“Oh, bosh. I simply don’t like being followed around, that’s all.” In truth, she had never felt in danger as ambassador. Perhaps it was because she never took herself as seriously as other people seemed to.
“And if word got out that we were increasing my personal security, it could send the wrong signal,” she continued. “It’s more of the challenge, you know — to prove that you can break through anything. But what glory is there in coming after me while I’m alone? None. Indeed, if anything, they’d look foolish attacking a defenseless woman.”
“Just contingencies, Ambassador,” Brad continued doggedly. “That’s all.”
She eyed him for a moment, and then said warily, “And what would it involve in terms of my personal freedom?”
“Nothing. I need a small operating budget, probably from petty cash, to make certain arrangements. I would ask you to memorize a couple of code words and one or two safe locations. That’s it — that’s all.”
“That’s all?” She laughed. “Code words and safe houses to memorize… nothing like having to learn by heart an entire welcoming address in Arabic.” And to this day, she had no idea what she had truly said to the League of Arab Women that had held its international convention there in New York. Whatever it had been, it had been received favorably.
“That’s all, I promise you.” There was a new look of fervor in his eyes. “I would hold myself personally responsible if anything ever happened to you. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Wexler studied him for a moment. “Low blow, Brad. You knew that would get me.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true. And you know it.”
Suddenly weary of the discussion, and tired of going over the issue again and again, she waved him off. “Okay, you’ve worn me down. Make your arrangements. I’ll be a good, obedient ambassador and cooperate.” She gave him a sideways look, and said, “As long as it doesn’t involve cameras and two-way mirrors in the bathroom, okay? I draw the line at that.”
A look of relief crossed Brad’ face. “Thank you, Ambassador.”
She waved him off. “Oh, posh. All you people fussing about me — I guess the only way to get you to stop is to give in.”
FIVE
TFCC
USS Jefferson
Tuesday, May 4
2330 local (GMT +3)
CVIC was located perhaps a hundred feet astern of TFCC, but the distance between the two was more than merely a matter of hatches and knee-knockers. As Lab Rat walked down the passageway and moved from the highly polished white tile, through the blue plastic curtain and into the blue-tiled flag spaces, he wondered how many times he had made this trip.
And every time he walked through that blue plastic curtain, he shifted hats from his role as part of ship’s company to his role in the battle group. On the ship’s side of the blue curtain, the primary considerations were internal: the care and feeding of the air wing on board, the machinery that kept the carrier cruising safely through the water, self defense against sea-skimming missiles, and station-keeping with the other ships in the battle group.
But once you crossed over into the blue-tiled passageway, you were in a different ballgame. No longer were the concerns merely about the carrier. No, Admiral Wayne commanded the entire battle group from this passageway, and that staff dealt with far-reaching strategic objectives: the safety and well-being of every ship, aircraft, submarine, and support service in the theater. Their concerns were global, not limited to the area around the aircraft carrier. They maintained a broader perspective, a higher level of focus.
But knowing the different orientation of the battle group staff didn’t mean that Lab Rat’s role in CVIC was any less important. Without a coordinated intelligence picture, the battle group staff could not function effectively. Yet it was interesting that the primary intelligence coordination organization within the battle group was housed in ships spaces rather then along the blue-tiled corridor.
Perhaps, Lab Rat thought, as he pushed aside the blue plastic curtain, it was more a matter of how easy it was to move around the ship. Personnel were supposed to avoid the blue passageway, the flag passageway, unless they had business with a battle group staff. To have extended the blue tile down to CVIC would have meant placing another of the short passageways that ran across the ship off limits.
Lab Rat walked through the admiral’s conference room into the small foyer that led to both TFCC and SCIF, the Specially Compartment Intelligence Center. The hatch to TFCC was standing open, as it often was during underway operations. He stepped over the knee-knocker and searched in the darkness for the admiral.
As he had suspected, Batman was pacing in the small space, stopping from time to time to talk to a sailor or an officer, signing messages and papers that were thrust at him, occasionally conferring with his chief of staff. Most of these matters could have been handled more easily in his cabin, but Lab Rat had noted over several cruises that Batman was almost incapable of remaining in one place for very long. How he had survived in the Pentagon was beyond the intelligence officer’s understanding, given Batman’s fondness for pacing.
And why was he spending so much time in TFCC? Did he feel that same uneasiness that Lab Rat and the chief felt, the lingering sensation that things were not as they seem to be? Perhaps — Batman was an extraordinarily intuitive individual, Lab Rat had found, and seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble.
“Lab Rat,” Admiral Everette “Batman” Wayne’s voice boomed. “What you got?”
“I’m not certain, Admiral,” Lab Rat said. With other officers, he might have to try to appear more confident than he actually was, but his experience with Batman told him that the admiral preferred the straight scoop. “There are some alterations in patrol fly-by altitudes, some unusual activity along the border between Iraq and Iran. I’m not sure what they’re up to, but it all seems focus on a desert area next to those abandoned aircraft hulks.”
Batman eyebrows shot up. “You think they’re going to try to fly them? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. All I know is there’s a change in the activity patterns, and that worries me. That, coupled with the latest political reports — well, take a look yourself. You’ll see what I mean.” Lab Rat passed the admiral the pictures of the construction taking place in the desert.
Batman immediately saw the significance to it. “It’s going to be an airfield,” he said, his voice quiet. “I don’t like the looks of this at all.”
“I recommend we increase our CAP,” Lab Rat said. “Just as a precaution, Admiral. Not that I really think anything is about to happen, but—”
“—but if it does, there’s no time to get ready. Yes, let’s do that. I don’t like the way this is shaping up at all.”
The rest of the TFCC watch team had been surreptitiously eavesdropping, and Lab Rat saw the flag TAO already picking up the white phone to speak with the ship’s TAO further forward along the 0–3 passageway.
“Launch the alert-five Tomcats,” Batman said to his TAO. “And bring everybody else up a notch.” He cocked his eyebrows at Lab Rat. “Anything else?”
“Are all of our close-in weapons systems already in full auto?”
“Yes, Admiral,” the TAO answered immediately. “I’m not sure about the cruiser, though.”
“Tell them,” Batman said. “Captain Henry is a sharp guy — he’ll understand.”
Captain Frank Henry, the commanding officer of the Aegis cruiser USS Lake Champlain, was indeed no dummy. A graduate of the Naval Academy, with postgraduate work in nuclear engineering at Stanford, along with a host of military higher education including the Naval War College. Lab Rat had found him to be an extremely down-to-earth officer, one equally capable of handling himself in the Pentagon or on the deck plates with his sailors. He would get the message immediately — something was up, even if no one knew what it was.
From overhead, they heard the low, hard rumble of Tomcat engines spooling up to full military power. On the plat cam
era, they could see the flight deck crew scurrying about, preparing for launch. The alert-five Tomcats had already been sitting on the catapult, fully manned up and preflighted. They could be launched within a matter of minutes. The jet blast deflectors, or JBD’s, were already rising up from their flat position on the flight deck to shield the rest of the flight deck from the tornado-force winds blasting out of the jets’ engines.
“Two flights — four Tomcats,” Batman said reflectively. “I hope that will be enough. But since we don’t know what is starting, and what we have to be ready for, we have no idea of what constitutes enough.”
Flight Deck
“Now, this is more like it,” Bird Dog said enthusiastically. “Sure beats sitting in the ready room, doesn’t it?”
Yep, the worst day of flying is better than the best day on the ground. Now, let’s see what Music is made of — damn, I hope he’s not as much a pain in the butt in the air as he is in the on the ground.
Bird Dog pressed himself back against the seat and braced himself for launch. He watched the catapult officer’s hand signals, circled his stick through its full range of motion for a final check on all his control surfaces. The plane captain made one last check of the pin holding his nose wheel steering gear to the steam catapult shuttle, and finally they were ready.
The catapult officer snapped off a salute, then dropped down to touch the deck. With his hand in the air, he pressed the pickle switch on the catapult actuator.
The Tomcat built speed slowly at first, but within a matter of moments accelerated to full takeoff speed. It shot down the catapult, held in place by the shuttle, and was unceremoniously tossed off the pointy end of the ship.
The Tomcat dropped below the level of the flight deck, and, as always, Bird Dog had a moment of shrieking panic that they weren’t going to make it. That was when you knew for certain whether you had gotten a soft cat from inadequate steam pressure behind a catapult, and whether or not you had enough airspeed to overcome both drag and gravity.
But his trustworthy Tomcat bit into the air, enormous engines straining against gravity, and the thrust gradually lifted them up and away from the hungry ocean. Over the ICS, he heard Music start breathing again.
Bird Dog concentrated on gaining altitude, making sure not to go nose-up too fast and stall. As soon as they were clearly flying, he cut hard to the right, breaking off and heading for his CAP station.
“It must be serious, sir — Bird Dog, I mean,” Music said. “They just pulled the alert-fifteen crews out to alert-five.”
“Serious — hell, that’s great!” Bird Dog crowed. “Gator will have his butt parked in the backseat out there just like we were — it doesn’t get any better than that.”
Once they were clear of the ship, his wingman joined him, taking position on his right side and slightly back. Bird Dog didn’t know that much about Fastball Morrow — the gossip in the ready room was that he was a good stick, but anybody could look good in the training pipeline. He hadn’t finished his first cruise yet, so as far as Bird Dog was concerned, he was still a nugget. And nuggets were dangerous, at least until you learned what they were made off.
USS Lake Champlain
2340 local (GMT +3)
Inside the combat direction center, or CDC, Captain Henry was just getting a quick overview of the situation from his TAO when the admiral’s call came in. He recognized the admiral’s voice in the call-up and took the mike from his TAO. He listened to the admiral’s suggestion that his CIWS be placed in full auto, and nodded.
“Roger that, Admiral. We’re already in full auto, but I appreciate the heads up. Anything specific we ought to be watching for?”
“Nothing I can pinpoint for you, Captain,” Batman’s voice boomed down over the speaker. “You know how it is sometimes — you get that hinky feeling it’s all about to go to shit. And I’ve got an intelligence officer here who agrees with me.”
“Lab Rat?” Henry asked.
“Yep, he’s the one. You should have Tomcats overhead shortly, Captain. Just keep an eye on them, make sure they don’t get out of line.”
Captain Henry chuckled slightly. Like the cruiser would really have any control over the pilots manning the Tomcats. Still, it was nice of the admiral to ask. “Will do, Admiral.” After he replaced the mike, Captain Henry made a visual check on the CIWS system status.
As he had told the admiral, the key arming it in full auto was already inserted, and all stations were reporting ready for action. But if anything was going down, CIWS would be their last resort.
The Aegis fire control system itself was still in manual, requiring human intervention to launch missiles. They could, if in high tempo operations, configure the Aegis computer for fully automatic operations. But in the constrained waters of the Gulf, with the airspace overhead cluttered with commercial flights, transports, as well as the occasional Air Force tanker who forgot the check-in with Red Crown, full auto was not the preferred mode of operation.
“You heard that?” the captain asked his TAO.
The TAO nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re ready — count on it.”
“I know we are. But the question is, ready for what?” He studied his tactical action officer for a moment.
Lieutenant Commander Abe Norfolk was his weapons officer. Norfolk was a veteran of the cruiser community, experienced and capable, well on his way to a command of his own someday. Captain Henry had liked him immediately from the moment he checked on board. Not that that was a requirement, of course — all he really demanded from his officers was that they demonstrate superb tactical competence. But in the close quarters of a cruiser, it helped that everyone got along.
Abe stood six-foot four inches tall, and weighed in at around 230 pounds. He was a massively boned black man, and one who clearly took working out seriously. Like everyone on the cruiser, he had a difficult time finding both the time and the facilities to maintain his conditioning program. Captain Henry was not entirely certain how he managed it, but he suspected Norfolk had not lost one inch of mass in the three months they’d been at sea.
In addition to his imposing physical condition, Norfolk was also a Rhodes scholar. He had attended undergraduate school at the University of San Diego in California, majoring in physics. He had quickly put that knowledge to use in conducting departmental training, and now most of his enlisted technicians sounded as though they had completed the graduate course in weapons engineering. Captain Henry often found himself chuckling over the phrases that he heard coming out of his enlisted men’s mouths and he felt an intense flush of pride when he saw the occasional equation scribbled on the hard plastic surface of the enlisted mass dining facility tables. Writing on the tables, particularly in pen, was strictly forbidden.
But there was no way he was going to do anything about it — hell, he was tempted to cut those scribbled-on pieces out and mount them on the bulkhead, point to them with pride as he showed others around the ship and shout, “This is what these men and women are capable of, given the chance. Don’t ever underestimate them — not ever.” For some of his toughest cases, kids who had barely graduated from high school, Lieutenant Commander Abe Norfolk was a god.
“Captain, you want to set general quarters or air defense conditions?” Norfolk asked.
“What would you do?” Henry responded. It was his policy to use every second for training that he could, to test his officers as well as his enlisted people on their readiness to advance to the next level of responsibility. Not that he had any doubts about Norfolk — no, not at all.
“I would pass the word quietly around ship, sir,” Norfolk said. “Key personnel, but then decide who needs to know. Knowing these folks, they’ll soon start drifting into Combat just to keep an eye on things. General quarters — no, not yet. It will only wear them out, use them up before we really need them. Besides, that Commander Busby — he’s one smart spook.” Norfolk used the Navy slang word for intelligence or cryptological officer. “If it were serious enough to be setting
general quarters, he would have let us know.”
“Exactly so,” the captain answered. And it wasn’t a polite comment — Norfolk had reacted exactly as Henry had.
During the pre-sail conferences and staff conferences since they’d been underway, Captain Henry had taken Norfolk with him several times to the carrier. There, they both got to know the rest the staff, and when messages like this came in over the wires, they knew who they were dealing with. And Norfolk was right about Lab Rat — the intelligence officer had an instinct for trouble that was simply uncanny. If it had been more urgent, Lab Rat would have let them know.
“Tomcats are on station, sir,” the air track supervisor said. Two blue symbols were arrowing out from the carrier to the cruiser, the target numbers displayed next to them and the shape of the symbol showing that the computer had identified them as friendly contacts. One of the modes of the IFF was especially encrypted, and would have identified the contacts to the computer as a friendly military platform. Even in full automatic, the Aegis cruiser missile system would not have attacked them.
“Any more word on that submarine?” Henry asked Norfolk.
Norfolk shook his head. “Not a word, sir. But Chief Clark and Petty Officer Apple are champing at the bit to get hold of it.”
Norfolk didn’t have to tell him that. He’d seen Chief and Apple in the sonar shack already, and each one gave the appearance of having been there for several hours. It was clearly not their watch, but they were there anyway, just watching. “Don’t let them wear themselves out,” he warned Norfolk. “They will if you let them.”
Norfolk nodded. “I threw them out about four hours ago, with orders to hit their racks. You think they look rough now, you should have seen them then. It’s a definite improvement.”
“Good thinking.” He grinned down at his TAO, absurdly pleased with him. For just a second, he considered placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, giving it a hard shake. But then he drew back. As satisfied as he was with Norfolk’s performance thus far, it never worked to let an officer think he’d achieved every goal set before him. It could lead to laziness — he was certain it wouldn’t in Norfolk’s case, but that’s not the way he trained his junior officers.
The Art of War c-17 Page 4