Davies dutifully shook hands with him and then had Browne summon the “Warfare Commanders” and squadron COs to flag plot. Matson sent one of his Sierras to pick up the captain of Gettysburg, the Air Warfare Commander, and bring him to the carrier. He was the last one to arrive in the packed space. Squadron COs such as Wilson and Billy, two of the more junior officers in the room, stood along the bulkhead as the higher ranking officers took seats around the small table. The chair at the head was reserved for Davies. From above them the hmmmm generated by propellers of the turning COD resonated throughout the room.
With all assembled, Browne entered and announced, “Gentlemen, the Admiral.” The room sprang to attention.
Davies followed Browne into the room. “Seats,” he grunted as he took his chair. Davies’ aide set a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him. Only one woman, a commander IT officer, was present at this gathering. Davies got right to business.
“Gents, we are spinning up to strike the Venezuelans. Captain, I want us to get into the Atlantic to a position one hundred miles northeast of Barbados in 24 hours. I want you to blow through the Sombrero Passage and let the world see you doing it. Gettysburg, you are riding shotgun. Who the hell is the destroyer commodore?” Davies then asked, scanning the room for an answer.
“I am, sir,” a surface warfare captain answered, preparing for a legendary Davies blast.
“I want two DDGs in a launch window north of Aruba and to defend from any BMs they may launch. Put them in the right spot. The Dutch have a destroyer down there, and the Brits have one getting underway from Kingston. You are going to be the task force commander of this little flotilla, and I want you down there riding one of your shooters. Do they have hangars?”
“One does, sir. Norman Kleiss,” the commodore answered.
“Fuck… okay. CAG? Where’s CAG?”
“Here, sir,” Matson answered.
“CAG, put anti-ship and CSAR helos on one small boy and a Sierra on the one with no aviation detachment, riding free. Load it up with ordnance. We’re expecting a surface fight and SOF delivery.” Davies turned to Browne. “And, Ed, we need some more rotary wing capability down there. Find me a solution in ten minutes.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Browne said and eyed the staff operations officer who left to figure an answer.
Wilson was unnerved by Davies’ dramatics and suspected the others were, too. No welcome, no “pep talk” from their new strike group commander. Just a routine board of directors meeting with one agenda item: starting a war with Venezuela. Devil was a warfighter, and the collegial niceties of an officer and a gentleman social conduct were not important. Meyerkopf had come across as a social recluse, and Davies seemed to act like Chesty Puller with wings. Wilson had never met the man, but his reputation had preceded him, and it appeared to be accurate. While Davies was studying a chart of the Caribbean, the 1MC sounded.
“Ding, ding… ding, ding… ding, ding. Rear Admiral, United States Navy, departing.”
All heard the C-2 above them taxi out of its parking spot and toward the catapult. Wilson and the others took furtive glances at the PLAT as the white aircraft turned toward the bow catapults. Davies resumed.
“Gents, we are the first out of the gate with a strike on their air base at San Ramón. We are going to be in the Atlantic east of Venezuela in the open and away from the submarine threat. After we neutralize San Ramón, we are going to mine the approaches to Río Salta. We’ve got the eastern part of the country, and the Air Force is going to deal with the area around Caracas. And Aruba. The Dutch have asked for our help to defend it. Theodore Roosevelt is underway, but still days away from helping. And the Air Force also has to deal with GITMO. Once TR arrives, they are going to augment the GITMO force and Aruba defense force. For now it’s us and the boys in blue who will knock their lights out and neutralize the FAV. CAG, who’s leading the San Ramón strike?”
Matson motioned to Wilson. “Jim Wilson, sir, CO of VFA-16.” Wilson nodded an acknowledgement.
Davies studied Wilson for a moment. “Yes, nice to finally meet you. What’s your plan?”
Wilson was taken aback. He had a general idea of what he wanted to do but had checked none of the details with Matson. Despite that, he knew he had better sound confident.
“Sir, we are planning a large raid. About forty aircraft will simultaneously hit their integrated air defenses and target aircraft shelters and revetments. We’ll need big wing tankers from the Air Force, some Tomahawks, maybe a SEAL insert, a big defense suppression plan. We’ve only scanned the requirements, and the strike planning team meets once we finish here, sir.”
“Okay, CAG, I want the TLAM and SOF requirements ASAP, but Skipper, here’s your new tasking. I want you to cut their runways. Leave their damn jets alone. If they come up, then shoot them down and get you a Silver Star. But leave them alone on deck. We want a force-in-being to maintain the balance of power in this region. If they’re smart, they’ll hunker down and not come up.”
Stunned, Wilson worked hard to control his body language. “Cutting” a runway, or in the case of San Ramón, runways, was a high-risk/low-reward proposition. The craters generated by weapon impacts could be filled with relative ease, which could necessitate a return mission to keep them cut. Or the FAV could just use taxiways for take-offs and landings. They could even use dispersal fields and highway airstrips when they saw the United States coming… which Davies just said he wanted them to see as the ship moved through the Lesser Antilles’ chain. Maybe such a show of force would cause the Venezuelans to back down, but if Wilson did lead a strike, why pull the first punch?
Another factor was the delivery. A dive would be the best way to hurl the weapons into the runways with an even greater kinetic effect, but with the tradeoff was added risk to the aircrew. Would he have to plan a pulled punch, selling it to his experienced aviators as a smart use of tactical airpower? Would this become another half-hearted American military operation? Weed and his misfits were out there literally taking no prisoners, but now — in the current world spotlight — would he have to risk his people for the image of force that the Venezuelans could counter? Devil Davies was a warrior and no doubt knew what he was asking. No, ordering. This had to be direction from Washington. Devil had combat experience in Iraq in the ‘90s. He knew full well what a dive delivery into alerted defenses entailed. Had anyone up the chain pushed back?
“Yes, sir,” Wilson answered, for the moment “living to fight another day,” hoping that CAG could intercede for him. He had a sudden realization that he, too, would be seen by his lieutenants as not pushing back. Later, in private… he hoped.
Up forward, the C-2 props changed pitch, and seconds later all heard a faint thud followed by a ziiiiip sound as the C-2 shot down the track. The catapult shuttle crashed into the water brake with a boom as the aircraft took to the air and turned right off the bow.
A lone “ding” sounded on the 1MC. Admiral Meyerkopf was gone, heading for the beach. Without question, a new sheriff was in town.
CHAPTER 44
Sun Tzu said, “The line between disorder and order lies in logistics….” In the arcane vernacular of military acronyms and jargon, RFF (Request for Forces) is one acronym professional staff officers must keep in mind. Their job is not to fight. Their job is to provide fighters, like Wilson, with the tools, actual and supporting, the fighters need to do their jobs. If Wilson and the aviators of Carrier Air Wing SIX are at the tip of the spear, various logistics staffs are the shaft, tasked to deliver what military urban legend says is “the firstest with the mostest.” This task involves hundreds and thousands of military personnel in and out of uniform who use arcane terms like OPORD, CONPLAN, and OPCON, to name a few. Thousands of miles from the action, these staff undertake a monumental responsibility when going to full-scale war against a capable enemy. Time is always of the essence. Logistics are indeed for professionals.