“Skipper, I’m confident in your plan and in your ability to lead this strike. But go back and take a look at the suppression plan. If you need more assets, ask. Much can still be done in the next 24 hours. This is the first strike, and it needs to be effective. We all want to provide you with what you need.”
“Yes, sir, Admiral. We’ll give it another look with that in mind. Thank you,” Cajun replied.
“How about you, Flip?” Smith changed the subject with his wry smile. “Ready to meet up with that MiG-35 again?”
Sensing the approving nods from all but Swartzmann, Wilson answered with a confident smile of his own. “I’ll be armed this time, sir. Let’s do it.”
The admiral’s word touched a nerve; tomorrow night he would be shot off the bow with a full load of ordnance. Headed for Iran.
Smith smiled, his eyes lingering on Wilson for a second. Turning his head to CAG, he then signaled the meeting was over. “Okay, guys, thanks for coming. Press on.”
Cajun and Wilson took their cue and left, but CAG stayed behind. Smith caught his eye. “Whada’ya think, Tony?”
Swoboda answered with assurance. “Sir, Cajun has a sixth sense tactically, and Flip Wilson is the finest pilot in the wing. They are my go-to warfighters. They’ll get everyone in and out and bring back video of their hits. Color these aimpoints gone.”
Smith nodded, and looked up to see that the next strike leader had arrived for his lap brief. CAG’s right, he thought. Package 1A will deliver the initial hammer blow we need to set these guys back on their heels.
CHAPTER 52
Back in CVIC, surrounded by his strike planning team poring over charts and entering info into the computer for kneeboard cards, Wilson looked at his watch. Almost 2200… 14 hours since CAG had gathered them there. Psycho’s announcement, Cajun’s pep talk, the scene with the XO, briefing Admiral Smith. It all seemed like days ago. Wilson rubbed the stubble on his face, then reached over his shoulder to massage the kink out of his neck. Two more hours… then sleep. He thought of tomorrow night—24 hours until launch.
Thinking out loud and hoping for guidance, Dutch worked on the tanking plan. “If we join up overhead in high holding, it’s easier, but we may tip off the Iranians if we break the radar horizon. If we join up on a radial toward Bandar Abbas, we can save transit time and gas.”
One of the Moonshadow captains countered. “What if that radial is clobbered by the marshal stack?”
Wilson turned to join the conversation. “I’m not sure we’ll have an event up when we launch. If we can get away with joining low the guys on the beach won’t see us until we climb up, giving us time to close the target. Anyway, let’s check with Strike Ops on the schedule.
“JD, how about it?” Wilson asked one of the marines at the table.
Just then the 1MC sounded a whistling taa-weet, followed by the bosun’s message: “Now stand by for the evening prayer.”
Dutch, oblivious to the 1MC announcement, continued. “We have two packages of aircraft, the strikers and…”
With his head down and straining to listen, Wilson raised a hand to stop the conversation. Dutch and the others looked at him, and then bowed their heads when they realized what he meant. While much of the room continued to work, Wilson and his team listened to Chaplain Dolan’s prayer. His familiar voice was rich and soothing.
“Heavenly Father, as this day comes to an end, we, Your servants, thank You for our many blessings: a letter or e-mail from home, the friendship of shipmates, a kind word from a superior, a moment of solitude, good food to eat, and a warm bed. Lord, many of us are busy with the serious tasks our nation has assigned us. We ask You to give us strength as we prepare for the challenges of tomorrow and each day, so that each of us may better serve You and one another. In Your name we pray. Amen.”
Wilson reflected on Father Dolan’s words. With day-to-day duties and distractions, Wilson often forgot that, in this life, we are here to serve one another. Caught up as they were with whatever duty was assigned and their own self-important roles in it, the need to fulfill that obligation was regularly lost on Wilson and many of the 5,000 sailors aboard Valley Forge.
The evening prayer complete, the conversation about the tanking plan resumed where it left off. A few minutes later, the 1MC sounded four bells, followed by an announcement: “Taps, taps. Lights out. Maintain silence about the decks. Now taps.”
For the most part, activity throughout the ship continued unabated, especially in CVIC. Wilson continued his study of the chart, the bells serving as another reminder that time was passing quickly.
Cajun leaned back in his chair and stifled a big yawn. As he stretched one arm behind his head, he looked at the bulkhead clock: 0115. His strike planning team was exhausted. After considering and answering hundreds of variables, they had produced a PowerPoint briefing and kneeboard cards for strike 1A. Although it seemed they had reached the point of diminishing returns over an hour ago, five of his team were still at work. The remnants of several other planning teams were scattered about, but they also looked as if they were going to soon call it a night.
Cajun then spoke up, stifling another yawn.
“Guys, let’s knock this off for now and hit the rack. How about we meet tomorrow — today — at 1400 and wrap up the kneeboard packages and briefing slides? We’re looking to brief at 1900 in Ready 7.”
The team responded with enthusiastic yes sir’s all around, gathered their planning materials, and put them in folders to be placed in the safe by the intelligence officers. Wilson was more than ready to shut down for the night. He gave his CO a casual “See you tomorrow, Skipper,” and departed CVIC.
The darkened passageways were illuminated by red lights. Exhausted, Wilson made his way forward toward his stateroom, pushing off a bulkhead at one point to steady himself. Many frames forward he saw the shadow of a sailor walking aft toward him, then disappearing as he turned into a starboard passageway. He heard the engine of an FA-18 howling one level above on the flight deck; apparently, night-check maintenance was doing a high-power turn to check some component. Valley Forge never slept completely, but most of the crew was asleep now, and Wilson’s body craved it.
He trundled down the ladder and aft, shielding his eyes from an area of bright fluorescent lights. Entering officer’s country, he navigated the dim maze to his stateroom on autopilot. Opening the door, he switched on his desk light to minimize the disturbance to Weed, asleep in his rack. Or so he thought.
“Hey, you guys done?” Weed mumbled. Facing the bulkhead, he was a motionless lump in the top bunk.
“Nah, still have some element brief stuff… kneeboard cards. How about you?” Wilson replied, unfastening the laces on his boots.
“Pretty much the same.”
Wilson was wiped out, and neither pilot was in the mood to talk. He removed his boots, hung his flight suit on a hook, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up around him. Rest, finally. What a day! The news about Richard Best. Psycho. Strike planning all day and night. Hitting Iran tomorrow. No, tonight!
Wilson put all of it out of his mind. He had to sleep, knowing it would be the only uninterrupted rest he got in the next 36–48 hours.
“G’night, man,” he mumbled to his roommate.
“G’night.”
Wilson woke and looked at the numerals of the LCD clock: 4:30. Oh-ridiculous thirty. He had been asleep only three hours and had popped awake now because of adrenaline and stress. Calm down, he thought. Go back to sleep.