NOVEMBER 10, 2001
NORTH ARABIAN SEA
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen.
They were flying at flight level two four-zero, twenty-four thousand feet, and one hundred miles north of Task Force Fifty. The flight had just crossed the coastline, now over the Arabian Sea.
“Commander, we’re feet wet. Our ETA is twenty-five minutes. We’re on track for the twenty-two thirty recovery,” the pilot said over the ICS. “We’ll trap right after these guys on the starboard side.”
Commander Bryan Craig could see the bright running and position lights of a flight of two F/A-18 Hornets on the right side of their aircraft. Both appeared to be at the same altitude, also on their way to the USS Carl Vinson and Flag Ship of the three-carrier task force. The S-3 Viking Bryan was in was dispatched by the Task Force Commander to fly him to a strike brief. It was also a chance to warm up and get a belly of food. He’d been in the elements on the frigid Hindu Kush for the last three days.
“Viking Two Zero Two take angels one eight, contact approach button eighteen.” An E-2C Hawkeye descended their flight to eighteen thousand, handing them over to carrier approach.
“Roger.”
Bryan loved the curt response of a sharp aircrew; it was professional, the true sign of a tail-hooker, radio discipline and airway brevity. Communications were short and sweet.
“Approach, Viking Two Zero Two with you on the Zero Five Zero at seventy five.”
“Roger Viking Two Zero Two, say angels.”
“Angels One Eight.”
Several minutes later Bryan felt the plane’s speed-brakes deploy, followed by landing gear and tailhook, the induced aerodynamic drag causing the Viking to shudder as the plane decelerated to approach speed. Bryan looked up from the GPS when he heard the call for the aircraft to turn to final. They were getting close. Stowing the GPS in the map case, he cinched the shoulder restraints tight, making sure that the harness of his Douglas zero-zero seat, one that would eject if the plane was on deck or airborne, was locked. He fastened the oxygen mask over a bearded face. Hearing the familiar call over the radio from the Landing Signals Officer, he inserted his iPod earphones – “Pink Floyd – Dark Side Of The Moon,” his favorite, his mind clear of what he couldn’t control.
“Three quarters of a mile Viking, call the ball,” the LSO said listening for verification that the pilot had the “meatball.”
Landing a jet aircraft on board a carrier is probably as difficult a task as anything, Bryan thought, especially on a dark night. Zero margins for error. The pilot used the “meatball,” a visual landing system, to fly the plane to the deck. Consisting of an array of four orange and one red vertical lens, plus green horizontal “datum” lights, the visual landing system provided a 3° glideslope for the pilot to fly. When flown to precision, the aircraft perfectly “on speed” and the middle orange light lined up with the datums, the pilot would be said to have a centered “meatball,” resulting in an “OK three wire;” catching the number three of the four wires. At three quarters of a mile, the pilot referenced the meatball, as opposed to the glideslope information displayed on cockpit instruments. The pilot’s scan consists of three reference points: Meatball – lineup – angle of attack.
“Two Zero Two, Viking ball - Seven Point One,” the pilot said verifying that he had “the ball” and giving his fuel weight for arresting gear settings.
“Roger ball Viking. Lined up a little right,” the landing signal officer said encouraging a flight path correction. Lineup was one of the three.
Operations at sea are conducted continuously. Aircraft are launched and recovered simultaneously, but to do so efficiently, the landing area was designed with an angle. The Carl Vinson’s angle was twelve degrees left of the carrier’s bearing, the centerline of the landing area constantly moving to the pilot’s right. When winds are calm, the landing area will move to the right at an even faster rate as the ship speeds up to twenty-five or thirty knots while making its own wind. The pilot therefore, continually made adjustments to lineup during the approach, all the while maintaining glideslope and proper airspeed, or “Angle of Attack,” for tailhook position.
For angle of attack, the plane needed to be “on speed.” Come in too fast, or nose down and flat, the plane would “bolter,” and miss all four wires. Miss a meal! Come in too slow, the tail end dragging, there’s a risk of an in-flight engagement, the hook snagging a wire while still airborne. The plane would be yanked down onto the deck with great force, causing severe structural damage to the airframe.
As the aircraft got closer to the stern, the glideslope, or meatball, which is conical in shape, became narrower and adjustments in power and lineup needed to be very delicate, yet more frequent. It was akin to surgery, a life or death event, and the meatball the most important of the three. If he came in too low, below the “red ball,” shipmates would be picking up pieces of plane and pilots from the fantail, but the LSOs would never allow the pilot to get that low without calling for a correction.
“POWER, POWER, POWER,” would be the frantic call.
The key was to “walk” the throttles. Hold the stick like an open tube of toothpaste. Anticipate the flight path. Correct before the correction was needed, ahead of the plane, ahead of the power curve.
With a tiny wing dip, and a schosh of power, the pilot made the lineup adjustment requested. Ten seconds later the Viking hit the deck and jerked to a violent halt, as the pilot went to full power, anticipating the bolter that didn’t come. Three wire. A perfect landing, they’d eat in the carrier’s wardroom that night.
Pulling back power, the pilot raised the hook, and followed the plane captain’s illuminated wands for taxi directions. Multiple aircraft were still being recovered at sixty-second intervals. The Task Force was in war mode, and sorties were launching and recovering 24/7. They chalked and chained near the island, just below vulture’s row.
Though seemingly small from the air, sometimes called a “postage stamp,” once onboard aircraft carrier, the actual size never ceased to amaze. The Carl Vinson was five billion dollars of warship, without the aircraft on board. As she steamed that day, CVN-70 was ready for war all by herself, with four surface-to-air missile launchers, four twenty-millimeter cannons, countermeasures, and torpedo decoys. And that was just for defense. For offense, she had an array of ten various radars, three guidance systems and ninety warplanes.
Vis Per Mare - Strength from the Sea. Her keel laid in 1975; the Carl Vinson was commissioned in 1982. She’s massive - ninety-seven thousand tons of displacement, three hundred and thirty-two meters in length. Seventeen stories from the top of the island to the nuclear reactors, a floating city of five thousand four hundred and eighty shipmates, able to stay at sea for months, only needing replenishment for aircraft fuel, plus food and water for the crew.
Bryan followed the pilots inside the island to pri-fly, the carrier’s version of an “airport gate.” Lieutenant Rick Johns, the Admiral’s aide and his guide to the War Room, greeted him. He trailed the aide through a number of hatches, up and down various ladderwells, finally arriving in the “Flag Spaces,” a series of rooms along a passageway of the 0-3 Level just below the flight deck.
The exterior of an aircraft carrier was steel and non-skid. Painted grey from bow to stern. Inside however, the labyrinth of passageways was kept clean and shiny, sailors busily waxing, buffing, and polishing. The Admiral’s spaces were kept extra shiny. Enlisted personnel would literally be scattered along the floor, sitting cross-legged, polishing brass on doorways, or buffing the floor until the surface bore a reflection. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for six months.
“Watch your step there, sir. It’s just been waxed,” a seaman requested as Bryan crossed over a knee-knocker into the pristine area. Always an obstacle course, Bryan tapped danced on by.
Opening the doorway to TFCC, The Flag Command Center, Bryan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cold room. Filled with staff that worked for Rear Admiral Jack “Rabbit” Barnes, TFCC was the mission hub. Distracted by the light, all eyes momentarily looked in the direction of the door. Who’s that guy with the beard? They went back to work. The Task Force Commander simply smiled.
“Bryan Craig - look what the cat drug in. Great to have you on board,” the Admiral said gregariously, shaking Bryan’s hand with the strong grip of a weightlifter. The Task Force Commander’s mission was a serious one, but the Admiral loved his job, had fun doing it. And it showed in his attitude.
Bryan had known Rabbit since the Gulf War. A very respected leader throughout his career, he’d shot up through the ranks, achieving Flag by forty-two. The callsign “Rabbit” was fitting, but he was also known as the “baby Admiral.” He had an easy going personality, often using a person’s first name rather than rank, enlisted and officers alike; a disarming, effective leadership style. When the rank led the last name, look out.
Rabbit quickly went around the room introducing the key players on his staff; the Carrier Air Group Commander, his deputy CAG, the Surface Warfare Commander, Air Warfare Commander, the Vinson’s skipper, and the strike lead who was also the only woman in the group. Lieutenant Crystal Walker had the callsign “Street.” A round of handshakes ensued.
“Good evening sir,” came the greeting from the flight lead, a slight southern twang in her voice. She gave Bryan a firm handshake.
Not quite sold on the aspect of women in combat, Bryan believed the opposite sex was more of a distraction, a social experiment that under no circumstance should be conducted in forward deployed combat units. Lieutenant Walker was attractive, even without makeup and when wearing a flight suit rather than women’s fashions. Her looks were the basis for more than one possible problem, Bryan honestly believed, the most obvious being that there was one female pilot in a squadron of many men. Sexual harassment charges could be made, or sexual discrimination charges for that matter. A constant in the corporate world, no doubt, but this was war and PC needed to take a back seat to victory, he believed. Her callsign could also be thrown right back in the face of the Commanding Officer that allowed it, even though it was probably innocently adopted by her in an effort to fit into a man’s world. Lastly, and what disturbed Bryan the most, the horrible things that she could be made to suffer at the hands of terrorists, or Taliban should she be shot down and captured. That thought could also be in the back of the mind of a fellow pilot, who may take unnecessary risks to prevent such a possibility from becoming reality.
No doubt, she was good looking though, he thought, which made him think of sex and the expense of the training, seemingly wasted should she become pregnant? And that was a definite possibility, unless of course, she was a lesbian. He didn’t think so for some reason. Women in combat, just what the hell was the Navy thinking? Maybe one day, he’d be proven wrong - a caveman in a modern world.
“You’ve got to be Admiral Craig’s son,” a Captain asked Bryan. He read the nametag on 0-6’s flight suit. He was the CAG - Captain “Wells” Fargo. All tailhookers had callsigns.
“Right, I suppose that’d be correct sir,” Bryan answered, thinking he recognized the senior officer from somewhere.
“I was a nugget Corsair pilot when I first met your dad years ago,” the Captain said. “He was Commander Sixth Fleet when I was just a Lieutenant JG - and one hell of a warrior, Bryan.”
“Yes sir, he sure could be,” Bryan said hesitating. Another Sixth Fleet pilot again, he thought.
“How’s he doing anyway?”
“Just fine, sir. Probably playing golf,” Bryan said, dodging any more discussion on the subject. His father wasn’t doing well and he hadn’t seen him in three years.
Undeterred, the Navy Captain pressed on “It’s interesting, your dad always reminded me of some sort of actor. I’d swear he could have been a western star - and you know something, you’re the spittin’ image of him, maybe just a little shorter.” The Captain laughed. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
Bryan shook his head in denial. “I can’t say that they have. If you’ll excuse me sir, but…”
Interrupting Bryan, the Captain continued “You’re dad ever tell you about the fun we had with Libya?”
Bryan faked a laugh. “Oh yeah – you guys sure kicked their butt,” he said. Still laughing, “But if you’ll excuse me sir, I’ve gotta brief.”
Years ago, when Bryan’s father was still on active duty, the comparisons were rare. Now that the two had swapped places, it was a regular occurrence and irritating. Vice Admiral Craig, a tall man with a catcher’s mitt handshake, was both loved and reviled. Bryan disliked being measured against him, good or bad. “Especially by height, now that his spine’s fused in old age – we’re both six-two,” he’d say to laugh it off.
“Alright, let’s get down to business people,” the Admiral said, motioning the group into the War Room where they could focus on the business at hand, and the reason for Bryan’s trip to the Flag Ship. The subject of the briefing was a large Taliban and Al-Qaeda concentration along the Pakistani and Afghan border, the target of the following morning’s sorties. They entered the room adjacent to TFCC.
Sitting down at the briefing table, Bryan studied the large projection screen on the wall. A tactical satellite and geo-plot overlay of the North Arabian Sea and Indian Ocean was displayed, duplicating one of the large screens in the room they just left. As the Combatant Commander, the Admiral’s immediate tactical staff included a Captain responsible for coordinating C4, the Command, Control, Communications, and Computer Systems.
The Flag Command and Control gave the Admiral a real-time, “big picture” of his airborne assets, surface assets, and submarines, as well as unidentified plots on the surface and in the air. Having the big picture was vital to effectively bringing to bear tactical systems such as attack aircraft or Tomahawk cruise missiles, even nukes. Feeding the massive computers on board was data beamed in by the various intelligence gathering apparatus, satellites, AWACs, and numerous ships in the Task Force. In addition, intelligence was collected and transmitted from Special Operations teams on the ground. All the teams worked for Bryan.
“Rick - kill the lights and bring up the overlay,” Rabbit instructed the aide.
“Bryan’s spent the last few days virtually on top of a terrorist camp that’s number one on our target hit parade,” the Admiral said in a southern drawl that gave away Tennessee roots. He trained a red laser on a screen with a satellite image of the Nangarhar province of northeastern Afghanistan.
“His team has pinpointed a concentration northeast of Jalalabad and north, northwest of the Khyber Pass. This is a high value target people. I can’t emphasize that point enough. I’ll let our SEAL commander take the floor from here - Bryan?” Rabbit passed the baton of the laser pointer.
Bryan vigorously rubbed the short thatch of dark bristle on his head. He looked down at his portable GPS, verifying the lat and long of the target, stood up and moved to podium at the corner of the briefing room.
“Thank you sir.” Bryan scanned the audience for a moment and then got right into it. “The training camp of interest is right here.” He pointed to terrain displayed on the screen with the laser.
“Latitude 35°01’50.89”north and longitude 71°20’44.93” east - well camouflaged and tucked away in this tiny valley at thirty-nine hundred feet between a small mountain at five K and another at a little over six K. There’s a clump of trees in this area here,” he said, circling a patch of green with the little red dot.
Bryan went on to explain all aspects of the planned target area. He and his team had spent several days near the camp, surveying or casing, depending on the point of view, yet collecting critical tactical information required for the successful completion of the mission.
“It’s been operational on and off since the days of the Soviets. More than twenty years now.” He paused for a moment and poured a glass of cold water from a pitcher on the table, took a quick sip and resumed.
“Amassed here are two to three hundred Al-Qaeda and Taliban using the camp to regroup, and developing a supply line over small roads, and a system of caves, and tunnels to and from Pakistan,” he said scanning the room.
“Any questions to this point?” Bryan queried his audience. The Admiral shook his head. No one asked a thing. He resumed.
“Asmar is a small village down the river valley to the south. They’re supplying the camp. The indigenous there are Pashtun - sympathetic to the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. And I’d say, making matters a helluva lot worse, the Pashtun militiamen are pouring in from the Pakistani North West Frontier, increasing strength at the camp daily.” The Pashtuns are considered to be the world’s largest tribal group, with a population of forty-five million stretching across Pakistan and Afghanistan, and with a history dating back to Alexander the Great. They were the major ethnic group in Afghanistan and central Pakistan, including the North West Frontier. The Pashtuns have always been considered a very proud and fierce people that adhere to precepts derived from Mosaic code of the Torah known as Pashtunwali, which predated Islam. The tenets were unwritten, but one particular code that had proved to be very frustrating to the coalition forces was called Pannah Warkawel, the offering of asylum. The code was cloaked in honor, and under no circumstances would tribal elders or Pashtun War Lords violate it, with the one exception being revenge or justice. Money, guns, food, all had zero influence in uncovering the terrorists that were being harbored. Bryan and his men were forced to root out Al-Qaeda and Taliban in an area where the indigenous people were Pashtun, like the Taliban, and they would generally die before giving up the terrorists. It was always an uphill battle.
Bryan quickly scanned the eyeballs in the room. They were fixed on each word he uttered, as they should be. He spoke with authority. He continued with his brief, “A well-fortified base camp. It needs to be softened considerably before boots can be put on the ground. The terrain is mountainous and it’s getting awfully cold up there,” Bryan said, deciding miserably cold was more appropriate. His men were still up there in the Hindu Kush and he wanted to get back.
Bryan rotated his head about his muscular neck, cracking vertebra. “Taliban and Al-Qaeda have extensive knowledge of the cave systems, which I might add have probably been there since Queen Victoria, maybe before that - Bunker Busters are what’s called for, so they’ll do the damage first. We have SAS there now. They’re painting the camp and will continue to provide Intel through egress and damage assessment. The commandos are positioned here to the northwest - above the camp. They’ll handle mop up as needed until relieved by my SEAL team. Everyone’s on SATCOM with base - once the camp’s pacified, the Rangers can go in, Spec Ops out.”
The Admiral took back control, again emphasizing the high value nature of the planned target, and the need to wipe the enemy off the planet. The Task Force Commander was a true warrior cut out of the same mold as Bryan’s father, he thought. A favorite expression of his to use at the end of a mission brief being, “Let’s go put warheads on foreheads folks.”
The other key players put in their two cents to the plan, including the CAG, Lieutenant Street, and the AAWC on the Tomahawk launch that was planned. “Admiral, we’ll launch at 05:30, to be on target at 07:00,” Captain Wise said, specifying the launch of the cruise missile.
“Okay. Good luck everyone. Remember, warheads on foreheads, so go get ‘em.” Bryan smiled as he heard the expression once again.
The Admiral stopped Bryan before he left the room. “Got a minute to talk privately about some of this?” he asked.
“Yes sir, I do,” Bryan said.
“Good, have a seat – Rick, bring that coffee over and join. You might learn something,” Rabbit said.
“Yes sir. Thank you,” the aide said, looking forward to the opportunity to listen to the Navy SEAL and his Admiral.
The minute turned into two hours as Bryan and the Admiral discussed various theories on coping with terrorism. The Admiral’s aide listened with keen interest as Bryan spelled out an idea he had. “A team focusing on getting the people that are financing the operations, able to deploy Special Ops though,” Bryan said. He even had a name based on Greek mythology.
“Commandos and financial forensics,” Rabbit said, reducing the concept down to the basics.
“Right on the mark sir, but also a psychologist, someone to help get into the minds of the radicals – like a profiler, and they’d need a lab,” Bryan added. He thought for a moment, and added, “It’d be nice if we could counter the propaganda coming from radical Muslim news stations.”
“How about your own news reporter?” Lieutenant Johns said offhanded. Bryan and the Admiral just stared at him, silent.
Bryan was led to his guest room, which fortunately was on the same level as TFCC, just around the corner from the War Room. It would be hard to get lost. Unfortunately though, it was also right below the flight deck and noisy as hell from operations going on around the clock. Quiet was nonexistent on a carrier. Between catapult shots, jet engines at full power, and planes landing just above, he would get very little shuteye. He checked his watch. In four hours he’d join the Admiral on “Vultures Row” for the launch of the strike.
"BRYAN, GIDDAY MATE.” He turned his head to see the face speaking the familiar Australian accent. Dylan Sizemore was approaching from the opposite end of the passageway, both nearing the hatch to "vultures row" simultaneously.
“How about that, Dylan Sizemore. What brings a journo newsman like you out to places like this, huh?” Bryan asked rhetorically, thrilled to see Dylan, his favorite correspondent and friend. Dylan was on his way to news stardom, Bryan was convinced, but still hadn’t shaken the surfer look quite yet. His curly blond hair still hung over his ears and gave him an even younger appearance than his thirty-six years.
“Journo? Ah’m no journalist, thet’s for sure. At’l be War Correspondent, if you will,” he said shaking Bryan’s hand firmly and smiling wide. Dylan added, “Anyway, good lookin sheila goin in ‘arm’s way, mate - big news nowadays, you know, the face of the new yank navy. The natework jest loves a juicy story like this one,” Dylan said, his heavy accent bursting out.
“And which network might that be? Fox?” He knew war correspondents bounced around. True free agents, “war whores” he called them.
“You guessed it. Fox it is - at least until CNN coughs up more moolah. - And you mate – must be here ta win the war single-handedly, ay?” Dylan said.
“Sorry, can’t go there daaarrrlin. That’ll cost you a round of drinks first - but I’ll say this - I’ve got an interest in the same pilot, but not for news reports,” he said with a smile and a pause, before adding, “She’s the flight lead for this morning’s sortie.”
“Well she’s supposed to be one of the best pilots - graduated top in her class, and now here bombin Taliban - thet’s big news mate. Viewers jest eat it up, no question. Ah can’t wait ta interview her when she lands,” Dylan said. “Of course, I shall use my refined television voice, clearly annunciating every word,” he added, getting a laugh from both of them.
Still laughing, Dylan asked “Jest what’s your take on everything, mate?”
“Come over here, let’s step out of the way,” Bryan said, taking Dylan by the arm through a passage way and into small glass windowed observation room that overlooked the flight deck.
“Off the record?” Bryan asked.
“As always.”
“Well, I’ll put it this way – militarily, it won’t even be a contest. Why, this Task Force alone could do the job - but it’s afterwards that counts,” Bryan said.
“Win the hearts and minds?”
“Dylan, have you any sense of what’s happened here before?”
“Historically? In Afghanistan?” Dylan asked - Bryan nodded his head. “The Soviets and thet disaster, yeah, but before – no, not really,” Dylan added.
“Britain had an entire regiment massacred very close to where bombs are being dropped this morning. It was about a hundred and sixty years ago. They were in the middle of a retreat from Kabul after an occupation that turned out to be a disaster,” Bryan said.
“Ya don’t say. What happened?”
Recalling the history for Dylan, “The British Empire wanted Afghanistan as a buffer to Russian expansionism – so they marched an army from India into Kabul, deposed the current ruler, put in a puppet, and set up shop with an occupying force – one that was insufficient in numbers, I might add. The result was that the British couldn’t maintain control and the situation on the streets of the capital got out of hand. The Afghans ended up hating the British troops. Well, the number two diplomat from Great Britain was murdered by a Muslim mob. Needless to say, that got the senior British envoy very worried. He tried to buy protection from tribal warlords, but only bought time. British India felt the pinch and cut off funds,” Bryan said looking down at the flight deck. Planes were starting their engines.
“Typical cheapskates. So the Brit’s cut their man’s funds off, huh - what happened after that?” Dylan asked.
“The Muslims did some cutting of their own – they cut off his head, arms, legs, and paraded his dismembered body around the streets of Kabul,” Bryan said with an affected frown.
Dylan grimaced. “Cripes! Bad day – did they cut off his knackers too?” He put his hands over his groin.
“That’s not the worst part.”
“Come on,” Dylan said in disbelief. “How could it go down hill any more?”
Bryan continued, “It turned into the ultimate cut and run - the British General in Kabul decided he’d get the army the hell outa there. He was trying to get forty five hundred troops and twelve thousand camp followers to the British garrison at Jalalabad – never made it. Akbar Kahn and his Ghilazi Pashtun warriors met them at the Kurd Kabul Pass. The General and his second in command, some Brigadier, surrendered, but only themselves. They ended up living. But the 44th Foot army were surrounded and massacred in the snow at Gandamak. The entire regiment and the followers, wiped out. What few survived were either executed or forced into slavery, with the exception of one sole survivor.”
“That’s what’s out there?” Dylan exclaimed.
Bryan nodded. “British troops waiting at Jalalabad for the column to arrive couldn’t believe their eyes when only one survivor showed up on a shot up old mare. A doctor.”
“What happened to the Generals?”
Bryan furrowed his brow. “Oh, they were released and probably lived to some ripe old age back in England,” he said sarcastically.
“Couple of pikers, those pommy Generals,” Dylan said chagrined at the tale. “But somethin to think about, ay?”
Bryan had a stern look firmly planted on his face. “First of all – if you’re going with military against Muslims, you’d better know your history.” Bryan thought for a moment and finally continued, “You know that massacre sent shockwaves throughout Great Britain. I think that the Viceroy to India even had a heart attack when he heard the news - the worst massacre in several hundred years. But the British army did something – they arrived at two very important axioms that I memorized.”
“Which are?”
Bryan looked up to remember the words and their author. “And these are quotes from Lieutenant General Sir George McMunn, a Churchillian military man, ‘It is wholly impracticable to occupy a country or attempt to impose a government not welcomed by the inhabitants. The only result will be failure and great expense in treasure and lives,’” Bryan said. “The second axiom I subscribe to the most - ‘political officers must not be permitted to predominate over military judgments.’”
“So what are the implications here mate?”
“On the QT, right?”
“As always.”
He glanced around. “The politicians who push the buttons need to listen to the commanders at the tip of the spear, and they better have the stomach to hold the country’s hand for a long time after payback and heads on platters,” Bryan warned. “None of this cut and run stuff. If ya put boots on the ground, it’s because you’re taking something that you’re gonna hold onto.”
“How long?”
“Not to be cliché, but suffice to say – as long as it takes,” Bryan said shaking his head.
“And the Taliban? What about them?”
“Again, same thing – as long as it takes. They’re motivated and determined. Once forced out, they’ll be even more determined. They’ll never rest as long as there’s one adversary left alive, including other Muslims,” Bryan said, folding his arms. “You can take that to the bank, my oz friend.”
“Sounds daggy - and the Al-Qaeda?”
“Pretty much they’re all Arab in Afghanistan, just trying to get the worldwide Jihad going, but that’ll change over time. We’ll do our best to wipe ‘em out, starting here, but I’m confident a new group will pop up. They’ve got splinter cells of Al-Qaeda all over Pakistan.”
“No end in sight – sounds like a great story for a journo kid from Queensland, thet’s for sure,” Dylan said.
“Well, I’ll be doing this for awhile, and you’ll be reporting on it for a long while. How’s ‘bout that?”
“Thet’s a future alright. Where ya goin’ from here?” Dylan asked.
“Back to the snow and rock,” Bryan said smiling.
“Good luck ta ya, an’ nice beard by the way, mate,” Dylan commented.
“Oh, yeah - this,” Bryan said, scratching his whiskers. “Blendin’ in by goin’ native. Now come on, let’s go outside and watch ‘em launch.” He slapped Dylan on the back, put foam earplugs in his ears, and pulled the handle down to open the hatch to Vultures Row.
“After you.”
Stepping onto vulture’s row was like entering a world all unto its own. The exhaust of turning jet engines stung the eyes slightly; the blended smell of jet fuel and sea salt permeated the air. Located on the port side of the Island, Vulture’s Row is a steel balcony sixty feet above the flight deck, one level above the Captain’s bridge. From that vantage point, observers could see, hear, feel, and smell flight deck operations.
Rabbit caught the hatch opening from his periphery. “Mornin’ gentleman.”
They could see the Admiral’s mouth moving as he spoke, but it was impossible hear his voice over the noise of turning jet engines. They squeezed in next to Dylan’s cameraman, already capturing digital video for the day’s hot war story.
“Not normally out on vulture’s row for launches,” Rabbit yelled, smiling. “Dylan’s news team is on board. Gotta keep an eye on em – make sure they don’t get hurt.” Public relations was important for the Navy, and correspondents such as Dylan were welcomed at times, but the brass liked to keep the crews on a very short leash. Media access was going to be tightly controlled.
The sun was still well below the horizon, but a line of clouds were beginning to lighten as the earth spun to greet the morning. Looking further up in the sky, the faint glow of dawn faded to dark gray, then black. The stars were out and as Bryan scanned the millions of celestial bodies, his eyes stopped on the moon, about 30° above the eastern horizon, a bright waning crescent, a star distinctly in its field. The sign of the Ottoman Empire was the crescent moon and a star, he recalled. Was this an omen, he wondered?
“Helmsman, come about starboard ninety degrees, heading zero nine zero - XO, you got the con,” the skipper said as he waved to the group above on vultures row.
After turning as tightly as the she could, the carrier faced the wind, her bearing on an easterly course. With thirty knots of wind over the deck, the Air Boss was ready to launch aircraft. A helicopter lifted off; search and rescue in the event of a mishap. An E-2C Hawkeye was next, one always airborne for the Task Force’s “God’s eye view.” The first Tomcat taxied to the port catapult. The pilot, Crystal “Street” Walker, carefully followed the directions of the plane captain in his yellow jersey. Street was Dylan’s feature story, and the real reason the media was out on the carrier. She was the first female Navy pilot to go into harm’s way on an attack mission, although resistance would be non-existent. Of course the fact that she was pretty made the story even more sensational.
The F-14D Street piloted was one of twelve aircraft of the Black Lions, the only Tomcat squadron on the Vinson, and Street its only female pilot. The F-14 had a crew of two, a pilot in the front and navigator in the back. It was Bryan’s favorite fighter, although now in the twilight of its career. The “D” version was much improved from the original in the fleet, but deep down it was still the same plane. With engines providing combined thrust of fifty-six thousand pounds in afterburner, the plane was capable of Mach 2.3. Carrying a quiver filled with the best air-to-air missiles and bombs that taxpayers could buy; the F-14D was the world’s premier air superiority weapon. And watching it launch off the deck of an aircraft carrier was like attending a well choreographed and rehearsed ballet. All was in motion. Lieutenant “Street” Walker was as skilled at her job as any that came before.
The plane captain, as if conducting the orchestra pit with glowing wands, helped position Street’s Tomcat on the catapult. She eased the plane forward, using nose-wheel steering to tweak her spot, all the while hawking the subtle directions of the yellow shirt’s body language as he gracefully moved, at times with his head alone, left or right, indicating the need for an ever-so-slight change in position. She felt the familiar bump as the nose-wheel came up and over the catapult shuttle. The plane captain crossed his wands, signaling her to hold the brakes.
A man in a green jersey ran under the nose to check the hold back fitting which kept the jet in place when the engines were run up. He was just several feet in front of the powerful engines’ intakes. If the throttles were accidentally jarred forward at that point, he would be sucked into the stator blades and diced like a tomato. Another deck crew moved in view of the pilot, holding a placard above his head. It read “68,000,” the aircraft’s takeoff weight. She signaled a “thumb’s up.” The weight was good.
Bryan was simply in awe at the ever-present danger of the sequence unfolding before his eyes. So too were Dylan and his cameraman. No one on Vultures Row was missing a thing.
A red-shirt, or ordinance man, quickly checked the two thousand pound bunker buster, and two air-to-air sidewinder missiles. The pins were pulled, weapons armed and ready. There was something written on the bombs, a message. Bryan couldn’t read it from where he was. He didn’t need to; he knew what it read.
The jet-blast deflector rose in back of the plane’s engines, protecting the deck crew from the intense heat of the afterburners at full power. Satisfied the Tomcat was “good to go, the plane captain uncrossed his wands, signaling for “Street” to release the brakes. With his right wand extended high above his shoulders he rapidly moved a wand back and forth at the wrist.
“Street,” now on an open, “hot mike” with her RIO, “Beef” Stuart Wellington, scanned the instrument panel from left to right.
“You ready back there Beef?” She asked.
“Good to go Street.”
“Roger that.”
She smoothly moved the power levers forward, meticulously checking the fuel flow and RPM of the engines. The plane was at full power, perhaps helping the carrier to move infinitesimally faster through the water. She sucked on the oxygen through her mask harder. Her metabolic rate increased, blood vessels constricted, bronchiole dilated, adrenal medulla kicking into gear, the heart rate twice as fast as only moments before.
Dylan looked at Bryan and smiled. “Pretty damn brilliant mate,” he said giving the Hawaiian “shaka” sign, his hand rotating back and forth.
Bryan read Dylan’s lips, nodded his head, and returned the smile and gesture. They both looked forward toward the bow. The deck was cycling up and down ten feet against the backdrop of the faint, distant stars. The sun’s rays were beginning to pierce the scattered cumulous clouds from far below the horizon, an outline of a light grey hue. All looked back at the Tomcat as every surface area of the plane was now in motion; the pilot checking her controls for free, unimpeded movement. On Vultures Row they could feel the thunder of the jet in their stomachs, deep in the gut as the fighter screamed for release.
“Street” concurring the plane “good to go,” turned her head to the right and spotted the plane captain. He was looking aft and under the belly of the jet at green shirts final checking the maneuvering surfaces; both gave a thumb’s up which he passed on to the pilot. She moved forward on her harness slightly to test that it was locked, and then smartly gave the plane captain a salute. She was ready to launch. The plane’s exterior lights all on.
The plane captain looked over his shoulder and skipped backwards a few steps to clear the take-off lane, the wand still rapidly moving. He crouched down as he looked up the flight deck and back down. Squatting as if stretching, his left leg straight and pointing to the stern, right leg bent at the knee, he moved the wand in front of his “Mickey Mouse ears” and goggles, returning the salute. He touched the deck and pointed the glowing wand at the bow. Everything on the flight deck seemed to be roaring and on fire, afterburners, wand, and lights. Crystal moved her head slightly aft, the back of her helmet resting on the seat cushion.
She counted to herself “one-potato, two-potato, three-po…” The nose of the Tomcat dropped six inches on the olio of the strut, as the steam catapult began the ferocious tug on the sixty-eight thousand pounds of plane, fuel, weapons, and crew. G-forces rapidly increased, the fighter accelerating from zero to one hundred and forty knots in two and a half seconds. At the end of the cat-shot, the fighter flying and the G-forces dissipated, Crystal raised the gear handle and checked her instruments. “No caution or warning lights, plane’s flying, gears up. The mission’s underway,” she thought to herself.
Moments later the wingman was airborne right behind her. On vultures row all watched as the two fighters rapidly accelerated, the afterburners a bright blue-white. Soon they were only silhouettes against the twilight, “dots on the horizon.” The flight climbed and turned towards the coast.
* * * * *
NOVEMBER 11, 2001
KONAR, AFGHANISTAN
Morning sunshine warmed them. Two SAS commandos and a guide flattened their bodies in the snow. They were lying between boulders on a ridge fifteen hundred feet above the terrorist compound. It was frigid, below freezing, and for the moment it was nice just to have the warm rays on their faces. But they were careful to keep metal or other reflective objects out the sun. Soldiers assigned to Bryan; they were elite, smart, dangerous, and cold. They’d been there for three days and nights, watching and waiting. That’s what they did for a living, and they volunteered for the duty. The ultimate mercenaries, many said.
Fight like you train and train like you fight! Readiness was of the highest import for cold weather combat operations. Being ready to fight in the cold meant training in the cold to fight. SAS commandos and their U.S. Special Ops counterparts knew the essentials to be masters of cold weather combat. Keeping the body fueled with food and water was essential. And staying warm, another big essential.
The team wore insulated undergarments made with silver fibers covered by white cold weather exposure suits. The clothing not only made them invisible on the snow-covered ridge, but also provided microclimates around their bodies, keeping them warm and dry. A byproduct of the silver fibers; silver kills microbial germs so they smelled nice too. And of course: the snow – always the snow, which offered great protection from the wind. At night, when the temperatures really dropped, they dug an ice cave, got in, and huddled up. Naked.
Above all, attack the enemy! Sergeant Major MacLean checked his watch; it was 0645. The compound and their occupants weren’t yet awake, but would be soon. They’d be getting an unexpected, early morning wake up call in fifteen minutes, followed by two more uninvited guests. It would be an explosive reveille.
An hour and twenty-fives minutes before, at precisely 0530, a single Tomahawk Missile’s engine ignited within its cell on the USS Kane. The exhaust of flames and gas piped into the predawn air as it fired its solid-fuel booster and cleared the vertical launcher. Written in magic-marker near the warhead were two phrases; “For 9/11.” and “Remember the Cole - Asshole.” It was on a one way, nonrefundable cruise to the foothills of the Hindu Kush Mountains.
The flight would be scenic, passing over the Minarets at Ghazi, and just to the west of the Khyber Pass, but at five hundred and fifty miles per hour it would be short, lasting only an hour and a half. Using Terrain Contour Matching and an onboard contour map, the Tomahawk would stay below the flight of most birds, yet maneuver as necessary to avoid terminating too soon.
Lying atop a snowy boulder, “Wolf” MacLean looked through the telescopic sight of his M4 assault rifle at the terrorist camp. Half the size of a football field snow blanketed the entire camp, making it almost impossible to see from the air. In the center were five single-story buildings covered with icicles, surrounded by a rock wall. Each building housed at least forty militants, smokeless gas generators provided power for space heaters to keep them warm. The buildings were inter-connected with underground tunnels and bunkers, stockpiled with weapons caches, mortars and explosives. They had two SUVs and three all terrain vehicles, also covered in white camouflage. Wolf figured a compliment of two hundred and fifty men, but enough arms and other weapons for five times that. As the commando observed the camp, the team’s Pashtun guide was sitting just below him eating a chocolate protein bar, his M-16 resting on a boulder. MacLean felt the barrel touch his ribs.
“Meh grit, grit granddad fought close beh here - at Kandahar,” Wolf quietly whispered to Raza and Sergeant Ryan. “He was with the ninety two Highlanders.”
”Is thet rayght Wolf. Wha appened?” Ryan asked with a smile as he also looked through his scope.
“The battle et Maiwand en eighteen eighty. The biggest defeat for the Afghans en the second Anglo-Afghan wars. His name was Duncan MacLean – he was a Sergeant Major like meh,” MacLean said with a cornered grin.
“Runs in the family, does it ay,” Ryan said, with a low voice.
“He got wounded there,” MacLean said.
“How did that happen sahr?” Raza asked.
“Well, the British forces numberin ten thousand met heid on with twelve thousand eight hundred bloody Afghans. General Gough sent donkey wallopers ta look for the whereabouts of Ayub Kahn’s geyzi fighters. Careless fawk - geyzis, they’d began shootin at the regiment. Now the British knew where they’d their big guns,” MacLean said, explaining the Afghan commander’s major blunder of firing cannon early. “The galloper reported ta the commander, General Roberts, an the shootin was on.”
The Sergeant Major rolled over onto his back, now looking at Raza. “Fools haste is no speed Raza. Come daylight the Brits began shootin artillery at Babawali Pass, and the ninety two Highlanders marched rayght into Mulla Sahibdad,” MacLean said, as he started rolling up his right pant leg. “Ah’m gonna show ye somethin.”
“Ah’ve ‘eard this one before Raza, pay attention,” Ryan said. “He’s gonna tell ya the circumstances of how his ancestor was shot.”
“Sahr-koom-stances – vhat vere they sahr?” Raza asked.
“Bloody dhobi wallah,” MacLean said shaking his head.
“He vas shot by Pashtun from Class Regiment?” Raza repeated, embarrassed for his people.
“Thas rayght Raza, rookie dhobi wallah on his own side,” MacLean winked at Ryan, unseen by the guide. “Ya see he had his Martin Henry rifle, but oot of ammo. An he saw the little chota wallah lolly-gaggin by his Snida Enfield. Well, he’d loaded an primed the bloody thing, ah mean it was hot,” MacLean explained to Raza.
Ryan touched the Sergeant Major to pause. “The Martin Henry was a forty five caliber, Raza. The Snider’s a fifty seven.”
“Rayght. Anyway, so the bloody rookie picked up the fifteh-seven caliber Snida pointin rayght at meh grit, grit granddad’s heid. Now he yelled at him an seid ‘Whit’re ye doing, man? Would ye watch where your pointin that - ye dunderheid. Ye maht shoot meh,’” the Sergeant Major chuckled. “Well, it made the laddie jumpy an the eejit pulled the trigga. Shot him anyway - rayght en his lahg. Same place as meh.” MacLean pointed at a scar on his own leg.
“Who did that sahr?” Raza asked.
“Bloody dhobi wallah,” MacLean said grinning, moving Raza’s rifle away from his body.
“Sorry sahr,” Raza said, further embarrassed. The two commandos enjoyed teasing the Pashtun man.
Wolf saw a man exit a barracks in the camp. “Okay lads, pipe down. The fawkers are oop.” He looked at his watch. It was 0657.
“Raza, come over e'yer and huv'a look,” Ryan said to their always-present guide, who had become one of them. The Pashtun guide crawled silently over to the two commandos and looked down the ravine at the enemy. It was show time.
As they scanned the camp, Raza couldn’t help but finally ask, “Sahr, please why do all persons call you volf?”
“It’s meh bloody ‘andle, tha’s why. Meh favorite footballer’s Blevins, ‘an tha’s Welsh for lit’al wolf. Call meh Sergeant Major ‘an ah’l break yer neck,” he said giving the guide a wink, grin, and elbow.
Raza smiled back and pointed at the camp. “Khaow ray da pasar ka,” Raza said in Pashto.
“Wha’ the bloody ‘ell does that mean?” Wolf asked, looking up from the scope at Raza, his face only a foot away.
“May the earth cover you up.”
“’Ow poetic.” Wolf was actually being sincere for a change. He looked back through the scope again.
“Jaysus chrayst, luk the’er et is,” Sergeant Ryan whispered, tapping Wolf on the shoulder. This was a first. It was a blur, but they actually saw the twenty-foot long missile in its last moments of flight, and right on schedule. Vertically penetrating tall snowdrifts between two buildings, the thousand pound warhead detonated once its mass was well inside the subterranean bunkers. Wolf and company felt the shockwave emanate deep inside their bodies.
“Da spi zo,” the guide exclaimed as the deafening sound rattled their eardrums.
Wolf recognized that Pashtun expression and couldn’t have agreed more. “Son of a bitch is right,” the Sergeant Major concurred.
A secondary explosion from the camp’s munitions followed almost immediately. A dark, bluish-brown mushroom cloud rose up from the small white valley. As the debris started settling, Wolf looked for movement and assessed the damage from the Tomahawk. Three of the small buildings were completely destroyed. Of the two remaining, one was more-or-less intact; the other had significant damage. Bodies and pieces of bodies were scattered across the grounds. Some were still moving. The Tomcats would be on target within seconds to finish it off, Wolf thought as he saw several of the enemy now standing, obviously impaired.
“Bow-EE-KAA, ya’ fundie jundies,” Wolf said, anticipating the second wave for the walking wounded.
“Please sahr, what’s the meaning of that expression?” Raza asked.
“It’s spelt B-O-H-I-C-A – ‘an no offense tae ya’ Raza, but’ it means ‘ben o’er, ere it comes again ya’ fundamentalist Mossulman,” the Sergeant Major responded.
“Thank you, Wolf - we say ‘kuss di ughame’.”
Strike leader Lieutenant Crystal “Street” Walker banked the flight of two F-14D Tomcats toward the IP of the target. Maintaining tactical combat spread, they descended from an altitude of eighteen thousand feet. Each was carrying a two thousand pound Paveway Laser-Guided Bomb; both had already acquired the targeting laser that illuminated the center of the two remaining buildings and the entrance to an enclave of stored munitions.
Releasing their ordinance at fifteen thousand feet, the pair of Tomcats turned away. The “beam riders” were guided on a laser-designator that used a series of encrypted pulses, each Paveway impacting their target, one right after the other. A split second later, the bunker busters exploded with ferocity. Shockwaves lifted the dust from the previous explosion as they spread outward in perfect circles.
To Wolf’s surprise, two of the all-terrain vehicles suddenly appeared from the smoke at the far end of the destroyed compound. He sighted the lead operator with his M-4 assault rifle and squeezed the trigger. The man fell off in the snow, dead before leaving the seat. Wolf aimed at the second surviving militant, firing two quick rounds. Both rounds hit the vehicle. Careening out of control, it jumped over debris, turned sideways, and tumbled multiple times in the air before crashing into remnants of a shattered, rocky wall. The dust and snow silently sprinkled to the ground, settling in a dirty tan haze. Wolf waited patiently for the cloud to clear, dumbfounded by the chance of luck. The second man, still alive, scampered over the snow and then vanished into rocky cover.
“Shite. Lost ‘im,” Wolf cursed as he pounded the frozen ground with his fist. Before he could react, another man also made it to the safety of the hillside.
“Fawk, thet’s bloody two of ‘em,” he cursed again, now slamming his rifle butt into the ice.
The SAS team surveyed the remainder of the decimated camp. Nothing else was moving, and as far as they could tell, the final damage assessment would be total. Their mission was a complete success and the American Rangers could be dropped in anytime.
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