by Ward Carroll
Although they’d seen the tape many times in the last five days, the footage still captivated them. The skipper entered the stark white room from the right and was escorted to a chair behind a wooden table on which sat a single microphone. Once he was seated, the camera zoomed in on his upper torso and head. His face was bruised below both eyes, and his thick hair was a wild mess. His flight suit had been stripped of patches, and he wore it zipped fully up to his neck. The commander didn’t look at the camera but stared at the floor in front of him. He squinted as a spotlight was turned on and shifted toward his face, causing a dance of shadows on the wall behind him, and then he nervously shot a look off to his right, apparently listening to someone off camera. The skipper nodded compliantly and began to speak in a plodding monotone.
“I am Commander Alexander Campbell, United States Navy.” The skipper paused and coughed twice. “I was patrolling the no-fly zone over Southern Iraq when I was shot down by a surface-to-air missile.” He let out another cough, this time a single, drawn-out hack. “I do not have any comment on my situation.” Another long, single cough. “I would just like to tell my family that I am fine and that, God willing, I will see them soon.” The segment ended as it had each of the hundreds of times it was previously televised with the skipper offering a halfhearted wave and rising from his chair.
“That’s a bad cough the skipper’s got there,” Fuzzy observed. “Einstein, was he sick the day you got bagged?”
“No . . .” The wheels were already turning in the young RIO’s head. “Remember some of the tricks the POWs used during Vietnam? One of them blinked ‘torture’ in Morse code while he was being filmed by an East German propaganda team.” Einstein grabbed a small notebook from his desk and began to scribble on one of the sheets of paper inside of it. “Maybe that wasn’t just a random cough . . . Maybe he was trying to relay a message.”
“What are you talking about?” Trash asked as he stood and adjusted the terrycloth towel around his waist.
“Look at this.” Einstein held his notebook up and pointed to what he’d written on the paper. “He coughed twice, and then once, and then once—dot-dot, dash, dash. In Morse code that’s ‘ITT.’”
“And . . .” Trash returned impatiently.
“The ITT Building,” Einstein explained. “That’s our code name for their communications headquarters in downtown Baghdad. It’s on our target list for the contingency strikes. The Iraqis are probably holding the skipper there.” He slammed the notebook shut and stood up. “We need to find the Pats.”
“Einstein, you’re a genius,” Monk proclaimed.
“That’s how I got my call sign . . .” the young RIO returned with a cocksure smile.
In Punk’s mind, the anticlimax of their status was bad theater. Entertainment demanded a sense of timing, and that sense was apparently missing among those in the chain of command above him, right up to the president. The actors are supposed to be out of sight once the final curtain falls, not left hanging around in the footlights at the front of the stage. Now the lieutenant sat in CVIC, surrounded by charts, calculators, laptop computers, time lines, and dozens of Styrofoam cups half full of cold coffee. He watched a repeat of the video teleconference that included the Admiral in Flag Briefing and Analysis, and listened to General Bullock at JTF-SWA size up the situation.
Punk wondered how he had ever been roped into the sorry world of macro-level strike planning, remembering what he had come to realize a long time ago: Navy status quos were easily established and hard to change once created. He’d stumbled onto the last strike planning team, so naturally he’d be part of any follow-on strike planning teams. A sticky booger he couldn’t flick off his finger.
The general attempted to explain the big picture to folks he sensed had long since grown weary of their task, and as he spoke, his voice carried a message of resignation despite his earnest pitch regarding the importance of their undertaking. Words like “readiness” and “freedom” and “flexibility” failed to hide that fact that the general had become a cheerleader on the sidelines of a game that was already over. But he kept cheering all the same . . .
The Navy’s role had originally called for the Boat to simply hand their part of the plan over to the Other Boat and then start the trip back to the United States. That plan was changed once the skipper and Einstein were shot down. The Boat was “extended indefinitely” in the Arabian Gulf by the president, and the National Security Council ordered the Joint Chiefs of Staff who ordered the commander in chief of the U.S. Central Command who ordered the commander of Joint Task Force-Southwest Asia to be ready to execute strikes against Iraq utilizing both carriers as well as all the Air Force and Marine Corps air assets in the region. Those orders meant that the plan Punk had helped create in Riyadh was old news and that a new plan had to be developed.
There wasn’t time for another three-day trip to Saudi Arabia, so all joint coordination between Eskavah Village and the rest of the commands around the region was performed over secure phones and other classified electronic systems, including video teleconferencing for the flag officers. The Navy’s target assignments and strike chronology came over the wires in CVIC, and the intel geeks retrieved them one by one out of the printers and ran them to the planning teams like newsmen with a hot scoop.
As painful as the planning process in Saudi Arabia had been, Punk quickly discovered distance planning was worse. Confusing changes arrived without explanation, and their incorporation was left to those on the receiving end. The planners’ frustration grew exponentially as, each time they thought they’d finally solved the puzzle, another change arrived that scrambled the pieces again. And, on top of everything else, the goddam news on the TV in the corner of the room kept reporting that nobody supported a war.
Then the news covered U.N. Secretary General Olaf Svarsbrooder’s trip to Baghdad and the progress of his peace plan. There was also a story about how the king of Saudi Arabia had told the U.S. secretary of state that if the Air Force launched strikes from Saudi soil they would have to land somewhere else. The Bahrainis were saying the same thing. Punk cursed at the soon-to-be-outdated joint coordination spreadsheet he’d just figured out covering the table before him as the secure phone rang, and General Bullock walked off camera. Those gathered braced for the next surge of pain.
A few minutes later, the general reappeared and said, “It looks like this is a Navy-only war, gentlemen. Standby for some changes.”
“Some changes?” Punk called out irreverently from where he sat. “Dropping the Air Force from the plan is a lot more than ‘some changes.’” He left his chair and walked across the room to where Rex was seated. “I want to go on record as saying this sucks.”
“The line for that sentiment forms to the rear, shipmate,” Rex replied.
“So are we taking the same target list and splitting it between the two air wings now, or what?”
“That’s a likely possibility.”
“So much for a three-day war.” Punk picked up Rex’s copy of the target list and brushed a finger down the length of it. “It’ll take us twice as long to get through this list without the Air Force.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“Tankers?”
“If you mean Air Force tankers the answer is probably no. Those that aren’t stationed at Al Kharj are based in Bahrain. If you mean S-3s then the answer is yes.”
“I don’t mean S-3s,” Punk shot back with all of the frustration he felt. “We’ve got targets around Baghdad. How are we supposed to go that far without heavy tankers?” The pilot let out an exasperated pshaw. “The skipper doesn’t have to worry about fratricide while he’s camped out in the ITT building. We can’t even get there now.” Rex started to reply but caught sight of the other admiral on the VTC screen and moved closer to the monitor.
“What’s the allowable risk?” the other admiral asked into the little camera inches in front of his face.
“I believe it’s low,” the admiral replied into his own len
s.
“Well,” the other admiral followed hyperbolically, “I guess that rules out one-way missions.” Beyond that realization, they still had a lot of work to do. In many ways, despite the hours they’d spent planning thus far, they hadn’t even started planning yet. Home—that carrot that had been cruelly dangled before their collective face—remained a long way off—almost as far away as the war they were now wrestling with. Punk quietly cursed his miserable life, rolled up the sleeves of his flight suit, and made ready to continue their work, knowing that he’d now lost what was left of the idealism that might have made the task a bit easier.
But just as the rising tide of crises threatened to flow over all their hastily placed sandbags of accommodation, an angel of mercy in the form of a female correspondent beamed from the TV in CVIC and shored up their defenses once and for all. Following a breaking news graphic, she appeared from the streets of Baghdad.
“We have just learned from both Iraqi and United Nations spokespersons that U.N. Secretary General Olaf Svarsbrooder has brokered an end to the standoff between the United Nations and Iraq. Here is a statement Mr. Svarsbrooder made just minutes ago.”
The scene shifted to a microphone-covered podium in a dark-paneled room. Behind the podium stood a diminutive man whose head barely crested into view. He spoke the King’s English, but with a distinct Scandinavian accent as he delivered his message. “I am pleased to announce the terms of the agreement between the United Nations and the nation of Iraq. After much deliberation, Iraq has agreed to remove all troops and weapons from south of the thirty-third parallel in accordance with the original U.N. mandate. Iraq has also agreed to release the American pilot, Commander Campbell, to U.N. officials. In return, the United Nations will review the terms of the sanctions against Iraq and the conduct of weapons inspections. I thank all negotiators involved in the peace process for averting a greater crisis and ask the world to appreciate the utility of the United Nations in these sorts of situations. Thank you, and God bless.”
Punk and Rex sat motionless, numb from the emotional ping pong game they’d played over the last week. They both stared blankly at the reams of strike planning documents that surrounded them, afraid to acknowledge the latest turn of events for fear that it was nothing but another cruel joke.
A minute later, Spud walked into CVIC and tried to break them out of their ugly spell. “I just ran into the admiral’s air ops officer, boys.” He swept his thin arm over the table in front of them. “Give all this shit to the Other Boat. The governor has called. We’ve been granted a reprieve.” The two strike planning team members still didn’t respond. “Didn’t you hear me?” Spud asked the pair of frozen forms. “We’re headed home.”
With that, Punk slowly raised his arm and Rex met him in a fatigued but heartfelt high five.
Although the Boat had only traveled part of the way back to Norfolk and there were many waters left to navigate, the captain was as ready to unwind as anybody else on the carrier. He ruled that their Suez Canal transit would be a celebration complete with a basketball tournament, live music from the ship’s bands, karate and judo demonstrations, a talent contest, and, most important, a massive barbecue that featured all the steak the crew could eat. Upbeat moods stirred the air, and every conversation was put in terms relating to the end of cruise: two more pizza days. Four more laundry days. No more haircuts.
The Egyptian natives on the canal’s western bank whistled and waved their arms as the carrier glided by. The circus had arrived in their town, if only for a few minutes. Towering ten stories high and packed with airplanes, bombs, and missiles, the Boat was an impressive demonstration of military might, but the impression left with the locals was more comprehensive than that. For all its difference from average American society, at times like this, the Boat was in many ways a perfect microcosm of it, like a traveling exposition of Americana.
A few of the sailors tossed their ball caps ashore, causing grown men to scurry like fans after a foul ball. The locals also received an unexpected souvenir, as the quarterback for one of the teams playing touch football near the stern overthrew his receiver and sent the pigskin bouncing down the flight deck and into the drink. Two boys in a rowboat were on the ball within seconds. “We’ll probably see those two kicking field goals in the NFL in a few years,” one of the sailors cracked to his teammates.
Spud and Punk used the occasion, as they had during the southbound transit, to chip the rust off of their golf swings by setting up a driving range between the airplanes parked on the starboard side near the stern. While preparing for the cruise, Spud had packed an Astroturf mat, complete with tee, and a laundry bag full of golf balls specifically for use during the Suez Canal transits.
Punk watched one of Spud’s shots land between two tank hulks half-buried in the sands of the Sinai Peninsula and pondered the setting’s history. “Why would anyone want to die over this? There’s nothing here.”
Spud held his follow-through and admired his handiwork as the next ball drew over the canal’s bank. “Land is its own reward, I guess. I know I’ve had some hellacious arguments with my neighbor over the property line.”
Punk chuckled and then stared blankly into the desert. Spud hit perfect shot after perfect shot until he noticed the silence next to him. He made a half turn on the mat, waved his hand, and said, “Hello? Earth to Punk . . .”
Punk spoke without turning his gaze from the Sinai. “I was just wondering if we really did anything.”
Spud shrugged. “I dunno. We did our thing; now the Other Boat is doing their thing. It’s their problem now.” He stopped and turned completely around to face his pilot. “Why do you even worry about that? You’d better concentrate your energies on the important stuff like praying that the sun continues to set in front of the bow for the rest of this cruise. Remember it only takes ten minutes to turn the carrier around. One call from the Pentagon and we’re back in the Gulf faster than you can say, ‘Oh, shit.’”
The lieutenant commander reached down and plucked another ball out of the mesh bag and placed it on the rubber tee. He took his stance, waggled a few times, and then drew the four hundred dollar club smoothly back. As his hands came back down, the pass through the ball looked as technically sound as the thirty odd that had preceded it, but this time the white sphere sliced wildly to the right and flew an awkward path until it hit the canal with a sorry splash.
“You’re fucking me up here with all your heavy-duty meaning of life stuff, nose-gunner-boy,” Spud said with disgust as he reached back into the mesh bag.
He regained his composure and was about to take the driver back again when Scooter scrambled out of the catwalk a dozen yards away and called over to them: “Hey, you guys, the skipper’s homecoming will be on TV in a few minutes.” Spud and Punk grabbed the few clubs they’d brought up from their staterooms and handed the driving range over to a couple of enlisted men who had been admiring Spud’s form and asking him for swing tips. “Remember, boys,” Spud passed as he headed for the ready room, “you can worry about a lot of different things with a golf swing, but in the end, it’s all about keeping your head still.” He relayed one more bit of advice before he got out of earshot: “Don’t hit any Egyptians with a golf ball. We just got out of one international crisis, and we don’t need another one.”
The two aviators entered the ready room through the back door, tucked their clubs next to the sink, and moved to their chairs. The room was packed, as all of the squadron officers and senior enlisted men had come to see the latest, and perhaps final, chapter of the Commander Campbell saga unfold on the big screen.
“This homecoming is kind of a dubious occasion for the skipper, don’t you think?” Biff asked Punk in the chair next to him.
“I guess,” Punk replied. “I wouldn’t want the world to know the circumstances that got me shot down. I’d slip out the back door of the transport, get into the minivan, and wait for the public to worry about something else.”
In the front row, Sp
ud asked Smoke about the intel debrief that had followed the fateful flight and how he’d characterized the skipper’s actions. “You didn’t pull any punches did you?”
“Trust me, Spud,” Smoke said, “the chain of events spoke for itself. I told them the cold facts, and I imagine the rest will just follow the natural order of things.” Smoke shot a furtive look down the row to the squadron’s operations officer across the aisle from them. “I kinda feel sorry for Beads . . . you know, latching onto a falling star,” he whispered. “He invested a lot of pain and effort in his bright future only to have his sea daddy commit professional suicide.”
“That’s the risk you run playing that game,” Spud stated. “Although what do I know? I’m a terminal lieutenant commander.”
“Maybe . . . but you’ve still got your pride.”
“Oh? Can I send my kids to college with that?”
The news came out of a commercial and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. “Commander Alexander Campbell’s long journey from the skies over Iraq to a cell in Baghdad to a hospital in Germany and then back to the United States is almost over,” the anchorman said. “We now go to Andrews Air Force Base just outside Washington, D.C.”
“It’s a beautiful, clear, crisp winter day here at Andrews Air Force Base,” the reporter observed. “The jet transport arrived from Wiesbaden, Germany, a few minutes ago, and we expect Commander Campbell to come out any second now. I’d like the cameraman to pan around and show the viewers just how big the crowd is here. Several thousand people have come out to welcome the commander home and—oh, I see the transport’s door has just opened. Let’s watch and listen to this poignant scene . . .”
The skipper emerged from the cabin resplendent in his service dress blues, and the crowd let out a cheer. Hundreds of balloons were released along with a covey of white doves. The Marine Corps Band began to play “Anchors Aweigh.” The commander looked a little dazed as he stepped off the boarding ladder and limply shook hands with a silver-haired man who appeared very happy to see him.
