Vice Admiral Dick Holman, Commander United States Seventh Fleet, said it was bigger than his stateroom on the Boxer. Garcia didn’t know if the admiral was a little envious, or just making an observation. With Holman, you never knew when he was joking and when he was being serious. “I guess if he throws me overboard, then he’s serious about something,” Garcia said under his breath.
“You say something, Skipper?” Commander Stapler asked as Garcia reached his chair.
“No, I was just thinking out loud, Stan. My apologies for not making the 1000 briefing, got caught up in a teleconference with Admiral Holman and Admiral DeMedewe-Stewart.”
“Another problem, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Garcia shook his head. “No problem. Admiral Stewart, the British battle force commander, and Admiral Holman spent most of the time bad-mouthing the French and discussing battle group disposition.”
Stapler ran his hand over the top of his head, stopping on top of the very short crew cut to scratch it a couple of times. “Don’t understand why someone with a name like DeMedewe would take a dislike to the French.”
“Don’t know. I think when all is said and done, a lot of centuries of wars between them still have an effect today. I recall the admiral saying the name was ancient Norman.”
“DeMedewe; sounds French to me. Commander Tyler-Cole,” Stapler added, rolling the name around his lips as he pronounced it. “There’s another hyphenated British name.” “The admiral said something about DeMedewe being handed down through the centuries. The admiral’s aide referred to him a couple of times as Admiral Stewart, so I think we’ll use Stewart. It’s a lot simpler than… than.. Oh, never mind.”
“Is the admiral on board the Elizabeth?”
“That he is.” Garcia nodded and then put his coffee cup in the holder on his chair. “By the way, the British have asked, if necessary, could they stage some of their F-35 Joint Strike Fighters on Sea Base. Told them we’d be glad to do it. I also approved them putting a liaison officer in Combat to help coordinate things.”
Stapler’s bottom lip pushed into the upper as his eyes narrowed, drawing his light brown eyebrows into a V. “How will I integrate him into Combat? They aren’t going to want to control Sea Base, are they?” Stapler’s eyebrows lifted. “I am concerned if we give up any control, Skipper.”
Garcia shook his head. “No, no, no. Neither I nor Admiral Holman would ever give up any of our responsibilities. The British have the only aircraft carrier out here, and until the larger American aircraft carriers George Bush and
Abraham Lincoln arrive from the West Coast, Sea Base and the HMS Elizabeth are the only two fighter platforms near Taiwan.”
“What do we do with the British fighters when the other F-22A Raptors arrive from Langley?”
Garcia smiled. Two months ago, most of the Navy had no idea what Langley was, much less that it was an airfield in Virginia. Now, the word rolled off the tongues of sailors as easily as the names of Norfolk, San Diego, and Pearl Harbor.
“It looks as if the Air Force squadron are going to bingo directly to Taiwan,” said Garcia. “They should arrive within the next seventy-two hours.”
“Skipper,” the Operations Chief interrupted. “Air Force is preflighting the birds for launch. We have a two-flight escort mission scheduled for launch at 1400.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Garcia answered.
“That’ll be all, Chief,” Stapler added. When the chief left the immediate area, he continued. “We can handle the aircraft, but they are Joint Strike Fighters, not F-22As. There will be a problem with logistic support.”
“Air Boss doesn’t see a problem with us embarking them. I visited the Air Tower before coming down here. Sea Base could handle over two hundred fighter aircraft if we parked them correctly and did the right apron management.”
“Sir,” Stapler said, leaning forward. “Of course the Air Boss is going to say that. His job is handling aircraft and the more aircraft…”
Garcia raised his hand. “Commander, the purpose of Sea Base is to show how efficiently a floating island such as this can handle a larger number of aircraft and project power farther and faster than a three-carrier battle group. The Air Boss was deployed by Naval Air Forces Pacific and assigned to Office of Naval Research. His task is to prove the concept. My and your mission is to prove the concept also, even as we get sucked into this latest crisis.”
“But sir…”
“No buts, Stan. Besides, handling the aircraft is his problem, not yours.”
“It’s also yours, sir.”
“Every problem, every operation, everything that happens on Sea Base is mine… eventually. Now bring me up to date. Where are we?”
“Aye, sir. We are making way at about eight knots on course 190. We should be in our assigned operations area by noon tomorrow. The British carrier, CVA-01 Elizabeth, along with its four warships and the USS Stripling, is two hundred miles southwest of us. They are flying the defensive fighter patrols between mainland China and us.”
“As of this morning, the British have taken over responsibility for providing air protection north of Taiwan.”
Stapler nodded. “We received the new Task Order a few minutes ago. With the British Joint Fighters flying DEFPATs along the northern portion of Taiwan, it frees the Taiwanese fighters to concentrate on the waters directly between Mainland China and Taiwan’s west coast. The Elizabeth operations area is right around the mouth of the Taiwan Strait.”
“We heard anything from the Canadian Task Force?” Garcia asked.
“The three destroyers led by HMCS Algonquin and an oiler are due to rendezvous with us tomorrow.”
“Algonquin," Garcia said with a smile. “Probably the oldest warship in the free world.”
“You know her?”
“I had a friend years ago who served on her and eventually returned about five years ago to be her Skipper. Originally commissioned in 1973…”
“1973! Wow, and still steaming,” Stapler said with awe. “Look at the eight Fast Sealift Ships holding up Sea Base. They were all built around the same time. Guess they did better maritime engineering back then.”
“Must have. Skipper, I received a message saying that when they get here, we’re to replenish them and they were going to sail onward to join the British battle group.”
Garcia nodded. “That’s their ultimate destination. The British can’t get additional ships here from Great Britain to flesh out their battle group, so the Canadian Forces are going to do it for them.”
“Aye, sir,” Stapler acknowledged.
“What time is the Rivet Joint due on station?” Garcia asked, referring to the RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft. The
RC-135 was getting long in the tooth, if you asked him. Unlike the aging EP-3E that was retired by the Navy a decade ago, the Air Force continued flying aircraft that long ago should have been in a museum. On the other end of the pendulum was the F-22A Raptor. The Raptor was the foremost stealth fighter in the world, capable of evading radars and with the avionics to take on ten adversaries simultaneously at long range. It is hard to shoot down an aircraft with a missile if your fire-control radars can’t find it and the missiles can’t lock on. It’s even harder when missiles are coming at you seemingly out of nowhere.
“It’s in the air now,” Stapler said, jerking his thumb toward the Air Traffic Control station. “ATC has voice contact with it. We’re coordinating the data-link integration.” He took a couple of steps toward the operator and touched her on the shoulder. She eased her earphone off her right ear. Rich black hair fell onto her shoulder.