by Peter Nealen
Chapter 22
I didn’t relish being back on ship. Sure, we’d been aboard the Cape St. George for a couple days already, but that hadn’t been terribly fun, either. We were going to be aboard the USS Iwo Jima for longer, and being aboard an LHD again was bringing back memories.
I’d spent a lot of my Marine Corps career on Marine Expeditionary Unit floats. In the old days, these would have involved a lot of sitting on ship, sleeping in coffin racks, eating as often as possible, reading or watching every book and movie available—multiple times—and working out, followed by maybe a few weeks training with a friendly nation military and then hitting a liberty port, with the hangovers and penicillin shots to follow. During my time, it had involved a lot of time aboard ship, lots of drills, and then months at a time in some African or Balkan hellhole, running peacekeeping ops.
I can’t say I have a lot of fond memories of being on ship.
I’d envied the old-school GWOT guys, or even the guys who were my senior leaders, who’d done flyover combat deployments to the Middle East or Kosovo. They’d had one thing to focus on—killing bad guys. Train up, fly over, run ops for six to nine months, fly home.
We’d sat on the ship for months at a time, then gone ashore and tried to do ops for two to three months, then gone back on ship. It felt like an abbreviated version of the pure combat deployments, with extra steps.
Fortunately, I don’t get seasick. I knew dudes who did, who’d actually had more trouble with the long, slow roll of the big deck than the sharper up-and-down aboard one of the AAVs. LCACs, the big hovercraft, were a lot easier.
Of course, the Triarii aren’t necessarily amphibious. Sure, we’ve done boat ops in places, especially the Grex Luporum teams. But it had never been our focus, despite the fact that Colonel Santiago had been a Marine. So, some of my team had never been aboard anything bigger than a bass boat, and had certainly never really been to sea. The insert and extract into Germany in the winter hardly counted.
Some of those guys—mainly Greg, David, Jordan, and Tony—were craning their heads to try to see out the portholes in the Osprey’s side as we came in toward the Iwo’s deck. Chris, Reuben, Scott, and I were less fascinated. Scott looked a little green around the gills, in fact.
He looked up when he saw me studying him from across the narrow compartment. “I hate being on ship, man.”
“You and me, both, brother.” We had to yell to be heard over the roar of the Osprey’s props.
Scott just shook his head. I could imagine. While I’d hated my life on float, I’d been a regular grunt. Scott had been a Recon Marine, and Big Marine Corps has had a hate on for Recon bubbas since time immemorial. Being crammed into tiny compartments with the Navy and the regular Marine Corps that hated you had to be absolutely miserable.
The Osprey was slowing, the props rising toward vertical as we dropped toward the deck. We were nearly there.
A few moments later, I felt the gear touch with a faint jerk, and then the props started to wind down. I stood up and grabbed my ruck, already packed and ready for insert in a few days, when we flew in to make the mission happen. My rifle was in my hands, unloaded for the moment. That had been a non-negotiable thing, flying in Navy aircraft. It was standard procedure, and more of a safety measure than anything else. When you’ve got seventy-five million dollars’ worth of moving parts hurtling through the air, several thousand feet above the ground or the water, the absolute last thing you want to risk is a negligent discharge.
I led the way off, ducking my head to avoid getting scalped on the clamshell above the rear ramp. I was glad the props had pretty much stopped moving. The rotor wash from an Osprey gets brutal. I preferred the Army’s Modocs—they had their props farther out, so while you got battered, you didn’t get as battered.
While we’d been planning and running what limited rehearsals we’d been able to, Gutierrez and Hartrick had been at work laying in the logistics and liaison with the Navy. It would have been difficult enough if we’d just landed and had to look around for the right way to go—even though I was already getting my sea legs back even as I stepped down onto the deck and looked around. I’d spent enough time aboard these ships that I knew roughly where to go, even if I didn’t know exactly where our berthing was. But one of Gutierrez’s extremely limited staff, an older man named Kowacs, was already waiting for us on deck, distinguished by his Triarii greens. Nobody else aboard was wearing those.
He was waiting over by the island, and waved us over as we filed out of the Osprey’s hold and started toward the hatches. I led the way over, the rest of the team following, some less steady on their feet than others as the deck rolled beneath us.
“Welcome aboard.” Kowacs was standing next to a Navy rating in working blues. That only made sense—the Navy was no more likely to let us wander around unsupervised than we were to let outsiders into our team house without one of us watching them like a hawk. And there are a lot more things you can get in trouble with aboard ship than on land. “We’ve got berthing set up. It’s not comfortable, but it’s better than lying on the well deck.” Kowacs led the way through the hatch and down into the bowels of the ship, while the rating waited for the rest of us to follow, watching us curiously. The Navy probably had an even lower opinion of the Triarii than the Army. They had long been on the softer, more politically correct side of things than the Army or Marine Corps.
Kowacs led us down through narrow passageways and ladderwells, deep into the ship. We had to duck to get through the hatches, and more than once, guys got their rucks stuck on the lip. It’s not fun carrying a full ruck through a ship, and we were all more than a little relieved to finally get to our berthing.
It looked like any other living compartment aboard ship. Coffin racks were stacked three high, with thin mattresses atop the drawers available for some personal effects. There was barely enough room to turn around between them, and if you sat up fast while in the rack, you were going to brain yourself on the next one above you.
Wall lockers stood between rows, but they were far too narrow for our rucks. It quickly became obvious that we were going to have to share our rack space with our rucks and weapons.
Kowacs hadn’t been kidding. This was not going to be comfortable.
Burkhart’s team was already aboard and crammed into their bunks on the far side of the compartment. “Look who showed up.” Bobby looked even more hangdog than usual. He’d spent even more time on ship than I had, back in the day. And, like Scott, he’d been a Recon Marine, so he had even less in the way of good memories of the experience on the “Big Deck.”
“Shane and his boys are right behind us.” I found a rack and shoved my ruck as far into one end as I could, tucking my rifle along the back bulkhead. It was going to be tight, but there was nothing for it. “They should be down in the next twenty minutes.”
Burkhart nodded. “Good. Because Captain Weiss wants to have another planning meeting as soon as all of us are aboard.”
I rolled my eyes. “Another planning meeting? Do we have new intel?”
Burkhart shrugged as he got out of the way so Tony could get to a rack. “Don’t know, but I doubt it. At least, not so far. But, I’m not going to complain because it sounded like we might have another tasking en route. The Navy is worried about getting through the Great Belt.”
As well they might. The Kattegat and Skagerrak were going to be rough, but the Great Belt, the strait between the islands of Funen and Zealand, was far narrower.
That might make it more difficult for enemy naval forces to engage the task force, but it also made it easier for ground-based forces to engage as we sailed through. We didn’t have a lot of intel on Danish coastal defenses in the strait—the Royal Danish Navy wasn’t huge—but they could do a lot of damage as we passed through. Not to mention if they stationed missile batteries or artillery on the Great Belt Bridge, the Storebæltsforbindelsen.
The Danes had been cowed into standing down during the fight for Gdansk, bu
t times change. And especially after what we’d seen in Copenhagen, we couldn’t be sure that the EDC wasn’t applying somewhat more direct pressure on them at this point.
We muttered and grumbled as gear got stowed and several of us, particularly the big guys like Tony and Reuben, saw just how little we’d have in the way of space. Showers would have to be Navy showers, too, limited to a handful of minutes, with water use measured in seconds. Not that such things bothered us that much—every Grex Luporum team had spent days, if not weeks, out in the field.
But either way, the next few days were not going to be especially pleasant. And that was leaving aside the threat that we might get blown out of the water, without being able to do anything about it.
That was going to be the hardest thing. We were going to have to ride the next couple of days out in these coffins, below decks, unable to know for sure what was going on, or to lift a finger to affect our own destinies.
Tucker and his team finally arrived, adding to the crowding in the berthing compartment. As time went on, the closeness of the atmosphere was going to get worse, too. If you’ve never been crammed into a small space with twenty-some dudes and poor ventilation, you’re missing out on a fundamental experience of life. Not necessarily a pleasant one, as the space starts to smell like feet and farts after a short time—especially on Navy showers—but still one that builds character.
A Marine arrived shortly after Tucker, inviting the team leaders to meet with Captain Weiss, the Force platoon commander, in his ready room at our earliest convenience. I was a little surprised at how formal the Marine was, but we acknowledged that we’d come with him shortly. It took just long enough for Shane Tucker to stow his gear, and then we faced the young man in his woodland combat shirt and bloused trousers. The digital pattern hadn’t changed since before my time, which was saying something. It was somewhat fortunate that the Camouflage Fashion Wars had died down.
Now the waste went elsewhere.
The Marine—he hadn’t introduced himself, and with combat shirts having become the standard wear outside of garrison, he didn’t have nametapes on—led the way through more of the maze of pipe-lined passageways and ladderwells to a small, cramped, windowless ready room with two plasma screens on the walls and at least six laptops on the table, which was bolted to the deck.
Captain Weiss didn’t fit the standard template of the modern officer. Older than most O-3s, I suspected he’d spent some time in the enlisted ranks before going to OCS—no, the Naval Academy. He had a ring on his finger. He was about my height, but he outweighed me by a significant margin. He was massive, and none of it was fat. His hands looked like they could crush a man’s skull without too much effort.
The big bear of a Marine captain, who was wearing his blouse with jump wings and dive bubble, looked up as we came in. Gunny Ortiz was sitting at one of the laptops, and looked up and gave a slight wave as we came through the hatch. The two of them were the only others in the compartment.
“Gents.” Weiss’s voice was a drawl, accentuated by the fact he was talking around a massive dip in one corner of his mouth. He pointed to the chairs around the table. “We’re supposed to be underway in the next two hours. That puts us at the Great Belt at about 0300.” This was clearly a prepared brief, because he touched a remote, and a graphic of the Great Belt came up on the plasma screen behind his shoulder.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the Navy is worried about the Great Belt being held against us. Not necessarily by naval forces, either.” He glanced around at us and saw that we knew full well what he was talking about.
“Now, a lot of the upper echelons were not happy about the suggestion that we bring you Triarii in on the rest of this.” His voice was low and flat, giving no emotion away. “I am, frankly, neutral on your organization as a whole. Most of the officer corps doesn’t like you, but I believe that, despite recent trends to the contrary, we’re supposed to be strictly apolitical. So, I don’t have an opinion one way or another, except to acknowledge that you boys know how to fight. Which is all I give a flying fuck about right now, anyway.” He lifted an empty water bottle to his lips and spat into it. “I heard a bit about what you guys did down by Wroclaw a few nights back. That was pretty fucking ninja.” His Polish was worse than mine had been at the beginning. He pronounced it “Ro-claw” instead of “Vroslav.”
My suspicions that Captain Weiss was a mustang were getting stronger.
“Right now, the plan is to land small units at either end of the east bridge.” The remote had a laser pointer, and he tapped each end of the bridge with the red dot as he spoke. “We’re still arguing with the MEU Commander over whether it should be two companies of grunts, or special operations troops, meaning us, the SEALs…” He spat another squirt of dip juice into the bottle. “And you guys.” He grinned a little, the first real expression he’d showed since I’d met him in the planning meeting back in Gdansk. “I think we’re going to win that. For one thing, SOF guys—even if the SEALs like to sneer that Recon’s not really SOF—can get in and out faster.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I’d been a regular grunt. I knew how slowly an infantry company could move. The more men and the more logistics you had to deal with, the slower you got.
“Right now, we’re waiting for the green light, but the plan is to put the Battalion platoon and the SEALs on the island of Sprogø, while my platoon will insert on the Zealand side with your teams. We’d have to insert early enough that we can secure the bridge before they can move any forces onto it. Otherwise, we’d have to try to sweep the bridge itself, and I’m not a fan of that course of action.” He spat again.
“Can’t say as I am, either.” As soon as I opened my mouth, I knew that I’d just cemented my spot as the Grex Luporum spokesman. “Are you thinking your platoon, our teams, and the infantry sections? Or just the teams?”
“Just the teams at the moment.” Gunny Ortiz leaned his elbows on the table as he spoke. “We don’t want more than one lift in or out. We’ll roll heavy—we’re thinking a minimum of four AT-4s per team with the Force platoon, and however many you guys want to carry. You’ve got machineguns?”
I nodded. “Two suppressed Mk 48s per team.”
Eyebrows rose at that. We didn’t tend to publicize our weapons and equipment much.
Nor did we publicize the fact that we had our own ammunition factories in Montana and Texas, and were working on additional logistics facilities solely devoted to supplying the Triarii.
“So, if we get there in time, we should easily be able to hold the ends of the bridge while the MEU gets underneath.” His pointer shifted south. “We’ll launch before rounding Lolland. Hopefully that will grant us the element of surprise, especially if we fly low and fast over the water. Which also gives us more of an advantage over the ‘let’s land a company on either end’ plan.”
“What do you have in mind for a barrier plan?” Burkhart leaned forward over the table.
That seemed to finally break the ice. We weren’t Marines and Triarii anymore. We were professionals getting down to the nitty gritty of planning an op on short notice. We might not have the go-ahead yet, but we’d be ready when it came.
It’s good to work with professionals.
Chapter 23
It was the dead of night when we finally lifted.
Crammed back aboard the Ospreys, we waited with our rifles in Condition 3—magazine inserted, bolt forward, chamber empty—held between our knees, geared up, helmets on with our NVGs still raised, assault packs carrying what we’d need for about twelve hours on the ground and presumably under fire. It had meant partially unpacking our rucks, but we’d needed some of the gear, not to mention water, ammo, and some chow.
None of us wanted to repeat the old, “We’ll only be out for half an hour” mistake, made famous by Black Hawk Down.
The rotors spooled up, their snarl rising to a growling howl, and then we came away from the deck, wobbling slightly before rising smoothly into the night. T
hen the props lowered and we raced away, leaving the blacked-out silhouettes of the Iwo Jima and her escorts behind.
I knew that there were at least three flights of Super Hornets from the Abraham Lincoln above us, flying racetracks above the MEU. The fix that had gotten the F-35s working despite the loss of satcom seemed to be holding, too, and two flights of the Lightning IIs off the Iwo were nosing ahead, probing the airspace over Denmark.
And in the meantime, six MV-22B Ospreys roared toward the north, skimming barely five hundred feet above the waves.
***
It was a short flight. The Ospreys were fast, faster than any helicopter, and we were circling the LZ in a matter of minutes. It was going to take the MEU a lot longer than that to get through the Great Belt.
Our flight circled over the end of the bridge. I wasn’t expecting heavy resistance to start with—the F-35s should have already overflown the place, and if the Danes or the EDC had had anything heavy already in place, they should have pasted it.
“Thirty seconds!” There was too much noise from the props for any of us to hear the crew chief, even if we’d had fancy electronic earpro on—which none of us did. But he held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. That was a signal we all knew by heart, and we didn’t need words to interpret it.
We didn’t get up yet, not quite. There wasn’t much space, especially with helmets and NVGs on. But we were ready to move.
The props swung up to vertical and the bird came to a hover. The ramp dropped. “Go!”
I was the first off. It wasn’t necessarily SOP, but it was a habit that I had no intention of getting out of. I was the team leader. I was going to be the first one on the ground and the last one off.
Unless I bought it, of course.
My boots hit the grass as I ducked under the clamshell and cleared the tail, only to almost get thrown on my face in the dirt. The Osprey was down on the ground, which was the only reason it wasn’t moving forward, since the pilot hadn’t actually brought the props full vertical. The rotor wash snatched at me and tried to hammer me into the ground. I stayed low, gritted my teeth, and drove forward despite it.