France jtf-3

by David E. Meadows

  “Sir, this is a load of bullshit! What you’re asking me to do is send my men, or women, who are not trained for this, into a mission where they stand a good chance of being killed, wounded, or captured.” Klein had extended his right hand, palm up, at Bennett. “This can’t be right.”

  “They’re trained to fight, aren’t they?” Bennett snapped. “Don’t tell me what’s bullshit and what isn’t on my ship.”

  Tucker slipped his hand into his right rear pocket. After his own tirade about this asininity, he could understand why the captain’s patience was wearing thin. His would be, too, if he had to overcome the skepticism this order generated. It wasn’t as if anyone gave great thought to it. Maybe it did come from the White House. Although great thoughts seldom come from an administration. “Boys, America needs you to just go in, stomp ass, and take names. The American people will love you.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s your ship, but these are my men and women, and if you’re ordering them into harm’s way then they deserve to know who ordered this and for what goddamn reason it is so imperative that I’m being asked — no, ordered — to send sailors to risk their lives unnecessarily.”

  Just what I need, Tucker thought, having to jump in and separate these two. SEALs were trained to think fast and act faster. Without realizing it, Tucker compared his six-foot-one frame against the older captain and the shorter but stockier Seabee. Tucker ran his hand through his short sandy-brown hair. The Seabee may be a problem. Klein’s upper arms stretched the fabric of the uniform to near ripping tension. If he had to step between these two, he hoped the Seabee commander was reasonable. He could fight…

  Bennett lifted the sheet. “The order came from the White House, was passed via the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to Admiral Yalvarez, who gave it to Admiral Holman, who, graciously, a couple of hours ago, gave it to me.”

  “Can I see the operational order, sir?” Klein asked, holding his hand out.

  Bennett waved the paper in the air before bringing it down. “This isn’t the OPORDER, Teddy. These are notes I made from the telephone call.”

  Tucker studied the Seabee commander in front of him. The man had the build and physical bearing of a warfighter, but behind those muscles beat the nerves of an engineer. Anyone could look the part. Most Navy SEALs didn’t look anything like the movie-generated versions. Most were wry and nondescript. It was the mental attitude and ability to remain calm when hell was breaking loose around you that separated the Navy SEALs from everyone else. Of course, on the other hand, if you’re calm while everyone around you is running and screaming, maybe you don’t fully understand the situation. Could the Seabees keep their calm when the bullets started flying? Being calm didn’t mean being unafraid; it meant overcoming and suppressing your fear so you could function in combat.

  “Then when can we expect the OPORDER?”

  “There won’t be one,” Tucker said, shaking his head. “There won’t be an OPORDER because this mission doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist on paper and it doesn’t exist at the White House either.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Well, Commander, that makes three of us,” Captain Bennett added. “But, regardless of whether we like it or not, the orders are valid and they are legal.”

  “And what happens if I send some of my men along with Commander Raleigh — it is Raleigh, right?”

  Tucker nodded. “Tucker Raleigh.”

  “What happens if they become stranded?” Klein asked, turning back to Captain Bennett. “Are we going to rescue them, or is this going to be a Laos — type mission we studied at Georgia Tech?”

  “You studied the Vietnam war at Georgia Tech?” Tucker asked.

  “Of course,” Klein replied. “You don’t think us Yellow Jackets do nothing but study engineering, sing songs, and drink beer do you?”

  “You sing songs and drink beer, too? I am now fully amazed,” Tucker said. Klein didn’t smile in return. Well, that went down well, Tucker thought.

  “If they get trapped and we can mount a rescue, we will. Tucker and I have worked out a quick operational plan that calls for him and three of your men — and I know you’ll select your best qualified — to be helo’ed within a few miles of the airport where the French Atlantique reconnaissance aircraft is based. Commander Raleigh will brief his team once you two have put it together. Three hours after they’re inserted, I expect the helicopter to pick them up where it dropped them off. Barring any problems, this mission will be over by sunrise tomorrow morning.” Bennett nodded toward Tucker. “It’s a legal order, Commanders, and you will obey it, understand?”

  Klein stood straight. “Sir, I never intended to disobey the order,” he said, his voice betraying his irritation. “My only intention is to find out where this stupid idea originated so I can tell my grandchildren some day when they read about it.”

  Bennett reached out and briefly touched the stout young commander on the shoulder. “I know, Teddy. And I know this is foreign to you and something the Seabees haven’t been asked to do since World War II, but your people are the only combat-trained personnel I have. My sailors on the Mesa Verde and those on the Churchill don’t have the fire training your people do.”

  Klein nodded, his upper teeth biting his lower lip for a couple of seconds. He looked up, making eye contact with both Tucker and Captain Bennett. “You’re right there. Most of Charlie Company wears the Seabee Combat Warfare Breast Insignia. That’s not to say the other two companies aren’t as proficient, but Charlie Company’s commander, Lieutenant Peal, has been proactive in getting his people qualified. Plus, Brute’s in Charlie Company.”

  “Brute?” Tucker asked, rolling the name a couple of times off his tongue. “Got a nice ring to it.”

  “Brute has been a source of… let’s say conversation aboard the Mesa Verde since we departed Pascagoula, Mississippi,” Bennett added. He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the desk. “Yes, Brute would be a great asset to Commander Raleigh. A greater asset if they run into the French.”

  “Brute?” Tucker asked again. “I take it that’s a name of a person and not an animal.”

  “The jury’s still out on that,” Klein replied.

  “Brute isn’t this Seabee’s real name, as you probably guessed, Tucker. Brute is a second-class Builder,” Bennett offered.

  “Third class now, sir,” Klein said. “I busted him for that brawl in Pascagoula. He’ll be second class again in a few months.” Klein turned to Tucker. “He’s made second class petty officer more times than most people get promoted in a career in the Navy, and he’s only been in the Navy five years.”

  “Brute is about six-foot-six and somewhere in his life his neck disappeared into his chest,” Bennett continued. “His chest starts somewhere just below where his neck used to be and tapers down to his waistline.”

  “If it were possible, he’d be negative body fat on the Navy’s physical fitness body measurements. He’s not only a builder, but he specializes in underwater construction,” Klein offered.

  “That’ll come in handy in the middle of Africa,” Tucker said sarcastically.

  “All right. We’re done here, gentlemen. I expect you back within ninety minutes with the names of those going.”

  “Sir, I will be one of those going,” Klein said.

  Tucker could tell from the way Bennett’s eyes narrowed that he was on the verge of telling Klein no, and he was surprised when the man said, “That’s between you and Commander Raleigh. You two work it out.”

  * * *

  The two Commanders, one in working khaki with silver oak leaves on the collar and the other wearing battle dress utilities with embroidered black oak leaves on the collar, walked side by side down the passageway.

  “Where can we go to work this out?” Tucker asked. He had only been aboard since this morning, and, with only a stateroom assigned to him, he had no working space.

  “We can go to my office.”

  “So, what was this
brawl this Seabee Brute got himself into in Pascagoula?” Tucker asked as he followed Teddy Klein down a nearby ladder.

  At the bottom of the ladder, Klein looked both ways, and, seeing no one in the passageway, he turned to Tucker, shrugged, and said, “Just your typical brawl. My people had finished participating in a military funeral at the local American Legion. They were wearing whites. Afterward a few of them, along with Brute, stopped at a local bar for a few post-service observances before returning to the ship. Seems several of the locals had arrived much earlier than Brute and his buddies.”

  A sailor emerged from a nearby office. Klein stopped speaking. The sailor excused himself as he walked between the two officers and scurried up the ladder the two men had just come down. When the footsteps faded, Klein continued. “One of the locals saw the summer whites and asked what type of ice cream they served. Probably would have been laughed off, but they apparently were amused over their own humor and kept it up until one of them — feeling suicidal, of course — pointed at Brute and asked him what type of ice cream he was. From what the other sailors said, Brute told him, ‘Rocky Road, because it reminds us of your face.’ And when the man stepped forward, Brute knocked him into his friends. It went downhill from there.”

  Klein turned and continued aft toward his office.

  “You’re lucky the sheriff didn’t lock them up.”

  “What’s lucky is the sheriff was a Navy veteran and the locals Brute beat up ‘needed it’ according to the sheriff. In Mississippi, it’s a legal defense: ‘Yore honor, I beat the shit out of him because he needed it,’” Klein said, deliberately deepening his Georgian accent. “So, the sheriff gave me custody with the understanding Brute wouldn’t be allowed off the ship again and I would take him to mast. In return, when the two locals got out of the hospital, the sheriff would conveniently lose the incident report.”

  A master chief dressed in cammies and holding his hat in his hand stepped over the knee knocker of the opening ahead of them. Thick steel frames protruded along the deck, around the bulkheads, and overhead to provide better watertight integrity to the ship in the event of catastrophic damage. This metal frame gave the watertight door purchase when the lever was shoved down, locked, and secured. Sailors referred to this watertight frame as a knee knocker because sailors tripped and fell over them continually, even bumping their heads on the protruding frame curving overhead.

  “That’s Master Chief Collins,” Klein said, his head motioning ahead of them. “He’s my Command Master Chief.”

  “Sir,” the master chief said when the two men reached his vicinity. “We’ve managed to off-load your Humvee, sir. It’s on the deck.”

  “Thanks, Master Chief,” he said. Klein introduced Tucker Raleigh to the older man. The three turned and continued back the way the master chief had just came. Along the way, Master Chief Collins gave Commander Klein the status of the off-load and let him know that the forward party had already arrived at the airfield. From what they said on the walkie-talkies, it sounded as if they were going to have to clear the old airfield before they could start to broaden and widen it for U.S. military use.

  “Old airfield?” Klein asked. “We’re just supposed to extend the current airfield and do any repairs necessary so our aircraft can use it.”

  “Yes, sir, but the current airfield is an unused airfield. The data we were given to work up our work plan was erroneous. Lieutenant Wilson-Fran is working up a new one out at the airfield now.”

  Tucker listened as the two men shifted into engineer and Seabee-speak. He could tell from the short answers Klein gave the master chief that the leader of these Seabees had other concerns on his mind, and he’d bet his life they were the same concerns he had.

  As the conversation faded, the master chief never noticed Klein’s answers were shorter, he just kept bringing his skipper up to date on everything from tents to water to status of the off-load. Like most master chiefs, Collins was older than his boss by a few years.

  Tucker listened until Klein’s interest peaked again and he started exchanging mathematical equations with Collins. He gathered from their discussion that the NMCB-133 was expected to expand the airlift capability on an operational, but small, local airport. From the time they received their mission orders in Gulfport, they had planned their workload, work schedule, and task plans according to that premise. Even the construction equipment the NMCB-133 brought with them had been itemized against these plans. Instead, what they found was an airfield that had been abandoned years ago and most of what was loot-able had been looted. There was an empty shell of an airport control tower where even the huge windows overlooking the airfield were missing.

  The master chief had his people identifying the work they would have to do to make up the difference between starting construction on an operational airfield and the one they discovered. No water. No toilets. No air conditioning. Collins had doubled the number of port-a-potties and portable showers to be installed at the airport. Collins told Klein that he had ordered one of the water sterilization plants unpacked.

  They turned and started walking from the starboard toward the port side of the ship. Tucker really needed a few minutes with Klein to discuss what type of combat training his men and women had gone through; although, unlike his boss, Admiral James, he had no intention of taking women along in this mission.

  Klein stopped and opened a door. A small plaque in a metal holder identified the compartment as belonging to the commanding officer, NMCB-133, and above it was the bold black name of Commander Teddy Klein. The master chief mentioned Brute. Hearing the name, Tucker refocused on the conversation long enough to hear that the new third class was at the airfield.

  “Commander Raleigh, I think we’re going to have the pleasure of sharing this new mission with my favorite command master chief,” Klein said as he opened the door.

  “I should be. I’m the only master chief you’ve got, Skipper.”

  Klein put his back against the gray door that opened inward and, in an exaggerated bow, motioned Master Chief Collins in ahead of Tucker. “Master Chief, have we got some wonderful news for you. When the two of us finish bringing you up to date, you’re going to be so grateful that you volunteered to stay with the fighting ‘roos of NMCB-133 for six more months you’ll bow down and kiss my feet.”

  The master chief shook his head. “Yes, sir. That’s gonna happen.” Collins entered the compartment shaking his head. “I have this sinking feeling, Skipper, that I should have accepted those orders to Rota, Spain.”

  Ten minutes later, two Seabee sailors heading aft toward the smoking deck ambled by the closed compartment door of Commander Teddy Klein’s office just as the two commanders finished briefing Master Chief Collins.

  “Who the fuck thought up this asinine idea?” came a shout of disbelief from inside the compartment.

  The sailors jumped and then laughed as they picked up their pace.

  “Recognize that voice anywhere.”

  “Yep, Master Chief Collins.”

  “I guess when you’re a Master Chief you can talk like that,” one of them said as they neared the corner of the passageway.

  “Not every master chief. Just Master Chief Collins. He’s not a bad sort. His arms remind me of Popeye.”

  “I can see that. You see the anchors tattooed on both of them?”

  The other sailor nodded. “Brute says he’s got the heart of a little boy.”

  “Yeah, and he keeps it in a jar on his desk.” They both laughed.

  They turned the corner, pausing for a moment to glance back to see if the door had opened.

  “I’ll be glad when I make Master Chief,” the one who offered the advice on Master Chief Collins said.

  “You ought to try staying a third class first.”

  “I can’t help it if the skipper has no sense of humor.”

  * * *

  The Humvee bounced and jostled over the rough dirt road that led from the southernmost Liberian town of Harper to the ab
andoned airport northeast of it. Tucker had already taken his cap off and had tucked it under his thigh. Tire marks from vehicles passing earlier marked the center of the little-used road, probably from earlier Seabee vehicles. The right tire of the Humvee hit a hole as they sped around a curve, throwing the vehicle into the air to land with a jolt that caused the rear seat belt to jerk him back. It was a good thing this Humvee had no top or his head would have creamed the roof. Tucker reached down and touched his hat, making sure it was still there.

  The engine revved up as the master chief pressed his foot down on the gas pedal, ignoring the condition of the road as if daring it to stop his Humvee. Tucker knew the master chief was still upset over the idea of having to send three of his men off on some “God-forsaken” mission that didn’t have anything to do with building an airport.

  Behind the Humvee, a roiling dust cloud rose into the air, twisting and weaving in the wind created by the speeding vehicle, rising forty to fifty feet into the air before losing momentum and sifting out to the sides to rain fine dust over the African bush, the livestock, and the Liberian herders whose eyes followed the Americans as they sped down the road.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” said Master Chief Collins, his voice loud enough to carry over the noise of the vehicle.

  Tucker sat in the back of the topless Marine Corps green Humvee, his eyes squinting to keep the dust that rolled under the sunglasses from caking them too much.

  “Great plan, great plan, great plan!” Klein shouted back. “Just keep thinking and saying that over and over, Master Chief. We haven’t done something like this since—”

  “John Wayne in The Fighting Seabees. I hope the skipper remembers that was a movie, sir!”

  The master chief jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid a deep hole in the middle of the road. Tucker and Klein fell to the right, bouncing off the side of the vehicle. Klein grabbed his hat, holding it on his head.