The display jumped a few inches as the operator added an artificial sea beneath the images. Troy didn’t like ships maneuvering across the top of the table. Put some sea beneath them — made it realistic even if it was just a projection. He moved left so he was standing in line with the French reconnaissance aircraft as it continued to spin a figure-eight pattern along a predetermined track for its mission.
“Okay, XO. Let the fun begin,” he murmured, turning to look at the XO, who was staring at him. The XO nodded, then quickly turned back to the display. “Show me the fire control beams,” he said to the First-Class Operations Specialist who was operating the holograph display controls.
A yellow beam of light shot out from the image of the Winston Churchill to the image of the Air Force fighter. Troy reached down and put his hand on the roller ball that controlled the pointer. Clicking the left button beside the pool-ball-size controller, he placed the virtual pointer on the F-16. Immediately, beside the aircraft icon, identification and information data appeared showing the image as an Air Force F-16 Falcon fighter flying at five hundred knots. The image reflected an aircraft with its nose pointed upward. The altitude on the data display increased as the aircraft continued to gain angels.
The yellow line, showing the actions of the Aegis fire control radar, simmered and then shifted off the fighter aircraft to point directly at the image of the French Atlantique. He smiled. On board the French reconnaissance aircraft, the electronic intelligence operator would be shouting and screaming into his microphone that the Americans have locked their fire control radar onto them. How many minutes would it take before they departed orbit and headed home?
The French Atlantique image moved away from its racetrack orbit, its nose turning toward the Churchill. Heading to shore, he thought. Between the French reconnaissance aircraft and the USS Winston S. Churchill, pride of Commander Amphibious Group Two, flew the four fighter aircraft on a southeasterly course that, if maintained, would take them into the vicinity of the Atlantique. I love it when a plan comes together, Troy thought. Not only did he have a surface-to-air missile profile locked on the nuisance aircraft, but onboard the Atlantique, they must think they were under multiple attack. His missiles and his unsuspecting accomplices — the F-16 formation— should be causing all kinds of butt-tightening actions onboard that aircraft.
“XO!” Lieutenant Kincaid shouted, ripping off his headset, tossing it to the deck, and dashing to the fire control radar. “Break lock! Break lock!” he screamed at the fire control technician. “Break lock! Now!”
“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” Troy asked, stepping toward the console.
The fire control technician was making the adjustments. Sweat ran down his forehead. Richman, his XO, had stepped away, not saying anything.
“Sir, we locked onto the French aircraft. I thought you said we weren’t going to do that, sir!”
“Calm down, Lieutenant.” He turned to Richman. “XO, didn’t you hear me say to scrub the lock-on against the Frenchie?”
“No, sir… sir,” Richman stuttered. “I thought you wanted it done. You were very precise.”
“I may have discussed it, XO, but the last words to you were not to do it. You must not have heard it with your headset down.”
“Alpha Whiskey, Falcon leader; we have reformed and are awaiting commencement of second exercise run,” emerged from the speaker near Lieutenant Kincaid. “We are angels ten ascending, remaining on outbound course one-sixty.”
“Sir, they’re ready to do the intermediate exercise when we are,” Petty Officer Schultz said aloud from his position.
Troy turned. “Lieutenant, keep them on current course for a few minutes while we get ourselves reorganized and ready for the exercise. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll tell you when to start.”
“Falcon leader, Alpha Whiskey; maintain course, speed, and continue climbing to angels twenty. Await instructions.”
“Okay, we’re waiting, but these F-16s are gas-hogs and we would like to land at Monrovia without refueling again. Would appreciate expedite remaining two exercises.”
“Roger, sir.”
“He doesn’t look as if he’s running, Captain,” Richman said, one hand resting on the seat of the fire control technician while he turned toward Troy.
“Oh, shut up, XO.” Troy walked back to the holograph. Damn! Wasn’t worth the effort. Didn’t do a damn thing except make the XO look like a fool. At least it got Kincaid out of his papier-mâché character. He watched the display for a couple of seconds before putting his hand on the mouse. He rolled the pointer onto the Atlantique, clicked on the track history file, and saw the French reconnaissance aircraft had steadied up on a course that would take it directly to the Churchill.
“Alpha Whiskey, Falcon leader; leveling off at angels eighteen. Cloud cover at angels twenty. Thought we’d stay below it.”
“Roger.”
What in the hell… Troy clicked on the image of the French Atlantique. The data display appeared. The altitude indicator showed the slow-moving reconnaissance aircraft ascending. It was still a couple of thousand feet below the Falcons, but if he didn’t know better he’d swear the French were trying to intercept the F-16s. Maybe the French pilot figured if he put his aircraft near the fighters the ship couldn’t fire on it. By now, the electronic intelligence experts on the Atlantique would have told the pilot the ship’s fire control was no longer locked on them. The French weren’t doing what he expected. Land was due east, not northwest. This sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach hit him at the same time his thighs started trembling again.
“Alpha Whiskey, we’re showing a single air contact dead ahead,” came the voice of Falcon leader over the speaker.
“Roger, Falcon leader. Contact is French Atlantique reconnaissance aircraft. It’s been operating in the area for the past two days,” Petty Officer Schultz broadcast.
“Well, if you don’t change our course and commence this exercise soon, we’re going to find ourselves… Light! Light! God d—” The broadcast stopped, replaced by the constant static of an empty airwave.
Chill bumps erupted all over Troy’s body and his arms started shaking. If he didn’t sit down soon, he’d pass out or fall.
“Skipper!” Lieutenant Kincaid shouted. “They’re gone. We’ve lost the Air Force fighters from our scope.”
Troy didn’t answer. He raised his head and looked at the holographic display. Where four computer-generated icons of the four fighter aircraft had been flying, the display reflected an empty sky.
“Sir, what should we do?” Joe Richman asked.
He hadn’t heard his XO approach. He was too busy trying to figure out what could have happened.
Behind him, the speakers carried the continued calls of Petty Officer Schultz trying to raise the aircraft on the circuit.
On the holographic display, the Atlantique did a sharp right-hand turn and steadied up on a course to take it back to shore. What could have happened? For a brief second he wondered if the French reconnaissance aircraft could have had anything to do with the aircraft disappearance, but he quickly discarded the idea. The Atlantique, like the Navy’s EP-3E Aries II aircraft, was unarmed.
He ignored the XO’s continuing query for directions as he rolled the mouse around the display, believing somehow that this would bring the fighter aircraft icons back. The French reconnaissance aircraft was descending rapidly, heading for sea level. Something had gone wrong. The aircraft couldn’t have run into each other. The French aircraft would have disappeared with them.
“Falcon leader, Alpha Whiskey; request acknowledge,” Schultz continued.
Lieutenant Kincaid pulled up the black cord with the red push-to-talk button on it. “Fire control, this is the TAO. Cease operations and secure the history data.” He reached down and pressed the 12MC to the bridge. “Bridge, this is TAO; please make the following log entry.” He passed the location, time of disappearance, and other information he knew to the officer of the
deck.
Troy took several deep breaths before he turned and faced Lieutenant Kincaid. “Lieutenant, I’ll be on the bridge. Request stand-down from exercise, and rig for search and survival. Get the radio sweeps up and see if we can detect a beeper.”
Master Chief Watson burst through the hatch leading up to the bridge. “Christ almighty, Captain! You should have seen it. The entire eastern sky lit up for a fraction of a second. Lit up like a camera flash going off. Me and the photographer had to rub our eyes to get our eyesight back.”
“What are you talking about, Master Chief?” Troy asked.
Watson shrugged. “I don’t know, sir, but for a second there, I thought we were in the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Lieutenant,” Troy said, continuing to stare at the master chief. “I’ll be on the bridge.”
With two steps he was through the door, taking the steps two at a time toward the bridge. Something had happened. Something had screwed up. And, although he couldn’t see how it could have anything to do with him, he couldn’t shake this feeling that somehow him locking the fire control radar on the French aircraft had something to do with the disappearance of the Air Force fighters. He needed air. He needed the bridge wing to go over events and make sure he had his story straight. Meanwhile, get the Churchill in the vicinity where the American aircraft were last seen.
On the USS Mesa Verde, LPD-19, one of the Navy’s most modern amphibious warships and classified as a Landing Platform Dock, Captain Xavier Bennett rested one foot on the deck of the bridge with the other on the small metal step of the bridge captain’s chair. He folded his sunglasses, stood up, and left the bridge. Minutes later he stood in the blue-lighted spaces of Combat, listening to a quick briefing by his Combat Information Center Watch Officer, referred to as the CICWO (pronounced sick-woe), on what had occurred less than fifteen minutes before.
The CICWO told Xavier that he had already ordered two CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopters to prepare to launch for a search and rescue mission. Xavier thanked him. On some ships, the decision to prepare for launch would have been held in abeyance pending the skipper’s approval. Xavier believed common sense dictated most actions, and why wait for approval when your officers and chiefs knew what they could and couldn’t authorize? Plus, it helped morale to know that your captain stood by decisions made by those serving under him. Confidence in leadership was second to respect of leadership, but Xavier learned years ago that the two traits were inescapably linked. How could you train future Navy warriors if you spent all your time micro-managing common sense decisions? He preferred the less stressful leadership style of letting his wardroom and chiefs manage the day-to-day operations. Within reason, of course. He had allowed the hotshot skipper of the Winston Churchill to run the show most of the way across. Xavier liked to see young, junior commanders who still had a sharp, pointy edge on their “A-type” personality leaping forward to test the bounds of their capability. This time, he needed to reassert his command as the Officer in Tactical Charge. He was sure the Churchill skipper could handle the search and rescue, but when life was endangered, it was better to err on the side of experience. Xavier had over sixteen of his twenty-eight years at sea as a surface warfare officer. His only regret was that he wished he could do it all over again.
“Get me the Churchill’s Charlie Oscar, Lieutenant,” Xavier said.
A few minutes later, the CICWO put his hand over the mouthpiece and said softly, “He’s on the bridge, Captain. I have his TAO on the other end.”
Xavier nodded. “Pass him my compliments, and here’s what I want you to tell him.” He continued relaying his instructions verbally as the CICWO nodded comprehension. When Xavier finished, he ordered the CICWO to set the search and rescue details throughout the ship. He glanced at the clock. Five minutes at the most before the Seabee commander would appear wanting to know what was going on; not that the Seabees could do much in an at-sea SAR.
Some would have asked for a subordinate skipper to leave whatever he or she was doing to take a person-to-person call such as he had had his CICWO make. Wasn’t in Xavier’s grain. He patted the metal platform beside the combat captain’s chair. He would never request that a skipper leave what he or she was doing to talk with him. The ship was always first. It was there when a skipper woke in the morning, it vibrated beneath his soles throughout the day, and it was the last thing on a skipper’s mind when he shut his eyes for the night. Every square inch of that sleek, gray man-made animal that sliced through the surface of the ocean was his responsibility. The lives of those who sailed within her were his responsibility, too. The decisions a skipper made impacted everyone on board. No, it was a great responsibility to command a Navy warship and one that must always be respected.
“Let’s lay out a search grid, Lieutenant, and get those helicopters airborne ASAP.”
* * *
“Is Captain Harrison on the bridge?” the voice of Lieutenant Kincaid asked, the 12MC speaker broadcasting it throughout the bridge area.
The Officer of the Deck pushed the lever down on the sound-powered speaker. Captain Harrison nodded at him. “He’s listening.”
“Captain, Lieutenant Kincaid here, sir. Captain Bennett sends his regards and passes on that he has resumed tactical command. He would like our latest situation report and any further information we may have on the disappearance of the Air Force fighters.”
Troy’s teeth clenched and his eyes narrowed. He turned away so the bridge crew wouldn’t see his right cheek, which had begun twitching. “Very well,” he said after a few seconds. This Expeditionary Strike Group concept where cruisers and destroyers were assigned to an amphibious group was demeaning in his eyes. The USS Winston S. Churchill was an Arleigh Burke — class guided-missile destroyer. Sure, amphibious ships needed air and submarine defense while they transited and did their missions, but cruisers and destroyers could be deployed when necessary from the Cruiser-Destroyer Groups. Leave them with their own classes, was his philosophy. Transformation shouldn’t mean giving up Navy tradition. He walked back out on the bridge wing, the temperature of the hot sun baking down on him as he stood hatless, looking out to sea.
The Air Force fighters had flown across the Atlantic in formation and had refueled two — or was it three? — times. They had to have been tired. He let out a deep breath. That was it. One or all of those fighters had collided with each other. Had nothing to do with his fire control event, though he wished he hadn’t done it now. It would be one more thing to cloud the investigation. There was always an investigation when a human life was taken. Thankfully, it wasn’t his fault. He told himself this as he stared out at the endless sea.
CHAPTER 3
The pounding woke him. He lay with his eyes shut for a few more seconds as the banging on his at-sea stateroom door continued. He knew who was on the other side of that door, and he promised himself he really was going to talk to her. He blinked his eyes, fully awake, but hating the idea of rising. Another round of loud raps on the door vibrated through the compartment. He bet her parents and brothers danced and shouted for joy the morning she left for the Naval Academy. Xavier Bennett pushed himself up onto his elbows. The faint breeze from the circulated air brought a band of coolness across the back of his head where sweat had stuck the hairs to the pillows.
“Come in,” he said, waiting for the door to open to confirm what he already knew. There was only one person who moved through the ship with the grace of a sledgehammer and the presence of a storm. He leaned over and grabbed the plastic bottle of spring water from the small bedside table, knocking the report from earlier onto the deck. Only captains of large ships had bedside tables. Be a Navy captain and have a bedside table. The caption might be competitively appealing against the decades long “Army of One” mantra. He reached down, picked up the report, and set it back on the side table.
“Come in,” he said louder.
He tilted the full bottle slightly to the side as he drank so he could watch his XO, Commander Elinor Fulbri
ght, open the door. Open was the wrong word. Ellen never “opened” anything. One moment the air in his stateroom moved languidly to the soft whirl of the circulating fan, and next moment she burst into his at-sea stateroom, her broad shoulders blocking his view of the passageway behind her, causing him to feel the change in the air as it brushed against his face.
“Sorry to wake you, Skipper,” she boomed, her raspy voice bouncing off the bulkheads. “Didn’t want to…” She stopped for a moment and put her broad hand against her chest. “Whew! Those ladders could kill a girl!” She took several deep breaths, expelling them through her nose.
The sound reminded Xavier of a horse snorting. He shook his head. Horses were beautiful animals, but women tended to get upset if you compared them to one. Wasn’t meant to be an ill thought. Maybe somewhere within that broad chest hid a bullhorn.
“There!” she said, dropping her hand from her chest. “Skipper, Admiral Holman is holding on the secure telephone for you.” Her thick eyebrows furrowed into a shallow V as she emphasized the importance of the telephone call.
Xavier slung the covers back, revealing the gray gym shorts and shirt in which he routinely slept, “USNA” embossed in blue on both. Gym attire was the most suitable alternative for sleepwear in a coed navy. He was up and out of the full-size rack in seconds.
“I’ll be right there, Ellen,” he said. He yawned, reached up nonchalantly, and ran his hand once through his thinning and graying brown hair. He caught the slight shake of her head from the corner of his eye and wondered for a brief second what that was about.
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