Authors: Patrick Robinson
Seconds later Bobby Myers snapped, “
SHORT
”—the critical command for everyone to stand right back away from the machinery.
And now Bobby saw the Tomcat right above, screaming in.
“
RAMP
!” he bellowed, and every single eye on the flight deck was lasered in on the hook stretched out be
hind. The blast from the jets shimmered in the night air. The ear-shattering din of the jet engines made speech impossible. One mistake now and it would not be just the pilot who died. A pileup on the flight deck could spark a jet-fuel fire that could put the entire ship out of action.
And hundreds of battle-hardened flight-deck technicians, already swarming forward, silently breathed
Thank God
, as the hook swung, and then grabbed the wire, hauling the Tomcat to a standstill. Just as they would all breathe
Thank God
again, one minute from now, as they coaxed yet another F-14D out of the sky to safety, refueled her and prepared her to go again.
So it is, out with the frontline steel fist of the U.S. Navy, where men face danger every minute, where they operate in harm’s way every single day, always under orders, always working for the cause. Their rewards are modest, at least financially. But in a sense they have the biggest paychecks of all: not written out on some bank transfer. Written out on their own hearts.
And meanwhile 200 million citizens back home grouse and moan about the rising price of gasoline.
“
Tomcat one-zero-six…one minute…STAND BY
!”
080600MAY07. USS
John F. Kennedy
.
10.00S 137E. Speed 30. Course 270
.
The 88,000-ton carrier was halfway between Pearl Harbor and Diego Garcia, steaming at flank speed through the Arafura Sea south of the Indonesian archipelago, heading for the near-bottomless waters above the Java Trench. They were well through the narrows of the Torres Strait, there was almost no wind off Australia’s Northern Territory and it was hotter than hell.
Big John
’s 280,000-horsepower Westinghouse turbines were working. The giant four-shafter was fully laden with more
than 40 fighter-attack F-14A Tomcats, F/A-18C Hornets and a dozen more radar-spotter aircraft, prowlers and ASW squadrons.
The flight wing patches worn by the aviators bore the names of legendary U.S. Navy outfits: the
Black Aces
; old Fighting 14; the
Top Hatters
; and VFA-87, the
Golden Warriors
. There might not yet be a full-scale war raging in the Gulf of Iran, but you’d never have known it watching
Big John
, armed to the teeth, driving forward on the second half of her 10,000-mile mission to Jimmy Ramshawe’s minefield.
And now 5,000 miles of the Indian Ocean stretched before them. They would be the fifth U.S. CVBG to arrive on station, almost certainly to move north from Diego Garcia immediately, up to the gulf to relieve the
Constellation
Group.
On the bridge of the carrier, Rear Admiral Daylan Holt was studying the plot of his group, one cruiser, two destroyers, five frigates, two nuclear submarines and a fleet tanker. At this speed they were burning up fuel, fast. But his orders were clear:
Make all speed to DG and stand by for gulf patrol
.
That was one way to send someone on a 10,000-mile journey across the world. But Admiral Holt was prepared, even though it was difficult to get a handle on how serious things really were in the Strait of Hormuz.
He sipped black coffee in company with his Combat Systems Officer, Lt. Commander Chris Russ, as the sun began to rise blood red out of the ocean over the stern of the massive warship. There was an air of apprehension throughout the carrier, had been since they had cleared Pearl a week ago. The pilots were predictably gung-ho. A bit too gung-ho. And now, for the first time, Lt. Commander Russ posed the question to the Admiral.
“Do you think we might actually have to fight this, sir? I mean, a proper hot war?”
“I think it’s possible but unlikely, Chris. Look at our
perceived enemies—Iran, who put down the minefield, and China, who made it possible. Well, for a start, Iran’s not going to fire a shot in anger. They know we could ice their entire country in about twenty minutes. They have not fired yet, and in my opinion will not fire at all.”
“How about the Chinese?”
“They might attack if the action were in the South China Sea where they have their main fleet and we have many, many fewer ships. But they won’t attack in the gulf. They’re too far from home, and anyway they know we’d wipe out their ships in about twenty minutes.”
“That’s a kinda busy twenty minutes, sir,” replied the Lieutenant Commander, grinning.
“That’s a lot better than a kinda dead twenty minutes,” replied the Admiral, not grinning.
0600. Tuesday, May 8
.
HQ SPECWARCOM. Coronado Beach
.
San Diego, California
.
Commander Russell Bennett, one of the most highly decorated U.S. Navy SEALs ever to serve in the squadron, was relishing his new job as the senior instructor for combat-ready men.
The ex-Maine lobsterman, lionized in Coronado for his daredevil role as forward commander in a sensational attack on a Chinese jail last year, was back home on the beach, running through the cold surf, driving his men ever onward, before the sun had fought its way above the cliffs.
They’d been out there since 0430 now and some of the newer guys, fresh out of their BUDs course, were finding it tough going. Rusty’s methods were brutal in the extreme. He parked six Zodiacs a half mile offshore and ordered all 50 of the men into the surf to swim out and get on board. Then he had them drive forward with
their paddles, beach the big rubber landing craft, turn it around, and then fight it back out through the crashing breakers, again using paddles only.
One half mile later they all jumped back into the freezing water wearing only swimming shorts and fought their way back to the beach, leaving only the six boat drivers behind. Tired, freezing, still in the dark, the men were then ordered to run four more miles back along the beach to a point where the Zodiacs were again waiting a half mile offshore.
They’d done the exercise twice now, and all they heard was Commander Bennett’s voice urging them onward: “
Keep going, son. I’m probably saving your life
.” They were precisely the same words Rusty’s own instructors had yelled at him 15 years before. More important, they had been prophetically correct, which was, essentially, why the hickory-tough Rusty Bennett was still breathing, after an operational career that had six times seen him square up and stare down the Grim Reaper. The carrot-haired ex-SEAL combat team leader was just a bit too tough to die. And today he was making sure that also applied to the men he was now training. Every last one of them.
Three times in the past 15 minutes, young SEALs had fallen flat down in the sand, too cold, too exhausted to care. And each time Rusty Bennett had stood above each man and roared abuse, swearing to God he’d blow his head off if he didn’t
GET UP AND MOVE FORWARD
.
Two of the men were almost unconscious. One of them was sobbing. But all three of them reached down again, and found more, and then got up and moved forward in a combination of agony and defiance. At the end of the exercise, Commander Bennett took each of them aside and told him quietly, “That’s what it’s all about, hanging in there when you have nothing left. That’s a great job you did right there. I’m proud of you.”
Back in the SEALs’ headquarters, Commander Ben
nett was summoned to the office of the SEAL Chief, Admiral John Bergstrom.
“Morning, Rusty,” he said. “How do they look?”
“Good, sir. Very good. Six of the veterans are already excellent leaders, and some of the new guys have terrific potential. We got great swimmers, good radio technicians, demolition guys and marksmen. Plus a few obvious hard men.”
“Can we get two teams of twelve out of the group for a couple of critical missions?”
“I’m sure we can, sir. I really like what I’m seeing from them. But I wouldn’t mind knowing roughly where we’re going.”
“Well, you and I are leaving for Washington shortly after midnight for a final briefing. We’ll be there all day. I guess we’ll know then.”
“Are we seeing the Big Man, sir?”
“In person.”
“Jesus. Are you sure I’m ready for this?”
“You’re ready. Just as long as you remember his bark’s bad, but his bite’s worse…. Just kidding. The Admiral loves SEALs. Thinks we’re the most important guys in the U.S. armed services. Anyway it’s pretty obvious where we’re going, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Middle East. But I just wonder what we’re supposed to be doing.”
“Probably not public relations. If Arnold Morgan wants us, he wants something either flattened or just plain obliterated. Trust me.”
“Hell. I hope it’s not the big Iranian Naval yard down on the gulf. It’s swarming with military personnel.”
“Of course, you’re an expert, eh, Rusty?”
“Yessir. A very fair description. Damn place gives me the creeps.”
“If I had to guess, I would say it’s certainly not Bandar Abbas the Admiral wants to talk about.”
“Why not, sir? He said to have two teams of twelve on twenty-four hours battle notice. That’s two targets. Sepa
rate. Even Arnold Morgan could not possibly think twelve SEALs could take out an entire Naval base, with several thousand men on duty.
“We might have a shot if we went at night!” said Rusty, grinning. “But I agree. He’s got something more passive in mind.”
John Bergstrom walked across the room to a largescale electronic chart of the ocean along Iran’s southeastern coast. He stood staring at it as if checking reference points. And then he muttered, almost inaudibly, “
What about that damn Chinese refinery
?”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t quite get that.”
“Oh nothing, Rusty. Just a thought. Let’s wait until tomorrow. See you right here tonight zero-zero-thirty. Civilian suit. We’re meeting Commander Hunter at the White House.”
“Aye, sir.”
0859. Wednesday, May 9
.
The White House Lawn
.
Admiral Morgan turned his head sideways to the wind and stared into the skies to the southeast, searching like an air traffic controller for the big Navy helicopter bringing John Bergstrom and Rusty Bennett in from Andrews Air Base.
He checked his watch, one minute before touchdown, and no sign yet of the U.S. Marines’ Super Cobra clattering across the eastern bank of the Potomac.
“If I could
see
the sonofabitch right now, they’d still be a minute late,” he muttered. “Standing out here on the grass like some fucking rose pruner. Goddamned disorganized sailors. Where the hell are they?”
He had to wait only two more minutes. And then he spotted the Marine guided-missile gunship, with its brand-new four-bladed rotor, bearing down on the White House. The pilot swung over the building, banked the
helicopter to its port side and dropped gently down onto the landing pad.
Seconds later the loadmaster had opened the passenger door and the U.S. Navy’s Emperor SEAL, Admiral John Bergstrom, stepped down into a bright spring morning in the capital. Behind him, dressed in a dark gray suit, with gleaming black shoes, came the powerful figure of Commander Bennett. He wore a white shirt with a dark blue tie. His principal distinguishing feature was pinned on his left lapel, the combat SEAL’s gleaming golden trident. Rusty Bennett’s colleagues swear he pinned it on his pajamas each night without fail.
Arnold Morgan walked toward them with a welcoming smile. “Hello, John,” he said. “Good to see you again.” And he shook the hand of the Commander-in-Chief of SPECWARCOM. And then he turned to the junior officer, who was hanging back in the presence of a legend, and he just said solemnly, “Come and take me by the hand, Commander Bennett. This is a moment to which I have looked forward for a long time.”
Rusty walked forward and said quietly, “Admiral Morgan, it’s my pleasure to meet you.”
And as their hands clasped, the Admiral found his imagination roaming out of control. Before him stood a clean-cut well-presented Naval officer, but in his mind Arnold Morgan saw a warrior, face blackened, machine gun cocked, leading his men out of the water, up the beach, face-to-face with unimaginable danger. He saw in Rusty’s deep blue eyes the icy glance of a born leader, a veteran of three brutal SEAL missions, a tiger among men, and he shook his head and said, “Commander, I don’t often get a chance to shake the hand of a real hero. I just want you to know I regard it as a great privilege.”
Rusty nodded, and said without emphasis, “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed.” And in the background he could see the White House, the very citadel of American power, and he wished with all his heart that his widowed father, Jeb Bennett, the Maine lobersterman
from Mount Desert, could have seen him right now. Just for a few seconds.
They walked companionably toward the main door to the West Wing, and the agents handed both SEALs special passes before they set off down the corridor to Admiral Morgan’s lair. Kathy O’Brien greeted them as they arrived and informed the Admiral that Alan Dixon and General Scannell were waiting inside. She had just received a signal from the base at Quantico that Commander Hunter was in the area and that his helicopter would put down on the White House pad in five minutes, direct from the SEALs’ east coast h.q. at Little Creek, Virginia, home of Teams Two, Four and Eight.
Inside the office the introductions were made, principally for the benefit of Rusty. The rest of the officers knew one another. Kathy ordered coffee for everyone but returned almost immediately to announce the arrival of Commander Rick Hunter, the SEAL team leader who had operated under deep cover in a murderous attack on Russian Naval hardware in the late Joe Stalin’s northern canals; and who had been in overall command of the attack on the Chinese jail the previous year.
He walked through the door, a tall, hard-muscled warrior, standing 6 feet 4 inches tall and tipping the scales at a zero-body-fat 220 pounds. He was dressed like Rusty in a dark gray suit, with a white shirt and highly polished shoes. Like Rusty, he wore the gleaming golden trident of the combat SEAL on his left lapel.