“But either way, losing Truman puts a hell of a strain on our Optimized Fleet Response Plan, Mr. President,” General Chalmers chimed in. “We rotate our carriers every seven months as part of the OFRP thirty-six-month cycle. With Truman out of the picture, it screws up the rotations, so we’ll have to be creative, think beyond the horizon.”
“The general’s right,” said Blevins. “On paper, we currently have a total fleet of ten Nimitz-class aircraft carriers. With Truman out of commission and Bush undergoing upgrades for another month, it leaves us with eight. Our oldest, Nimitz, is at Naval Station Kitsap on a ten-month maintenance cycle while our second oldest, Eisenhower, is in dry dock at the Norfolk Naval Ship yard undergoing hull repairs and engine upgrades right next to Washington, which is undergoing similar repairs.”
Although no one said it, everyone, starting with Macklin, was damn glad that the C-46 pilot chose Bush instead of one of those other carriers, since there would have been no crew aboard to mount a defense.
Blevins added, “And that leaves us with five operational carriers, Mr. President. Vinson is in the Arabian Sea, Lincoln in the Mediterranean, Stennis is currently at port in Singapore, and Reagan is at port in San Diego, scheduled to go out in a week to relieve Roosevelt, which is due to return from its seven-month deployment in the Sea of Japan.”
“Denny, what about Ford?” Macklin asked, referring to USS Gerald R. Ford (CVN 78), the first of a new generation of “supercarriers” coming out of Newport News Shipyards.
Blevins said, “It’s finalizing sea trials this week, sir. Should be back at its dock in four days to start the process of getting it ready for its first deployment in three months.”
Macklin exhaled, glad that the supercarrier had been away from port during the attack.
“And behind it is Kennedy, scheduled for launch in a year and deployment in three. It’s already starting to look like a carrier.”
Macklin did the math and the math sucked. They were stuck with five carriers for the next few months.
Blevins continued. “The general and I were conferring with the defense secretary right before this meeting, and we’re considering temporarily suspending the OFRP rotations and simply leaving a carrier strike group or two on station in the Mideast and rotate the ship’s crew and air wings. Now, we can’t do that indefinitely because sooner or later we need to get those carriers back to port for maintenance and upgrades, but we can extend their deployments for a few more months to buy us some time. And we could even dispatch a couple of Expeditionary Strike Groups to the region. That’ll get the bastards’ attention in a hurry. We’ll have a complete plan for your review in the next twenty-four hours.”
Macklin liked the idea of taking advantage of the much nimbler Marine Expeditionary Strike Groups, which included an amphibious assault ship that was basically a 39,400-ton aircraft carrier — just over a third the size of a Nimitz-class carrier — with 2,200 marines and a team of Navy SEALs. It was escorted by a cruiser, a destroyer, a Zumwalt-class guided-missile destroyer, and a Virginia-class attack submarine.
“All right,” Macklin said. “But let’s keep the pressure on and see if we can do better on the timing of getting these ships ready to go.”
“Yes, sir,” Chalmers and Blevins said in unison.
Shifting his gaze between them and the defense secretary, Macklin considered his next request for a moment, then said, “I would also like your recommendations on strike options after the Tomahawk launch today. I don’t intend to take my foot off their necks for the foreseeable future.”
Chalmers and Blevins exchanged a glance before the latter said, “We’ll discuss it with the defense secretary and our staffs and get you a strike package shortly, sir.”
Satisfied, the president turned his attention to his secretary of state, the only man in the room who probably had more combat flying experience than Macklin. And it wasn’t just the number of hours or the fact that, like Macklin, Austin had also been shot down. Macklin didn’t know any other American pilot who had flown a stolen MiG-17 into Vietnam disguised as a Russian pilot for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc behind enemy lines. It was the stuff of legends — though few actually knew the story, and even fewer knew of his harrowing escape. Not only was Austin’s MiG shot down, but he had been unable to eject because some intelligence type had had the ejection seat mechanism disabled to cover their tracks in case he ever went down. But the spooks had not counted on the hotshot pilot landing the burning plane in a rice paddy and walking away.
“Brad, I’d like to hear your thoughts on our situation.”
Bradley Carlyle Austin had graduated from Annapolis with a bachelor’s in aeronautical engineering before accepting a commission in the Marine Corps to fly F-4 Phantoms. He had done it against the wishes of his father, Vice Admiral Carlyle Austin, also an Annapolis alumnus and three-star flag officer who had expected him to join the fleet. But like all members of Macklin’s cabinet, Austin was an independent thinker determined to follow his calling. Rumor had it that just to drive the point home to his unrelenting father, who had tormented Austin during his senior year at the academy, the young jarhead had shown up at the next family Christmas dinner wearing his new Marine dress blue uniform.
While most people leaned forward when addressing the president, Austin calmly sat back, elbows on his chair’s armrests, fingers interlaced as if he were praying, as he considered his response. Unlike General Chalmers or Admiral Blevins, the man certainly didn’t appear at all uncomfortable or tense today, probably something to do with staring death in the face so many times and walking away.
Still thin but muscular and only a few pounds heavier than the last time he’d strapped into the cockpit of a Phantom, Austin had aged well. Though a full head of silver hair and more than a handful of wrinkles showed he was on the wrong side of sixty.
“Mr. President,” he finally said. “The delegates to the UN General Assembly are gathering for their annual meeting. With your permission, I intend to address them and clearly — and quite candidly — explain our position. The members, along with the Security Council, need to take immediate action to sanction the known host nations of terrorism.”
Macklin polished his glasses with his tie, leaned back, and sighed. “What do you think the odds are that the UN will take action?”
Austin chuckled, then said, “Zero to none. Most of those bastards can barely keep from cheering every time we get hit.”
Macklin shared Austin’s exasperation with the imaginary nature of any sort of cooperative atmosphere at the UN.
The secretary continued. “We still have to go through the usual and predictably… gutless motions, though. If we act unilaterally, without giving the UN and their handwringers a chance to argue the issue forty ways to Bombay, the whining and crying will be worse than a pissed-off Saigon hooker.”
Macklin held back a grin, feeling a touch of nostalgia at the mention of his old stomping grounds. Back in the day, when he had flown Thunderchiefs and Austin Phantoms, Saigon had been called Saigon.
Not Ho-Chi-Fucking-Minh City, he thought before asking, “And that translates into how long?”
“I’d say the longest those delegates can stand to sit with their thumbs up their asses talking in circles is about forty-eight hours, seventy-two on the outside.”
This time Macklin did grin, then said, “That sounds about right. Go ahead and schedule a visit to the assembly, and please let me know when you’re going to speak. Don’t want to miss that show.”