“Did I say nightmares?” Holman chuckled. “The nightmares are the ridicule he’ll get when his fellow submariners find out. Submariners are like eccentric uncles. They want to be around the family, but they don’t want anyone to know they’re there or when they leave.”
Upmann lifted the handset of the sound-powered telephone plugged into the circuit on the starboard bridge wing. “Combat, this is Chief of Staff. Wave Spruance’s helo off and tell Spruance to quit dropping grenades for the time being. They are to remain ready, but hold off until told different.”
He held the telephone to his ear listening to the voice on the other end.
Upmann would be speaking to the Tactical Action Officer. The TAO would be Amphibious Group Two’s deputy operations officer, but knowing Captain Buford Green, his Operations Officer would be standing near the woman. The information revolution and the sweep of technological advancements in weaponry reduced the time for a warship to react to an attack from minutes to seconds. To respond to this reduced reaction time, the U.S. Navy had in the 1980’s authorized commanding officers to delegate to selected, qualified officers the authority to defend the ship and react to an attack. Tactical Action Officer was the designation given that person.
Holman knew Commander Stephanie Wlazinierz was thoroughly qualified to fight the ship. People usually called her “Stephanie” or “W,” which she seemed to prefer. Even he’d had problems pronouncing Wlazinierz. He’d mouthed the name, fumbled it twice, and given up.
Stephanie was probably repeating the Chief of Staff’s orders. When a military action was under way and going well, there was always reluctance to back off until the event finished. In this case, he was doing just that—ordering them to stop and hold everything.
Upmann held the sound-powered telephone away from his ear. “W says the French are on NATO red telephone saying they have four Super Etendard fighters en route to do a flyover.”
“You mean requested permission?” Holman asked.
“She said they said they were going to fly over.”
“Find out if she inadvertently gave them permission. After our trip yesterday to the French battle group, I’m not gung-ho about them being anywhere near us.”
Upmann picked up the telephone and talked with Wlazinierz for several minutes. Holman listened to this end of the conversation, and couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Sir—”
“I heard. If I’m right, Stephanie told them to wait for permission and they said they already had permission.”
“Something like that, Admiral.” Upmann looked to the area two miles off their starboard where the SH-60 helicopter hovered in a tight circle.
“Something doesn’t smell right. Let’s get down to Combat,” Holman said, tossing his cigar over the side, stepping through the hatch to the shout of “Admiral on the bridge,” followed by “Admiral off the bridge” as he scrambled down the ladder behind the helmsman. Upmann was a few steps behind.
“Admiral in Combat!” someone shouted as Holman opened the hatch at the bottom of the ladder and stepped inside the darkened compartment. No one moved from their consoles and weapon systems. When engaged in operations or standing a watch, sailors might acknowledge the presence of a senior officer, but they never stopped what they were doing. The job must go on.
Captain Buford Green stood behind his broad-shouldered assistant, Stephanie Wlazinierz, watching closely as she tweaked the defense of the task force.
“What have we got?”
“Four Super Etendards inbound and an unidentified submarine bearing one-four-four at eight thousand yards,” Buford replied.
Four nautical miles, thought Holman, pretty close for an unidentified submarine. The French wouldn’t be so foolish as to actually attack an ally, would they? But then, no one thought civilian aircraft would be used as weapons of war before September 11th.
“Let’s open up our range to the submarine. Tell Spruance to recall her SH-60 and arm her.”
Wlazinierz turned around, short-cropped brown hair hung straight down alongside her head, framing a square-chinned face. “Admiral, Spruance is prepared. The skipper had two Mark-50 torpedoes moved to the helo deck a half hour ago.”
“Stephanie, you tell them to put one Mark-50 on her, but not to launch unless I personally give the order.”
“Yes, sir, Admiral,” Wlazinierz replied before leaning down to the ASW controller near her and relaying the instructions.
The static sound of the secure communications synchronizing between exchanges mixed with the low background noise within the blue-lighted CIC—Combat Information Center. Scattered amidst the sailors and officers manning the nerve center of the warship were seamen wearing the insect-like helmets of sound-powered telephones. Warships usually had three to four means of communicating throughout the ship. There was the notorious 1MC operated from the bridge, with an alternate switch in CIC. Each battle position had its own internal communications systems, and then there were the sound-powered broadcast systems known as 12MC installed where the warfighters stood. To win in an era where time and information determined combat success, getting the right information to the right person at the right time was the key.
“Get me that Frenchman who calls himself an admiral on the circuit,” Holman said through clinched teeth. Who in the hell did Colbert think he was screwing with?
Green picked up a nearby red telephone and quickly established contact with the French aircraft carrier Charles De Gaulle.
“Sir, Captain St. Cyr is on the circuit. Admiral Colbert is busy and unable to come to the—”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me!” Holman jerked the handset out of Green’s hand. “Captain St. Cyr, this is Admiral Holman. I am extremely concerned about having your aircraft fly near our task force without prior coordination. We have a lot going on and I would hate for an unfortunate incident to occur.”
The speaker mounted above the captain’s chair in Combat burst into noise, sending a loud squeal throughout Combat, causing those without headsets to scrunch their faces from the intensity of the sound.
Wlazinierz reached out and quickly lowered the volume.
“Well, that was painful,” Upmann mumbled, his eyes squinting as he twisted a finger in his ear a couple of times.
“Admiral, this is Captain St. Cyr. Admiral Colbert sends his apologies and asks that I convey to you that we believe you are right. We should have coordinated the flyby sooner, sir. Unfortunately, the admiral thought that sending our aircraft to help with your unidentified intruder would be prudent ally cooperation.”
The static from the speaker showed St. Cyr had released his “press-to-talk” mechanism.
“What the hell can a fighter aircraft do in an antisubmarine action? Wiggle its wings?” Upmann muttered.
Holman pushed the similar mechanism on his handset. “Captain, please recall your aircraft. If we had needed your assistance, you can be assured we would have asked our French ally for it. I am very concerned about the unintended-consequence possibility.” He released the button.
Several seconds passed. “Unfortunately, Admiral, it is too late to recall them. May I suggest that you and your task force steam north away from the contact and allow us to handle it. We are much larger. I have already taken the liberty of dispatching the frigates La Fayette and Floreal toward your position. They are transiting at flank speed.”
Holman looked at Upmann, who scrunched his shoulders and looked questioningly at Green, who shook his head. Wlazinierz shook her head, held up one finger, and mouthed the words “First heard.”
“Captain St. Cyr, please convey my thanks to Admiral Colbert for his concern. Over and out,” Holman said. He slammed the red handset back into its seat on the secure red box.
“What in the hell!” he growled sharply. “I guess that answers our question as to whose submarine is off our starboard side.”
“Yes, sir, I think it does,” Upmann added.
Holman’s face hardened as he reviewe
d the options available. The most appealing was to shoot the sons of bitches down, but that would make the court-martial of Admiral Cameron look like small potatoes when the government finished with him. Regardless of the disagreement he and that French asshole Colbert had had yesterday, the fact remained that America considered France a valuable ally. Personally, if it wasn’t for Evian water and French wine, he couldn’t see any use for them. Of course, they did give America the baguette. Romance wouldn’t be the same without it.
He dropped his head for a moment before raising it to stare at the starboard bulkhead. Out there, four miles away, a French submarine was trapped by his sparse antisubmarine forces. A submarine that had been tailing them for God knows how long. This was not the act of an ally. If the USS Spruance hadn’t pulled an unexpected man-overboard to recover a lost basketball for the sailors playing on its helicopter flight deck, they might never have known the submarine was there.
He had little choice but to save face and defuse the situation. He felt the eyes of everyone in the darkened compartment on him. Some stared openly, others from the corners of their eyes, and a few would look quickly toward him and then away. A low murmuring told him whispered comments were being exchanged.
“Stephanie, turn the task force north away from the contact. We will leave it to our French ally.”
“But, sir . . .”
Holman lifted his hand. “I know, I know, but we have to do it. Turn the task force north, but turn it in such a way that it carries us closer to the Liberian coast.” Then in a whisper he added, “Let’s take advantage of this to move us closer to doing our mission, rescue Americans.”
“Sir, we can drop a Mark-50 torpedo on the submarine. They have violated international law by not revealing themselves and we are perfectly within our rights to attack her,” Stephanie offered.
Holman nodded. “We could,” he said sternly. “But we know—or strongly suspect—it’s a French submarine. I cannot deliberately sink or even attack it just because we have it pinpointed and they refuse to surface. Bottom line is the intruder hasn’t done one thing to show hostile intent other than refusing to surface.” He took a deep breath, shook his head, and sighed loudly. “No, we’ll use this opportunity to close our objective.”
“Well, sir, if we show them they can do this and get away with it, then—” Leo started.
“I know, Leo,” Holman interrupted, holding his hand up. “I don’t like it either, but we’re going to do it and we’re going to do it my way.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Upmann said. “Just, as your deputy, it is my responsibility—”
Holman laughed. “Leo, don’t give me that. I’ve used it too many times myself. Now you, Buford, and Stephanie make this happen. Our mission is to evacuate Americans from Liberia; not fight a war at sea. Let’s enjoy the fact the French just got egg all over their faces from an amphibious task force.”
The sound of jet engines roaring down the sides of the USS Boxer shook the compartment.
“Combat, Bridge; just had those four French fighters fly down our sides.”
“Roger, Bridge; we have them on radar.”
“That’s good. What should we do? Wave at them or shoot them down?”
Holman reached down and pushed the “to speak” lever down. “Wave. It’s good for the heart.”
“One finger or whole hand?” Leo offered.
Holman patted his pocket. Cigars were in his stateroom. In his thoughts, Holman was already composing a message to Commander, European Command about the incident. Someone somewhere within his chain of command knew what was going on. It was almost as if they were leaving the decision on how to handle the French to him. If that was true, they why? His head lowered, Holman turned, heading up to the bridge.
He bumped into the back of an officer standing in the shadows near the captain’s chair. “What the—”
“Sorry, Admiral, I was watching Commander Wlaz . . . wallz . . . Commander ‘What’s-her-name,’ and didn’t see you, sir,” the young man stuttered.
“I know you. You’re one of those pil . . . operators that’s here with Professor Dunning. I thought you left with him.”
“Oh, no, sir. He went, but the four of us are still on board. He didn’t want to leave the unmanned fighters and control equipment alone.”
“I thought all that stuff went with the technicians.” Holman looked at the name tag on the officer’s flight suit—SHOEMAKER.
“Yes, sir . . . I mean no, sir. Some of the lighter stuff and the data drives went off in the tech kit with the professor, but the bulk of the stuff is still aboard. He ordered us to remain with it until it could be off-loaded in Little Creek. It’s a little bulky, heavy, and sensitive to move without heavy equipment. The helicopters were busy.” Shoemaker shrugged his shoulders. “And it seemed we were low priority.”
“Then, you’re with us for the duration, Lieutenant Shoemaker,” Holman mumbled as he opened the hatch and started up the ladder.
“Admiral out of Combat!”
This was going to send the wrong message to that French bastard of an admiral. Colbert was going to interpret their acquiescence as showing how Holman would react to future French demands. If he only had Harriers embarked. Harriers weren’t the best fighter aircraft, but they could stand up to the Super Etendards, and having them would help even on this lopsided playing field. But the harriers were on the ships that had returned to Little Creek.
He stopped abruptly on the narrow ladder leading up the bridge, catching his Chief of Staff by surprise. Upmann’s face bumped into his butt, causing Upmann’s foot to slip on the metal steps. Upmann’s grip tightened on the railing keeping himself from falling.
Holman turned around. “Leo, quit clowning and go back. Hurry,” he said, touching Upmann on the arms, trying to turn him around.
Upmann stumbled again before turning around and starting back down the ladder. “I don’t understand, Admiral. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, Leo. I think we may have had an answer for our French ally’s arrogance and never realized it.”
Upmann opened the hatch and stepped through.
“Where is that lieutenant who plays at being a pilot?”
“Admiral in Combat.”
He couldn’t help feeling a little mischievous glee over the thoughts of what that asshole Colbert was going to do when Holman’s joint task force miraculously appeared with fighter aircraft over it. Far be it for him not to repay the French aerial flyby show of respect with his own.
“WHEW!” LIEUTENANT PAULINE KITCHNER GASPED. “THIS is hard work.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead, tilted the plastic water bottle up, and took a long drink.
“If it was easy work, someone else would be doing it,” Lieutenant Nash Shoemaker said as he intentionally fell backward off his haunches onto his butt. He leaned forward and grabbed his bottle of water.
“How much longer do you think it’s going to take us to uncrate these things?” Alan Valverde, the third lieutenant in the Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicle group, asked. “Where are the tech reps when we need them?”
“Tech reps ain’t military,” said Kitchner. “They don’t have to stay on board and ride with the systems when their job is done. They can hop on board that helicopter like Dr. Dunning, and be ashore hoisting a cool one within minutes of finishing their job.”
“Jurgen!” Shoemaker shouted. “Take a break and have some water. I don’t want you dying and me having to explain to your mother that it was because you didn’t drink your water.”
The three pilots of the Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles raised their water bottles in a mock toast to Ensign Jurgen Ichmens, who stuck his head out of the huge crate in the middle of the hangar deck. Ichmens nodded and started across the deck toward the three lieutenants.
“Naw, leave him alone,” Pauline said as Ichmens arrived and threw himself down beside the others. “He’s the only ensign we have. I think the three of us lieutenants ought to sit back and supervise En
sign Ichmens while he finishes uncrating the UFAVs. It will give him the benefit of our cooperative leadership while we ensure all safety procedures and standards are followed.”
“Yeah, I agree with Pauline,” Valverde added, chuckling. “We’ve only got one ensign and Jurgen’s it. Just think of the valuable training he’ll get from our supervision.”
“Just think of the valuable training I’ve already gotten from you three.” Ichmens chugged the contents of the small plastic container, and then, in an exaggerated hook shot, tossed the empty over their heads into a trash bin located against the bulkhead. “Dos puntos,” he said, hooking two fingers downward.
“Now we’ll have none of that here,” Shoemaker said.
“None of what?”
“You know, putas. You want to offend Polly the pilot?”
Pauline reached over and playfully slapped Nash on the back of the head. “Behave before Polly rips your cracker off.”
“What’s she talking about? What the heck does that mean?” Valverde asked. “Damn, Pauline, speak English.”
“You’re too young to know. Besides, you’re one of those super-secret cryptologic officers from Naval Security Group. I already know everything we say, you’re beaming back to some gigantic database so that years later you can blackmail me into wild, abandoned sex.”
“Too young? Shoot, Pauline, I’m three years older than you,” Valverde answered, ignoring the rest of the hyperbole.
“Age among lieutenants is like virtue among whores,” Ichmens added.
“What the hell does that mean?” Valverde asked, raising one eyebrow in a questioning slant.
“That’s rank among ensigns is like virtue among whores,” Pauline said, “and from the ensigns I’ve met, the whores have it over them.”
“No argument from me,” Valverde added. “Why I remember this time—”
“Okay, Lieutenant,” Pauline said, letting out a deep breath in mock anger. “Let’s don’t go down that road.”
Joint Task Force #1: Liberia Page 20
