Scorched Earth

by George Galdorisi

  The briefing continued with his military staff describing the precision bombing packages the Roosevelt strike group would use to hit urban areas in central Mosul. His staff anticipated he would ask about Iran—the 800-pound gorilla in the Gulf—and that their commander would want to know what they were doing to ensure Iran didn’t feel threatened as they surged the strike group into the northern Gulf. Their answers weren’t perfect—but they were good enough to leave George satisfied that Iran wouldn’t interfere with the strikes. After answering several questions, his ops deputy was finally finished.

  “If there’s nothing else, General, I’ll turn it over to the pol-mil advisor to answer those other questions you had.”

  “What do you have for me, Joan?” George said, turning to his political-military advisor.

  Joan Hszieh had been the general’s pol-mil counselor for almost five years, first in his two previous commands, and now here at CENTCOM. He had lured her away from a full professorship at Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service, where she had been the deputy director of the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. She had served him well in his previous assignments, but now she was really in her element working for him at CENTCOM.

  “General, as you’re well aware, it’s crucial we stress-inoculate the Iraqi government before we conduct these strikes. They’ll be extremely sensitive to civilian casualties—that’s why we’ve dropped leaflets warning civilians about previous strikes in Mosul. But as you know, every time we’ve done that, ISIL has simply picked up and moved and we’ve had virtually no impact on them.”

  “I know. But we’re not going to do that this time, are we?”

  “No, sir. This is still emerging in real time, but I’m told the president has directed the secretary of state to contact Iraq’s foreign minister and tell him there will be no warning when we strike. We know their government will protest vehemently, but secretly, they’re desperate for us to help degrade ISIL and keep it from taking over wider swaths of the country.”

  “Right, but I know they’ll never say that publicly. What about the Iraqis helping if any of our pilots get shot down in these strikes?”

  His ops deputy jumped in and he and Hszieh reminded George of what he already knew: The Iraqi government had no combat search and rescue capability. But what Hszieh’s furious negotiating had accomplished was that completely off the books, the Iraqis would let U.S. Air Force CSAR birds stage out of an abandoned military airfield due west of Nasiriyah and also let them refuel at Al Muthana Air Base—the military side of Baghdad International Airport—en route to and from Mosul.

  Satisfied his staff had planned for every contingency, George turned to his EA and said, “I’ll be in my office. First I need you to place a call to the chairman. Then we need to raise the Fifth Fleet commander on the secure net. I’ll need to tell him we’re go for these strikes.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Chase Williams sat at the small conference table in his office with his operations director, Brian Dawson, his planning director, Richard Middleton, and his intelligence director, Roger McCord. McCord had asked for a meeting based on recent intelligence his Geek Tank had uncovered.

  Williams often referred to the three men as his “thoroughbreds.” Together they brought more than a century of national security experience to the table. While Williams prided himself on the fact that he ran a flat, largely egalitarian, organization, he had to admit that when he had a tough operational problem, he sought out the advice and counsel of these men above all others.

  Dawson and Middleton sat next to each other, and it occurred to Williams that no two people on his small Op-Center staff could be more different—yet still be in his circle of close advisors.

  Dawson was military through and through, even out of uniform. He was a West Pointer, former 5th Special Forces Group commander, accomplished linguist (Arabic, Dari, Pashto, and others), and perhaps most importantly for Op-Center, an operator with massive contacts in the Pentagon, at State and in the most important three-letter intelligence agencies. Put a current-day Special Operations superstar in civilian clothes, and you had retired Army Colonel Brian Dawson.

  Middleton, on the other hand, was—with the exception of Bleich’s self-named misfits in his Geek Tank—the most unmilitary person on the Op-Center staff. An Amherst graduate and blue blood, he had marched against the Vietnam War when he was in junior high. He went to the CIA after a tour at State and found his niche as a covert operator. There, he excelled and became one of the best. He rarely considered doing anything by the book, but was so successful accomplishing what his seniors wanted and needed that he survived numerous attempts to cashier him.

  With a nod from Williams, McCord kicked off the meeting. “Boss, gents, as you all know, we’re on the verge of strikes against ISIL in retribution for the kidnapping and killing of General Underwood. Aaron’s Geek Tank has cracked something that’s been stumping us for several days. ISIL is good, but they’re not ten feet tall. I asked him to walk it back, and try to find out how ISIL was able to finger the location of the general’s convoy in spite of all our efforts to keep the location of his meeting in al-Bukamal secret.”

  “We pulled the string on that with the IC,” Dawson added, referring to the intelligence community. “They say this meeting—let alone the route General Underwood’s convoy would take—was extremely close-hold.”

  McCord continued his intelligence assessment, reminding them that after having to deal with a Saudi prince in an operation several years ago, Bleich’s Geek Tank had kept a keen eye on what the Saudis did, and especially what their intelligence services were up to. They all knew Saudi Arabia saw ISIL as a buffer against Iran and that they continued to do a great deal covertly to aid ISIL.

  What Bleich’s team had recently discovered was that ISIL’s leader, Mabad al-Dosari, had a free hand to reach directly into the Saudis’ General Intelligence Directorate. Given the suffocating electronic blanket Saudi Arabia had over its territory, as well as that of its neighbors, it was all but certain the Saudis had sniffed out the meeting and passed that information to al-Dosari once he’d decided he wanted to go after the special presidential envoy.

  McCord finished his assessment, and there was silence—but only for a moment.

  “Our so-called allies,” Middleton huffed … then caught himself. “I know you had to deal with these assholes when you were the CENTCOM commander, boss; but they really are making themselves the friends we love to hate. And how much military gear have we sold them in the last five years?”

  “North of sixty billion,” McCord added.

  “All right, I’ve got it,” Williams said. “Roger, tell Aaron and his team well done. I’m assuming we’re the only ones who know this—even the IC is still in the dark?”

  “Right, boss, and we won’t share it unless you direct it. It answers an important question, but I’m not sure what else we need to do with the information right now.”

  “I need to let the president know we’ve found a leak we may need to plug later. For now, we’ll have to wait to see if we strike ISIL.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aboard USS Theodore Roosevelt: Northern Arabian Gulf

  March 7, 0430 Arabia Standard Time

  In the early morning darkness, the glow from the secure iPad lit up the port side of USS Theodore Roosevelt’s (CVN 71) flag bridge. Seated in his bridge chair, the commander of Carrier Strike Group Twelve, Rear Admiral Jay Bruner, was flanked by Theodore Roosevelt’s commanding officer, Captain Rocky Wilson, and TR’s air wing commander—or CAG—Captain Bruce Michaels.

  “Admiral,” Michaels began, scrolling through the pages of the tablet he held in front of Bruner, “here’s the execute order from Fifth Fleet to conduct these strikes on Mosul. Nothing’s changed from the rough draft their staff shared with us last night. Still no Tomahawk strikes laid on, and no Air Force strikers.”

  Bruner had been through this with his CAG already; but he knew if Michaels was raising it ag
ain he owed him a professional response. “Look fellas, I know we get paid to give our seniors the best possible professional advice. And when we first got the alert order from Fifth Fleet, we recommended a comprehensive strike package with plenty of Tomahawks launched from our Aegis ships, as well as Air Force strikers flying out of Qatar.”

  “That would have been the best plan to take out the target with minimum risk to our pilots,” Michaels replied.

  “You’re right, but this decision was made way above our pay grade. Step back and think about it—while we can call it ‘politics,’ it might do us some good to walk in our seniors’ shoes.”

  Bruner had served tours in the Navy’s office of legislative affairs, first as a commander and again as a captain. Rumor had it he was the odds-on favorite to return to Washington when his tour as the Roosevelt strike group commander ended in a few months and take the top job at OLA as chief of legislative affairs. But while Wilson and Michaels knew Bruner understood the political landscape, they respected the fact that he had made his bones as a fleet aviator and continued to set the example for Theodore Roosevelt’s pilots. The admiral flew several times a week with the air wing’s eight squadrons. They trusted his operational instincts and recognized he had the big picture they sometimes didn’t see.

  “Remember how the president’s predecessor was criticized for using only Tomahawk missiles in various crises? And you know how drone strikes backfired on us in the past,” the admiral continued.

  Wilson, whose ship would be the only combat asset employed under the current plan, chimed in. “We remember that, Admiral, but that doesn’t make it any easier to understand why we’re holding back now.”

  “Yeah, and remember, the president served in the Surface Navy after he graduated from Naval ROTC. He knows that Tomahawk is accurate—but often not accurate enough—especially when striking an urban area. I can see why he doesn’t want to go that route.”

  For a moment, the three men were silent. They shared the same frustration regarding the lack of Air Force participation. Saudi Arabia and the rest of the Arab Gulf states—Kuwait, Qatar, Oman, and the rest—looked at ISIL as their strongest defense against having a Persian-dominated Gulf. In spite of major arm-twisting, at the end of the day none of those countries would host U.S. Air Force strike planes on their territory. Iran was the threat they feared most, not ISIL.

  “There’s one other thing,” Bruner continued as he looked around to ensure the three of them were alone on the flag bridge, “and this information is at the highest level of classification, so it doesn’t go beyond the three of us. There’s anecdotal—but compelling—evidence that Saudi Arabia and maybe some of the other Arab Gulf states are assisting ISIL. It adds up since ISIL is the proverbial ‘enemy of their enemy,’ Iran. If we base U.S. Air Force strikers in any Arab country and then launch a strike from their territory, it’s virtually certain they’ll tip ISIL off. If they do that, ISIL will just move again as they’ve done many times before, and we fail in our mission. Keeping this an all-Navy show is our best chance for success.”

  Bruner had a way of putting things that didn’t make Wilson and Michaels feel like they were being scolded. Rather, both senior captains understood they were being let in on inside information the admiral didn’t have to share—but elected to reveal as a professional courtesy to them.

  Michaels continued, holding the iPad in front of Bruner. “Yes sir. We’ve got it. Here’s the lineup for our first launch…”

  The CAG went through the intricate particulars of how they were going to employ a large portion of their sixty-plus aircraft to deliver the planned strikes. These were details Bruner was well familiar with, but this was a case where there was no such thing as too much planning. Michaels explained how they would get the SAR helo up first, then two Rhino—or F/A-18E/F Super Hornet—tankers to give the strike package a drink before they went “feet dry.” Five minutes after those aircraft were airborne the attack package launch would begin. The E-2D Hawkeye would launch first, followed by the attack aircraft—the Super Hornets and F/A-18C Hornets—and finally the EA-18G Growler electronic jamming aircraft.

  The admiral nodded as CAG continued to lay out the plan. This was to be a precision strike, so it would be a small strike package, but the air wing would have armed backups on alert. Michaels explained—and Bruner agreed—that this would give them redundancy while still making it a surgical strike.

  Their strike group had been given barely enough time to plan these attacks as they steamed north at thirty knots to get into position in the northern Gulf, approximately fifty miles southeast of Kuwait City. There was reasonable—if not generous—sea room for Wilson to steam Theodore Roosevelt into the wind and get all the aircraft off the deck in one run.

  Bruner paused before speaking. “I think we’ve got a good plan. It’s a little over twelve hundred miles from here to Mosul and back,” he said. “Has the Air Force checked in with us yet to let us know their tankers are heading to station?”

  “They reported on station about twenty minutes ago,” Michaels replied. “There are two KC-135s orbiting just east of Baghdad to service the ingressing and egressing strikers. Our Rhino tankers will give our planes a drink before they go feet dry, so even if one of the Air Force tankers goes down, we’ll be fine. We’ll put our own gas in the air again once the strikers come off target and run a Rhino bucket brigade—”

  “Admiral?” Michaels asked as Bruner arched his eyebrows.

  “Not counting on the Air Force to pull their weight, CAG?” Bruner asked, suppressing a smile.

  “Oh, I trust them okay, Admiral. It’s just that we look at all of Iraq as Indian country. If the gas doesn’t show up for any reason, that means our guys have to land in Iraq. Then it becomes a question of whether we can get them before ISIL does.”

  “Hard to argue with that logic. No quibbles from me if you have as many Rhino tankers as you feel you need meet the strikers on the back side.”

  “Launch time skipper?” Bruner asked, turning to TR’s captain.

  “The OPORDER says 0530, Admiral.”

  “Well in that case, you’d better get your Air Boss busy.”

  As Theodore Roosevelt’s captain and the CAG left the flag bridge, Bruner had a moment to reflect. His two-plus decades as a career naval aviator had prepared him for a moment like this, unleashing the power of a U.S. Navy carrier strike group on his nation’s enemy. Bruner was one of those people who had known he wanted to fly since he’d been a toddler. Once he had earned his Navy wings in Pensacola, he’d tried to stay in the cockpit as much as possible—and had largely succeeded. Now he was sending his pilots into harm’s way.

  His CAG and Theodore Roosevelt’s skipper had valid points regarding putting this mission solely on the backs of Theodore Roosevelt’s aviators. But Bruner had been there and done that and had flown with probably half the pilots in his air wing. He knew they were up to the challenge. He was broken out of his reverie by the familiar voice of Theodore Roosevelt’s Air Boss as the 5MC—the flight deck announcing system—came alive:

  Now on the flight deck … all hands ensure you’re in the proper flight deck uniform. Let’s get cranials on and buckled, sleeves rolled down. Excess personnel clear the flight deck. Aircraft launch in thirty minutes. Let’s look sharp. Now clear the flight deck.

  Satisfied he had done all he could to get his carrier, his air wing with its sixty-plus aircraft, and the five thousand men and women aboard the Big Stick—her crew’s name for Theodore Roosevelt—ready for these strikes, Bruner lifted himself out of his flag-bridge chair and headed for TR’s O-3 level. He wanted to make one last pass through his air wing’s ready rooms and talk with his pilots.

  * * *

  In the two days since he’d decapitated President Midkiff’s special presidential envoy, Mabad al-Dosari had focused on two things. First, he had one of his lieutenants make several calls to the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate, trying to tease out anything they might have learned about
possible American retaliation. Thus far, they had nothing to tell him. Second, he worked to ensure ISIS’s social media campaign got maximum leverage from the fact that the United States couldn’t even protect the individual they had made the point man in taking the fight to the Islamic State.

  But what kept him up at night was the fact that his war against the West was a war of attrition, and he wasn’t winning. At best, he had fought Western, and now Persian, interests to a draw. More nations were aligning with the United States to fight ISIS everywhere in the Levant. And now Iran was filtering more and more “volunteers” into Syria and especially into Iraq to attack his fighters.

  In the past, he had hundreds of recruits from the United States, Canada, Europe, and especially the United Kingdom simply get tourist visas to Turkey, Iraq, or Syria and then stay and join the cause. But the Western nations had turned the screws on this process, and now these potential fighters were stuck in their home countries, unable to join the fight on the ground in the Levant. He had told his number two, Shakir al-Hamdani, to find a way to use these men—and a few women—in a different manner. The man owed him an answer soon.

  * * *

  Moments before, Theodore Roosevelt had launched its MH-60S helo to take up a SAR station on the ship’s starboard side. Captain Wilson had then turned and steadied on “Fox Corpen,” the course that headed the 100,000-ton supercarrier directly into the wind. At precisely 0530, the F/A-18F Super Hornet on TR’s cat one went to full power, its two General Electric F414 engines sending searing heat into the JBD—the jet blast deflector—that rose behind the jet to keep it from frying everything aft of it on the flight deck. Seconds later, the pilot flipped on his external lights, signaling he was ready to launch. In a flash, the hold-back fitting attached to the nose gear broke and released the shuttle, which then drove the Super Hornet the 325 feet down the track, going from zero to one hundred and fifty-five knots in four seconds, as the jet leapt into the pre-dawn sky.