“Good news,” Wilson said, waiting for more. There was always more.
“Yes, sir, but the bad news is that the fuel belongs to the Japanese, and they are flying a C-130 down here with fire-fighting supplies and personnel. We can also expect a P-3 to divert in here at any time. They are going to fill those birds when they arrive.”
Wilson knew he needed the little fuel available in the three trucks; his mind was already working on a plan. We’ve gotta launch as soon as we can and get back aboard Hanna.
“Leland, work your magic… but we’ve gotta have that fuel. I intend to get out of here with all the fixed-wing by midmorning… with everything flyable. I’m calling Seventh Fleet to elevate this; will probably go diplomatic, but the Chinese may be back tomorrow — or within the next hour. We’ve gotta get out. Full court press.”
“All the fixed-wing, sir?”
“Yep. Hanna should be in a position to recover us by midmorning. Catapults or no, we need to be back aboard her to continue the fight. You’ve got less than twelve hours, Leland.”
“Yes, sir, but…”
“I know, Lieutenant. We just have to make it happen.”
Cactus Clark was fuming, and the Seventh Fleet Commander had no choice but to listen.
“Dammit, John, get Hancock underway, get her air wing aboard, and get ready to fight. We are going to take it to these guys beginning tomorrow night. The Japanese are going ape shit that we are the cause of their losses, SECDEF is living in my ass, and I’m inclined to fly everything out of Kadena and Iwakuni. If the Japanese want to defend themselves, fine. What have you learned about the Iwo attack?”
“Admiral, we had ten YJ-18s launched at us, and we believe it was from a Shang-class nuke, probably the same boat that sank the Hōshō. I’ve got six P-8s and the Japanese have over ten P-3s doing magnetic anomaly searches and dropping buoys in the northern Philippine Sea. When Hancock departs tomorrow with her escort, I’ll have nothing left in Japan but an old amphib in dry dock. Everything is underway, and we’re going to mass forces from Guam and go right at them.”
“How are you going to do that, John?” Clark asked.
“Stay on the move and strike from outside of the SCS. Carrier and land-based tac air will have to attrite them from long range. We don’t have satellites, and without those birds, we’ll have to detect-to-engage and react time-late, but we’ve got to start chipping away at them and keep them off balance before they solidify further.”
“A DF-21 on a flight deck is going to ruin everyone’s day.”
“Yes, sir, and we are going to have to defend Guam, I’ve got to have it. And I need State Department help with tanker basing rights in Japan, Malaysia, and Thailand. Concur, sir, Japan is going to be the thorniest, but “Joe Sake” here is pissed about the loss of Hōshō. The government is trying to have it both ways: by fighting the Chinese with their self-defense forces and by showing the Chinese they are not helping us — and browbeating me to prove it. The people see through it, and they are demonstrating outside the Diet.”
Clark grumbled. “What are you hearing about the Philippines?”
“I can live without them, sir. The islands are too vulnerable, and the Chinese have a raised hammer over them. Now, we can use it as a base for covert actions, especially from Palawan Island, but I don’t need the ports or runways. I will keep my ships moving and dodge PRC targeting, but I’ve got to have Guam as a logistics hub.”
“How do we neutralize their medium-range missiles?”
“Admiral, my staff is working it but probably with cruise missiles, if we can work shooters into launch positions. We’re working plans A and B, sir, but I don’t have a suitcased answer for you now.”
“Very well,” Clark said, then added. “Okay, John, since this is the high-end air/sea fight we’ve talked about. You are in theater, and you are the joint force commander and supported by me. Run stuff through my people, and be nice to the component four stars, but they work for me, and I’ll run interference for what you need. With our satellite comms and displays degraded, you are closer to the problem, and if you need to make a decision in minutes, make one.”
“Yes, sir,” McGill answered. Clark’s executive assistant Richie Casher was listening and taking notes, and both knew McGill’s staff was doing the same on the other end.
“Need you to strike tomorrow night, John, and your kids need to come out throwing gas.”
“We will, sir, but first we are going to sink the boat that hit Iwo and scrub the Phil Sea with a wire brush.”
“Excellent. What time is it there?”
“Just after midnight, sir. Wednesday.”
From his office, Clark looked out over the twinkling lights and traffic of predawn Pearl Harbor and Aeia, to the dark sea and sky beyond. The lights on the docks and streets blazed bright, but like McGill, all Clark’s ships had departed over that dark horizon days ago. Along Ford Island the interior lights of the Arizona Memorial shone through the night in honor of her dead, and dress-ship lights along the main deck rail of the battleship Missouri illuminated her graceful lines. Where a world war began and ended, he thought.
“Good hunting,” Clark said. “Out here.”
CHAPTER 39
After a restless night, Wilson got to his feet at 0340. He called the brief for 0500 to fly his flyable fixed-wing aircraft back to Hancock which in two hours was scheduled to cast off from Yokosuka and head through the inland sea into the open Pacific. Once twelve miles offshore and in international waters, Wilson would be overhead with the first wave of jets. Weed would lead the others an hour later.
Wilson’s maintenance technicians were up all night fixing, fueling, and prepping the jets. They were exhausted, and Wilson watched them go about their duties with purpose as flickering flames from the fuel farm produced an eerie glow in the distance.
After he and the other bleary-eyed aircrew had breakfast — vending machine candy bars, MREs, or sandwiches made by local Japanese families — Olive led them in the brief. The word from Yokosuka was that all was proceeding as planned, and the carrier would get underway on time. The Japanese allowed the Americans to fuel their jets from two of the three trucks, and one of Mother’s Hornets and two of Olive’s Super Hornets did not have external fuel. Wilson would fly one of the Supers with Olive, and a buddy-store configured Rhino would give Mother Tucker 2,000 pounds of fuel once they joined overhead the island and set out on an open-water flight of 600 miles.
Wilson got into his flight gear as the sun was lifting above the eastern horizon. A phone call confirmed Hanna had gotten underway on time, and as Wilson headed to the flight line, LT Williams joined him.
“CAG, we did the best we could. One Growler isn’t going to make this go. A nose tire had a slow leak we didn’t catch last night. We jury-rigged a truck jack — don’t tell anyone, sir — and we are swapping the tire with one we cannibalized from one of the damaged Rhinos. Should be good for the next go, sir.”