Ashes of Victory

— 1 —

The clear morning skies and pleasant temperature contrasted sharply with the sorrowful mood of the crowd assembled on the pier. Many wiped tears from their cheeks. A few shouted farewells. Others simply looked on in stony silence, especially those who had spent countless holidays and family events missing their loved ones who were away on deployment.

Above them loomed one of the greatest symbols of American sea power and might: USS Harry S. Truman (CVN 75). Often called the “Lone Warrior,” the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier was best known by her motto: The Buck Stops Here. Leading a full strike group, it would spend the next seven months patrolling the Arabian Sea and the Arabian Gulf as part of the US Navy’s Optimized Fleet Response Plan for its ten Nimitz-class carriers in service. OFRP consisted of individual carriers on seven-month deployments in a thirty-six-month cycle following in a heel-to-toe fashion to cover three hot spots around the world. The rotation strategy allowed enough time for required maintenance and upgrade cycles, as well as crew training. In the case of Truman, it would relieve USS Carl Vinson (CVN 70), on station in the Arabian Sea.

A Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser and two Arleigh Burke — class guided-missile destroyers would rendezvous with Truman later in the afternoon, along with two frigates. Three supply-class replenishment ships would provide logistic support for the forward presence on station, ready to respond on demand anywhere, anytime. And lurking in the depths below, a Virginia-class attack submarine would seek out and destroy enemy surface ships and hostile submarines. Truman, along with its escorts and supply ships formed the Harry S. Truman Carrier Strike Group, though many old hands still referred to it as a carrier battle group.

The forward brow and the after brow — boarding ramps to civilians — were eased away from the carrier, and crew members dressed in their Summer Whites gathered on the port side of the ship to wave a final goodbye to families and friends on the pier.

Amid the crowd, Betty Lou Nelson, an energetic reporter from a local Norfolk station, looked for her next “victim.”

Together with her cameraman, Stu Winters, Betty Lou worked the crowd, covering the aircraft carrier’s deployment for a news segment to be broadcast that evening.

Wearing Ray-Ban aviators and a stars-and-stripes bandana, Stu followed Betty Lou as she went for the emotional jugular, interviewing several pregnant young mothers, some accompanied by small children. He knew viewers’ hearts would fill with empathy for the sacrifice these families were making. Sad mothers with even sadder and confused children wondering why Daddy was going away made for great human-interest pieces. If she was lucky, Betty Lou might find a father and his kids waving goodbye to their mother. The military, after all, was gender-neutral when it came to personnel deployment.

Tears led to sobs for some family members when the brows finally cleared the carrier. Given events in the Middle East, many of the dependents expected the scheduled seven-month deployment would be extended to nine months or more. Others were all too aware they could be seeing their loved ones for the last time. Fourteen men and women, including pilots and aircrew, as well as sailors and marines, had been killed on Truman’s last deployment. Five when an E-2C Hawkeye suffered a ramp strike while landing in rough seas and fell backward into the drink, and nine when a helicopter had crashed during what should have been a routine training exercise. Death came even on peaceful deployments, and no one expected this to be a particularly peaceful deployment.

The “Arab Winter,” the global rise of Islamic extremism in the aftermath of the “Arab Spring” protests across the Middle East, had resulted in more than a quarter of a million deaths and millions of refugees. And there was the continued threat from various global terrorist factions, from ISIS and al-Qaeda to Hezbollah and Hamas — along with the nations supporting them.

From young sailors to grizzled chief petty officers, from fresh-faced ensigns to the rear admiral commanding the strike group, all expected to see action this deployment. And all were ready. The “work-ups” with Carrier Air Wing 7 (CVW-7) — meaning the integration of the air wing’s roughly 2,500 personnel and around seventy-five aircraft to Truman’s company of more than 3,200 sailors — had gone well. Air wings, which consisted of several fighter jet squadrons, fixed-wing and rotary-wing aircraft, were occasionally reassigned to different aircraft carriers based on the US Navy’s OFRP. Crew morale, and confidence were excellent and a strong sense of readiness permeated the ship’s combined company of almost six thousand men and women.

Betty Lou continued to interview spectators as a small flotilla of tugboats began assisting the 1,092-foot-long carrier away from her berth. And almost on cue, a flock of seagulls winged skyward past Truman’s island toward a stunning October morning. Stu turned the camera to capture the postcard-perfect scenery, which contrasted sharply with the mood of a crowd wondering what the next months would bring.

Less than five miles away, Claire Ramey, a veteran tower controller at the Norfolk International Airport, dropped her eyebrows after listening to the radio call of the incoming jetliner that Norfolk Approach had just handed over to her.

“Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight, say again,” she said.

A pause, followed by, “Ah, Norfolk Tower, Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight, ah, with you five miles, ah, long final for… ah, Runway Twenty-Three, information Foxtrot.”

“Roger, Three-Eight-One-Eight,” Claire said, frowning at the heavy accent and broken English of the first officer and his failure to follow standard communications protocol. Twenty-Three? Did this guy miss the first class on radio basics? “Clear to land, Runway two three. Winds light and variable. Altimeter Two-Niner-Niner-Five.”

Claire was familiar with Flight 3818, a routine nonstop shuttle from La Guardia, New York, to Norfolk, Virginia. And she was particularly familiar with the regular crews of the Mid-Atlantic twin-engine regional jet. None of them had accents.

Are they breaking in a new first officer?

That could also explain the nonstandard radio calls.

But still…

Another long pause followed before the first officer read back her instructions. “Ah, yes, Norfolk Tower, ah, Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight is, ah, cleared to land, Runway Twenty-Three.”

Claire shook her head.

Two minutes later, as Mid-Atlantic 3818 finally appeared on the horizon, Phil Monaghan, a newly certified FAA air traffic controller standing in front of a radar screen a dozen feet away, turned to her. He looked younger than Claire’s own son, a senior at Virginia Tech, and was still learning the ropes.

“Ma’am, approach says another Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight just checked in.”

“Say again,” Claire said as she cleared a twin-engine Cessna for takeoff.

Apparently uncertain, the rookie controller hesitated before repeating his statement. “Another Mid-Atlantic with the same tail number checked in with approach.”

“That makes no sense,” Claire asserted. “It’s got to be a mistake. Double-check.”

Phil again spoke with the busy approach controller and then turned to Claire. “Yep. Three-Eight-One-Eight just checked in with approach control. They have them on radar, confirmed.”

Claire glanced at the approaching airliner. “How can someone be using the same tail number?”

Phil remained silent.

Becoming more concerned, Claire raised her binoculars, inhaled a fresh breath, and steadied her arms on the windowsill, fingering the focusing knob.

She suddenly whipped her sunglasses off and blinked. “That’s… a Douglas DC-9 on final,” she stammered, catching Phil’s eye. “Not a Mid-Atlantic regional jet.”

“But it has Mid-Atlantic’s colors,” Phil replied, peering through his own binoculars as Claire’s mind raced to find an explanation for the anomaly.

“Maybe… maybe they’re introducing a new type of aircraft to this service segment,” the rookie offered.

“No. We have advanced notice of changes in schedules or equipment, double backup protocol.” Feeling a tight knot in the pit of her stomach, Claire added more to herself, “Something’s wrong.”

Before she could key her radio transmitter, the low-flying DC-9 retracted its landing gear and flaps and slowly rolled level with the horizon. Claire could tell the airliner had gone to full power by the wispy, dark smoke flowing from the twin engines mounted on the tail of the fuselage.

“Mid-Atlantic Three-Eight-One-Eight,” Claire finally said. “State intentions.”

Before the DC-9 could reply, a new airplane checked in on the tower frequency.

“Ah, Norfolk tower,” said another deep voice with an accent. “Citation Three-Two-Three Quebec Bravo, we have information Foxtrot ah, landing Norfolk Airport, ah, Runway Twenty-Three… ah, ten miles west for landing tower.”

What the hell is happening? Claire thought, glancing in the direction of the inbound aircraft. “Citation Three-Two-Three Quebec Bravo, extend downwind, and I’ll call your turn.”

“Three, ah, Quebec, ah, Bravo, the, ah, the, low fuel.”

Claire vacillated a moment and then asked, “Three Quebec Bravo, do you want to declare an emergency?”

“Yes, ah, yes, turn to airport now and, ah, turn to airport now, land runway now.”

Claire once more raised her binoculars and slowly scanned the sky for the troubled Citation business jet. Dumbfounded by what she discovered, Claire then turned to Phil, who was also lowering his binoculars.

“That’s not a Citation,” he declared with the wide-eye stare of a deer caught in the headlights of a semi.

“Nope,” she replied. “It’s a Curtiss C-46 transport inbound.”

“What the hell is a freight dog doing here at this time of the day and pretending to be a Citation?”

The only answer that occurred to the veteran controller brought a full sense of panic to the surface.

“Oh, my God! This can’t be happening to us. No, no, no!”

“What is it, what’s going on?” Phil asked.

“They’re headed for the navy base…”

“What are you talking about?”

Claire’s mind raced back to earlier that morning, when she’d been in the break room reading the Virginian-Pilot.

She remembered that Bush and Truman were at port, with Truman scheduled to depart today. Instead of replying, she grabbed for the phone and hit the speed dial for her superiors at the Federal Aviation Administration Air Traffic Control Systems Command Center in Herndon, Virginia.

As she did so, the DC-9 banked sharply to the left, accelerating away from the airport very low to the ground. It flew over Interstate 64 just high enough to clear the tops of vehicles. A large number of startled motorists panicked and swerved off the busy highway, causing several collisions.

After slipping her moorings, Truman remained twenty-five yards from the pier, giving Betty Lou ample time to wrap up her final interview before motioning Stu to direct the camera at the carrier. But instead, he started moving toward one edge of the pier, away from the crowd.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she heard the sound of jet engines over the horizon.

“Navy flyover,” he said. “Need some separation from the carrier to get a good shot. Be right back.”

Betty Lou had covered ship deployments before and nodded approvingly as Stu took off, reaching a spot several hundred feet from Truman, near the north edge of the pier, before panning toward the southeastern skies. Navy jets zooming over the carrier would make a great finish to her piece in the evening news.

But as she started to improvise a narrative, she noticed what appeared to be an airliner skimming the water. The low-flying commercial jet suddenly banked steeply toward the aircraft carrier.

As the shocked crowd realized what was happening and began running down the pier, Betty Lou froze, the unthinkable becoming painfully obvious. Terrifying images of airliners plunging into the World Trade Center flashed through her mind.

Chaos on a grand scale broke out as people stampeded, stumbling over one another in an effort to avoid the impending carnage. Betty Lou considered joining them as she noticed Stu at the edge of the large dock capturing the surreal moment.

Traveling in excess of 340 miles per hour, and still accelerating low to the water, the DC-9 almost overshot the turn toward Truman.

The force of an eighty-five-thousand-pound aircraft traveling at nearly 360 miles per hour struck the aircraft carrier’s island just above the large “75” painted on its side. Thousands of pounds of explosives and fuel ignited on impact, creating a fireball that consumed the island. The massive antenna array toppled from the top into the sea on the starboard side of the ship.

The detonation engulfed the steel superstructure overlooking the flight deck, including the admiral’s bridge, the captain’s bridge, the navigation bridge, the chart room, flight-deck control, and primary flight control.

A solid wall of flaming jet fuel and molten debris swept across the flight deck. It incinerated hundreds of sailors before leaping over the water toward the pier like a wave of red-hot shrapnel, cascading into the crowd still trying to get away from the carrier.

Stu Winters watched in horror, yet managed to keep his footing, capturing the attack in high definition. Acrid smoke burned his eyes and lungs as he panned the camera looking for Betty Lou. But everywhere he focused, he saw only death and destruction.

His instincts told him to keep filming, but his conscience took over as images of the wounded and dead filled his viewfinder.

Turning off the camera, he went to help those he could.

Twenty-seven seconds after the airliner struck the ship, an automatic distress signal from the damaged carrier reached the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon. Less than three minutes later, the news reached the White House. At the same time, NS Norfolk and nearby military installations went to their highest security posture, including the skeleton crew aboard USS George H. W. Bush (CVN 77), also in Norfolk and with a clear view of the destruction of Truman.

Commander Jeff Weathers, the carrier’s executive officer (XO), had witnessed the attack from the captain’s bridge. He had immediately ordered the ship to general quarters.

Bush was the second Nimitz-class carrier to receive a modernized island, smaller and also set farther aft for improved flight-deck operations and reduced radar signature. It also meant that all of the ship’s defensive systems, including two Raytheon Phalanx close-in weapon systems were at his fingertips.

Weathers scanned the horizon with a pair of field binoculars as his weapons officer came running inside the bridge, responding to the general quarters alarm. Ensign Deena Kohl rushed to her station, shoulder-length hair tucked inside her cap and lips compressed, settling behind her console. Other crew members followed behind her.

In addition to the Phalanx system, Weathers had two MK 29 missile launchers loaded with Evolved Sea Sparrow Missiles, plus two RIM-116 Rolling Airframe Missile launchers — both designed for threats that were further out. The Phalanx was the last line of automated weapons defense against anti-ship missiles and attacking aircraft.

“Turn on the starboard CWIS,” he ordered, pronouncing it “sea-whiz.”

Kohl did a double take on him, narrowing her brown eyes. “But — but, sir, we’re at port, and it’ll track and shoot at anything that—”

“I know where we are, Ensign Kohl! This is not a drill! Do it!”

“Aye, sir!”

Weathers had already been patched in to the Norfolk Airport tower and also Norfolk Approach a minute after the DC-9 went rogue, and he had been informed about a C-46 cargo plane also inbound toward the port. Approach was tracking the latter on their radar as it made a wide circle to reach the base from the east. The last report still showed it around five miles out at a hundred feet pushing 140 knots.

Weathers glared at the column of smoke billowing into the air from the burning Truman. He would be damned if Bush would suffer the same fate.

Not on my watch.

Thirty seconds later the radar officer looked up from his screen. “Incoming bandit. Range three point four miles. Altitude one-one-zero. Heading three-one-zero. Speed one-four-three knots. Sir, it’s turning toward us!”

Weathers panned the binoculars across the sky, his pulse racing.

“Range two point nine miles. Altitude one-two-zero feet. Heading two-seven-zero. Speed one-six-one knots. It’s accelerating… on a direct collision course.”

Where are you, mother—?

“There!” he shouted, spotting it around a bend in the Elizabeth River. Snapping his head at Kohl, he said, “Engage.”

She worked the keyboard, and the starboard 20 mm Vulcan Gatling cannon swung into action. Mounted on a swivel base beneath its independent radar inside a barrel-shaped housing, it started tracking the incoming threat.

“Range two point three miles. Altitude one-two-zero feet. Heading two-seven-zero. Speed one-six-niner knots.”

Weathers stared at the Phalanx forward of the island making final adjustments as the C-46 crossed inside the gun system’s effective range.

A sudden rumble signaled the six-barreled cannon firing 20 mm shells at the rate of seventy-five rounds per second, sending a swarm of armor-piercing tungsten penetrator rounds directly at the C-46.

Precisely four seconds after the CWIS began firing, the C-46, still two miles away, burst into a massive fireball that was nothing short of spectacular, reaching almost three hundred feet high as burning debris fell into the river like a meteor shower. Two seconds later, the sonic boom of the explosion shook the carrier.

“Jesus!” Kohl said, jerking back in her chair. “What was in that thing?”

“Hell if I know, Ensign Kohl,” Weathers replied, staring at the dispersing smoke and the sizzling debris littering the waters. “Hell if I know.”

The Phalanx, detecting the threat gone, returned to tracking mode, searching for other targets within its range.

“Shut it down,” Weathers ordered, just as his CO, accompanied by a half dozen officers, stormed the bridge.

Ignoring them, Weathers added, “And call to get some boats out there ASAP. I want that entire crash site cordoned off. We’re going to have to secure everything until NCIS, ATF, NTSB, the Coast Guard, and every other agency in the alphabet gets here to investigate.”

Following the frantic report from the Norfolk control tower, the Air Traffic Control command center located near Washington Dulles International Airport became an angry beehive of activity. Orders had been received to ground all airliners, general aviation aircraft, and military aircraft not directly tasked with a mission related to the attacks. A combat air patrol of four F-16 fighters had already set up over Washington, DC, prepared to shoot down any other aircraft that appeared to be a threat to the White House or other federal buildings.

Nearly simultaneously with word of the attacks reaching the Pentagon and the White House, notification reached the North American Aerospace Defense Command and US Northern Command located on Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The personnel assigned to Northern Command’s Situational Awareness Center went on full alert.

The four-star general in charge of USNORTHCOM also served as Commander, North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, charged with preparing for threats against America, be it natural disasters or terrorism. It scrambled a multitude of jet fighters from various military installations scattered across the United States. In addition to the combat air patrol over Washington, DC, other fighter interceptors circled New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, and a dozen other major cities. It was the largest deployment of military aircraft above the United States since the Cold War, exceeding even the response on 9/11.

The planes were a mix of F-15E Strike Eagles, F-16 Falcons, and F-22 Raptors from the 1st Fighter Wing at Langley AFB in Virginia, the 53d Wing at Tyndall AFB in Florida, the 57th Wing at Nellis AFB in Nevada, and the 3d Wing at Elmendorf AFB in Alaska. In addition, Marine Corps and Navy F/A-18E Super Hornets complemented the Air Force assets. Within the hour, the Pacific and Atlantic coastlines, the Gulf of Mexico, and the border with Canada had aircraft patrolling them, with US Air Force KC-10 and KC-135 refueling aircraft, along with Marine Corps KC-130J Super Hercules aerial tankers, flying ongoing refueling operations to keep the birds in the air.

Additional airborne assets, including E-3B Sentry AWACS aircraft from the 552d Air Control Wing at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, patrolled critical infrastructure and high-value military installations.

More than two dozen F-16 fighters were dispatched to shadow international and domestic flights approaching all major US airports. Planes en route to US airports would be downed if they deviated from their filed flight plans. And international flights that could be turned back to their departure points were instructed to do so or to land at the closest airport large enough for their aircraft.

Over the next two hours, hundreds of airliners and corporate jets, plus thousands of civilian aircraft, vanished from the radar as they landed at the closest suitable airports. For the first time since 9/11, the skies over America were empty of all but military aircraft.