Just killing them outright with their high-tech savagery!
With no prior warning!
Just to, maybe, stop the shipping of a “few bags” of marijuana, which was now grown and sold legally in the American interior.
Reporters were en route to the Pentagon to query the public affairs officers, opening a new front in the conflict, the battle for public opinion.
Ed Browne studied at the chart and stroked his chin. “Sir, it may be prudent to move into the Atlantic until forces flow into the region. Right now, we are five hours away from the Mona Passage at flank speed, and that’s right when the Blackjacks are expected to fly by us. Recommend we stay here in open waters, south of the Dominican Republic, until the bombers pass and we can recover the combat air patrol, then get into the Atlantic tonight in a position to support Gitmo.” Meyerkopf shook his head.
“Ed, this Venezuelan 209 boat could be anywhere, and we need to run hard out of here and get into the open. Then we can bottle up these island chokepoints and find the damn thing.”
“Sir, we don’t know that it will follow us into the Atlantic….”
“He could be watching us right now, Ed!” Meyerkopf was losing his temper.
“Yes, sir, and we have a heightened anti-submarine alert posture. But, we know the bombers are coming down here, and, if we are in the restricted waters of the passage, flight operations are going to be difficult. We have been tasked to intercept and escort.”
As the junior staff officers watched the admiral and his chief of staff argue, they realized there was no “right” answer. If a signal of resolve needed to be sent to Venezuela, leaving the Caribbean was not the best course. But, if there was concern about the location and intentions of the Venezuelan military and the threat from their capable German-built diesel, then retreating to the open Atlantic and waiting for the submarine to transit through the islands where they had a better chance to catch it was a smart option.
Complicating things was the fact that, in a matter of hours, the Blackjacks would be in the area on their probable transit to Caracas. When that happened, Coral Sea needed to send fighters to intercept and needed sea room to conduct flight operations. Sprinting to the Atlantic would put them in the Mona Passage at the same time the Blackjacks were expected. And GITMO was approximately the same distance as the Venezuelan coast, some 400-plus miles, a considerable distance for their carrier aircraft. SOUTHCOM needed two carriers, but had tasked their one available to do the job of two. However, Coral Sea had to be somewhere, and the staff officers knew which of their seniors would get their way.
“Admiral, my best military advice is to stay here, south of the Dominican Republic, close to the Mona Passage. We can launch in three-four hours to intercept the Russians, recover and then transit the passage tonight to take station 100 miles north of Puerto Rico.”
“Ed, if the Venezuelans hit us, it’s game over. Can’t you fly in the passage? I mean, seriously, you are worried about winds?”
“Sir, there are islands to consider and shipping everywhere. And, yes sir, the surface winds need to cooperate. Admiral, if you direct it, we’ll run up there at flank speed and fly in restricted waters. If we need them, we’ll have Puerto Rican divert fields available.”
“Yeah, can’t you get some Air Force tankers to keep the CAP airborne?”
“No, sir, they aren’t down here yet. We’ll have in-house Super Hornet tankers, and, of course, the shore diverts.”
While the staff agonized over the logistical and tactical problems before them, the admiral’s aide walked over to him and whispered close to his ear. Meyerkopf excused himself to take a call from Fleet Forces commander, Admiral Pete Peterson.
Stepping into his office, he picked up the receiver as his aide listened on the other line.
“Admiral Meyerkopf, sir.”
A disembodied voice on the other end said, “Yes, sir, please stand by for Admiral Peterson.”
As he waited, Meyerkopf formulated a 20-second report about his strike group activities. The line clicked.
“Roland, Pete Peterson.”
“Hello, Admiral,” Meyerkopf answered.
“Where are you guys?”
“One hundred and ten miles south of Hispaniola, steaming at a flank bell to the east. I’m going to launch a CAP in roughly three hours to intercept the Russian bombers. We are also watching to the south as I’m concerned about the Venezuelan 209 boats.”
Peterson was silent on the other end. Meyerkopf was ready to ask if he was still there when Peterson responded.
“Roland, it looks like this is getting big pretty fast. We’ve got TR coming down, flying a Marine Air-Ground Task Force to Gitmo, and a five-ship ARG from Morehead City gets underway tomorrow. The Air Force is also sending all kinds of stuff to Roosy Roads and Borinquen. We’re deploying a missile boat and two attack boats, and a dozen small boys out of Mayport and Norfolk. JCS is pulling their hair out, and State is deer-in-the-headlights, adding no value. SOUTHCOM is spinning up an op-plan to hit Venezuela and hit Castro if he so much as sneezes. Roland, they want a trigger-pulling aviator to run the task force once it is formed. Don Davies just left strike group command….”
Meyerkopf’s blood ran cold. Seniority was a hallmark of the military, the aristocratic Navy in particular. Whoever was senior by even one lineal number — and everyone knew where they stood — had overall command. Was he going to have to work for Don Davies, another glad-handing, pretty-boy aviator?
“Roland, SOUTHCOM has made a request. I need to pull you out of there.”
Meyerkopf fell back into his chair as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. Unable to form words, his mind raced. Relieved of command? Why? With no chance to defend myself? But what “crime” have I committed to defend — except for being a submariner! Damn Peterson and the aviators!
“Admiral, you are relieving me? Sir, I’m stunned and at a loss. Why sir? What have I done wrong?”
“Roland, it is not anything you’ve done in command of the Coral Sea strike group. It’s just that we need the A-team now, and this is going to be an air-sea show. Tomorrow afternoon a COD is going to show up with Devil Davies, and after you shake hands, I want you to get on the aircraft. Leave your staff there. The COD will take you to Roosy or GITMO. Get yourself back up here, and we’ll reassign you.” Meyerkopf couldn’t believe his ears.
“Admiral Peterson! I’m here, and we have the Russians flying by in hours. I’ve been operating down here for a month. I’ve got this, and my staff and the ship is chock-a-block with aviators that are advising me well.”
“Roland, what kind of aircraft are the Russians flying along our coast right now?”
Meyerkopf hesitated, unsure. He knew they were bombers. Hell, Russian bombers! What frickin’ difference does it make? He had all the subject matter expertise he needed at his fingertips.