Arsenal c-10

by Keith Douglass

0610 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  “Where the hell is he?” Batman slammed his hand down on the TAO’s desk. “Damn it, what was he doing inside the no-fly zone? And why didn’t you give him a vector back to Tanker Alley?”

  The TAO was pale and shaken. “Sir, they didn’t look that far out-of-bounds.” He gestured at the large-screen display covering the wall before him. An ominous stick figure marked the spot where Thor’s Hornet had last been detected. The estimated location was being transmitted to every ship in the battle group, along with the air assets overhead.

  “He’s not too far out of area. Admiral.” The TAO tried to sound confident. “We should have him back on deck in ten minutes.”

  Batman stared at the TAO, cold anger lighting his eyes.

  “You better, mister. You damned well better.”

  0615 Local (+5 GMT)

  50 Miles North of Cuba

  Maybe the tanker crew had gotten out? Thor felt a moment of irrational hope. Maybe they were just over the next wave, drifting in closer. He tried to believe that they’d ejected in time, but the memory of the massive fireball he’d seen just as he ejected kept intruding.

  Just at that moment, he would have given virtually anything not to be alone in that warm, churning water.

  He tried the PRC-70 one more time, speaking slowly and loudly into the small handheld radio tuned to military air distress frequency. “Home Plate, this is Hornet Three-zeroone. Do you copy?” He held the radio to his ear, desperately concentrating on the hissing static.

  Had that been a small, extra crackle, an indication that someone was keying a mike on the other end? He felt a surge of hope, followed immediately by despair. No, it hadn’t been. Whether the problem was the notoriously unreliable batteries or some malfunction in the radio from the force of ejection was impossible to tell. The only thing that mattered was the end result no communications. And without that, trying to vector Jefferson’s SAR assets to his location was an impossibility.

  He turned the radio over and studied the back. The tough casing was partially shattered, and he figured he must have hit it against the canopy during ejection. The radio might have even saved him from breaking a leg. But just now, it seemed like a bad tradeoff.

  The life raft looked farther away than when he’d started swimming toward it. He set out for it again, alternating between keeping it in view and searching the sky for the SAR helo.

  0700 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  “As of two minutes ago, there was still no contact on Major Hammersmith.” The Marine Corps colonel’s voice was grave, but professionally detached. “All six helos are engaged in a standard expanding square search pattern around the last data. Additionally, S-3 Vikings and E2C Hawkeyes are quartering the area, searching for any visual or electronic traces of him.”

  “How the hell could they miss him?” Batman burst out.

  “Jesus, it’s not like we don’t know where we lost contact on him.”

  The Marine Corps colonel stiffened. “I don’t know, Admiral. That’s a question Major Hammersmith will have to answer for us, when we find him. When, not if.” The Marine’s tone of voice brooked no disagreement. “The admiral will recall that there are seven MiG-29s in the immediate vicinity. The Cubans are in targeting mode, so my fighters are having to cover the SAR assets and keep the MiGs off the slow-flyers. The seas aren’t helping any, either.”

  “Just find him. Colonel,” Batman said wearily. “We’ll sort out what happened later. Right now, all that matters is we have a man in the water and we don’t know where he is.”

  The admiral took a deep breath and turned to his chief of staff.

  “What’s next on the agenda?”

  The chief of staff pointed at Bird Dog. “Preliminary CONOPS-contact of operations for integrating the Arsenal ship into battle group operations against Cuba under the current scenario. Arsenal is too new to be covered in the standard scenario. Until we have Major Hammersmith back on board and air superiority established, we need to consider a full range of options.”

  Batman nodded. As distasteful as it was, the tactical situation demanded that he and his staff put aside their worry over one pilot in the water to focus on the big picture.

  If the MiGs kept swarming, odds were that Washington would feel obliged to execute one of the contingency plans developed for this area. It was up to him to make sure the carrier battle group used every asset as effectively as possible, and that included the USS Arsenal. “Go ahead.”

  Bird Dog stood and moved to the podium, gesturing at the enlisted technician manning the computer at the back of the room as he did. His entire presentation was integrated with intricate graphs and charts, a briefing skill he’d been especially adept at at the War College. Not that anyone in this crowd would notice, not with their attention riveted on Thor’s fate. Bird Dog felt a ripple of anger, then pushed it away, ashamed to be considering the impact of Thor’s mishap on his staff work.

  After the standard greeting to the admiral and senior officers. Bird Dog said, “All war, of course, is political in nature. All operations here are merely the extension of politics by other means.” He paused, surveying the room, assessing the impact of quoting Clausewitz to officers so senior to him. “With that in mind, our targets against Cuba must be carefully chosen in order to maximize American national security objectives.” He clicked the mouse in his hand, flashing a detailed topographical map of Cuba onto the screen. “Indeed, given the delicate issues at stake, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a precise list of target locations and the estimated impact on Cuban national strategy for Joint Chiefs of Staff approval. I’ve also detailed areas that we must avoid, where the danger of collateral damage is too great.

  Here, for instance.” He flashed his laser pointer up on the slide, privately pleased at the professional look it gave his presentation.

  “This is the central medical complex on the base. Three buildings to the west is the Cuban command post. We must insure that” “Didn’t they teach you anything at War College?” Batman said coldly.

  “Sir?” Bird Dog’s confidence fled.

  “We’ve had plenty of experience with detailed input on targeting objectives with political purposes in mind. In fact, as a War College graduate, you ought to know that. The individual targeteering and weaponeering management of that conflict significantly prolonged the entire war. Additionally, it led to tragic results.” Batman’s voice took on a somber note as he remembered how many classmates and friends he’d lost in bombing runs supposedly targeting truck farms. “Targeting must be a military function, first and foremost. Yes,” he continued, waving aside Bird Dog’s attempt to comment, “whether or not we enter into conflict is a political decision, I’ll grant you that. But micromanagement of targets will lose this conflict faster than anything we can dream up on this ship.”

  “Admiral, if I could just,” Bird Dog began desperately, seeing his newfound career as a staff officer slip away.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Batman shoved his chair away from the table and stood. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but you have to take the War College with a grain of salt. Out here, mister, your job is to keep pilots from going into the water for no reason and to no military advantage.

  Try again and make sure you understand the difference between using assets to achieve a desired result and muddling about in decisions way above your pay grade.”

  Batman looked around the room slowly, catching each officer’s eyes.

  “All of you keep that in mind. This briefing is over.” Batman strode quickly to the door of his private cabin as the other officers scrambled to their feet in belated courtesy.

  As the admiral’s cabin door slammed shut, the chief of staff turned to Bird Dog and regarded him gravely. “In my office in five minutes.”

  1100 Local (+5 GMT)

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Williams, the junior senator from Virginia, shook his head gravely. “K
eith, you can’t live in a vacuum. What happens down to the south has a big impact on operations.”

  He glanced across the table to see if the admiral was paying attention, then he turned his attention to his meal. “People are starting to talk the wrong people.”

  Admiral Keith Loggins, deputy AIRPAC, gazed down at his Cobb salad in disgust. “The hard-boiled eggs aren’t done all the way through. I hate it when they do that.”

  “Pay attention, damn it, I’m trying to help you earn that next star.”

  Senator Williams’s voice was viciously sharp.

  “I am paying attention. Can’t I do two things at once?

  Besides, the idea of using an aviation mishap for political advantage turns my stomach.”

  Senator Williams sighed and pushed his plate away. “You didn’t tell those pilots to get loaded on testosterone and do stupid stunts with those aircraft, did you?”

  “Of course not. We didn’t shoot down the civilian bird, and they’re not playing Romper Room out there.” Admiral Loggins pointed his fork at the senator. “That’s one thing you people have never understood.

  We’re in a dangerous business out there, and there’s bound to be mishaps. There’s no way to prevent them.”

  “Reality makes damned poor politics. Listen, Keith, you ought to know that by now. Everything has a slant to it, a twist, an angle. These F-14s of yours and Hornets that keep falling out of the airwell, the taxpayers start wondering what their tax dollars are going for. The average Joe, the one who gets out and votes, starts asking me why he can’t buy a new car and we can afford to replace your toys. It’s a problem.”

  “But not mine.”

  “Not yet.” Senator Williams motioned to the steward.

  “You got any of that pecan pie from yesterday left?”

  “What do you mean, not yet?” Admiral Loggins said uneasily. With the selection board for vice admiral meeting in only two months, this just might make a difference. “I wasn’t at sea on that carrier; I wasn’t commanding that squadron. I took my turn in the basket, and I survived that tour. They can’t hold me responsible for those mishaps.”

  “We most certainly can,” the senator replied as he watched the steward walk away.

  Admiral Loggins noted the shift in pronouns with growing apprehension.

  “Hey, wait a minute….”

  Senator Williams returned the gaze of the senior officer.

  “I work for the people, Keith. And the sooner you learn that, the better.”

  Damn it, I wish he would stop calling me Keith. Nobody in this building gets away with that. “Just what do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. You’re deputy AIRPAC people are starting to wonder why you’re not doing something about this.”

  “Like what? Fly every flight myself? I spent twenty years in the cockpit and I never had a mishap.”

  “Like do something for God’s sake, Keith, exert a little leadership.”

  The senator quit talking as the steward approached bearing his pie. He waited until the white-jacketed mess man had set the plate down and carefully repositioned the fork nearby. As the steward left. Senator Williams continued. “The Navy’s gone through this spate of accidents before. You usually shut down operations for a while and try to figure out why, right? A safety stand-down?”

  “When we can. But Jefferson’s in the middle of operations down off Cuba. I don’t have to tell you what’s going on there.”

  “And what else is near Cuba?” the senator pressed.

  “Damn it, don’t you see what this means? It’s a golden opportunity you piss this one away and you’ll not get another one like it anytime soon.”

  “The Arsenal ship?”

  “Oh, the light finally goes on,” the senator said sarcastically. “The one project you and I have been working on for a year and a half now, and you finally think of it. Nice. I like a team player, Keith.”

  “Quit calling me Keith,” the admiral said, his temper flaring suddenly.

  A cold, still silence settled on the table. The senator carefully and meticulously placed his fork down on the tablecloth. “Fine. Admiral, then.” The venom in his gaze left no doubt about his opinion of the formality. “Well, Admiral, let me just recap the situation for you, if I may, sir. In case you don’t realize it, a large part of your future is riding on the successful performance of that Arsenal ship.”

  “I’m an aviator.” The statement was almost an anguished cry.

  “Besides, you’re the one who” “I’m the one who what?” the senator snapped. “Helped you get that second star? Shoved your nomination and promotion through committee? Made sure nobody asked any nasty little Tail hook questions? That guy?”

  Admiral Loggins suddenly realized how far he’d gone over the line.

  Everything Senator Williams had said was true the politician had been a major influence on the admiral’s career. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by that. And come on, we’ve known each other too longI was out of line. Call me Keith.”

  The senator leaned back in his chair and assessed the man opposite him with a cold stare. “Make up your mind. Which side of the fence are you on?”

  “I want what’s best for the Navy. I’ve always said that.”

  The senator sighed. “And we agreed when we started this that the Arsenal was what was best for the Navy. A lightweight, easily built ship packed to the gills with every kind of advanced weaponry and with a skeleton crew on board. Hook up the electronics that allow for remote control of the firing, and you’ve got a perfect political platform.”

  The senator’s voice was low and urgent. “At least that’s what you told my committee when you were testifying as a member of the research and development team. You remember? It was your first political move, your maiden appearance in front of the Senate.”

  “I remember,” the admiral said gruffly. And a pleasant experience it definitely had not been. Yet, despite an extensive grilling by the senators, who understood so little about the military, the project had gotten their blessing. Ten Arsenal ships were to be built in the next three years, and Admiral Loggins’s name and reputation were firmly riding on each one.

  “This is what you do,” the senator said, speaking quickly and quietly.

  “Things are going to get worse in Cuba real soonno, don’t ask me how I know. I just do.” He grinned.

  “As you would, if you paid any attention to your fiancee.”

  “Pamela?” the admiral said, confused by the sudden change of subject.

  “What’s she got to do with this?”

  “Everything and nothing.”

  Admiral Loggins frowned. Eight months ago, he’d finally screwed up his nerve and asked the luscious Pamela Drake for a date. They had quickly established that they had more in common than either had thought.

  Loggins found her sharp, analytical mind refreshing, and Pamela had never been shy about sharing her political acumen with him. It had been through her connections that he’d met Senator Williams, as well as a host of other powerful men and women in both the House and the Senate. Suddenly, another star on his collar was looking a whole lot more probable.

  For her part, Pamela seemed to appreciate the insights he sometimes gave her into military affairs. She’d told him more than once that he helped her convey a more balanced picture of the military to her viewers.

  On a more personal level, they were equally compatible.

  Last month, he’d finally asked her to marry him, and she’d accepted.

  Now if she would only stay in the country long enough for them to finalize the plans.

  “What do you suggest I do?” the admiral asked, pushing aside the thoughts of his fiancee to concentrate on the senator. Pamela had warned him several times that Williams had the power to make him or to break him.

  The senator sighed. “Let me spell it out for you. As deputy AIRPAC, you’re concerned about pilot safety. And about the F-14 Tomcats some of those airframes are getting old. You decide to call
a safety stand-down and major responsibility for any strike prosecution shifts to the USS Arsenal. Hell, you can even tell that admiral of yours to shift his flag to her. That would be even better.”

  “And the USS Arsenal gets to be the hero of the Cuban confrontation,” the admiral said. “I don’t know. You’re talking about a major shift in policy, pulling our carrier off the front lines.”

  The senator’s voice was suddenly harsh and vicious.

  “You won’t think so when I get that pilot’s grieving widow plastered across every major network, complaining about how the Navy’s not taking care of its people. How will that look?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” The senator began attacking his pie, glancing up only once to assess the impact of his statement on the admiral. “Do it, Keith.”

  “What’s in it for you?” the admiral asked suspiciously.

  “Subcontracts,” the senator said promptly. “Every small business in my state is going to have a piece of this.

  Building them at Newport News was a masterstroke.”

  I don’t like this man. Admiral Loggins thought suddenly.

  Don’t like him, don’t trust him. Even if what he’s saying makes sense.

  But a safety stand-down isn’t that off an idea.

  It’s what we might do anyway.

  “I’ll think about it,” the admiral said finally. “No promises.”

  “Think fast, Keith,” the senator said, his voice almost a whisper.

  “There are plenty of admirals where you came from.”

  0600 Local (+5 GMT)

  Admiral’s Briefing Room, USS Jefferson

  Batman’s face was colder than Bird Dog had ever seen it before. Something savage lurked just under the surface of the admiral’s dark brown eyes, the harsh, demanding look.

  “Any idea why he called the meeting?” Bird Dog whispered to Lab Rat.

  The intelligence officer shook his head and motioned for the pilot to keep quiet.

  “The chief of staff is passing around a message I want each one of you to see. You’ll notice it’s marked P4a ‘personal for’ message for me from AIRPAC. I think once you read the message, you’ll get the gist of it.” Batman paused, watching twenty sets of eyes glance quickly at the text of the message. “This is bullshit.”