“Admiral Holman, welcome to the Charles de Gaulle. I am Captain Marc St. Cyr,” the man said in flawless English and with only a slight Gallic accent.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Sir, if you and your officers will follow me, we will go to the wardroom for discussions.” Without waiting for a response, St. Cyr did an about-face and led the way toward the forecastle of the ship.
One thing about warships of our European allies, thought Holman as he followed the lanky Frenchman, they were all a lighter gray than American warships. The other thing was they served wine with their meals and brandy after dinner. No wonder the U.S. Navy always insisted on having at-sea conferences on their ships.
French warships had their numbers painted amidships, while American warships’ numbers were painted along each side of the bow. The names of every warship, including American warships, were painted across the stern. Maybe so you could tell who was running.
A junior French Navy officer brought up the rear. They crossed the threshold of the hatch into the skin of the ship and out of the bright sunlight of the African sky. The junior officer turned, rotated the locking mechanism of the hatch, and sealed the interior from the smell of aviation fuel and the heat of the day. The air-conditioning quickly dispelled the heat, and the noisy ventillation cleared the air. The Charles de Gaulle had come a long way from its first two or three years of service when it kept breaking down and suffering the humiliation of being towed into most of the ports it visited. The French were the first nation other than the United States to build aircraft carriers capable of launching and recovering high-performance aircraft since World War II. Other than the United States, France was the only nation possessing a formidable at-sea airpower capability. China had yet to complete its second aircraft carrier. Its first had never deployed out of its coastal waters and had yet to launch its first aircraft while under way.
The French were ecstatic over the military victories in Somalia back in ’07 when the only fighter aircraft capability originated over the horizon from the decks of these two carriers. French morale and prestige had soared. In the shipyards of Marseilles, the keels for two additional French nuclear aircraft carriers had been laid last year. Holman recalled that along with morale and prestige, their arrogance had soared, which shocked everyone since no one believed that it could have gotten any higher.
“This way, Admiral,” St. Cyr said, motioning toward the ladder leading upward.
Two decks and several passageways later, they were led into a huge wardroom. Two long tables bolted to the deck and covered with satin tablecloths occupied the center of the compartment. A meter-wide bar ran along the forward bulkhead with a coffee machine—never visited a Navy ship that didn’t have ready coffee for anytime of the day, thought Holman—and numerous drawers beneath it. He assumed they held the various utensils for feeding the officers. On the starboard side of the wardroom was a television, a couple of leather couches, a few matching armchairs, and a scattering of small tables with lamps on them. The pastel paint seemed at odds with the light gray of Navy life, but he could see where this room would bubble during the evening when the day’s work at sea eased. It was easy to see that this was the main wardroom for the officers.
It was where meals were served. It definitely wasn’t like any flag wardroom he had visited on allied ships. Even on the USS Boxer, he had a smaller wardroom to entertain senior visitors and conduct business. Wonder why they brought them here instead of the flag wardroom befitting a senior officer. “Would the admiral like some coffee?” St. Cyr asked, nodding toward the coffee machine.
“Thanks, Captain,” Holman said, and as St. Cyr motioned one of the officers to take care of the request, he continued. “It was nice of Admiral Colbert to invite us to visit. I think between the two of our Naval forces, we will be able to evacuate our citizens with little trouble.” Dick looked around the room, expecting the French admiral to appear any moment. He knew from experience that managing a battle group could cause Admiral Colbert to be so wrapped up in circumstances that he would be forced to send a captain to meet a fellow admiral. He watched as Captain St. Cyr directed the officers in preparing the coffee. Personally, he would have either had the visiting admiral brought directly to where he was, or would have appeared as soon as possible professing apologies and such. At a minimum, he would have had the VIP taken to his personal wardroom. Maritime tradition between warriors of the sea was very traditional and circumspect. While Holman didn’t hold much credence with rank and its trappings, he did recognize when it was missing.
A lanky French lieutenant placed three cups along one side of the table.
“If the admiral would be so kind and have a seat, we can begin our discussions.”
What! Dick’s eyebrows raised at the suggestion. He turned and glanced at Upmann, who rolled his eyes slightly, indicating he didn’t know what was going on either.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Admiral Colbert, Captain?”
The man shook his head, his lower lip pushing the upper up. “The admiral is extremely busy and sends his regrets. He will be unable to attend, Admiral. He has asked that I deliver the restrictions and ensure you understand the limitations on what we will permit the American task force.”
It must be a language snafu, he thought. This Frog couldn’t have said what I thought I heard. Limitations? No one limited the United States Navy. Not in the past, not now, and not in the future.
“Excuse me, Captain. I may have misunderstood what you meant.”
Upmann took a step closer to Holman’s left.
“I assure you, sir. My English is impeccable. I was an exchange officer at your Industrial College of the Armed Forces years ago, and had a tour at our embassy in Washington as the deputy military attaché. My words have been carefully chosen,” St. Cyr replied, his face expressionless. It was as if the French officer had relaxed the muscles in his face with the exception of those needed to speak. His eyes met Dick’s without wavering.
“Then, I doubt that we have anything to discuss, Captain,” Holman said, his voice calm through his anger.
St. Cyr tilted his head to the left and jerked back slightly. Not much, but enough for Holman to know the refusal to begin discussions was unexpected. If he couldn’t deliver—what? What was the man going to say? Deliver some sort of ultimatum?
St. Cyr started to say something. Holman held up his hand. “Go get Admiral Colbert, Captain. Tell him that Admiral Dick Holman of the American Joint Task Force Liberia is here to see him.”
If Holman refused to listen to Captain St. Cyr, then the captain would have to go fetch Colbert. St. Cyr would have to tell him he was unable to execute his orders. Nothing bothered Navy officers and chiefs more than being unable to complete an assigned task. The difference was that chiefs usually found a way around stupid orders. Officers tended to execute them.
When several seconds passed and St. Cyr stood without moving, Dick turned to his Chief of Staff. “Captain Upmann, work with Captain St. Cyr to arrange our immediate return to the USS Boxer.”
Upmann nodded curtly. “With pleasure, Admiral.”
Holman walked past the French captain to the empty lounge area and took a seat in one of the leather chairs. Screw them. It wasn’t just him these French bastards were shoveling shit at, it was the United States Navy and the United States itself. That was what he represented. It was what military officers of every nation represented. They were their nation, and the traditions of respect at the lower ranks permeated upward as signs of solidarity or dissolution. The failure of the French admiral to pay his respects to his allied counterpart, and further, to leave that counterpart in the hands of a subordinate, was a display of diplomatic contempt. A display no self-respecting American military officer could allow, for it was a snub against the United States of America. He wanted off this despicable ship as soon as possible. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what they would do if the French refused to allow them to leave. He mentally shook his head. Even the Fre
nch wouldn’t be that foolish.
He tuned to the conversation between Upmann and St. Cyr. Either one of two things would happen. One, St. Cyr would take the incident to the admiral and Colbert would appear; or two, their transportation back to the USS Boxer would be arranged shortly. He refused to consider the third alternative.
The wardroom door slammed. Holman turned slightly and saw that St. Cyr had disappeared. Probably gone to throw himself over the side or shake his admiral into action. Upmann and Davidson walked toward him. The French lieutenant who had operated the coffee machine and set the coffee cups started across with them, but Upmann shook his head and motioned the man away. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but we would prefer some privacy.”
Holman stayed seated. He wanted to stand, but right now, actions spoke louder than words. Arrogant wasn’t in his vocabulary, but the French were good teachers. He had to act the part of the senior American Navy officer. Play and beat the French at their own game of arrogance and pomp, which was hard for an American to do. Come to think of it, not many nationalities had the centuries of experience in those areas as the French. They did put the r in arrogance, whatever that means.
“I think he’s gone to talk with his admiral,” Upmann said softly. He leaned closer. “What’s going on?” His eyes shifted toward the three French officers watching from across the compartment, whispering among themselves.
Dick nearly shrugged his shoulders, but stopped himself in time. “I’m not sure, Leo. Mary, what do you think?”
“I believe what we are seeing is the French flexing their muscles because they believe we are intruding into what they feel is their sphere of influence.”
“Because we want to evacuate our citizens?” Dick asked incredulously. “How can they confuse a noncombatant evacuation operation—NEO, with us expanding influence into a continent that has more failed states than the rest of the world combined?”
She shook her head. “Admiral, they know something we don’t and that we should.”
For a brief second, Holman mulled over the conversation with General Scott, Deputy, European Command. The man had warned him about the French, but said nothing about why they were sending a two-carrier battle group here or what he should be worried about. He just assumed that like so many times in the past, the French were here to help evacuate civilians from the civil war erupting in Liberia. It wouldn’t be the first time the U.S. worked hand-in-glove with the French. In the early 1990’s, he recalled, the French and Americans had worked closely in sharing information about North Africa. A relationship that had decayed significantly by the time Islamic fundamentalists had tried to overthrow the Arab countries of North Africa and combine them into one fanatical Islamic state. Then, America and Britain had had to go it alone, with the French coming in afterward. The one country that responded unilaterally without asking anyone’s permission had been Spain, which invaded Morocco, kicking ass, and marched across Algeria to protect vital oil pipelines. Two years since that crisis and the third Korean War. Eleven years since the war in Afghanistan when this same French carrier sailed alongside American aircraft carriers to destroy the government and non-government organization that had attacked America on September 11, 2001.
“Leo, Mary; I want us to be able to sidestep this faux pas if that is what it is. If the admiral shows, let me lead, but be prepared for us to ask for transportation back to our battle group.”
“Battle group? Thought we were just an amphibious task force going in to conduct a NEO.”
“Joint task force,” corrected Upmann.
“You’re right, Mary. But a battle group sounds meaner, and we need to ensure they understand that we will not accept limitations imposed by anyone other than our own leaders.”
“As if that isn’t enough.”
The wardroom door opened and Captain St. Cyr appeared. He walked purposefully toward Admiral Holman. The other three French officers joined him. He stopped near the chair. “Sir, Admiral Colbert says he is prepared to see you now. If you will follow me—”
“Sorry, Captain,” he said, smiling. He gripped his right thigh and squeezed it several times. “Bad leg and all that, you know. Since we are all right here, I am sure Admiral Colbert won’t mind coming here for our discussions.” Dick bit his lower lip. Now, was that a tinge of fear spinning across St. Cyr’s countenance, or shock from being told no by an American admiral? He forced down an urge to chuckle.
“I’m sorry, sir. I did not realize your medical condition, but Admiral Colbert is very busy and it would be most kind if you could accompany me to where he is working. We will take it slow.”
Holman leaned forward, rubbing his leg a couple of more times. “And where might that be?”
“Sir?”
“I said, where might the admiral be working?”
“Sir, Admiral Colbert says he will meet you in his wardroom. . . .”
Holman leaned back. “Then, I am sure he can come here much easier than I can go there.”
“But—”
“On the other hand, Captain St. Cyr, we were unaware of the high tempo of operations distracting you from our visit, so why don’t we arrange for us to leave and next time we will offer Admiral Colbert the comforts of the USS Boxer? I’m sure we can afford him similar hospitality.”
He shouldn’t be but—damn it, he was enjoying this, in a perverse sort of way. Nothing knocks a hole in smugness more than innocent-sounding jabs that twist and turn until they find an opening. This St. Cyr had his ass in a sling. If the French captain failed to deliver Holman to Colbert, the French admiral would chew up and spit out St. Cyr when he returned with Holman’s ultimatum. They both knew the truth. St. Cyr had no authority over Holman, Upmann, and Davidson. And he had even less authority over Colbert. All the French officer could hope for was to cajole or browbeat them into following his directions. The browbeating approach had already failed.
“But, sir, I assure you, the admiral would be most grateful if you . . .”
Holman grinned at the man’s obvious discomfort. He wished he could reach around and pat himself on the back. The cajoling of St. Cyr was music to his ears. Ought to be a song about cajoling.
“. . . could find the energy to accompany me. And I would be most grateful, Admiral.”
Ouch! That must have hurt. However, Holman didn’t start this charade, but he sure as hell was going to play it to the end. The prestige of the United States Navy and the United States itself rested on small diplomatic challenges such as this.
“I sure would like to, Captain, and I know how challenging it is to lead a two-carrier battle group. I have lead smaller battle groups such as this one several times. Luckily, I have been blessed with great captains, such as Captain Upmann and Captain Davidson, who are able to do day-to-day operations and free me for entertaining my allied counterparts.” There! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, asshole! St. Cyr didn’t know that Davidson was an intelligence officer and would be hard put to know the difference between battle group steaming, independent steaming, and tied up to port. Well, maybe the lines over the sides would give her a clue.
“Yes, L’amiral,” St. Cyr continued. “Admiral Colbert is also blessed with many capable captains, but he has seen fit to become intimately involved in operations to ensure we execute our assigned mission as ordered.”
Holman saw his chance, and from the expression that crossed Davidson’s face, he knew she had also.
“And what are those orders, if I may ask?” Davidson asked.
St. Cyr opened his mouth to reply, then thought for a second before answering, “I think Admiral Colbert might be the best person to answer that, Captain Davidson. If you would follow me, you may ask him directly.”
“You have me confused, Captain St. Cyr,” Mary Davidson continued. “Only a minute ago, you were going to sit us down and tell us what our limitations were—”
“I may have used the wrong word,” St. Cyr interrupted.
“—and if you were going to tell us our limitati
ons, then obviously that dovetailed nicely with your mission. Since you felt empowered to lay limitations on an American battle group, then you must have authority to take action if we violate those limitations.”
St. Cyr raised his hand at her and looked at Admiral Holman. “Admiral, my apologies, sir. It seems I have inadvertently offended you. It was not my intention.”
“I understand, Captain. Tell you what I am prepared to do so we can move forward. We’ll wait here for another few minutes while you arrange our transportation back to our battle group. Okay?”
Was that a bead of sweat across the French captain’s brow? Damn, what a shame!
St. Cyr started to speak, stopped, and then finally said, “Sir, if you will excuse me, I will go speak to Admiral Colbert and see how long he will be, sir. I know he would not wish you to leave with a false impression.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Captain. If the admiral is too busy, I fully understand. It was hard to rearrange my own duties to come here as a courtesy to Admiral Colbert. We can always arrange another meeting. I would appreciate it if you’d swing by your air boss and have him arrange our return trip. I too have a battle group to lead, and the sooner we return the better.”
Captain St. Cyr’s eyes seemed to weigh Admiral Holman, the Frenchman’s pencil-thin mustache outlining his upper lip appearing to vibrate. Finally, St. Cyr sighed. “Mais oui, Admiral. I will go to Admiral Colbert and see if he is able to . . .” The French captain searched for the right words. “—Take time to discuss our terms.”
Holman laughed. “Captain, your English accent is flawless, but your choice of words leaves something to be desired.”
A questioning look crossed the Frenchman’s face.
“ ‘Terms.’ The word ‘terms’ implies a stronger force telling a weaker force what they can and can’t do.”
Joint Task Force #1: Liberia Page 15
