sure there’s only one. No, we can’t take a chance on the ship reaching land, but at the same time, we need to know what the weapon is. Therefore, we will attempt to capture it at sea.”

  “Yes, sir. Then that makes it even more important we be involved in this operation.”

  Holman nodded, glancing at Captain Upmann for a moment before turning to face Tucker.

  “You know, Tucker, if it was up to me, I would; but you, Captain St. Cyr, and Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves have to return to Little Creek.” Holman sighed and held up his hand. “Gentlemen, that is the end of the argument. I know how you feel. I’d feel the same way if someone told me to turn around and head back to port when I know the enemy is ahead of me.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Tucker acknowledged.

  Holman reached over and pulled a chart of the eastern United States toward him. The outline of the coast identified various navigational landmarks while small black figures dotted the waters, identifying the rolling depths.

  “Come closer, gentlemen,” Holman said.

  Upmann reached over and pulled another chart in front of the Admiral. This one encompassed the Caribbean Sea and part of the central Atlantic. “Thanks, Leo.”

  “We are her
e,” Holman said, placing his finger on the waters southeast of Virginia Beach, “on the farther end of the Virginia Capes operating area, VACAPES, as Surface Warriors like Captain Upmann call it, about one hundred nautical miles off shore, along with twelve other amphibious ships spread out in a line along this one-hundred-mile line.” He leaned back and put his hands on his hips, reaching up for a moment to pat his left shirt pocket. “Each ship is separated by thirty miles as we patrol our sector. Nothing can get through that can’t be visually seen for nearly seven hundred miles in the area that Amphibious Group Two has been assigned to patrol. Now, I’m going to regroup my command, under the orders of Commander Second Fleet, and head east. That means the Coast Guard will replace us, only they will be operating at about twenty to thirty miles off the coast and only have six ships they can deploy.”

  “Will this be leaving our coast uncovered, sir?” Tucker asked.

  Holman shook his head. “It will reduce the coverage because the other ships of Second Fleet are returning to port, not only because Intelligence believes the rogue vessel is headed toward Europe but because of the approaching storm. If this ship should change course, we expect they’re going to run smack dab into the U.S. Navy steaming right at them.”

  Tucker watched as the creases along the Admiral’s forehead deepened. Holman looked up from the charts at Tucker. “Commander, you may have a point. The one thing I have learned over the years is to always expect the unexpected and you’ll never be disappointed.”

  “We have our carrier the Charles de Gaulle coming out of the Mediterranean,” St. Cyr volunteered. “It has its full complement on board.”

  “That you do, Captain,” Holman answered. He reached over, shuffled the papers on the table, found what he was looking for, and held up a message. “This is the operational plan for bottling up those assholes. My good friend, and yours, Captain St. Cyr, Admiral Colbert has operational command from the middle of the Atlantic east to Europe and every spot of water starting one hundred miles south of England. Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves, your country has the OPCON of our three fleets north of those boundaries.” He tossed the message back onto the charts blanketing the table. “The Royal Navy’s new nuclear aircraft carrier, the HMS Churchill, has broken off sea trials in the north sea and is leading its battle group toward the English Channel. The British report their carrier battle group will be through the Channel and in position at the edge of their area of responsibility by late tomorrow night.”

  A brief knock on the stateroom door drew their attention. The operations officer, Captain Buford Green, entered. Buford’s heavy Southern accent belied the Rhodes scholar brain behind it. Many first-timers in meetings with Captain Green came to regret their miscalculations after a session with this Georgia bulldog.

  “Buford, glad you could make it,” Upmann said.

  “Admiral, sorry for my lateness,” he said, drawling out the last word. “But we have an update on the search for Reconnaissance Flight 62.”

  Everyone turned toward the Commander, Amphibious Group Two, operations officer. “The four P-3 Charlies operating north of Recce Flight 62 landed safely at Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico. After refueling, they took off in a fan search toward the area where Recce Flight 62 last reported their position.” He looked down at his shoes. “So far, Admiral, no joy. They have been ordered to return. Sun sets in about an hour down there, plus wind speed is picking up and rain is increasing in intensity. Our weather-guessers say the storm will either hit Puerto Rico or skirt by it to the north. Either way, they have put themselves in a position where they are right.”

  “Is there any way to keep them out there, Buford, for a short time after sunset? You can see lights on the water for miles in the dark.”

  Captain Green unfolded a slip of paper he had been holding. “I’ll check and see, sir. I think they want to ensure they don’t lose a second aircraft so soon after Recce Flight 62. A couple of other things, Admiral. Commander, Second Fleet, continues to be Joint Task Force America, but because the Atlantic Fleet is being ordered further out to sea to pursue this rogue vessel further east, they have taken the coastal operations away from us, sir.”

  “So, we are no longer running the Atlantic coast operations?”

  Green shook his head. “No, sir. The Joint Chiefs of Staff have shifted responsibility to Northern Command for the defense of the coast. I suspect the Navy four-star at Northern Command will have the pleasure of working with the Coast Guard.”

  Holman nodded. “I can understand the shift of responsibilities. It’ll be hard for us to execute two operations at the same time, and Northern Command is officially tasked with Homeland Defense. So, tell me, Buford, what is the search-and-rescue plan for tomorrow?”

  “That’s the second shoe, Admiral. Second Fleet has asked Admiral Pfeiffer at Roosevelt Roads to assume SAR responsibilities.”

  Holman nodded. “Good decision. Makes sense,” he said, glancing down at the charts. “Would have been nice if I had had a chance to comment, but one thing we learned from September eleventh; you can’t fight a war by committee. Someone has to make decisions, make them fast, and hope they’re close enough to be right. As I always say—”

  “ ‘Give me an eighty percent solution and I’ll go to war with that,’ ” Captain Upmann finished.

  “Leo, remind me to transfer you when I return,” Holman said good-naturedly.

  “So, what other good things do you have to tell me, Buford?” Holman asked.

  Green opened the brown folder and handed the Admiral a sheet of paper.

  Tucker recognized the paper as that used by the intelligence and meteorology departments. Downloaded satellite images were photocopied on this slick imaging paper, and when the machine printed it out, it left the unused side of the sheet with a shiny, slick gleam as if a fine coat of oil had been brushed across it.

  Holman looked at the image on the paper. Tucker caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. St. Cyr moved forward toward the coffeepot sitting on a table across the room. Tucker looked over at Tibbles-Seagraves. The British SAS operative’s eyes had narrowed, focused on his French counterpart. The spread of the SAS man’s feet was not lost on Tucker. Did Tibbles-Seagraves really believe the French Special Forces partner was dangerous? The posture of the shorter Brit told Tucker the man was ready to make a move if something happened. Of course, the French had a long history of being the English foe. It should concern him, but no one would try something here—aboard a U.S. Navy amphibious aircraft carrier.

  He turned his head in time to catch St. Cyr peering over the Admiral’s shoulder. Intelligence collection! He should have known. The French were notorious about their intelligence collecting even against supposed allies. They had a different slant on it in comparison to the Americans and English, whose intelligence and military ties were so close that many times it was transparent to where the intelligence information originated or whose military forces you were working with.

  Holman handed the paper back to Green. “And what does this mean, Buford? Maybe we should have our weather-guessers up here?”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral. They’re scheduled to brief you following this meeting. What it means is a tropical depression in the middle of the Atlantic has shifted course to a more northwesterly heading. And unless we want to go through the bulk of the storm, we’re going to have to change our course to a more northerly heading for a couple of days.”

  Holman looked up and saw St. Cyr pouring coffee. His head twisted around to look at Tucker and the British SAS trooper. Tucker saw the expression turn to amusement as the Admiral looked back at St. Cyr. “Coffee good, Captain St. Cyr?”

  The Frenchman took a sip. “It will do, Admiral.”

  “Good.” He turned to Tucker. “Tucker, you three prepare for transfer. One of the Mark V’s will be closing our position within the next couple of hours. You should have a nice ride in these developing seas on the Special Operations Craft. Captain Green will take care of arranging a helo with the Ai
r Boss to take you across to the small boy.”

  The ship rolled slightly to starboard and then righted itself. “Buford, looks as if the storm has already reached us.” For a ship the size of the USS Boxer to be affected by the seas, the waves had to be higher than normal or picking up strength.

  “Just the fringe of it, Admiral. It’ll pick up in the next twenty-four hours, and if we still have the pleasure of being around this area in the next three days, we’ll get to see what an eye of a tropical storm, just shy of a full hurricane, looks like.”

  “Captain St. Cyr, Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves, and Commander Raleigh, it has been a pleasure to serve with you,” Holman said, dismissing them. “I think you’re going to have a rough ride back to Little Creek in that eighty-two-foot patrol craft. Hope none of you are prone to sea sickness.”

  After shaking the Admiral’s hand, the three Special Forces men left the compartment. Minutes later they were in the stateroom where the ship’s executive officer had assigned them bunks. Normally, a person of Captain St. Cyr’s rank would have had a one-man stateroom, but unknown to the three men, Admiral Holman had dropped a hint that for security reasons it would be nice if the three shared the same six-by-eight-foot room. The French were known to march to their own interests, and Holman’s experience off Liberia did little to resolve his intense distrust.

  THE BOATSWAIN MATE FIRST CLASS MANNING THE helm of the Mark V Special Operations Craft took a hand off one of the long sticks controlling the waterjets, reached up, and pushed in the controls to the wipers. The spray of the rough seas slammed against the windows, shattering into millions of droplets to rain back down with the next spray. The sprays arrived in such quick succession that it seemed as if a fire hose was aimed at the windows, diffusing one moment and blocking the sailor’s vision the next.

  “Watch your course, Jenson!” the young Lieutenant standing to the helmsman’s right said, his right hand above his head holding tight to a handhold like those in subway cars.