Tomcat

by David E. Meadows

  Kurt acknowledged the general’s directions and moved off to one side as he made notes in the small pocket-size green government notebook.

  General Lewis turned to Admiral Cameron. “Could I ask you to clear the room for us?”

  Admiral Cameron cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, would you excuse us? Clive, will you ask the chief and his sailors to transfer the operations to the ship’s combat information center for about thirty minutes and to clear the space?”

  Five minutes of awkward silence fell across the table as they waited for the enlisted sailors to depart. Kurt Lederman and Dick Holman eagerly evacuated the space, congratulating each other on escaping the meeting, once they were on the other side of the compartment hatch.

  * * *

  Dick leaned down to Kurt as they passed the transom into the passageway and said, “Is asshole two words or one?”

  Kurt grinned, “I’m not sure, but for this time, it is definitely capitalized.”

  Dick watched the sailor push the lever down, sealing the compartment with the flag officers. general Lewis looked around the table, taking muster. Once satisfied that only he, Admiral Cameron, Rear Admiral Pete Devlin, Brigadeer General Toon, Colonel Storey, and Clive remained, he turned to Gordon Cameron. “Admiral, at the risk of being callous, can I ask why Holman is on your staff?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The man is fat, Admiral. He should have been kicked out when he failed to stay within standards. The military is a fighting organization, and if our officers don’t set the example of physical fitness, then the whole organization suffers. You will not find anyone out of standards on my staff, much less fat.” Clive and Pete Devlin exchanged amused glances and waited for the explosion they saw building in Cameron.

  Admiral Cameron took a couple of deep breaths. “General, that man is overweight. You are right. But that man is more responsible for us having overwhelming might in this theater than you or I. A lesser officer would still be sitting with his carrier battle group on the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar, scared of mines and waiting for someone else to give him the all clear.” Cameron’s voice rose as his tempo of delivery picked up. “Yeah, he’s overweight, and he’s fifty-four years old, but he’s more of a warrior than those who spend their time in fancy offices most of their career and take two-hour lunch breaks so they can work out and look physically fit while professionally … professionally, they suck!” Cameron rose slightly from his seat. He took another couple of breaths as the silence around the table became deafening. He sat back down and put both hands on the table and spread his fingers.

  “General,” Cameron sighed and in a tight voice continued, “I apologize for my outburst. Dick Holman is a fine officer, and I am recommending him for the Medal of Honor. His battle against an enemy submarine, innovation against smart mines deployed to keep American forces out of the Med, and his arrival with armed and ready fighter aircraft mark his combat accomplishments above and beyond the call of duty. Without him, we would never have evacuated what Americans we did out of Algiers, rescue President Hawaii Alneuf, or be controlling the air at this time.”

  “Admiral, let’s you and I have a little talk when we finish here.” Lewis said, his voice low and menacing. “I appreciate your loyalty to your officers, but overweight is fat, and fat I do not want on my staff any more than I want someone who smokes. I daresay that another officer in the same situation as Holman would have brought the carrier battle group through as he did. The Navy has to learn that most warriors, when put in a situation, will rise to the occasion and do their duty. I would like a chop on any award packages that go out of the Joint Task Force.”

  Admiral Cameron’s eyebrows bunched in a V, as furrows lined the three-star admiral’s forehead. “Yes, General.

  We had better have that talk sooner rather than later.

  As for the awards package, it was sent up via Navy channels and not via the Joint Task Force.”

  * * *

  Holman, unlit cigar gripped between his teeth, opened the watertight door to the combat information center. The four officers working the tactical air picture stood near the boards and systems responsible for managing aircraft schedules, launch and recover times, and coming missions for the next few hours. As one mission was completed and erased from the board, an upcoming mission farther down the time line was added. If he wanted, he could call up a computer page that had the next forty-eight hours of scheduled flight operations on it.

  However, there was something satisfying about the old Navy method of using display boards and grease pencils.

  Holman stood silently observing the action while he chewed on the tip of his cigar. In minutes, he had a feel for what was going on, where aircraft were, and upcoming missions. He had quickly calmed down after leaving the meeting with the general. He didn’t expect the man would keep him on the staff long. In fact, he looked forward to regaining his position as commanding officer of the Stennis, where he would be out of the joint chain of command that the general dearly loved and back in the real Navy.

  The watertight door behind him opened. Kurt Lederman, the Sixth Fleet intelligence officer, entered, saw Dick, and walked over to stand beside him.

  “Hi, Kurt. What brings you down to the operational end of the ship?” Dick took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. “Not the same as smoking it.”

  “What did you think of our new commander?”

  “Seems to have a lot of confidence in himself to get the job done. Hope he’s right.”

  Kurt nodded. “Yes, I was impressed with his command of the first-person pronoun.”

  Dick chuckled. “Sure it wasn’t his critique of your Powerpoint presentation?”

  Kurt grinned. “If I had a dime for everyone who griped and complained about my presentations, I’d be a rich man today.”

  “So, what did bring you down here, Kurt? I know it wasn’t to foment a rebellion against the Army general who has blessed us with his presence.”

  “You’re right. I am concerned about the Algerian Kilo submarine at Oran. Our last imagery of the port showed it in dry dock, but with the cloud covering the Oran Naval Base for the past three days, we have nothing to confirm it is still in dry dock. What I would like to ask, in your new role as commander, Task Force Sixty-seven, is to send a rec ce bird over the facility to confirm it’s still in | dry dock.”

  Dick nodded as he thought over the request. “You know I don’t have any photo rec ce birds on board the Stennis.”!

  “There’s VQ2’sEP-3 at Sigonella,” Kurt replied, referring to the premier reconnaissance aircraft of the Navy.

  The EP-3E was a modified, four-engine, turbo-prop aircraft capable of conducting sustained airborne reconnaissance with a crew of twenty-four.

  “Since the bombing of Sigonella and Souda Bay, Kurt, I only have two EP-3Es remaining, and one is waiting for an engine change out. The only operational reconnaissance bird I have is Ranger Twenty-nine.” Dick turned to Commander Steve Cloth, the Air Operations officer for Command Task Force Sixty-seven. He was responsible for the orderly scheduling and mission tasking for the Naval Air Forces operating in the Mediterranean. “Steve, what have we got scheduled for the EP-3 today?”

  Steve Cloth was one of the hardest working officers on the staff of CTF Sixty-seven. His red hair belied the gentle countenance beneath the surface of this dedicated officer.

  Admiral Devlin had once jovially remarked that he doubted Commander Cloth was human, because the man never slept. Steve Cloth had developed a reputation for being able to carry the entire air picture in his mind without having to resort to ticklers, grease boards, or computers.

  With over one hundred aircraft airborne, Dick Holman knew he could never do a feat of that nature.

  Without glancing at the air board or the computer presentation nearby, Commander Cloth replied, “The EP-3 is coming off station in the central Mediterranean, Captain.

  It is inbound to Sigonella with an ETA of 1330 Zulu. We
do not have them scheduled again until tomorrow afternoon.

  Need to give them some crew’s rest, if we can.”

  Dick glanced at the clock mounted on the nearby bulkhead.

  “They land in about thirty minutes, Steve. How long will it take them to do a hot turnaround?”

  “About thirty minutes, sir. But, I recommend against it.

  While I don’t have the stats right here in front of me, my estimate is that the two crews manning the EP-3 have already exceeded one hundred fifty flight hours for the past thirty days. We are having to meet each crew with a flight surgeon to verify their physical and mental ability to continue flying.” “Like you said, Steve, you don’t have the flight statistics in front of you, but I have no doubt that you are accurate in your assessment. The problem is, we only have this one operational EP-3 in theater. Joint Chiefs of Staff have already pulled the RC-135 out and redirected it to the Korean theater. The EP-3 is our only reconnaissance aircraft available.”

  “That’s not exactly accurate, Captain,” Commander Cloth replied.

  “It isn’t? What else do we have?”

  “There is an RC-135 in the Azores. It landed this afternoon along with a flight of F-16s accompanying it.”

  Dick glanced at Kurt, who shrugged. “Why didn’t we know about this?”

  “We only got notified a couple of hours before they were inbound to the Azores, and as you know, the Azores belong to Joint Forces Command in Norfolk. We got the message only a few minutes before they landed. They are overnighting there and then continuing on to the Persian Gulf theater to conduct a week of operations. After that, they are ordered to continue around the world to the Korean operations area. I think this smacks of an Air Force publicity stunt to show their versatility in meeting any mission, anywhere, anytime.”

  Dick nodded. “Good. Let them have their publicity, as long as we can borrow that RC-135 while it transits the Med.” He turned to Kurt. “We can have it do the rec ce of Oran tomorrow morning, Kurt, and that will take some of the operations tempo off the EP-3 flight crew.”

  Commander Cloth cleared his throat. “Sorry, Captain, but the RC-135 and its fighters have been ordered to transit along a southern route that will carry it across the Sahara desert. They have been tasked by General Lewis to find and locate the Marine Corps convoy that is lost in the southern desert area of Algeria.”

  Dick’s eyebrows bunched as he heard the news. “He said something about that at our meeting a few minutes ago?” he asked, looking at Kurt.

  “I didn’t know anything about it until he did,” Kurt protested.

  “I looked at the tasking message, Captains, and it was issued while the general was in Stuttgart,” Commander Cloth added.

  “Well, if he expects me to manage the air picture, then I need to know his orders.” Dick took a deep breath. Actually, what the general ordered is the better option for the RC-135. The Air Force reconnaissance bird can in-flight refuel, unlike the Navy’ sEP-3E. The Marines stranded in the desert are a primary concern of everyone on the staff.

  Looks as if the General intends to make them a leading priority of his. “Never mind. I cannot let my personal ego get in the way of a good decision. Steve, I want to know when that Air Force Aerospace Expeditionary Force takes off from the Azores. Make sure we have com ms with them as they transit across our theater.” He paused and then added, “Also, make sure we schedule some fighters and tankers to be airborne while they are within range of us.

  Just in case they meet with some of those missing Algerian fighters we haven’t found yet.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain. I assumed you would want something along those lines, so I have scheduled a four F-14 combat air patrol one hundred miles inside Algeria along with a couple of S-3 tankers for company. It will give them the legs to support the AEF if need be, and we can launch additional tankers to get them back.”

  “So, does this mean we use the EP-3 now, Dick?” Kurt Lederman asked. “I know rescuing the Marines and their evacuees is important, but that Kilo could make life hell for our fleet if it gets under way.” “What do you think, Steve?” Dick asked the Air Ops boss.

  “I am sure VQ can do it, Captain. Would it be all right if we scheduled them for a hot rec ce and then ground them for crew rest for two days?” If he could get the aircrews two days’ rest, then they would be good to go for a mission a day for thirty days before he would have to ground them again.

  “Okay, that sounds good to me. Kurt, what is it you want them to do?”

  The Intelligence officer walked over to the chart taped down on the display table. “What I would really like are some photos of the dry dock. Unfortunately, I know that the aircraft would have to overfly the naval base. It’s too dangerous for them to do that. Too many shoulder launched surface-to-air missiles everywhere. However, they have a side-looking optical scanner that can look into the base. It should show us sufficient data for a competent analyst to discern whether the submarine is still in the dry dock or if the dry dock is empty.”

  “Side-looking epical scanner? How do they do that?”

  “Well, you see, first—”

  Dick waved his hand. “Never mind, Kurt. I wouldn’t understand any of that Intel mumbo jumbo anyway. Steve, contact Sigonella and tell them to have the EP-3 ready for a hot turnaround; then issue the Air Tasking Operations order to them.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  Kurt Lederman straightened up. “Thanks, Dick. I will be in my spaces if you hear anything. We have secure com ms with the EP-3, and if I hear anything, I will make sure you are the first to know.” Kurt turned to leave, thought of something, and turned around. “Have you given more thought about our new commander?”

  Dick nodded. “I think he is going be a dynamic asset to this team. Some of the things he presented during our roundtable, I am looking forward to seeing how they pan out.”

  “Sure, me, too.” Kurt smiled, turned, and departed the Air Operations spaces, leaving Commander Cloth with his crew making the necessary arrangements to turn the EP-3 around and Captain Dick Holman, the new commander, Task Force Sixty-seven, deep in thought. He wondered briefly as he left what was going on in Dick’s mind.

  Dick made a mental note to increase the number of smoking areas on the ship. He grinned about the laundry directive. He would point out the laundry to the colonel and let the Army officer pass on his desires to the ship’s servicemen. He would give anything to be there when Storey started issuing detailed instructions to sailors as if they were a civilian laundry. Should go over like a lead balloon. He chuckled over what the general was going to say and do when he encountered his first pair of drip dried, starched underwear.

  “Captain, I’ve taken care of the orders, sir,” Commander Steve Cloth interrupted. “They have a projected take off’ time of fifteen-fifteen hours with time on target estimate of sixteen-fifty hours. Should give them about five to six hours of daylight at this time of the year.”

  “Okay, Steve. Let me know when they’re airborne. I’d like to be here and observe. Meanwhile, what else do we have up right now?”

  Nightly, around nineteen hundred hours, Steve Cloth sat with Admiral Devlin — starting tonight, he would be doing that with Captain Holman — and they decided the missions needed for the next day. They also went over the normal disposition of forces needed for battle group protection.

  Usually, an hour was needed to review the air plans and approve the next day’s operation.

  “We still have three pairs of F-14s in combat air patrol, CAP, south of the battle group providing rapid reaction to any threats. Other than that, sir, we have the normal operations going on. Ranger Two-nine is returning from an early-morning central Mediterranean mission.”

  “Steve, make sure we send a flight of FA-18s with Ranger Two-nine during her reconnoiter of the Oran Naval Base. Keep the Tomcats where they are.”

  “Yes, sir,” he glanced at the board. “We have a new CAP launching about thirty minutes after the EP-3 is airb
orne out of Sigonella.”

  General Lewis was going to be a royal pain in the ass, but at least he was shaking up any complacency they may have on the staff.

  “Yes, Steve. Let’s hope the Air Force can provide us some up-to-date information on our stranded Marines.

  The Marines are in a convoy heading southwest to close the distance between them and some Army Chinooks.” He looked at the long-range schedule on the board. “I suspect that it will take them another two days to arrive where the Army can make pickup. You have any thoughts?”

  Commander Steve Cloth shook his head. “Air Force C-5s off-loaded the Army Special Forces helicopters this morning. According to latest sitrep from Base Butler, they are working on a plan to shorten the pickup distance or do something to get to the Marines sooner. Won’t know until they establish direct communications with us. Right now, we send a message, and they send a response; they send a message, and we write a response. Unfortunately, our Navy-Marine Corps Internet doesn’t interface with the Army equivalent. It would be nice if we had a direct chat line like we do with the ships in the group and our shore based facilities.”

  Holman moved to the board. “When are we going to have the other EP-3 up?”

  Cloth ran his hand through his close-cropped red hair.

  “We are still clearing the damage away in Sigonella and the necessary tools and supplies needed to sustain the shore-based air assets have yet to ramp up fully. Supply is estimating a new engine and prop for the down bird sometime tomorrow, arriving via the Air Force Air Mobility Command flight transiting from Dover.” “Steve, I know I promised to give the crews on the EP3s two days off, but don’t hold me to that. While Kurt is concerned about that old Algerian submarine, I am more concerned about the unlocated Algerian fighters. I would like tomorrow to have the EP-3E fly a southern mission— overland. Put a couple of FA-18s under her wings, and see what they can find on those missing Algerian fighters.