America jtf-2

by David E. Meadows

  He couldn’t do that. For a fraction of a second, the idea appealed to him. “I can’t do it, Admiral,” he said, his voice harsh. No way anyone was going to chase him in his own country. He was no beardless ensign right out of college. He’d been in combat. He’d killed and been wounded. He’d chased and been chased. He’d also learned that the idea of the fight is always more frightening than the actual combat. If this Abu Alhaul wanted to come after him because he — Tucker Raleigh — had caused the death of the terrorist’s family, then so be it. The asshole had better come well armed, because Tucker wasn’t going to lay down and be executed like they’d done to so many others so many times.

  James, along with the others, seemed taken aback. Then it quickly dawned on Tucker that they misunderstood his words.

  Tucker’s eyes widened and he held up both hands, palms out. “I mean I can’t disappear and allow others to take my place. If we can stop whatever this man intends to do, and using me as bait brings him and his minions into the open, then I am prepared to do my duty.”

  Duncan James visibly relaxed. The two-star Admiral smiled. “Good, but I want you to know, Tucker, that you could be in Georgia by tomorrow and relaxing down there, hidden away from all this. While we are imposing strict operational security on this operation by restricting personal telephone calls and e-mail messages, Navy Intelligence is going to allow a slight slip in security — as if they never do — and ensure that word gets out as to you being located in Little Creek, Virginia. Then we’ll watch and see if Abu Alhaul takes the bait. Of course, you can still take off to Georgia.”

  Tucker’s grin caused his cheeks to rise slightly. “Sir, obviously you haven’t been to Georgia in August,” he said, bringing laughter to everyone but St. Cyr.

  James pointed at Holman. “Admiral Holman is going to lead the at-sea search under the direction of Commander, U.S. Second Fleet. It means he’ll be putting his amphibious ships out to sea along the east coast to hunt for this rogue vessel. Your job is to get the team ready and be prepared to act on little notice. Though Captain St. Cyr is senior, the fact that this is a U.S. action means you’ll lead. The British will lead theirs and the French have control of the one protecting Rotterdam.”

  Admiral James walked over to Tucker and St. Cyr, shook both their hands. “A lot is riding on how we handle this. Tonight, the president will raise the alert code to red. That will bring lots of questions from the press that will have to be pared. Good luck, gentlemen. I leave you now with Admiral Holman.”

  Duncan James looked at Dick Holman. “Good luck, Dick.”

  Holman nodded. “Thanks, Duncan,” he said, reaching out and shaking his friend’s hand. “I’ll need it.” Holman unconsciously patted his left pocket.

  Admiral James laughed. He looked at his watch. “Come on, let’s head to ground zero and see if those shipmates from J6 are still there. You can smoke that damn thing before flying back. Otherwise, the way you keep patting that pocket, you’re going to knock off what few medals you have or wear a hole in your shirt.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Ok, boss,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Forrester announced as he leaned through the curtain leading to the cockpit of the Navy maritime reconnaissance P-3C aircraft. “We’ve a surface contact twenty-five miles ahead on a northeasterly course.” The venerable P-3C maritime reconnaissance and antisubmarine aircraft was a four-engine turbo-prop.

  Lieutenant Maureen “Gotta-be” Early shifted in her seat, tugging the seat belt to the right so she could look over her shoulder at the young man. “Alright, Win, tell the crew to strap in.” When she faced forward again, she lifted one buttock for a moment and then the other. “This sitting is causing all the blood to settle in my butt,” she remarked.

  “Then, you must have a whole lotta—”

  “Don’t go there, Lieutenant,” she interrupted good-naturedly.

  “You know, Gotta-Be, all this up and down, flying around, buzzing holes in the sky may bother your butt, but it is upsetting my stomach,” her copilot Scott Kelly said as he took another bite out of his tuna sandwich. A few bits of bread stuck to the side of his mouth. As he spoke, a piece of tuna fell onto his lap.

  “Yeah, I see how much it’s upsetting that cast-iron stomach.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Winfield Forrester acknowledged, his head disappearing back into the long fuselage of the four-engine propeller-driven plane. The curtain dropped back into place, separating the cooler cockpit from the heat of the multiple bays of electronics behind them.

  Kelly held the sandwich away from his face, twisted it a couple of times, and through a mouthful of food, said, “You know, maybe keeping the stomach full of food helps keep it calm.” He patted his stomach.

  “Then you must have the calmest stomach in the squadron,” Senior Chief Michael Leary said, leaning forward from the flight engineer seat located above, between, and behind the two pilots.

  “That’s why a young single bloke such as myself must forever keep watching his waistline and his health.” He gave them both an exaggerated smile, revealing near-perfect teeth.

  Maureen could learn to hate such perfection. She ran her tongue between the gums and teeth. Why should a man have those pearls after she spent her entire teenage years wearing braces?

  “Hey! I heard that,” Lieutenant Maureen Early said as she patted her own tummy. “Just because some can eat continuously and still lose weight doesn’t necessarily mean you’re normal.”

  “Well, the way you eat, Lieutenant Kelly, you’ll soon have that waistline out where you can watch it better,” Senior Chief Leary added.

  “Funny, Senior Chief,” Kelly drawled, as he dug into the brown paper bag lying on its side on the floor of the flight deck. He pulled out another sandwich. “Here, Maureen, have this one. It’s anchovy with peanut butter,” he lied, pushing his second tuna sandwich toward her.

  She waved him away. “Gee, thanks. You want to see me throw up or something?”

  “The something would be preferable, ma’am,” the Senior Chief interjected. “We do have that new ensign back there,” he continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Probably, if you offer it to her, she’d heave.”

  The voice of the Navigator over the intercom interrupted their banter. “All hands, set condition five. I say again, set condition five.”

  “Can we change the subject? The fine art of causing others to vomit isn’t something that appeals to my well-tuned sense of decorum.”

  “Then you would surely hate playing jacks,” the Senior Chief said.

  “Jacks?”

  “Or, worse, three jacks.”

  Kelly shook his head. “You don’t want to know. Trust me. It isn’t something sociably acceptable at most tea parties.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The Senior Chief laughed. “It’s a Chief Petty Officer thing, ma’am.” Jacks was an air-reconnaissance term for announcing when someone had passed or was passing gas. A rating of “three jacks” was an especially bad one, or a “good one,” depending on your field of reference.

  “Okay, if you two aren’t going to tell me, then you both may go to that eternal place of damnation. Besides, whatever this three-jacks game is, if a man can do it, a woman can do it better.”

  “Ma’am, I have no doubt that women are probably better at three jacks than men,” Senior Chief Leary replied, his face contorting as he fought back the laughter. “Many times I can recall losing to a female aircrewman in the middle of a flight.”

  Maureen nodded sharply. “I know I can beat you both. I played jacks when I was growing up—”

  “Bet you were popular,” Lieutenant Kelly said.

  “—and if Chief Petty Officers can sit around playing three jacks, then I could probably play with the entire set of ten and beat your butt with one hand tied behind me.”

  Senior Chief Leary roared. “I can’t help it! I can’t help it!” Tears rolled down his eyes. He pulled a handkerchief out of a knee pocket on his flight suit and began w
iping his eyes. “Ma’am, I feel with the proper training, you could be a number-one jacks player. Here, Lieutenant Kelly, let her have your tuna sandwich.”

  Kelly spit part of his sandwich out, coughing to clear a half-swallowed mouthful. “I can’t believe it,” he stuttered, laughing through his choking.

  Senior Chief Leary reached over and slapped the copilot’s back. “Watch it there, Lieutenant. Choking has been known to cause an inadvertent three-jacks event.”

  “Okay, there’s something here I don’t understand, and chances are, when I do, I will be forced to wreak feminine vengeance upon you both.”

  Maureen tugged the green sleeves of her flight suit and glanced at her watch. “We’ll give them a couple of minutes and then start our descent. Senior Chief, you and the eating machine keep a lookout for that contact. We’ll loop down, fly around her a couple of times, and then return to altitude to continue our mission.”

  “Yes, ma’am, will do,” Senior Chief Leary replied. He reached up, slipped a notch on the seat belt to give him more freedom to move; then he leaned forward, sliding the brown paper bag back out of reach of their copilot.

  “Ah, Senior Chief, why in the hell did you do that?”

  “Because, Mr. Kelly, at one hundred feet altitude, we need to keep both hands on the wheel. One of the first lessons my ol’ pappy from Alabama taught me.”

  “Tell me, Senior Chief, if a man and woman get married in Alabama and move to Washington, D.C., are they still brother and sister?”

  “Scott,” Maureen said, “leave the Senior Chief alone before he reaches forward with one of those massive black arms and snaps your neck like a twig.”

  “Senior Chief, you wouldn’t do that, would you?

  “Sir, I have never disobeyed a direct order. Especially from someone who most likely can beat a Chief Petty Officer in a rousing game of jacks.”

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Forrester’s head appeared between the curtains. “Condition five is set, ma’am.”

  “Win, have we notified home plate?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Communications were rough since we are about fifteen hundred miles east of Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico. I also went ahead and relayed the contact through the USS Spruance, who is patrolling along the eastern end of the Caribbean Sea near the Lesser Antilles islands. Told her we were descending for a pass against a probable merchant contact that was a true course of zero-two-zero, speed twelve knots. They roger’ed up. We are to contact them once we regain altitude.”

  “We still have satellite contact?” Maureen Early asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. The Cryptologic Technician Operator, or CTO, has contact, but once we descend to nearer sea level, the shaking and jerking of the aircraft will cause the antenna connection to be sporadic.”

  “You mean we’ll lose contact until we ascend again.”

  Forrester shook his head. “Depends on the turbulence.”

  “I’ve heard that communicator mumbo jumbo before,” Kelly interjected.

  “Spruance says they’ve issued a weather alert. That storm west of us is turning toward our area. Home plate is weak, but I did get that they want us to turn toward home after this pass.”

  “That’s great news. Only a ten-hour mission instead of a twelve-hour one where we drift back on fumes. Might actually have fuel in the tanks when we land this time,” Kelly said.

  “You got the contact report ready to go?” Lieutenant Early asked.

  “Sure do. It’s sitting on my screen. All I have to do is fill in the blanks, hit the transmit button, and the CTO will shoot the information to the satellite, where it will ricochet back to Navy Intelligence, where—”

  “—it will be lost forever,” Kelly said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  “Thanks, Win,” Maureen said.

  “Ain’t technology wonderful?” the Senior Chief asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Have we told Commander Joint Task Force America our intentions?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Forrester replied. “I talked with their Operations after talking with home plate. The Task Force is off the coast of Norfolk, but we have better communications with them four thousand miles away than we do with Roosevelt Roads. They’ve given us contact number zero-five-six for this pass.”

  “We haven’t identified fifty-six contacts this mission,” Kelly interjected.

  “No, sir. We haven’t, but there were four other P-3Cs out here on this spread-fan search.”

  “And which, pray tell, part of the fan are we?”

  “I would say we are the bottom part of it, Lieutenant. We’re due east of the American Virgin Islands. The four P-3Cs north of us have already started their return to Roosevelt Roads.”

  “Lucky devils,” the Senior Chief added.

  The aircraft hit an air pocket, dropped several feet before its wings caught the air again. The Senior Chief reached out and caught Kelly’s sack as it popped into the air in front of him. Forrester put his hand up, pushing down from the overhead.

  “Wow, rough one,” Kelly said.

  “Okay, fellows,” Early said. She glanced over her shoulders at Winfield Forrester. “Win, bring me a copy of the message you relayed to JTF America?”

  “Sure, skipper. I can tell you what it said, though. It said we were descending to do an identification pass of an unidentified vessel — a vessel traveling on a northeasterly course of zero-one-zero, speed twelve knots. Also gave them the geographical coordinates of the contact along with our own position, course, speed, and altitude.”

  “That’s good, Win, but I’d still like to see the report.” She lifted up the metal-covered notebook wedged into a bulkhead pocket beside her chair. “I’ve found if I keep copies of what we send off the plane, then when I write our after-action report, I’ll have all the data at my fingertips instead of having to chase down everyone on the flight to get the data together.”

  “Give him hell, Commander,” Kelly said, referring to Early’s title of mission commander. The copilot turned his head so the younger officer could see the exaggerated smile. He wiggled his eyebrows up and down several times. “No telling what he’s been putting in those reports.”

  Winfield Forrester held up his right hand, and with his left hand wrapped around his index finger, he said, “You read code, Lieutenant.”

  “You two stop that,” Early said. “Win, get me the message, okay?”

  “Back in a jiff,” he replied.

  “Okay, team, let’s go down for a look-see.” Lieutenant Maureen Early reached forward and pulled the throttles back. The sound of the four engines reducing power vibrated through the aircraft. She pushed forward on the yoke, and the nose of the huge propeller-driven aircraft dipped as she headed toward sea level. It would take about five minutes for them to reach the low approach altitude. Then they would have to locate the vessel unless they gained visual contact on the way down. The way the cloud cover was thickening, Maureen knew there was a good chance they’d have to do a few circles to find it. Radar worked good on surface targets while flying at altitude, but the closer you flew to the sea surface, the more ground scatter affected the returns. But it sure beat boring holes in the sky.

  Whiffs of dark clouds fluttered by the aircraft as they passed the ten- to twelve-thousand-foot ceiling where rain clouds formed and floated. Winfield Forrester’s head reappeared between the curtains. He stuck his head inside the cockpit and handed a sheet of paper to Lieutenant Maureen Early. She took it, glancing back and forth between it and the front window as she watched the approaching ocean that filled her field of view. Passing the message to her left hand, she folded it with her fingers and pushed the message under the metal flap of the notebook.

  “Passing nine thousand, skipper,” Senior Chief Leary said to the mission commander.

  “I’ve got a visual on the contact,” Kelly said a few minutes later as they passed four thousand feet. “It’s at our two o’clock.”

  Lieutenant Maureen Early eased the aircraft into a slight right turn, a
ttempting to shift the target to their twelve o’clock position directly off their nose.

  “Right there,” Kelly said.

  She straightened the wheel, steadying the aircraft in its descent.

  “Still hazy, but looks like a one-two merchant,” he said, using the Navy lookout description for a vessel possessing a raised deck at the bow and amidships followed by a flush deck to the stern.

  “Look for some sort of huge black or gray van anchored to its stern deck,” Early said.

  Kelly lifted a set of binoculars from the small shelf to his right. He scanned the ship in the distance. After a minute, he lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “I can’t see anything topside that matches that description. Could be they put it belowdecks. Maybe in one of those cargo holds. May be the clouds that are rolling in.”

  “Passing one thousand.”

  “Thanks, Senior Chief. Tell me cherubs, now.” Most tactical aircraft reported their altitude in “angels” with each angel equaling one thousand feet. When an aircraft passed beneath the one-thousand-foot altitude, hundreds of feet were passed using the term “cherub.” Reconnaissance and transport aircraft followed the commercial practice of reporting altitude above one thousand feet by referring to the first three digits of the altitude. They had passed through the cloud layer at altitude one-zero-zero — ten thousand feet.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, it’s kind of hard for him to give it to you in thousands anymore.”

  “Lieutenant Kelly, let’s be serious for a few minutes so we can make this pass, get the data we need for our report, and get back up where we can continue our dynamic discussions.”

  Kelly brushed his hands together, knocking off the crumbs, before grabbing the yoke tightly.

  The aircraft banked right again, putting the contact onto the left side of the P-3C. “Let’s bring the aircraft down to cherubs one before we fly by the contact.”