Liberia jtf-1

by David E. Meadows

  “Oh, Christ! Boatswain Mate!” shouted the Chief of Staff. “Bring your knife out here and slit my wrists! What are they doing? Who trained them coxswains on helmsmanship while in a holding pattern? The Three Stooges?” The statement and questions rolled in a staccato of raspy bursts.

  Dick grinned and shook his head. Winks and smiles passed between the bridge team members. Upmann was good for morale. The words and actions were for show. The junior officers and crew both liked and respected the tall Naval Academy officer. It was unusual to be both liked and respected. Usually, you get one or the other.

  Dick wished he had the ability to remember names the way his Chief of Staff did. One thing he appreciated, but never told Leo, was that whenever they met people, Leo always spoke their names so Dick could hear them. He shook his head. Maybe Leo does that on purpose, so I don’t embarrass anyone by calling them someone else. Yes, Leo was a character, and just as he and his SEAL friend Rear Admiral Duncan James were discussing in Washington a few months ago, the Navy could use a few characters. Some of the Navy’s most famous leaders were characters. They were characters who knew what they were doing and drew people to them with heroic antics, actions, and tenacity.

  Dick turned away, lifted his binoculars, and focused them on the North Carolina beach several miles away. This rehearsal exercise was going better than most, but you would never believe it listening to Leo.

  “Boatswain Mate! To hell with just one knife! Bring two! I’ve got to end this shame!”

  The quartermasters surrounding the navigation table near Dick’s hatch laughed until the chief petty officer told them to shut up, quit listening, and focus on their jobs. Where would the Navy be without those three enlisted pay grades of chief petty officers?

  Along the beach, the first wave of landing craft pulled away, except for three that remained ashore, their landing doors dropped onto the sand. Small dots marked individual Marines scurrying up the high sand dunes about a hundred yards inland. Here and there, smoke rose to mark simulated enemy artillery shells hitting the beach. Though he couldn’t tell which ones were the referees, Dick knew they were running among the arriving assault force marking some as dead, others as wounded, and even others wounded but capable of combat. Marines who earned the stamp of “Dead” always argued with the referees. “Dead meat,” they called it. Being dead meat meant sitting out the war games in a roped-off area of the beach. At least being wounded, they could argue that they weren’t wounded enough to evacuate and should be allowed to continue forward with their buddies into combat. He smiled as he recalled the story they told during the early months of the war on terrorism in Afghanistan.

  A Marine walks to the top of a hill and shouts down at a bunch of Talibans that one Marine is worth ten Talibans. The Taliban leader sends ten fighters over the hill. There is a lot of shooting and screaming and after several minutes, only silence. As the Taliban leader watches the top of the hill, the lone Marine appears again and shouts down that one Marine is worth more than a hundred Talibans. This time, the Taliban leader sends one hundred fighters over the hill. Same thing, lots of screams, shouts, bullets, and explosions, followed by silence. The Marine appears again. This time the Taliban leader is angry. He orders a thousand fighters over the hill after the Marine. Screams, shouts, bullets, explosions follow, and then over the hill comes a lone Taliban fighter, wounded and crawling toward the leader. As he reaches the leader, he tugs on the long Taliban robe and whispers, “It’s a trap; there’s two of them.”

  Dick laughed. Behind him, the quartermasters winked at each other. They nodded at each other. Even the admiral found Captain Upmann’s antics amusing.

  On the beach, corpsmen, dressed in Marine Corps combat utilities, carried simulated wounded on stretchers toward the three landing craft. Belowdecks in the main medical compartments of the USS Boxer, doctors and nurses would be waiting for the simulated injuries to arrive. Developing triage experience was very important in military operations. Many believed triage was the medical management procedure for identifying the most critical who needed immediate attention. Most failed to realize that triage also meant identifying those who were so critically wounded that others might die if necessary medical personnel and equipment were diverted in an attempt to prolong the lives of the dying. War was cruel, and cruelest of all was knowing that your survival could depend on how badly wounded you were, balanced against available medical personnel and supplies.

  Leo appeared unexpectedly by his side. “Admiral, the third wave is ready to go, sir. Though the way they are handling those landing craft, I expect them all to capsize before they’re a hundred yards to the beach.”

  Dick lowered his binoculars and looked up. “Leo, they’ll do fine. The exercise is going as well as can be expected. This is the third wave, right?”

  “Right, sir, but the helmsmen of this wave must still have their learners’ permits.”

  A steward stepped onto the bridge wing with fresh cups of coffee and a plate of fresh pastries. The young petty officer handed the first cup to Dick, who thanked him, and offered the second to Captain Upmann. The plate with the pastries he placed on the shelf that ran below the lip of the bridge wing.

  Captain Upmann reached over and took two of them.

  Dick shook his head and grinned. “Leo, how do you do it? Every time I see you, you’ve got a mouthful of something—about the only time I don’t hear your words of doom—and you’re probably the only officer on my staff who has a negative body-fat ratio.”

  “Six percent,” Leo mumbled through the raisin bread.

  “And for me,” Dick continued, patting a stomach that hung slightly over the belt line, “I can look at that stuff and put on weight.”

  Leonard Upmann swallowed. “You’ve lost weight, Admiral,” he replied, taking another big bite.

  “A little maybe, but only because an old friend of mine, Rear Admiral Duncan James — a Navy SEAL — made me work out with him when he and I spent our four weeks at CAPSTONE.” CAPSTONE was the military executive training for new flag officers held at the National Defense University at Fort McNair in Washington, D.C. Everyone who made the stars eventually sat through the series of lectures on what it meant to be a flag officer or general officer. Lectures given most times by those who had never made the rank.

  “I’ve met him,” Leo said, reaching out and taking another cake. “Nice man.”

  “Nice man? If you had read the reports of his rescue of the Algerian President, you would say ‘trained killer’ more likely. Which is why I made sure I kept running when he so ordered. I didn’t want to find out if the SEAL rules for putting hurt animals out of their misery also applied to overweight ‘gasping for breath’ aviators.”

  “Didn’t he have the first woman SEAL on that mission?”

  Holman nodded. “Yeah, Heather J. McDaniels, but all my friends call me HJ. Lots of gossip that she was the reason a certain two-star SEAL admiral retired early.”

  “I recall he tried to rig it so she would be thrown out of the SEALS?”

  “We’ll never know,” Holman said, shaking his head. “Lots of things go on in the Pentagon that never come out of that five-sided building. Some of the greatest intellectuals you’ve ever met are in there. Just ask them; they’ll tell you so.”

  The familiar sound of jet engines drowned out Holman’s last words. The two officers peered below at the flight deck. The four fighter aircraft maneuvered by pairs to the center of the flight deck on the USS Boxer. The jet engines wound down from the test, and on the nose of each of the small fighter aircraft propellers turned.

  “Just isn’t right,” Holman said, reaching in his pocket, pulling out the cigar, and pointing at the aircraft.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Upmann replied, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I kind of like the new fighter aircraft. Sleek,” he drawled. “Use less gas—”

  “It’s called aviation fuel, butt-hole.”

  “And the pilots are so different. Wouldn’t you agree, Ad
miral?”

  “Oh, screw you, Leo, and the rest of the surface-warfare community. You are enjoying this way too much. And since I am the one in charge, I do not want them called fighter aircraft.”

  The engines revved up on the first pair, drowning out Leo’s reply. They watched in silence. A moment later, the four aircraft were airborne. Holman lifted his binoculars and watched the transformation. A short burst of black exhaust from the jet engines showed the flyers shifting from propeller to jet power. He couldn’t see the front of them, but knew small hydraulics had withdrawn the propeller blades into the nose of the prototypes to reduce drag and to protect them. Without the propellers, the aircraft wouldn’t be able to land on the USS Boxer when they finished their mission.

  As the aircraft circled higher and the noise faded, a cough caught his attention. He lowered his binoculars. Standing halfway inside the bridge was the ship’s Communications Officer, Lieutenant Commander Rachel Grande. Her rich brown hair was pulled tight and upward into a bun before disappearing beneath the khaki garrison cap. It pulled her eyes into a permanent expression of surprise and at the same time highlighted those light blue eyes.

  “Morning, Rachel,” Admiral Holman said. “And, what do we owe the pleasure of your visit this bright, summer afternoon off the fine beaches of North Carolina?”

  “Morning Admiral; Captain Upmann. Sir, I have an urgent PERSONAL FOR message for you from the Director of Operations, Joint Forces Command, Norfolk, Virginia,” she replied.

  Dick noticed the usual smile missing. Their eyes locked briefly, long enough for him to see the concern that had replaced the normal mischievous look that resonated within those blue eyes. The fact that she was the only blue-eyed Mexican-American he had ever met passed through his thoughts also.

  Dick took the envelope, ripped it open, and read the message. Finished, he handed it to Leo. He lifted his binoculars, twisted the focus slightly, and scanned the beach while Upmann read the message. From the south, four V-22A Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft approached the far end of the beachhead. They ascended several hundred feet as they passed the shoreline, and Dick watched as they split off into two pairs and continued inland. The exercise scenario called for the beach landing to lure the opposing forces forward. Then, once they were “bunched,” the airborne part of the operation would circle and land Marines behind them, cutting off the enemy from his supply lines, splitting enemy forces apart, and then defeating each opposing force element one by one.

  The USS Boxer amphibious task force had six of the prototype aircraft on board, along with a mix of CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopters, Cobra Attack helicopters, and a couple of Harrier fighter jets. Belowdecks, this great amphibious ship carried two LCACs — Landing Craft Air Cushion vehicles — along with a few conventional landing craft.

  Those conventional landing craft from the USS Boxer, USS Nassau, and the USS Belleau Wood made up the bulk of Holman’s attacking force. The Boxer’s two LCACs, traveling with the two from the Belleau Wood, passed across Holman’s line of vision, heading north along the coast. The four air-cushioned vehicles flew across the water like aircraft without wings. Holman lowered his binoculars. Heavy rubber skirts surrounded the hulls of the LCACs, directing high-pressure air downward to bounce off the surface of the water and ricochet up against the craft, keeping them floating a few feet above the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. Without the drag of having to bore holes through the water, the LCACs were capable of speeds in excess of forty knots. Armor plating surrounded the exposed hulls and decks of the LCACs. Heavy machine guns provided additional protection and limited firepower to support an assault. This was essential because a capability the LCAC had over conventional landing craft was that it could hit the beach without slowing and ride that air cushion farther inland to disembark Marines. With the LCACs, the conventional landing craft, and the versatile Osprey, the United States Marine Corps could disrupt any hostile defense in a matter of minutes.

  Unlike conventional landing craft, rough shores and shallow water had little effect on the LCACs’ advantage of being able to slip ashore nearly anywhere along a coastline. They could transition from an at-sea environment, continue over the sand, up the dunes, and through the grasses until terrain, logistics, or operations forced them to stop. LCACs were another transport arm that added to the Marine Corps capacity to attack from more directions than just a sandy, sloping beach.

  The four LCACs passed between a second wave of conventional landing craft that were dropping their ramps onto the main beachhead and the third wave approaching from the shelter of the amphibious task force.

  “If they knew how much danger those helmsmen in the third wave presented, they’d be at maximum speed and running for cover,” said Upmann.

  Holman watched the crossing, his tactical mind churning through the possibilities of how LCACs could disrupt an opposing amphibious landing. Using the same situation he was watching, it would be similar to the old warships of sail whose tactics involved crossing the bow of an enemy ship so all their cannons could be fires simultaneously. Right now, he thought, if those LCACs were enemy, the heavy machine guns on their decks would be sufficient to tear through both waves of unarmed conventional amphibious craft. Not only would it defeat a beach assault, stranding those already on shore, but also it would destroy the very craft needed to mount a second attack or effect a rescue. He bit his lower lip. It would also send hundreds of Marines to the bottom.

  Holman shrugged his shoulders. While he could envision the tactic, he couldn’t see where he would ever have an opportunity to employ it. There were no Naval forces in the world with the capability to mount such a projection of force from the sea. Then he thought of People’s Republic of China. He was one of those die-hard warriors who knew in his heart that someday America was going to have to fight that Asiatic giant. China had been hard at work building its armed forces and increasing its amphibious-assault capability. Its national strategy indicated a belief that the only way to bring “the rebel province” of Taiwan under control was through military conquest. He put both hands on the railing and leaned forward, watching the air-cushioned landing craft finish passing. He would write the tactic up and submit it through the chain of command. Holman would incorporate the tactic in his next exercise, and share the lessons learned with his counterpart on the West Coast, Rear Admiral Prentice, Commander, Amphibious Group One. He experienced that little thrill of pleasure that came from identifying an innovative use of a weapon system that only a warrior could appreciate.

  Leo finished reading the message. “Sir, should we stop the exercise and reembark the Marines?”

  Dick lowered his binoculars and shook his head. That little spark of pleasure evaporated as his mind returned to current events. “Won’t work,” he said, shaking the ashes off the end of his Cuban cigar. “We’re too far along with the exercise to do it properly. All that would happen is we would have a lot of confused Marines milling about smartly ashore, wondering where in the hell the rest of their comrades had disappeared to.” He took a deep puff. “When we reembark, I want them embarked in such a fashion that they are ready to conduct another amphibious operation without us having to pull into port, offload, and reload. Besides, I want to see how this new wave of the future for Naval aviation pairs off against those F-14 Top Gunners from Oceana.”

  “Understand, sir; but if we stop now, we should be able….”

  Dick looked toward the shore. The second wave had landed their Marines, hoisted their ramps, and were turning back out to sea. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes, he figured, before the second wave would pass through the third wave of conventional landing craft. “No, Leo. The good thing is this exercise will serve as a rehearsal in the event we have to do one once we reach Liberia. Normal steps of an amphibious operation — embark, plan, rehearse, reembark, execute.” He grinned. “Shoot, Leo! We’re already sixty percent ready unless we stop the exercise. If we stop it, then sortie across the Atlantic to arrive without the Marines having had an oppor
tunity to flesh out any operational cliches…” He stopped, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. With the slow-burning cigar held loosely between the first two fingers of the right hand, Holman pointed at the message his Chief of Staff held. “Rachel, keep this to yourself for the time being. You may share it with Captain Hudson, but pass along my orders to keep the contents close-hold until I say differently.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” she said. She saluted and left the bridge wing.

  Dick knew she would return to the radio shack, print another copy of the PERSONAL FOR message, and take it to Captain Jeremiah Hudson, commanding officer of the USS Boxer. Only flag officers had the privilege of sending informal PERSONAL FOR messages via official channels. The tradition of sending formal PERSONAL FOR messages had been replaced by e-mails sent via classified channels, but most of his peers knew Dick’s propensity for staying well clear of computers. Computers meant being indoors. Dick preferred the fresh smell of salt water and sea breezes passing over the deck of whatever ship permitted him to embark. Until he was appointed as Commander, Amphibious Group Two — the premier Navy organization for the Atlantic amphibious fleet — PHIBGRU Two seldom went to sea. In the one year since he had taken over, the administration functions of the group had been passed to a subordinate amphibious squadron and he had packed PHIBGRU Two’s seabags and headed out to sea.

  So many times at sea that many of the senior captains and commanders who had fought for orders to the group as their last tour before retiring looked for easier billets elsewhere, which was all right with Dick. If you didn’t want to go to sea, in his book, then why in the hell were you in the Navy? It was like being in the Air Force and refusing to fly, or in the Army and despising camping. He flicked ash off his cigar over the side of the ship.