Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  I think I know exactly when I decided that my life would be the Navy. It was when we realized those bastards were hiding over the border and using Cambodia as a staging area for killing Americans. I never thought much of the war one way or the other and kind of thought that we were wasting our time in Vietnam, but as long as there was an American being shot at, I always thought we ought to stand up for ourselves. When I decided to send those planes in, I made a commitment to myself to stay in the service. Perhaps I decided there has to be someone around to make up their mind when American servicemen are being killed. I have no doubt our government is going to get me and a lot of others in the same position again, and I want to be sure someone like me is going to be there to protect the troops. That sure looks a bit foolish on paper, but I had to get it down so I'd know why when I start asking myself what the hell I'm doing in the Navy six months or six years or sixteen years from now.

  If I had the guts, I'd fly back to Washington right now to talk this over with Sam Carter. But he might say I'm wrong, and I'm not ready for that yet. He is a strong believer in maintaining the separation between the civilian and the military, regardless of the way the politicians keep committing lives without giving the poor grunt the opportunity of all the protection the country has to offer. There's a question of objectivity there that Sam and I could argue about, but perhaps all my ideas aren't ready to be punctured quite yet.

  I won't make myself available for any combat assignments again for a long time. Not only was Mundy right about taking such chances, but now that I have Maria, there is suddenly more to live for than I ever imagined. And she's taught me so much, beyond just how to love. Perhaps it was some of the things she's said to me that made me come to the decision I mentioned above. She told how she stood out on the rocks near the Cliff House the day Enterprise left for Vietnam. She watched the ship pass under the Golden Gate, her deck empty except for the plane-guard helicopters. Then she heard, before she actually saw, the Phantoms passing low overhead, only moments after their takeoff from Alameda. They swept ahead of their carrier in formation, then circled as Enterprise turned into the wind to take the air group aboard. She thought one of them had tipped its wings, as he always said he would whenever they went to sea, but she was never sure. She told me how hard she cried, so hard she couldn't drive home for more than an hour afterward. Somehow, she knew he wouldn't come back.

  What hurt her the most after he was shot down was his attitude, that he always felt he'd get through, that it would be the other guy who wouldn't bail out. I think that's why I've changed my attitude about my own survival. The other reason is simply that she wouldn't agree to marry me at first if I stayed in the Navy, and then she relented when Sam promised her he'd always be looking over my orders to make sure I stayed out of trouble. I think perhaps the fact that the Navy made it quite clear that they wanted me to keep a low profile for quite a while helped change her mind. Now, I have a responsibility other than myself.

  The other thing that Sam and I did discuss again before he went back to Washington was his old concept of power. Since that first time he talked about it, I've done a lot of reading and a lot of thinking. Use of power and abuse of power are hard to differentiate sometimes. And power doesn't always have to come from sheer might. The VC proved that to me. Power can be ninety percent in your head, and I suppose that goes right back again to the German General Staff. The VC used their heads to take advantage of their land and our American egos. When that happens, you can create the biggest bang in the world, but you're not going to impress anyone other than yourself if the enemy is simply waiting for the smoke to clear so they can get back to the business at hand. That's what they always did, whether they were slipping into camp on a hit and run, disappearing during the day, or hiding on the other side of the border. And they made more use of American stupidity than anything else. The concept that you allow your enemy to shoot at you and then let them cross an imaginary line where you don't go after them is the dumbest idea any civilian ever thought up, and I think even Sam agrees with that. The politicians constantly let us beat ourselves. Clauswitz spent a lot of time writing about that, so I guess that proves wars don't change much in a hundred years, even if the weapons do.

  I need this time at school. Monterey is a lovely place. I'm married and happier than I've ever been before. I have time now to learn more about myself and maybe grow up a little bit. No more of the American warrior for a while. I'd much rather be a professional military man in the intellectual sense. Perhaps if there are enough of us, we can keep the civilians away from wars. Maybe what bothered me more than anything else over there was that while I was practicing being good at my job, a lot of people were dying to satisfy politicians' egos and academics' theories.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sailor on the small flight deck raised his arms to signify over the noise that all was clear. A helicopter lifted slowly from the deck, rotors cutting the air with a whistling sound to compete with the roar of the engines as California moved away from under it. Then, obviously clear, it hurtled rapidly upward before swinging out and away from the ship. Already another of the choppers had appeared, hovering behind the ship, waiting its turn to land and retrieve more of David Charles's staff for their transfer to Nimitz. Inside the cabin of the first helicopter it was much quieter, enough so that the occupants could hear themselves talk.

  “When we're about halfway there, have him take her up to five thousand feet,” said David. “I'd like to take a look at the others,” He was referring to the additional ships that had joined Nimitz and her escorts moving northward after her feint toward South Africa. Knowing that the Russians followed each move of the U.S. carriers, he had sent Nimitz on a supposed visit to Capetown as soon as he had been made aware of the situation surrounding Islas Piedras. He hadn't actually expected Gorenko to believe he would permanently shift his flag to a cruiser and send his airpower off to spread goodwill at a time like that, but he wanted to keep them guessing. The Russians were almost paranoid about American movements that did not fit into their way of doing things.

  “Approaching five thousand, sir,” came the voice from the pilot's cabin.

  “Hover,” he casually said as he leaned to look below him. “Or slow circle ... or whatever the hell he wants to do, as long as I see the whole damn force,” he added.

  Below, the Indian Ocean stretched out before him in a blue, shimmering expanse in whatever direction he looked. It was broken only by the sun's reflection on the whitecaps that twinkled back at him incessantly—and the outlines of the mighty ships cutting through the water. To the west was Nimitz, the mightiest warship afloat, tremendous even from that altitude. Scattered in every direction were the smaller cruisers, destroyers and frigates, each scurrying for a point around the carrier now that the two forces were joining. The Admiral for whom the carrier was named would never have dreamed that a formation could actually exist when each of the ships was at such a great distance from the others. His great task forces of the forties were composed of many more ships, but they never had to fear an atomic attack.

  Further to the west and south were the service forces, ready to provision those non-nuclear-powered ships that would require fuel or perhaps even munitions if it became necessary to use weapons. And even farther away to the west, off the east-African coast, were the amphibious ships with their marines going through the exercise that had been so carefully planned the previous year. It had been announced the year before to assuage the fears of the other nations that Islas Piedras might be the reason for the Marines' presence. Only the attack submarines were not in view.

  They circled for a few more moments as he counted the ships again, checking over in his mind what his flag lieutenant always had on his clipboard—the description of each ship. He noted that Frank Welles, Nimitz' CO, had placed the Aegis-equipped defensive vessels ahead of their line of movement, reserving the smaller frigates for whatever might be required later. Then he noticed the bigger ships reversing their course.
He finally pointed down with his thumb, nodding that he was ready to land. The moment he was there the joyride would be over. He would go inside the great ship to an artificial world of darkness, air conditioning, red light, and no visible change in time. There would be no day or night unless he allowed himself to stroll for a few moments on the flight deck or kibitz on the bridge between flight operations.

  They set down near the carrier's island, by the aft elevator. Even before the rotors had stopped, six sailors in dress whites scurried out from the main hatch and positioned themselves at attention at the foot of the helicopter's steps, three on either side. At the same time, Frank Welles, in freshly pressed tropical whites, also came across the flight deck, accompanied by his executive officer and department heads.

  Frank Welles would greet David with all the respect due a flag officer from a junior officer. The sea was in his blood and, since his divorce, had become his life. Once senior to David Charles, they had first met on the Bagley, and David Had remained as close a friend as Welles ever had or probably ever allowed. His talent was immense, and his devotion to duty was almost devout. But his one limitation seemed to be working closely with other people. While he got along well enough with the enlisted men, he would never have the leadership qualities of Admiral Charles, that special something that cannot be taught. It was for that reason that David had been jumped over his peers since his days in Vietnam. Yet it was that devotion to duty that allowed Frank Welles to accept the situation, and keep his minor failings within himself. Welles's appearance, as usual, was exemplary. He radiated confidence in his uniform. His sharp features and slightly graying temples beneath the gold-encrusted visor presented a leader of uncertain age in command.

  Admiral David Charles's right hand snapped a salute to the flag, as the sailors in the quickly prepared honor guard piped him aboard. His hand dropped partway from his visor before returning again to acknowledge the welcoming salute from Welles. As Charles was about to greet them, the ship's speaker echoed, “Task Force Fifty-eight arriving.”

  Noting quickly over his shoulder that the Admiral's pennant had been hoisted, Welles extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, Admiral. We're sure happy to have you back with us.” His smile was warm, though his eyes were as expressionless as David remembered them. Welles was as professional a naval officer as there was, but his personality was still hidden, David noted. He had been aboard Bagley for two years when David reported to that first ship, fresh from Annapolis. Now, David Charles was not only senior to him, but the Task Force Commander.

  “Thank you, Frank. It's good to stretch our legs again after life in those little fellows.” California was half the length of the carrier, but to them the escorts would always be referred to that way. “And thanks for piping me aboard. It's nice to hear the 'Task Force Fifty-eight' associated with his name again.” When David had received his orders, he had immediately contacted Sam Carter in Washington, asking if they could carry that designation aboard the great carrier named after the Pacific Fleet Commander. It had been approved not only to Honor Fleet Admiral Nimitz, but to cause that much more confusion for the Russians, who wanted a reason for every odd American move.

  Welles stepped quietly to David's side as he finished shaking hands with the other senior officers. “We have a report of a flight of Backfires heading this way from Mogadishu. They've been in the air for about an hour already. I've taken the liberty of reorienting the Aegis ships to the west, though it'll be better if we change course that way also.”

  “No, Frank, let's not give Kupinsky that advantage right now. You've already done the right thing. We'll let the aircraft come right up from the rear. We can still tell exactly what they're going to do.” He turned just before entering the superstructure to look at some fighters near the stern, their pilots watching him from their cockpits. “Have you scrambled any Tomcats yet?”

  “No, sir. Been waiting for you.”

  “Send 'em out. Have them keep their distance until they receive orders from us.” He waved to the pilots, then turned to his operations officer. “Bill, get on up to flag plot and set GQ for the force. You can get on the pipe and tell them what's happening. I'll be up in a few minutes.”

  David Charles's office, next to flag plot, was large and comfortable, as it should have been for an admiral of his position. He and Bill Dailey were seated at a typically green-felt-covered table, scattered with papers. His steward had just brought them iced tea, and David leaned back in his chair. “So Alex is farther away than I would have thought.”

  “Not so far really, Admiral,” Dailey answered. “We've been steaming toward each other the last few hours at about twenty knots. That's forty knots an hour, nine hundred sixty miles if they hadn't slowed for replenishment.”

  “He's very careful, Bill, very careful.”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “Oh, just a comment on life, Bill. Alex is very careful. He'll never allow himself to get caught with his pants down again. He learns well, and once was enough.”

  “I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir.”

  “Oh, it's nothing really, Bill. An old war story that's probably improved with age. But you should always remember those stories, too.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not so long ago, the Russian Navy lacked the service force they have today. They tried to be a blue-water navy long before they should have, and we spanked them for it, or President Kennedy did. Alex was there, and his stepfather was running the Soviet Navy even then. Alex says he has always reminded the old man about that since he was a lieutenant. They used to fight about it. But Alex insisted ' that Gorenko couldn't ever achieve supremacy at sea until he could back up all those fancy warships they were building. That's one reason that service force of theirs set sail the other day from India and is hovering east of the Maldives. Gorenko ensured that any task force of his anywhere in the world could replenish whenever needed, and Alex is so damn paranoid about that that he'll have every damn ship topped off with everything he can think of.” He looked again at Dailey and smiled. “He doesn't want to get caught with his pants down this time.”

  “When you said he was an old friend, I didn't realize you'd actually met Admiral Kupinsky before, sir.”

  “Met? Hell, yes. I'll say I have, both formally and informally.” He shut his eyes for a moment, stroking his nose with a thumb and forefinger. He remained quiet for a moment. He finally looked up at Dailey again, a saddened reflection in his eyes. “Yes, I certainly do know him. He's a very fine man.” He stood up, finishing the iced tea as he stepped back from the table. “Come on, Bill, it's time.”

  “You're sure these Backfires are going to fire at us, aren't you, sir?”

  “I don't know why not. They're controlled from the Kremlin, not from Kupinsky's group. Those ships coming toward us are a show of force, just like we are. Their orders come from Moscow, but the decision at a given instant to use weapons will be from the force commander. But these planes are probably in direct voice contact with Gorenko's staff right now.”

  “Use of weapons would be a direct provocation to war.”

  “It would be any time, but less so out here, Bill. There are no land masses to be concerned with, no civilians to worry about, no one's territory invaded. We're just two military forces up to no good as far as the people in Washington or Moscow are concerned. It's our job to be here and take our chances. Right?” He continued without waking for an answer. “The Chairman's speech makes it quite clear that the United States has already engaged in an act of war, and therefore stronger methods than usual are justified to warn us off. Now the U.N. or just about any other country is going to figure it serves both Russia or the U.S. right if we start shooting at each other's military forces as a warning. But, no one expects war. It's just that some bully drew a line across a point on the playground and said, 'Don't anyone cross it or I'll beat you up.' So now we've crossed it, and I think they probably want to make us go back to the other side. They've already announced that certain actions may be justifiable. A
nd, after all, remember they say they're defending the Third World nations out here. What more do they need?” He nodded toward flag plot.

  The Russian AS-7 cruise missile, launched from a Backfire bomber, has a range of almost five hundred miles. Its advantage is simply that it can be launched at a surface target, preferably a carrier, beyond the range of most of the carrier's flight umbrella. Then, it becomes the job of the protective surface screen around the carrier to stop the missile. The Backfire may then turn for its land base, avoiding the opposition's fighters completely.

  On this particular day, as Admiral Charles and his staff operations officer entered plot, the Russian bombers had just released their missiles. But they didn't have the opportunity to return to their base immediately. The Navy Tomcat fighter is a bit faster, by about two hundred miles per hour. Since the Russian planes were bigger and heavier and could not change course until their missiles were released, the fighters were literally upon them at a distance of two hundred miles. And when the Backfires had completed their mission, they didn't simply turn around. At their speed of approximately two thousand miles per hour, they made a very long turn. By that time, the Tomcat's radar had locked on to their targets and their own Phoenix missiles had been released.

  None of the planes ever saw each other beyond the display on their radar screens. However, four of the six Backfires were brought down by the American missiles. The other two were able to evade and managed to escape, since the Tomcats did not have the fuel to continue pursuit.

  All of this was noted in the flag plot on Nimitz and relayed immediately to a computer outside Washington. In the meantime, the Admiral's anti-air-warfare officer was busy in front of his console, giving orders to people connected to his speaker and occasionally pushing buttons. There were twelve cruise missiles speeding toward them.

  “Admiral, we have a solution. We've assigned Virginia and her division for the forward air defense. Each ship is radiating carrier characteristics. Impact time . . .” he looked at a dial on his console, “... fourteen minutes.”