Most of them had been up all night flying strikes or planning them for tonight. The rest were maintaining the jets and otherwise managing VFA-16 as a fighting unit. They were in full-combat mode, grabbing naps when they could between duties in Air Ops, on the LSO platform, in the ready room, and on the flight deck. As usual, the chiefs supervised the sailors that made it all happen, while the officers handled operations with the fully mission-capable jets handed to them. The next several days would be full of strikes — Annie was leading one this afternoon — but their next priority, job number two for the Coral Sea/Carrier Air Wing SIX team, was to rescue Commander Jim Wilson from the Venezuelan delta.
Killer, at the duty desk, gave Annie the word. “Ma’am, everyone is here.”
Annie nodded and stepped toward the assembled group.
“Okay, good morning. We are gearing up for another big day and night, and from what ops is hearing, we’ll be flying hard for at least the next 48 hours, working targets in the Río Salta/San Ramón area. We’re going to mine Río Salta this afternoon, and the Air Force is working target sets in the western part of the country. TR is about 48 hours from being able to help us. When they do, we’ll take a day off, and then get right back on it.
“This operation came up on us without warning. We were having a great at-sea period in the sunny Caribbean, bumping heads with the Colombians and reporting drug runners. Then Trench was blinded. We hit the guys who did it. Venezuela took our ambassador. The Russians messed with us along the east coast, and Castro mobilized near Gitmo. They are all in bed with each other, and last night we picked up the gauntlet.
“Skipper Wilson, the finest aviator with whom I have served, is missing. He’s missing. We are going to find him, but I’m not going to give you all a lollipop and tell you everything will be okay. We are professional aviators, and we’ve been given a job to do. We are going to hit the assigned targets as briefed. That is our job. However, our other job — for as long as it takes — is to find Skipper Wilson. We are not going to abandon him, and we are not going to abandon you. We have no idea if he is dead or alive. So he’s alive. We have no idea if he’s evading or captured. So he’s evading.
“We do not lose faith with each other. Our leadership trusts us to do our jobs, and we trust them to never give up on us, to back us, to never give up. I want you to know that as you plan and fly, as you reflect on this situation. I, and I’m sure CAG and the admiral, will not do our best. No, we will do whatever it takes to find you. Again, the ending may not be happy, but you have my personal guarantee that I will not stop until all of us are accounted for.
“We also look out for your families. We take care of our own.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. So let’s get back to planning, sleeping, flying or eating. That’s it. All else can wait. Anything for me?”
She looked around the room and was about to dismiss the officers when Dusty raised his hand. “Go,” she said.
“XO, wha… what are we doing? Last night we conducted a major strike to cut some runways, and today we are going to hit some comm towers and drop mines in the water. A few weeks ago, everything was calm and now, as far as we are concerned, we are at war. It seems we are poking them in the eye while they fight back as hard as they can, and we let them continue to fight. What is the national goal of these strikes?”
Annie nodded her understanding of the question. She then shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
The room was shocked by Annie’s frank and unexpected answer. They saw in her calm demeanor that she meant it. This answer from their XO was disconcerting, and they waited for more. Annie did not disappoint.
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “What I do know is that I’ve been assigned a strike this afternoon that several of you will fly with me. Olive has a strike lead tomorrow, as does Stretch, and you JOs are going to be wingmen. We and the rest of Air Wing SIX are going to respond to tasking. And that may change. It may change this afternoon.
“When you sign for a jet, you trust that the maintenance department says it is ‘up’ and ready to go. When you taxi on deck under the control of the yellow shirt, they can taxi you from bow to stern and back again and you just do it. You trust they have a plan for you. If you bring the jet back with an overstress or prang it on deck with a hard landing, the troops have to fix it. If, over time, we find the assigned jet is not really up, or the yellow shirts are inefficient, or you have a repeated history of ham-fisting the jet, we need to take corrective action.
“Right now, I am a carrier aviator who works at the pleasure of the President, and he, through national command authority, has given me a task. As a military woman, I salute and I say aye-aye. This obedience does not relieve me of my duty to plan a smart strike and do everything in my power to take care of my wingmen—you—and to get guidance from CAG about how hard I should press over the target area, how much risk I should accept—for you. Once the political goal of this operation becomes clearer, and if I don’t like the goal or the manner in which it is obtained, I can express my opinion up the chain to the Skipper, and if he’s not here, to CAG. If I don’t like the answer, I can either ‘shut up and color’ or resign. Any day I want I can turn in my wings — a step we all know is irrevocable. So, we decide carefully. Another way I can express my opinion is to vote this November for politicians who best represent my views — on this particular national security matter and others — a right all of you have as well and should exercise.”
Annie took a few steps and addressed Dusty with a confident smile. “For now, I’m following orders as a fleet strike fighter pilot on this ship, not accepting stupid stuff, taking care of you in formation. I am free to stop anytime I want. I’m going to trust the chain of command until they lose my confidence, because I can think for myself. Just as your sailors trust you, as the yellow shirts trust you and you trust them on the roof. That sound good?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Dusty answered, ready to follow. Annie continued.
“So, what we are doing is hitting our assigned DMPIs with everything we’ve got, on time and on target with fused weapons. That is our job. We concentrate on that and on taking care of each other. We need to be as tactically smart as possible and not give an inch to their defenses. Like last night. If they come up to fight, we knock them down. If they sortie out of the harbor, we find them and sink them with no remorse. That is a message I hope they get from us — fighting back means certain death, so don’t fight back. This will demoralize the Venezuelans and aid us in whatever Washington has in mind. And, again, I don’t know what that is. Long answer, but if we hit the assigned targets on time and fight like hell to defend each other we are doing what is expected of us. We’ll let Washington worry about the policy.”
Dusty again nodded his understanding, still not 100 % convinced, but willing to fight alongside Annie and his squadronmates. Annie was a warrior and was now the de facto leader of the Firebirds. She had earned their respect.
Annie dismissed the officers, and, as they headed out, she caught Olive’s attention and motioned her over.
“Yes, ma’am,” Olive said as they stepped to the pull-out charts.
“I know you are planning your strike for tomorrow. Where are you going?”