by Gordon Kent
Admiral Newman, she knew, was at war with most of his battle group over the terms of the Fleetex. He kept changing the scenario. Only that morning, he had exploded at the flag navigator, a full captain, during the final flag briefing on the exercise. In a tantrum, the scuttlebutt said, the admiral had torn up the briefing charts and demanded that the navigator revise them to fit Newman’s idea of a war-at-sea exercise against a “traditional” adversary.
Now, she glanced over to see Hamilton pressed against the chart table that filled the center of the ASW module, leaning forward to stare at a bank of radios attached to the beam above the table.
“Eagle, this is Osprey, over?” came clearly over one of them. Charlie stabbed a key. A small green light went on. He turned to Christy and made a chopper-blade sign with his right hand.
“Osprey, this is Big Eagle, over?” Charlie said carefully into the handheld mike. “I got you loud and clear.”
“Big Eagle, this is Osprey. I got a periscope V in visual.”
Christy wasn’t sure what she’d heard. Did he actually mean—?
“Osprey, this is Big Eagle. What’s your location and the bearing and range to periscope, over?”
“Big Eagle, we are in Bow Guard, one nautical mile dead ahead of Big Eagle. Periscope is 000 relative, range from me two nautical miles. Range is approximate.”
These guys were seeing a sub’s periscope only three miles ahead of the carrier?
“Roger Osprey, copy that periscope is three nautical miles 000 relative to Big Eagle, over?”
“Roger Big Eagle. Confirm three NM, 000 relative.”
WO Hamilton put a mark on the chart. “Fuck, eight hours until Startex!” he muttered. “How the hell can that helo see a periscope two miles away—?” Christy was thinking of what two miles looked like from the air, at night; even low down, a couple of hundred feet—could you really see a small bow wave?
There was a squawk from the radio.
“Big Eagle? Big Eagle? This is Osprey. I see three, four new periscopes same bearing and range. Repeat, four new contacts!”
Suddenly Hamilton was bellowing into his hand mike, “Break! Break! This is Alpha Xray over! Osprey, are you looking at breakers? Over!”
Breakers? The word was so far out of the context of the emergency that Christy didn’t even know what he meant. Then she got it. Breakers, as in surf. As in beach. As in running a huge ship aground.
“God!” The helo sounded spooked, even over a mile away. “Osprey—yes, shit—Jesus, we’re seeing a whole line of breakers. Do you copy, Big Eagle? Line of breakers at 000 relative, range two nautical miles!”
Washington. Startex minus three.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Lieutenant Alan Craik, and I’ll be briefing the Fleetex 3–96 portion of today’s presentation.”
He stood, as usual, in front of the projection screens of the CNO’s briefing room. Today, Alan was presenting a major fleet exercise, not the sort of thing usually covered by the news services. He had wrestled with the intricacies of the exercise for days, read through mountains of message traffic, and even had the heady experience of asking his wife, who worked on the exercise’s centerpiece, Peacemaker, for advice. As the exercise developed, other briefers would cover each “battle” and sortie in detail; Alan was doing the setup, so that over the coming days the CNO and his staff would be familiar with the complexities of the exercise. It was pretty small, considering the giant all-NATO exercises Alan had seen as an ensign, but the multiple threats and the need to conduct the complex “exercise within an exercise” of practicing the Peacemaker launch would keep BG 7 busy.
The CNO nodded. Alan had learned that this was his way of indicating that he had absorbed the last brief and was ready to continue. Alan turned down the lights of the auditorium and began.
“Sir, Battle Group Seven, centered around the USS Andrew Jackson, a Nimitz-class carrier, is steaming south from the Cherry Point operating area and was last located an hour ago here.” Alan illuminated the battle group’s position near the Bahamas on the large-screen monitor. A separate monitor displayed the battle group’s composition: USS Andrew Jackson, CVN; USS Fort Klock, Tico-class Aegis cruiser; USS Isaac Hull and USS Steven Decatur, Arleigh Burke-class Aegis destroyers; USS Lawrence, Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate; AO supply ship; and USNS Philadelphia, scientific research and launch support vessel. A small photo of each ship was displayed next to its name.
“The battle group has just completed carrier qualifications and is now entering the exercise area. They are expected to be on station for the first phase of the exercise in five hours.
“The exercise will be held in three phases. In the first phase, the exercise area will be configured as shown,” and Alan added an overlay that superimposed the outline of the western and central Mediterranean on the Caribbean between Cuba and Puerto Rico. “Exercise Orange forces, representing the Islamic Republic of Orange, will sortie from harbor with strong land-based air cover represented by USAF F-16s and attempt to isolate and destroy the battle group’s picket ships. The timing of the attack has been left to the Orange Force commander. His objective is to disrupt or destroy the USNS Philadelphia.”
Which has my wife on board, and thank God it’s only an exercise.
“Phase Two will be a practice of the countdown of the Peacemaker system in preparation for actual launch in the Gulf of Sidra during deployment. During this phase of the exercise, all assets will take up their stations for a missile test. The Aegis cruiser USS Fort Klock will act as range monitor, and the air wing will provide observer, chase, and closure aircraft in positions as noted on screen three. USNS Philadelphia will be the center of these proceedings, and she will conduct a full countdown and mock launch to engine start on the missile. Please note that, as Phase One can be conducted at any time by the Orange Force commander, it is possible that Battle Group Seven will be forced to conduct the exercise while repelling the Orange Force efforts.
“Phase Three is meant to represent possible threat-force reaction to the launch of the Peacemaker system. Orange forces will be regenerated and supported further by the units listed on screen one, including Canadian and UK diesel submarines, B-52s representing Backfire bombers, and an increased surface threat centered around a small surface-action group. Battle Group Seven will be required to resist Orange attacks while supporting an exercise UN peacekeeping force against the Balkan Republic of Green, co-located with the Puerto Rico bombing ranges. An information warfare exercise will be conducted jointly by the USAF and National Security Agency, targeting selected US Navy facilities noted on screen two, to represent off-board powers reacting to the launch.”
He went into detail about correspondences to the battle group’s actual deployment, including ongoing operations in Bosnia and the implications of the proposed launch so close to Libyan territorial waters.
“Phase Two will commence on Day Two, when the Peacemaker exercise launch is initiated. Phase Three will commence six hours after the exercise launch. Phase One will initiate when Orange chooses to attack.”
Alan paused. The CNO’s voice floated from the darkness. “Alan, can I see the battle-group composition slide again?” The CNO was renowned for remembering names. Alan keyed the first slide back up.
“Is Peacemaker on schedule? Looks like we’re giving Newman a lot of work if this new toy isn’t ready to fly when he deploys.” Alan knew the answer, from Rose, but he had learned to wait. The pause lengthened and a voice from somewhere in the room said that he had to check.
“Sir,” Alan said a little tentatively, “I believe that Peacemaker is right on schedule.” Alan knew that it was in fact ahead of schedule, and Rose had said that the scientists and engineers were put out at waiting for the Navy exercise to begin.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. How do you know that?”
He tried to remain deadpan. “My wife is the launch operations officer, sir.”
There were some chuckles. These were the closest to human reactions Alan h
ad seen as a briefer in this room.
The CNO spoke up again. “This is a pretty tough exercise. Is Battle Group Seven ready?”
Alan raised the lights. He had to stay for his windup and in case any questions were asked, and this sort of discussion in the middle of a briefing was new, in his experience, but he felt that lights were probably a good idea.
A tall admiral in the second row leaned forward—Pilchard, former flag of BG 4; Alan had met him once.
“Sir, the Jackson had a near-fatal flight-deck accident during its carrier quals.” He was angry and was trying not to show it. “Yesterday they had a serious navigation error that put them several hours behind their exercise plan, and they seem to be moving to a different part of the op area than expected. Admiral Newman seems bent on changing the exercise to a more traditional Orange Force threat-on-threat exercise and has repeatedly asked that the Orange forces be augmented to be a ‘fair match’ for his battle group.”
“How serious a navigation error?”
A moment’s hesitation, then, blurting it out, “The Jackson came within a quarter of a mile of running on a barrier reef.” Somebody gasped, and Alan heard a whispered Jesus from the back. “They were saved because the ASW watch officer was on the ball.”
The CNO looked around. He remained calm—too calm, unless you had served with him and knew what that calm meant. “Anybody else?”
An officer in the back row cleared his throat nervously, glanced to his left as if hoping that someone else would speak for him, and rose to his feet.
“Sir, the battle group, uh, they have departed consistently from the op plan since last Tuesday, sir. And the admiral has relieved his navigator since yesterday. The Phase Two coordinator, Captain Cobb of the Fort Klock, has asked four times for clarification of ‘changes’ to the exercise, sir. We, uh, think that Admiral Newman has changed the exercise on board and not informed us.”
There was some nervous movement at the back of the auditorium. Lucky Rose, sailing into that.
“Has Newman voiced disapproval of the exercise through channels?” The CNO sounded serene, but what Alan heard in his inner ear was Why hasn’t anybody told me this before?
Another admiral down front spoke up. “Yes. He has. We explained that his group’s principal responsibility was the Peacemaker launch. He didn’t seem to disagree. I believe his word was ‘augment’ for what he wanted to do.”
One of the CNO’s staff officers scribbled a note and handed it to him. He read it, winked at Alan, and headed for the door. “Good brief, Lieutenant. My conference room in two hours. I want to see the whole exercise brief again, and I want to see the op plan. Somebody get copies of the pertinent message traffic. Okay, this is not the forum to discuss this fully.” The CNO paused at the door. “Is there something wrong with this battle group? I don’t need any more accidents.”
The tall admiral, Pilchard, spoke up again. “Newman’s what’s wrong, sir; he won’t obey orders. And he’s stuck in the nineteen-eighties.”
Startex plus five hours. Aboard USNS Philadelphia.
“Zero minus eight hours and holding.”
Rose blew out her cheeks and stared at the computer monitor. “We’ve been holding all day. What the hell is going on?”
Valdez raised his hands and let them drop. “There’s too much data stream.”
“Shut up about the data stream.”
“I’m tellin’ you, there’s more here than they—”
“Will you shut up?” She put her hands on her head. “Ohhh—! I’m sorry, Valdez! I’m sorry I screamed at you.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Just don’t tell me about the data stream for five minutes, okay? I know there’s more data than you can explain. I’m working on that. Please, please, please don’t mention it again just now!”
“Okay, I get you.” Valdez sounded grieved.
Rose looked out the window of the launch-command center that had been built on the deck of the Philadelphia. It had big windows and lots of equipment, with a central console and four computer screens, one of which was getting most of Valdez’s attention. Behind the console were two big chairs, one for each of them, hers high enough so she could see over the console to the deck and the launch pad. The missile was still flat on the deck, the satellite and the module swathed in silver plastic at its far end.
The hold at eight hours was a convention. The countdown, in fact, had not started. “Eight hours and holding” was a way of saying that nothing was happening.
On the Jackson, Rafe walked around his plane one more time before crawling up through the hatch. The plane looked good. The morning did not.
Cutter Sardesson was deep in his kneeboard cards and didn’t seem to notice Rafe’s arrival. The auxiliaries were already up and running; Rafe completed his seat check and moved on through his preflight without much conscious thought.
“Rafe?”
“Yeah, Cutter?”
“What are we doing this morning?” This was the kind of new-guy question that Rafe hated—the kind that showed a guy who hadn’t done his homework. Cutter didn’t seem the type.
“You were at the brief. You tell me.”
“Yes, sir. We are giving gas to a formation of F-18s so that they can conduct a war-at-sea strike on an enemy surface-action group. We have one buddy store to give gas and one Harpoon simulator plug in case we need to shoot.”
“Great! You get it. What’s the problem?”
“None of it’s on Nixon’s schedule.” Christy, as squadron intelligence officer, had posted a full Fleetex schedule and briefed it to the squadron two weeks before. Rafe had convinced the skipper to invite the maintenance chiefs and officers as well. It seemed a good idea that everybody know what to expect.
Rafe sighed. One of the really hard things about the transition from the Junior Officer’s Protection League, as the world of lieutenants and lieutenant junior grades called themselves, to the responsibility of command, was the need to support incomprehensible decisions by seniors instead of complaining about them.
“Cutter, the whole Fleetex has been re-engineered since Tricky briefed it. Deal with it.”
Cutter was not a stupid man, and he had ambition. Simple answers were not enough.
“Rafe, the missile-shot exercise is going down in ten hours! We don’t have anyone on the flight schedule to support it. I thought we were acting as the range closure support? I mean, all these kneeboard cards are frequencies for range clearance.” He banged his kneeboard.
“Yeah, sir.” That voice belonged to a new naval flight officer flying today as the TACCO, Sharon Dietz. “Like, where is this surface-action group? Does it have emitters? I asked LTjg Nixon and she just shook her head. She usually so far behind?” Dietz had just stepped off the COD last night, the latest in a stream of new officers intended to bring VS-49 up to strength.
Rafe tried not to sound overbearing; more important, he tried not to sound defensive about Christy Nixon, who seemed to be taking on too much importance in his own inner life. “Tricky Nixon is one of the best AIs in the air wing. The changes to Fleetex have all of us a little behind, Lieutenant Dietz.”
Rafe finished his checks in a slightly resentful silence. He and Cutter moved the plane from its parked position to the line on catapult two and began the run-up for launch. When they were silent on the preflight checks, just waiting to roll to the cat, Dietz spoke up again.
“Sorry about the crack about Nixon.” She sounded embarrassed. Rafe credited her with more sense than he had just then. “But I’m just baggage back here unless we have radar and ESM targets. Are we flying against exercise ships, or completely fake ships? Like, does anyone know? Air Ops didn’t. The ASW module didn’t.”
Rafe had never shared the NFO passion for this stuff—he liked to plan a strike or fly a plane. He knew the rest was important, and he had always assumed that somebody like Alan Craik or Christy would feed it to him. Now he was the XO, and people came to him for those answers. He grimaced
as the plane rolled forward on the cat.
“Bear with us, Dietz. The exercise is screwed up. Let’s just fly for now.” He turned his head and looked out over the deck and gave a crisp salute.
Startex plus ten hours. Washington.
Alan was deep in reports of renewed ethnic violence in Rwanda when someone in the corridor shouted “Attention on deck!” It might be the Pentagon, but it was still the Navy: Alan got hurriedly to his feet, braced, and waited. When nothing more happened, he snuck a look outside and found that Admiral Pilchard had descended on the briefing center. The unit commander was brownnosing for all she was worth, but Pilchard was standing down at the far end, looking around him with quick movements of his head and waiting for a pause in the word stream. Something positive registered in Alan’s semi-consciousness: the admiral wouldn’t humiliate a subordinate, even when she was making an asshole of herself.
“I’m looking for the guy who briefed the exercise this morning.”
“Yes, sir, that would be, uh—”
A chief muttered in the commander’s ear.
“Lieutenant Craik, sir. I hope nothing was—”
“I’d like to see him.”
They started down the corridor.
Alan swallowed and rogered up. Admirals seldom entered the briefing area, and it was never good news when they did.
“This is Craik’s office, sir.”
“Yeah, give us a minute, will you?”
The commander looked into the tiny office, seemed deeply skeptical, although Alan had managed to get on his uniform coat and was standing at attention and said, “Yes, sir.” She backed away a few feet. The admiral moved into Alan’s doorway, a tall, thin man with a narrow head that seemed to have pushed all his features to the very front, giving him a big, thin nose and a profile like an axe. The axe blade turned toward Alan.
