Joint Operations

FOUR

Admiral Thomas Magruder had just finished a hard-fought battle of racquetball when the news first reached Washington D.C. His aide, Lieutenant Commander Henry Williams, tracked his boss down in the shower.

“Admiral! The Chinese have just attacked Pearl Harbor!” Williams was already rustling up towels, making sure his boss’s clothes were ready to go as he briefed the CNO. “Evidently three vessels masquerading as merchant ships were actually configured as warships. From all we can tell right now, they launched a missile attack on the harbor followed by a wave of jump jets.”

All around the shower area, Williams could hear the water being turned off. Almost every person in that room had the need to know, and he didn’t hesitate to continue his brief that inadvertently encompassed a number of other officers.

“I have Rear Admiral Magruder on cell phone, sir,” Williams continued. “And the National Command Authority on line two.”

Admiral Magruder poked his head out from the shower, then reached out to grab the cell phone. “Stony?”

“I’m here, sir.”

“What happened?” the senior Magruder demanded.

“As far as I can tell, a missile attack on Pearl Harbor. I’ve been seeing something that looks like a Chinese carrier off the coast for the last hour.”

“My aide said something about civilian vessels — is that what you saw?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that, sir,” his nephew said. “Tomboy and I were having dinner and observed missile launches from aircraft, but I couldn’t determine their point of origin.”

The CNO held his cell phone trapped between his shoulder and his ear as he tried to shuffle on his clothes as best he could. All around him, other senior officers were doing the same dance. “Who is there with you?”

“Tomboy caught a hop back out to Jefferson,” his nephew said. “I’m at the officers’ club — looks like a lot of us are stranded here for one reason or another. The Air Force is sorting out transportation arrangements as I speak.” The elder Magruder could hear a loudspeaker announcement in the background, but couldn’t make out the details.

The CNO took a deep breath, mentally shifting gears as he slipped his shirt on. “Okay, Stony. Here’s what I want you to do. I’ll formalize later, but we need to get this ball rolling. Jefferson is in the area, but she’s going to need some help. Check around, see who is in the same situation you are. Pick out the good ones and put together a battle staff. Draw from all the services — make sure you get some excellent logistics people from both the Marines and the Air Force. I have a prepositioned assets ship somewhere in the area that I can divert to you, but you’ll need knowledgeable people to get it offloaded and mobilized. And people — you’ll need people. Have your experts working on ways to get Marine troops out to you.”

“Aye-aye, sir. I understand.”

“Anything you need, Stony, you let my office know. My God, an attack on American soil — I don’t need to tell you how desperate this situation is. We’re not prepared for this — we never have been. Every other asset I’ve got is deployed overseas, at least three weeks at flank speed away. And if they’ve got air superiority, there’s no way we’ll get assets in by CRAF. For now, it’s Jefferson and whatever other assets you can rustle up there.”

Lieutenant Commander Williams tapped the CNO on the shoulder. “Sir? I’m getting reports from intelligence that the Chinese have captured the main communications facility in Hawaii. As well as third fleet and seventh fleet commanders and their staffs. Evidently they were there for a planning conference.”

The senior Magruder closed his eyes and groaned. Adrenaline pounded through his veins and if there’s one thing he knew, it was that he would need it. “Do we have special forces in the area?” he asked.

Lieutenant Commander Williams nodded. “SEAL Team Seven, Squad Two. According to the CIA, they’re deployed in the mountains on Hawaii for an international exercise. They’re already talking to them and they’ve got orders to retake the comm center first. After that, well…” The aide fell silent, knowing that “after that” was far above his pay grade.

“Okay, okay, at least that’s something,” the senior Magruder murmured. “Murdoch, right? Of course it is — Don Stroh would know about this before anyone. Stony, you still there?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“This line isn’t secure,” the elder Magruder said carefully. “So I can’t give you all the details. And from the sounds of it, we won’t have secure communications until you get back to Jefferson — you understand that?”

“I do, sir.”

“This pick-up team of yours — keep a sharp eye out for special forces and intelligence people, particularly those working with civilian agencies. You know who I’m talking about using, I suspect. When you get to Jefferson, establish contact with them. Got it?” the CNO asked.

“Understood, sir.”

“Very well.” The CNO hesitated for a moment as the enormity of the situation overwhelmed him. By now he was dressed, headed out from the shower room. Williams had picked up the CNO’s racquetball racket and exercise togs and was dutifully stuffing them into the Admiral’s gym bag as he trotted along behind.

As the CNO headed for his office, with Tombstone still on the other end of the cell phone, the corridors exploded into action. People usually walked briskly down the corridors, carrying with them a sense of self-importance in the urgency that affected every detail of duty at the Pentagon. Now, however, everyone was running. Civil servants, the longtime experts who constituted the corporate memory of the Pentagon, were staying close to the walls of the quarters as officers and enlisted personnel ran at breakneck speed. No one waited for elevators — the doors to the innumerable stairways interspersed between the rings shot open like fans.

“Stony, be careful out there, okay? But whatever you need, you’ve got. You have any problems putting together this team, call me. I’ll get you some help out there as soon as I can. For now, do what you can to stabilize things and let the special forces take the lead.”

“Yes, Admiral. This seal team squad — how do I talk to them?”

“Satcomm. Lab Rat’s still onboard Jefferson?”

“I’m sure he is, Admiral.”

“Then he’ll know. Call me back as soon as you have the people you want and plans for getting out to Jefferson.”

The senior Magruder terminated the call as he reached the door to his office. He paused for moment outside of it, and took the last slow breath he would take for many days. Then he opened the door, a heartbeat ahead of Lieutenant Commander Williams, and stepped into the storm.

Tombstone clicked off the cell phone and surveyed the room again with a new perspective. No longer were the men and women crowding into the small room strangers. Instead, they were potential shipmates, officers who had already been drafted to his private staff. Even if they didn’t know yet.

But how to sort them out? How to tell which ones had the brains, the fire in the belly, and a technical expertise to make a difference?

The noise level inside the banquet room was growing. An Air Force master sergeant who appeared at the doorway was mobbed.

Tombstone vaulted lightly onto the bar and headed to the corner where a ship’s bell was suspended from a metal bracket. It was traditionally used to gong someone who entered the club still covered, and announced that the offender would buy the bar a round for his or her transgressions. Now, he used it for the purpose it was originally intended — to get the attention of his crew.

Tombstone grabbed the bell ringer and slammed it back and forth rapidly inside the bell. The harsh, urgent clamor cut through the noise of the crowd. Seeing that he had their attention, Tombstone jumped back up on the bar. He shoved aside an unfinished drink with his right foot, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Now listen up. My name is Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder. I’ve just been on the cell phone with the CNO in D.C.” He pointed at the Air Force master sergeant. “Am I to assume you’re trying to sort out the transportation requirements?”

The Air Force master sergeant slid through the crowd, politely murmuring his excuses as he forcibly parted the waves of people until he stood in front of Tombstone. “That’s correct, Admiral.”

“Good. Stay right there — I’m going to need you. The rest of you, listen up. At this moment, the only military forces in the area are Navy. We have indications that all secure communications in and out of Pearl Harbor have been compromised. The CNO — and I expect to have the backing of the Joint Chiefs shortly — ordered me to assemble a theater battle group command composed of people here, and then get them out to the USS Jefferson. The first question — who’s the senior officer here?”

A murmur swept through the crowd, then a tall, bulky man in tan shirts and a brilliant flowered shirt stepped forward. A fresh sunburn was peeling off of his nose and the tops of his ears. Under short clipped hair, his scalp was scorched fiery red. “I believe that would be me.”

“Yes, sir. May I have your name?” Tombstone asked politely.

“Major General Bill Haynes,” the two-star said. “Infantry.”

“Sir, can I impose on you to join me up here?” Tombstone asked, pointing down at the bar.

The army general forced his way forward with much less difficulty than the Air Force master sergeant had experienced. He climbed up on the bar next to Tombstone, and said, “Looks like you’ve got marching orders right now, Admiral. For the time being, let me know what I can do to support you.”

Tombstone nodded, grateful that a pissing contest with a more senior officer wasn’t going to happen. In a few sentences, he filled General Haynes in on his conversation with his uncle.

“Sounds like a plan,” Haynes said. “Why don’t I take charge of assembling the ground force end of it, including the commander of the landing force contingent? You pulled what you need for air operations and sea operations?”

Then Tombstone raised his voice and asked, “Anyone with special forces experience, amphibious experience, or ground intelligence experience, I need you up here.”

During the next thirty minutes, the two men methodically worked their way through the assembled officers and staff. They compared notes frequently, and Tombstone found General Haynes to be a reasonable, bluntly competent officer. They passed over most of the personnel and support functions officers, although General Haynes insisted on several more supply people than Tombstone thought they might need. Finally, they had their team. Tombstone dismissed the others with thanks, and took the ten officers they jointly selected to a small conference room located on the lower level of the officers club.

“Introductions first,” Tombstone said. “And before you ask any questions, let me point out that the carrier already has a battle group staff on it. We will be their immediate superior, coordinating both the operations of the special forces units ashore as well as preparing for the eventual arrival of ground troops to retake the island. I know who you all are — it’s time you met each other.”

General Haynes cleared his throat, and addressed the group “Major General Bill Haynes, U.S. army. I was here for a CINCPACFLT briefing prior to assuming duties as Deputy Commander in Korea. Most of my time is in infantry, although I’m very familiar with artillery and armored operations. I attended the Naval War College,” he nodded politely at Tombstone, “which is why I decided not to get in the way of the admiral here.”

“Thank you, General.” Tombstone murmured. “Next?” Tombstone pointed at a Marine colonel.

“Colonel Darryl Armstrong, deputy commander I Corps. Two tours in special operations, including a joint assignment to the Rangers, which is why I assume you picked me, Admiral.”

Tombstone studied him for a moment, certain he’d made the right choice. “We will need a commander for landing forces,” Tombstone said. “Are you up for it?”

The colonel nodded. He was a powerfully built man a couple of inches taller than Tombstone himself. Maybe 6'4", 230 pounds, Tombstone figured. Muscles rippled under darkly tan skin, and there was an intense, driven air about him that attracted Tombstone’s attention immediately. His hair was cut so short as to be almost invisible, but Tombstone could see a few streaks of gray at the temples. Ice blue eyes seemed to absorb everything in the room without actually looking at anything.

The colonel nodded. “Honored to be part of the team, Admiral.”

“Lieutenant Commander Hannah Green,” the next officer said. She was a tall, willowy blond with a slim, athletic build. Short blond hair framed a classically beautiful face with blue eyes a couple of shades darker than Armstrong’s. A stunner, Tombstone thought, then immediately chided himself for the thought.

“My primary expertise is in support of landing operations,” Greene continued, transferring her gaze from one officer to the next as she spoke. Each one met her eyes, saw something there that Tombstone himself had detected, and nodded almost imperceptibly. Whatever gender issues still remained in the navy, they wouldn’t be a problem with this officer. “And additionally, like the colonel, I spent time at special forces command. In fact, I believe we met there about eight years ago,” she concluded.

Armstrong nodded. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“Photographic memory,” she said, and left it at that.

“Carlton Early,” the next officer announced. In contrast to the two spoken before him, there was a gleeful, almost idyllic look to his face. “KC-135 navigator. No experience at all with special forces or intelligence — that goes without saying, although I am in the Air Force — but I know just about everything there is about getting gas in the air.” He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Tombstone. “I assume you’re planning on long-range tanking to support operations in theater.”

“I suspect so, Major. Aviation fuel will be the first thing we run out of. From here on out, I want you talking to somebody at Castle AFB every spare second you’ve got. I don’t think coordination will be a problem — at least not when the Joint Chiefs of Staff says for it to happen — but it will be easier if they’re talking to someone who speaks their own language.”

Early nodded. “You got it, Admiral. There are a couple of other places we’ll want to use as well for the other assets when they arrive. But for now, I’ll build a permanent Texaco in the air. Get my best people on it, too, then make sure they don’t send us any no-loads.” For a moment, a dark expression swept across Early’s face.

Tombstone let it pass, but filed it away for later investigation.

“Captain Ed Henry,” a man in garish shorts said. For a split second, Tombstone wondered just why it was that the most senior officers seemed compelled to don such gaudy gear. “Coast Guard. Ship driver. I’m assigned here.”

In short order, the other members of the team introduced themselves. They included every specialty ranging from satellite communications to a SEAL lieutenant who’d been on vacation in Hawaii when everything broke loose. It was the SEAL officer who confirmed Tombstone’s conclusions about the SEAL squad now in place.

“That would be third squad of SEAL team seven,” the lieutenant said. “I know their guy — Murdoch.”

“Is he dependable?” Tombstone asked.

The lieutenant let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “I think that would be understating it by a factor of ten, Admiral. That is, unless you’re the sort of officer who insists on doing things by the book.” From his tone of voice, the juniormost officer in the room made clear his opinion of that particular type of officer.

The junior officer’s directness amused Tombstone. To be so young, so cocky — had he been like that himself at that age?

“Will you fill us in on this special squad,” Tombstone said, “so were all reading off the same page?”

“Glad to, sir. SEAL team seven is based out of Norfolk and comes under Group Two. Squad three is — ” He hesitated, and glanced around room, then looked to Tombstone for reassurance.

“Everyone here is cleared for specially compartmented information,” Tombstone said. “By my order, as of now. We’ll catch up on the paperwork later.”

The SEAL lieutenant nodded. “Squad three works directly for the CIA,” he said bluntly. “They do things that… well… that maybe we don’t want people to note that we’ve done. Sensitive missions, mostly. In countries around the world. They run through a lot of men, sir. They lose a couple each mission, I’ve heard.”

“What communications will they have with them?” Hannah asked.

“Satellite communications. And believe me, they know how to use their gear. Squad three gets the latest in technology even before we even know about it, and they don’t worry about using it or breaking it. I’m willing to bet that as soon as they heard what was going on, they were talking to their CIA controller. And by now, they’ve probably talked to Jefferson unless they’re under orders not to.”

“Why would they be under orders not to?” Tombstone asked, a trace more sharply than he intended. “This is a full joint operation.”

“I don’t know, sir. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

The last member of the party was the Air Force master sergeant who had been attempting to coordinate transportation requirements with the officers in the club. Tombstone had drafted him immediately as an ad hoc member of the new battle group. As a full extent of the operation became apparent, Tombstone could see that would have taken a crow bar to separate the Air Force master sergeant from his new battle staff.

“Fred Carter,” the Air Force master sergeant said. “Logistics — spent some time with KC-135s, sir — and VIP transportation requirements. Mostly that, now,” he said quietly. From the little the master sergeant said, Tombstone had the feeling that there was a good deal more to his career than he was letting on.

“I imagine you could’ve handled that crowd in there on your own, Master Sergeant,” Tombstone said.

The master sergeant nodded. “But I appreciate your help, sir. A collar count always helps. I had directions for my people, but I believe your orders supercede that.”

“Now that we’ve got that straightened out — how do we get out to Jefferson?” General Haynes broke in. “I saw one of those C-2s taking off not long ago. Is there another one on deck?”

“I doubt it,” Tombstone said slowly. “From what I saw, the Chinese were moving to establish air superiority pretty quickly. They’re flying their CAP stations right over the city. The battle group commander out there is a good friend of mine. He’s not going to want ACM over land. And even if he did, I’m willing to bet that he gets guidance not to do so.”

“But we’re not going to just let them have Hawaii,” somebody said. “And establishing air superiority is the first step in winning any battle, right?”

“Yes, but to maintain control of the skies, they’ve got to keep control of the air bases. In this case, the stations on land as well as their ships. Destroy the ships and bombed the hell out of the airstrips ashore, and you’ve got no way to maintain air superiority. Besides, I’m to bet that most of their aviation and munitions are onboard the ships. They’re going to want to be going back and forth to re-arm, even if they do use the fuel depots at our bases.

“But for now, at least the short run, they own the skies. So I suspect that C-2 was the last American aircraft coming or going from the island for a while.”

“So we go by ship,” the Coast Guard officer said. “That should be fairly easy to do.”

“Yes,” Tombstone said, “except for the fact that most of our fleet that was in port is probably either damaged or already under way.”

“I wasn’t suggesting a military ship, Admiral. There’s a large compound lot just south of the Navy base — private watercraft we’ve seized for possible forfeiture for drug operations. They’re not going to be able to cover every bit of the island immediately. I’d bet we won’t have a problem getting into the forfeiture shipyard and getting out.”

Adding the Coast Guard officer had been a judgment call. For the most part, he didn’t possess the areas of intelligence expertise that Tombstone was looking for. Yet, as a service, the Coast Guard was probably more used to doing everything with less than any other service in the U.S. inventory. They faced shortages of assets, personnel, and just about everything else, too. Tombstone had taken a gamble that the Coast Guard officer would have some excellent suggestions. Besides, this one was a surface warfare officer, and would have served on the larger Coast Guard vessels. Since the island had major Coast Guard facilities on it, as well as personnel familiar with the waters in area, it seemed like a logical choice.

“You can get us in there?” Tombstone asked.

The Coast Guard officer smile slightly. “No problem.”

“All right, then, Coastie,” Tombstone concluded. “You’re in charge of shore to ship movement. Let’s get going before they seal the base off completely.

An hour later, the eleven officers walked down the pier surveying the impounded boats, looking for one that suited their purpose. The Coast Guard officer had the final call. “That one,” he said, pointing at a luxurious cruiser with blue trim. “Furuno radar and it looks like she probably carries a fish finder. Sonar,” he added, seeing the puzzled expressions on a couple of faces.

“What do we need a sonar for? And a lot of good sonar will do us without torpedoes,” one officer said.

Captain Henry shook his head. “Almost anything can be a weapon, if you think enough about it. Besides, I’m not saying that there are submarines involved, or if there are, that we’ll find them. But it pays to be prepared for every possibility, don’t you think? Would you mount an operation like this without submarine support?”

The more Tombstone heard from the Coast Guard officer, the more he liked his style. “So what are you suggesting, Commander?”

The Coast Guard officer led the way to another boat nearby. It was a sharp contrast to the one he’d selected, it was battered and rusted, evidence of years of hard use in every line of her. “This,” he said. “Her name is The Lucky Star. Might be an omen, you think?” He pointed to the aft deck. There were mounds of nets and cables. “I can get a couple of sailors to help us move this gear and to crew our boat.”

“You’re going to attack a submarine that we don’t even know exists with fishing nets?” someone asked incredulously.

“A submarine can drag a fishing boat under, if I remember news reports correctly.” They had all heard stories about U.S. nuclear submarines on covert missions snagging fishing nets.

“Only if the nets are still attached to the fishing boat,” the Coast Guard officer said quietly. He looked over at Tombstone as though checking for the admiral’s comprehension rather than asking for agreement. “You understand what I mean?”

Tombstone nodded. “A submarine with a fishing net wound around her propeller isn’t going to do much tracking of anyone, is it? And even if it just fouls the sail, it will make it noisy enough that it’ll be easier for air assets to attack. That about it?”

The Coast Guard officer nodded. “Additionally, if you checked the aft deck closely, you’ll see that it’s capable of handling a small helo. The sort fishing vessels use. And I think I might just be able to rustle one up.”

“But who’s going to fly it? And what about the maintenance?” the Air Force officer asked.

“I believe I might be able to handle the helicopter myself,” Tombstone said quietly, well aware of the fact that it had been years since he’d flown rotary wing. But under the circumstances, who would quibble about his lack of current quals? Besides, he spent enough time recently flying his Pitts Special to feel fairly confident he could handle any civilian aircraft. “And maintenance — well, maybe we can draft a Coast Guard sailor who knows something about helicopters.”

“I can handle that end of things, Admiral.” The Air Force master sergeant stepped forward. “Before I got too senior to turn wrenches, I worked on rotary wing.” Something in the master sergeant’s voice left Tombstone with no doubt that the Air Force technician was more than up to the task.

For the first time in several hours, Tombstone felt the beginning of hope. He’d run the gamut of emotions during the day, from the exhilaration of starting his honeymoon with Tomboy to the agony of watching Pearl Harbor bombed. Now, listening to his team gel, coming up with solutions to problems he hadn’t even anticipated, he started to believe success was possible.