by Andrew Watts
The aligned US strategy was to use trusted Chinese back channels and organic intelligence to gather more information on the Red Cell. Only then would they present options to the president.
The Iran-US conflict was the bigger issue, the argument went. The problems with China were considered second-tier.
The CIA director knew better. So too, he thought, should all the members sitting at this table. But there were too many politicians in this room. Men who should have been chosen for their nonpartisan expertise in military, intelligence, or international relations. But these days, many elected officials were mixing up their politics with national security policy. And so men like the NSA were now advising the president, relying on information stripped from partisan news columns, and downplaying the US intelligence agencies’ daily briefings.
The thought infuriated Buckingham, who himself had been both a politician and a military officer in his past careers. But when he had sworn the oath taking this job, one hand on the Constitution of the United States, he’d promised himself that no matter what, he would always put country over party affiliation.
The president held up his hand at the laughter. “Gentlemen, that will be enough of that. Director Buckingham, please continue.”
The CIA director took the slide clicker and advanced to his section of the brief. On the screen at the front of the room, a zoomed-in image of the Red Cell island appeared. There was a long runway with a dozen aircraft visible on the line. Several hangars. A few helicopters. A scattering of buildings in several locations.
“This is the island where we believe the American Red Cell operation was held.”
The screen changed from a satellite image to an infrared image. Dozens more jets and helicopters were visible under the hangars. On the opposite side were several areas of intense heat.
A red circle came up around the heat signatures. “From our interviews with David Manning and Henry Glickstein, as well as our recent intelligence collection efforts, we believe this is where all eighteen Americans are still being held. The island is getting daily heavy transport flights in from several mainland air bases. And we’ve confirmed at least one submarine is in the island’s pen.”
“The island holds a submarine?” asked the president.
The director nodded. “The island is constructed to hold at least one submarine in a protected pen. Our reconnaissance analysis showed several design features on the island intended to shield submarines and aircraft from EMP attack. We’ve seen this feature at other Chinese military bases, including their submarine base at Yulin. It’s essentially a big cave in a mountain—big enough to fit multiple vessels inside. Our theory is that the Chinese would neutralize US military assets in the region with a large-scale EMP attack and come out relatively unharmed themselves.”
“Would that really work?”
The chairman of the joint chiefs of staff said, “We have modeled a few scenarios, sir. In theory, it could provide them with a distinct advantage. Especially if they were privy to the timing of the attack, and we weren’t.”
“Wonderful. Continue, Director Buckingham. I’ve got about five more minutes. Let’s get to the part where you tell me what the hell you think they’re up to, and what you want my approval to do about it.”
The slide changed to show several images of US ships, aircraft, and troops. There were also insignia for a few military units on the bottom of the slide.
“Sir, I understand that we can’t ignore the threat of war with Iran,” the director said. “While the seeds of this war may indeed have been planted by the Chinese, the continued threat from Iran is very real. You’ve been briefed on this, and we are committed to a strong military response. This may, however, play into the hands of the Chinese if they did intend for an Iranian conflict to tie up our military. General, if you would.” The director handed the clicker to the Army general.
General Schwartz said, “Sir, this is Task Force SILVERSMITH. Each of the military units on this slide is in one of two camps. Either they are special operations units that have not yet been activated for the Iranian response plan, or they are units that are so new, they are not yet operational.”
“What does that mean, not yet operational?”
“Sir, for example—the F-35 units depicted here are brand-new. They’re conducting their initial training and readiness qualifications. We didn’t expect to deploy them for at least another year. But the men are capable, and the equipment works. The same goes for the aircraft carrier, the USS Ford.”
“Understood.”
“Mr. President, our request is this: we want to activate these assets in secret, moving them to strategic locations that would allow them to respond to an imminent Chinese military threat, if needed.”
“So you are just going to move everyone over to West Coast bases?”
“No, sir. We’re going to move these assets to places where they wouldn’t normally be stationed. Based on the Red Cell debrief, we’re worried that staging these assets in regular locations could be too risky. If the balloon goes up, they could be taken out. We will treat these alternate locations with the utmost secrecy. These units will be used as insurance in case the Chinese really do attempt an attack on American forces.”
The NSA said, “Sir, I’m not sure about this. Shouldn’t we slow down and think for a moment? The Chinese have denied having possession of these Americans. We have reports that some of these guys are just on business trips, and have actually called their wives and families. I think all this talk about China is just a distraction. Let’s be more deliberate. Iran is the obvious issue that needs to be dealt with. For crying out loud, they attacked us in the Persian Gulf. We have evidence of that. The China evidence is tenuous at best.”
The president rubbed his chin, looking around the table. “Director Buckingham, I think it’s always prudent to buy a good insurance plan. Your request is approved. Admiral, if the Iranian submarines sink anything, then I want a swift and immediate response. Until then, no preemptive strikes. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Anything else?” the president asked.
The general said, “Sir, we’re going to modify the communication procedures as discussed earlier, due to concerns that the Chinese cyberoperations teams may be intercepting our movement orders.”
“Alright. Anything else? What about the Americans on that island? Do you have a plan to rescue them yet?”
“Yes, sir, but as the national security advisor correctly pointed out, the Chinese have been refuting any claims of participation in the Iranian attacks, as well as denying that the Red Cell island holds any American citizens.”
“So what help is needed there?”
“We’ll have something for you soon, sir,” the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff said.
The president stood. “Good. Tell me when you’ve got more.”
“Yes, sir.”
2
Victoria said, “You have twenty minutes of fuel left.”
“Roger. Can you tell me what you see below us?”
She craned her helmet to the left, looking through her night vision goggles. The dark Pacific Ocean that lay five hundred feet beneath their helicopter didn’t give her much, but it didn’t matter.
“There’s a family of three down there,” Victoria said. “The father is injured. Their boat just sank. The child looks to be about eight years old. None of them have flotation devices. They’re treading water.”
Juan gripped the cyclic stick a little tighter, scanning the horizon through his own night vision goggles—a constant side-to-side sweeping motion. But he too saw very little out there in the green abyss. There just wasn’t enough light for the goggles to pick up. A flash on the horizon from a far-off thunderstorm. But nothing else.
His trained scan shifted to his cockpit instruments. Airspeed—eighty knots. Altitude—five hundred feet. Fuel—about one thousand pounds.
Juan said, “Is he ambulatory?”
“Yes.”
“Water temperature?”
“It’s warm.”
“How far away is the ship?”
“Thirty miles.”
“That’s about fifteen minutes at a max range airspeed of one hundred and twenty knots, so that gives me five minutes to rescue them.”
The lone enlisted man on the aircraft, AWR1 Fetternut, spoke into his helmet’s microphone from the back of the aircraft. “Sir, we’ll need ten minutes to be able to do the rescue.”
“Uh…well, I could go single-engine and save more fuel,” Juan said.
He knew as soon as the words came out of his mouth that it was a stupid thing to say. He could feel his boss, Lieutenant Commander Victoria Manning, shaking her head in disappointment.
“Sir, remind me not to fly with you when you make aircraft commander,” came the sarcastic voice of the aircrewman over the internal communications system.
Fetternut was both a rescue swimmer and a sensor operator for the MH-60R Seahawk helicopter. He was a petty officer first class—lower-ranking than the two pilots, who were commissioned officers. But he had much more experience than Juan, who was the junior pilot.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Juan “Spike” Volonte could feel his blood pressure rising under the evaluation of his aircraft commander. She was not only the senior pilot on this flight, but the air boss on the ship’s aviation detachment. That meant she was the senior officer of all thirty members of his helicopter squadron who were embarked on the USS Farragut. She was the third-highest-ranking person on the ship, with only the captain and the XO above her.
Juan raised his eyebrows to try and get the sweat to stop beading down from his helmet and into his eyes. He hated being grilled by his boss.
It was true that she could be patient. Her style was to be a teacher—not like one of those instructor pilots from flight school that got off on making the student look like an idiot for not knowing the answer. Still, when you flew with her, you always had to be on. She never stopped training. And oftentimes it was in the form of these pop quiz scenarios. That’s what flying as a junior Navy pilot on deployment was: one continuous pop quiz.
She said, “You would take one engine to idle?”
“No. Sorry. That was dumb.”
“Why?”
“Because I would need to go into a hover to rescue those people. And I would need both engines to do that. Otherwise we wouldn’t have enough power to hover, and we’d start sinking towards the water.” Sweat dripped down from his soaked hair under his helmet and onto his forehead.
Air boss said, “Okay. Just checking.”
He could practically hear her breathe a sigh of relief that her copilot wasn’t a total idiot. She wouldn’t recommend him to go to his HAC board unless he could consistently prove himself as a competent decision maker under pressure.
Then she said, “Maybe you can make up for it. Simulated.”
Simulated. Every pilot attached a special meaning to that dreaded word. It was used to denote that whatever happened next was a simulated emergency induced by the other pilot.
The ENGINE FIRE light illuminated on the master caution panel in front of him.
“Engine fire in flight procedures…” His voice increased an octave as he began announcing each step in the emergency procedure from memory. “Uh…confirm fire…”
He instinctively used his right hand, which was gripping the cyclic control, to place the aircraft into a steady turn.
Victoria said, “AWR1, you see a fire?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, it’s pretty dark out. I don’t see any smoke.”
Dammit, what was this? Now they were teaming up on him.
“Okay, Juan, now I want you to keep troubleshooting the engine fire emergency as if this scenario with the three survivors in the water below you was still going on. What’s your plan?”
He had inadvertently put in too much forward stick in the turn. The helicopter’s AFCS computers had reacted by increasing the target airspeed for the autopilot system. Autopilot. Now there was a bullshit term. It was more like cruise control—it would help you out, but you sure as hell better keep driving.
Now they were going ten knots too fast. Not a lot, but it showed shoddy airmanship…and they were still in a turn.
Juan couldn’t believe how dark it was, flying over the water on these moonless nights. It was much easier to fly during the day. Then he could use the horizon to determine the aircraft’s pitch, roll, and yaw. But now, at night and over the dark ocean, he was completely reliant upon his instruments.
Instruments. Shit. He was still turning, and he didn’t mean to be.
The digital readouts in front of him glowed a faint green. A collection of numbers and shapes. Airspeed indicators and altitude. Columns of pixels and an artificial horizon. Engine oil pressure and transmission oil pressure. And fuel. He couldn’t forget about fuel.
Goddammit, was he still turning? She was still waiting for him to answer her question. This flight was not going well.
“Juan?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Aviate, navigate, communicate. Check your airspeed. I’ve got you ten knots fast and twenty degrees right wing down.”
Juan found himself fixating on his gyro, the round center of his digital display. It was what was telling him up from down. He had a twenty-degree turn in still. But he felt like he was straight and level.
He realized that he was tilting his body and neck to the left. Dammit. He was getting a case of the leans.
Vertigo. Spatial disorientation. His body had grown used to being in the turn and began to consider that normal. It had to do with fluid in the inner vestibular of his ears or something.
All Juan knew was that it took every ounce of concentration for him to shift his stick back to the left and get wings-level. Of course, he couldn’t talk during that effort. So there was an awkward silence before he was able to answer his boss’s question.
“You alright?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Now he was sweating profusely. It was humid, but it was more than that.
“So you’ve got three people down there waiting and an engine fire light with an unconfirmed fire. What’s your next move, HAC?” Her voice was calm, but firm.
HAC stood for helicopter aircraft commander. It was the qualification that Juan hoped to achieve after they returned from deployment. A grueling multiyear process to get there. Once achieved, he could then sign for his own aircraft as the pilot in command.
Then he would go to work every day with his name as the primary pilot on the flight schedule. Uncle Sam would lend him his very own thirty-five-million-dollar helicopter, complete with his own copilot and aircrewman. He would then be in charge of the mission. It was essentially the equivalent of reaching adulthood in the naval helicopter world. But he had to get there first.
“Well, the fire is not confirmed, so I should land as soon as possible,” he said.
“Let’s say that the fire light just went out,” said Victoria.
Juan said, “Okay. Then I’d contact the ship and tell them the situation and let them know that I will be conducting search and rescue and to make best speed for my position.”
“But with the fire light on, you would go home? You would fly back to the ship?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Even with the three people down there? And twenty minutes of fuel?”
“Uh…”
“Don’t let her trick you, sir.”
Victoria said, “AWR1, you shut your trap, please. Let the man talk. Juan, I still have you in a turn. Level off and check your speed.”
“Sorry, boss,” said AWR1.
Juan said, “Roger, leveling off. Getting back to eighty knots.” He gritted his teeth and fought his body’s telling him that they were leaning to one side. He lined up the instrument wings so that they were straight and level, got the airspeed to exactly eighty knots, and trimmed it in.
Victoria said, �
��So would you turn back to the boat with three people in the water and twenty minutes of fuel, with an unconfirmed fire?”
Juan said, “Yes, ma’am. If the light stayed on, I would declare an emergency and land as soon as possible on the ship.”
Victoria said, “But with the fire light out, you’d stay on station and rescue those people.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Either way, the fire is unconfirmed. What does NATOPS say?”
NATOPS. The Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures Standardization Manual. The bible for all naval aviators. It had all the checklists, emergency procedures, systems limits, and diagrams that Juan had to memorize to become qualified in the aircraft. Juan and the other copilot spent at least six hours each day studying from that manual, quizzing each other and memorizing every minute detail. For it would help them reach HAC, and potentially save their lives if they ever needed the knowledge to get out of an airborne emergency.
“NATOPS says if the fire is unconfirmed, to land as soon as possible.”
“So the fire is still unconfirmed, right?”
“Yes…but—”
“Are there ‘buts’ in NATOPS? Sorry, I haven’t been flying for very long. Explain to me when it’s okay to violate NATOPS.”
“Well…I…uh…well, operational necessity…”
“And what’s that? Don’t quote me fancy words unless you want me to ask you what they mean.”
“Well…uh…ma’am, the instruction says that operational necessity is a mission associated with war or peacetime operations that justify risking the loss of aircraft or crew.”
“That’s not what it says. Not exactly. You need to know what it says verbatim. Keep going with the problem.”
