Balance of Power

by James W. Huston

  He stared at the screens and back at his boss.

  “I concur, Admiral, this is it.”

  “Are we at flank speed?”

  “Yes, sir, we have been.”

  “We’re still out of range for the F/A-18s to get there before dawn.”

  “Well, they could get there, but they wouldn’t be able to get back. They’d have to refuel. We can send an S-3 with—”

  “Well, that’s not going to work.” Blazer stared at the symbol representing the USS Harry S Truman Battle Group that had been charging south from the Philippines at flank speed since receiving the President’s order. He had been ordered to “intercept” the USS Constitution Battle Group. He had asked for clarification. None had been forthcoming. Intercepting them might be possible, but then what?

  “Do we still have two F-14s in alert five, and two in alert fifteen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They all have tanks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If we launch the F-14s now, and they head toward the Constitution Battle Group at military power, can we get a tanker to meet them on the way back so they don’t go in the drink?”

  Morrison stared at the symbols, then measured distances by latitude lines on the chart. “It would be close, but I think so. Worst case, if they ran out of gas, they could land aboard the Constitution, I suppose.”

  Blazer shook his head. “No, they couldn’t.” Blazer’s mind turned to his Naval Academy classmate Admiral Ray Billings, one of his best friends during their long careers in the Navy. They had been in the same fighter squadrons, had been on the same carriers, and had dated the same women. He respected Ray Billings as much as any man he’d ever met. But he had his orders—whatever they meant.

  Blazer looked at the overhead quickly, then at Morrison. “Launch the alert five F-14s, and prepare to launch the alert fifteen F-14s. Vector them to the Constitution.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Blazer turned to him. “And if they get there? Tell them only to intercept. They are not to interfere. Without specific orders to the contrary, we wouldn’t want to interfere in ongoing combat operations, would we?”

  33

  DILLON WAS WHISKED OUT OF THE ISLAND ON THE USS Constitution to a waiting SH-60F helicopter from HS-5. He had been robed in a white flotation vest, uninflated of course, and the same odd helmet with headphones that he had worn on the COD. It was still pitch-dark on the flight deck; the only lighting was from the red floodlights overhead. Two people took his elbows and walked him briskly from the island to the helicopter. Dillon immediately experienced sensory overload from the noise, light, sensation of moving, and general confusion. He felt the men lifting up on his elbows as they stepped up into the passenger/cargo area of the helicopter.

  As soon as he was seated with an odd seat belt around him and over his shoulders, the four blades of the helicopter began spinning. A man approached him, checked Dillon’s helmet, his chin strap, his flotation vest, the CO2 cartridges in his flotation vest, his shoulder straps, and his lap belt, looked him in the eye, and gave him a thumbs-up with a grin. Dillon wanted to return the thumbs-up, but instead sat there frozen by anxious anticipation. Moments later his head was pulled down involuntarily as the helicopter lifted away from the flight deck, dropped over the edge toward the black water, and moved quickly away from the lights. The red floodlights from the ship were far behind them, and the illumination in the helicopter was barely enough for the aircrew to see what they were doing. Dillon swallowed and squeezed some saliva down through his pinched throat. There was no overhead reading light, flight-attendant call button, or adjustable air vent. He had failed to notice the relative location of the Wasp to the Constitution and therefore did not know how long a flight he was in for. He hadn’t gone to the head since before he’d seen Beth Louwsma in the wardroom; he had a sudden rushing fear that he was about to wet his pathetic pajama-like gray suit pants. The pants seemed to have gotten shorter. The legs bunched up in his crotch under the lap belt, leaving the bare skin of his lower calves feeling cold. Dillon closed his eyes and tried to ignore the vibration. He hoped desperately that he had made the right decision and that his mother was not about to get a letter describing his stupidity.

  Without warning, the helicopter flared and the nose came up dramatically above the horizon. Oh no, Dillon thought. We’re gonna crash. He supposed the same instruction applied in the helicopter as the COD, not to inflate his life vest until he was outside. He imagined himself gasping in some air pocket of the helicopter as it descended thousands of feet to the ocean bottom.

  Suddenly the helicopter was engulfed in red floodlights as it settled onto the deck of the Wasp. Dillon sighed in relief as the weight of the helicopter was transferred to its landing gear and the blade rpm decreased rapidly. Two men stepped into the helicopter, unbuckled him, grabbed his elbows, and led him toward the door. As he slowed to step off the helicopter, they lifted him up and set him down on the flight deck. They all moved rapidly toward the island. As they approached, the steel hatch swung open and he stepped to the inside of the ship. The hatch was closed behind him, the long handle dogged down.

  They removed his vest and indicated that he should take his helmet off. He did so and handed it to a sailor standing next to him. The two men who had taken him off the helicopter were wearing camouflage uniforms, mostly green and brown. The shirts with large pockets hung over the belts and the sleeves were rolled up past their elbows. They had close-cut hair and serious looks. They introduced themselves. “Good morning, Mr. Dillon, I’m Corporal Luther. This is Corporal Gordon. Welcome aboard the Wasp.”

  “Thank—”

  “We’ve been asked to escort you directly to Colonel Tucker. Please follow us,” they said, turning on their heels.

  One led and one followed as they descended the ladder to the next level. They turned sharply and headed down the passageway.

  Luther opened a gray door and indicated for Dillon to go in. Luther and Gordon followed behind him. Luther spoke loudly. “Colonel Tucker, Mr. Dillon. Mr. Dillon, this is Colonel Tucker, Commander of all Landing Forces, commonly called the CLiF, the one in charge of the landing.”

  Dillon crossed the small room and extended his hand to the colonel, who was at the head of a table with eight or ten other people in cammies. Colonel Tucker looked him in the eye. “Welcome aboard the Wasp, Mr. Dillon. I must tell you that I’m not very glad you’re here.”

  Dillon tried not to look surprised or disturbed. “I understand your concern, Colonel, but I will not get in the way.”

  “I’m not really concerned about your intentions, Mr. Dillon, I’m concerned about your safety.”

  “I’m prepared to take that risk, sir.” Dillon faced the colonel squarely.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Dillon. Have you ever heard a rifle fired?”

  “No, sir,” Dillon said.

  “You ever heard a hundred rifles fired at the same time?”

  “No.”

  “You ever heard a hundred rifles fired at the same time at you?”

  “Well, obviously not.”

  “So what is it that has caused you to want to experience that today?”

  The other officers looked at Dillon with impatience. He had obviously arrived in the middle of a final briefing.

  “I feel responsible for this whole thing.”

  Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “What whole thing?”

  “The Letter of Reprisal was my idea—sending it to a Navy battle group and going after these terrorists.”

  “It was a good idea. Now you need to let us execute it.”

  “That’s my intention. I just want to watch.”

  “This isn’t a spectator sport, Mr. Dillon.”

  “I know that, sir. I just want to go along. I don’t want to be accused of being a politician who watches the results of his actions on television.”

  “This is my staff, Mr. Dillon. I’m not going to introduce you to save time. W
e’re in the short hairs of our preparation here and what I’d like you to do is get ready to go. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be going at all, but it’s not. So I’m going to take you ashore with me. I want you to listen carefully. You will be with me the entire time. You will do exactly as I say. You will go where I say, do what I say, and you will do it without questioning and without hesitation. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That may not be so easy. Do you promise you’ll do exactly what I say?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Tucker blew out a breath. He looked at Luther, who was standing behind Dillon. “Corporal Luther?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go check out some cammies that will fit Mr. Dillon. I would assume a large. What size shoe do you wear, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Get him some combat boots, utilities, helmet, flak jacket, utility belt with two canteens, and whatever else he needs. Mr. Dillon, I want you to go with Corporal Luther, and when you get your gear, I want you to change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Corporal Luther, show Mr. Dillon the nearest officers’ head. Mr. Dillon, I want you to report back here after you’ve changed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dillon turned and began to follow Luther.

  “And, Corporal Luther…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get some adhesive tape. What’s your first name, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Jim, James.”

  “Corporal Luther, put adhesive tape on the back of Mr. Dillon’s helmet, with ‘Jimmy’ on it, so nobody shoots him in the ass. Mr. Dillon,” Tucker said finally, “I can’t put a dog collar and leash on you and have someone watch over you. Your safety is going to be up to you as much as it is up to me. Are you with us?”

  “I’m with you, sir.”

  “Go get him changed, Corporal Luther.”

  Commander Mike Caskey couldn’t see the deck at all in the pitch-darkness, nor could he see the edge of the deck, on the other side of which was ocean. The two nosewheels straddled catapult 1 on the bow of the Constitution. He and Messer were to be the first Tomcat airborne. He kneeled the airplane. The nosestrut compressed and the launch bar lowered itself slowly to the deck. The yellow shirt standing in front of him moved his lighted wands together slowly. Caskey watched him carefully, keeping his feet on the brake pedals which were above the rudder pedals. The nose of the airplane was light, making it easy to turn the nosewheel. But too much turn, and the plane could start to slide and skid across the slippery flight deck.

  Caskey inched his Tomcat forward. As he approached the shuttle, the yellow shirt slowed his lighted wands. Caskey could feel the launch bar push up the metal shuttle and drop on the forward side. The yellow shirt immediately crossed his wands and Caskey stepped on his brakes. The yellow shirt looked down at the sailor attaching the hold-back fitting. He ran out from under the F-14 and gave him a thumbs-up. The yellow shirt moved off to the left and transferred control to the catapult officer who would launch the aircraft from the flight deck itself instead of from inside the glass bubble recessed into the flight deck, as he usually did. He’s probably just excited and wants to feel like he’s part of this strike, Caskey thought. The catapult officer quickly rotated the flashlight in his right hand, telling Caskey to run up his engine to military power. Caskey jammed the throttles forward with his left hand and began checking his instruments. “Everything looks good, Messer,” he said quickly.

  “Roger that. Controls.”

  Caskey slammed the stick to the left side. “Left.”

  Messer looked quickly to the left with his flashlight shining on the left wing spoilers. “Good.”

  Caskey moved the stick to the right and Messer checked the right-hand spoilers at the same speed. “Good.”

  “Aft,” Caskey said.

  Messer turned himself tightly in his seat and looked at the horizontal stabilizers evenly deflected with the aft ends up toward the sky. “Good.”

  “Forward,” Caskey said.

  Messer watched the horizontal stabilizers shift to point their forward edges toward the sky. “Good.”

  “Rudder,” he said, moving the rudder pedals from one stop to the other.

  “Good.”

  “Caution, and warning lights are out. Engine instruments look good.”

  Messer checked the warning panel and quickly scanned the hundreds of circuit breakers. “I’m good.”

  Caskey flicked the switch on the throttle to turn on the airplane’s exterior lights, indicating they were ready. The catapult officer saluted, looked down the flight deck, and looked back at the Jet-Blast Deflector as the F-14B’s powerful engines forced the burning air into the JBD and up into the sky. He leaned forward and touched the deck. The catapult petty officer pushed the launch button and the F-14 was jerked down momentarily, then raced toward the bow of the ship. The acceleration was exhilarating. Zero to one hundred thirty-five knots in less than three seconds. The shuttle ended and the plane was hurled off the deck and into the black sky seventy feet above the water. The small amount of light on the flight deck disappeared entirely as they climbed away from the ocean.

  Caskey raised the landing gear and climbed straight ahead, away from the carrier.

  Messer checked in with strike control on the radio. “Strike. Park Bench 104 airborne.”

  “Roger, Park Bench, proceed directly to cap station and report in. Switch button 9.”

  “Roger. Switching 9.” Messer looked at his TACAN needle and his tactical information display to get a good heading to their cap station.

  “Come port to 263,” he said to Caskey.

  Caskey gently turned the F-14 to a heading of 263—nearly due west—and continued his climb to 10,000 feet. The rest of the launch for Event One continued flawlessly in the dark behind them. “Cold mike.”

  “Ditto,” Messer said turning off his microphone.

  The airplanes from the Constitution streaked toward their assigned positions as adroitly as ballet dancers finding their places onstage. They left their lights on to avoid midair collisions until they approached the island; then they would go dark. Almost all the commanding officers of the squadrons were airborne, not wanting to miss this chance. The voices were a little higher on the radio frequencies, the turns more precise, the checklists more enthusiastic.

  Within thirty minutes they were all at their assigned posts. Caskey and his wingman took up their position over the amphibious group heading for the beach. There were two other F-14s northeast of the amphibious group. The other fighters were F/A-18s—two west of the island, two east, and two south. The electronic EA-6B flew southeast of the island, out of sight, listening carefully for any surface-to-air missile activity or other unusual electronic signals. The ES-3A patrolled southward from the island, listening for any radio communications. So far there had been nothing.

  The night was dead quiet. The moon was about to set in the west, but was still bright enough to illuminate the horizon for three hundred and sixty degrees in the warm night. Caskey and his wingman flew in a general circular pattern covering the amphibious group. They were on opposite sides of the circle and their radars pointed in opposite directions. The E-2C Hawkeye was airborne east of the amphibious group, and had the island, the carrier, and a two-hundred-fifty-mile area covered like an electric blanket. There were no other airplanes in the sky.

  There were ships scattered over the sea, but all but three had been previously identified as merchant shipping. Those three were being watched by an S-3B.

  Caskey looked down at the Wasp: its flight deck was aglow with AV-8B Harrier jets and helicopters preparing to take off. The Wasp had a well deck in the back that flooded so landing craft, LCUs and LCACs, could drive out with their complement of Marines and equipment. The LCUs were loaded and were circling behind the large amphibious carrier. He could barely make them out in the early morning as the sun started to light the sky. One after another, then another—a long train of boa
ts circled, waiting for the chance to turn toward the beach.

  Caskey and Messer made another circle around the Amphibious Group, two hundred fifty knots, ten thousand feet. Just a cruise. But with each circle the tension increased for everyone in the amphibious operation. Someone was going to die soon. The only question was who.

  The amphibious group and the Marines hadn’t had time to do a rehearsal, one of the required elements of any amphibious landing. Go somewhere else, similar to your destination, and rehearse the entire operation. Get the Marines in the boats, get the helicopters airborne, turn everyone in toward shore, and even land if you have time. Then, when the real landing comes, the bugs will be worked out of the plan, and everyone will be fresh and ready to go. But not this time.

  Caskey glanced to the north and could clearly see the island in the early-morning light, its greenness visible in the heat.

  “Fifteen minutes to L hour,” Messer said, sounding slightly bored. “Must be a real challenge for those Marines, to send fifteen hundred of them against a couple of hundred pinhead terrorists.”

  “Easy, Messer. They probably think it’d be easy to do a TARPS run over this island.”

  “Touché,” Messer said.

  “Are we still outside the SAM envelope?” Caskey was looking at the chart on his kneeboard.

  “You bet,” Messer said. “I’m not going anywhere near that guy.”

  “What did they say the max range was on that thing?”

  “12.5 clicks, about seven miles.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are we going to roll in hot and strafe?” Messer asked hopefully.

  “Only if they need us, and there’s nothing else to do up here.”

  “Cool,” Messer said, trying to cover the dryness in his mouth with enthusiasm.

  Suddenly the circling boats below them straightened out and headed toward the beach. The LCAC—Landing Craft, Air Cushion—that carried Colonel Tucker and Dillon led the rest of the craft. It was an enormous hovercraft that rode on a cushion of air, generating a cloud of saltwater from the black skirt that contained the air pressure. From the back, its huge airplane-like propellers pushed it toward the beach at twice the speed of the LCUs. It projected an air of menace.