Even as the noise of the departing Saudi aircraft faded in the distance, a new droning, differently toned, grew in intensity. Four dark specks in an echelon could be seen against the intensely blue sky, crossing the coast outbound for the task group.
Amanda Garrett’s golden hazel eyes widened. “You’ve got them for me!” she exclaimed, taking a step forward.
The admiral was pleased at her pleasure. It was a rather unusual gift to bring to a lady, but then, Amanda Garrett was a most unusual lady.
“When I talked to Cobra a couple of days ago, he claimed they’d need at least another month of work-up before they’d be ready to come aboard,” MacIntyre said. “But when I mentioned that we had a potentially fangs-out job going out here, he said, ‘Hell, if you’re talking about operating, we’re set to go now.’”
“That’s Commander Richardson for you, Admiral.” She shot an amused glance back at MacIntyre. “So that’s what you were doing in Riyadh?”
Eddie Mac nodded. “I had to dicker for the loan of the SAAF air base outside of Mecca. Military Airlift Command brought Cobra’s lead detachment in yesterday. They worked all night assembling their aircraft so they could stage aboard the task group this morning.”
Amanda shook her head slowly, studying the approaching helo formation. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a great day. The Seawolves fly again.”
And it was, MacIntyre mused. The return of a legend is a rare thing.
The Seawolves, or, more formally, Helicopter Attack (light) Squadron 3, had been born during the desperate, savage days of the U.S. involvement in the Indochina war. Driven by the necessity of providing immediate on-call air cover for its riverine patrol forces and SEAL detachments, the Navy had created its first and only dedicated helicopter gunship formation.
Flying their first-generation UH-1B Hueys out of isolated swamp country bases and from the decks of anchored LST “aircraft carriers,” the Seawolves accumulated a list of combat honors second to none in that grim, twilit conflict, along with a reputation for fearlessness, dedication, and bold battlefield ferocity.
Seawolf was a name to conjure with. MacIntyre suspected that was why Amanda had called for this proud old unit’s reactivation. Battles are sometimes won by factors beyond mere numbers and firepower.
Drawing closer, the readily recognizable pollywog silhouette of the UH-1 Iroquois became apparent. However, instead of the distinctive twin blade whup, whup, whup of the Vietnam-vintage Huey, these machines produced the vibrant, humming roar of modern flex-rotor flight systems.
As they swept past astern of the Carlson, a meager hundred feet off the deck, other differences could be noted. A twin-turbine power pack rode atop each squat gray fuselage, augmented with Black Hole and Flicker Flash anti-infrared systems. Hardpoint studded snub wings were set low at the aft end of the cabin, and the ominous, stumpy barrel of an OCSW projected from a chin-mounted gun and sensor turret.
The breed had improved over the intervening four decades.
Turning around sharply, Amanda caught the eye of a flight-deck talker standing by with a command headset. “Hey, sailor,” she called, lifting her voice. “Relay this to the task group AIRBOSS. I want one Sea wolf section positioned on each ship. Two aircraft here. Two aboard the Cunningham. Got that?”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. Two and two.”
“As you asked for, Amanda,” MacIntyre commented, “UH-1Y gunship conversions. I’m still not quite sure why you wanted the Super Huey rebuilds instead of Whiskey Cobras or armed Oceanhawks. Hell, I could have gotten you Sea Comanches if you’d yelled for them loudly enough.”
“I had my reasons, Admiral,” Amanda replied. “Cockpit-style gunships might offer more firepower, but they aren’t as flexible for special operations work. A Y-bird can transport and deliver a four-man Marine fire team as well as a weapons payload. They’re also smaller than Ocean hawks, so we can shoehorn more of them aboard our available platforms. These will do me.”
With her arms crossed and the Carlson’s way breeze tugging lightly at her hair, she turned with the circling Seawolves, following them intently with her eyes. Already MacIntyre could see her projecting possibilities and considering options, weaving his gift into her plans. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “these grand old ladies will do me just fine.”
The Carlson’s wardroom was large, with a triple row of dark oak mess tables in its center and comfortably outfitted with matching brown leather couches and lounge chairs spaced around its perimeter. Yet, a new ship’s starkness still lingered about it. The accumulation of awards, mementos, and cruise memorabilia that would personalize this living space of the task force’s officers had barely begun.
Still, some progress had been made. Commander Carberry had a framed set of Treaty-era battleship and cruiser lithographs mounted on the bulkheads. Coming from his personal art collection, they underlined his decided fondness for the days and ways of “The Old Black Shoe Navy.”
Junior officers had learned to sidle for the door whenever Carberry started to wax eloquent about some detail or anecdote concerning a Texas-class dreadnought or Milwaukee light cruiser. The next installment of his continuing “What-all’s wrong with the fleet today” lecture loomed.
And then, of course, there was the palm tree.
Bearing an ominous resemblance to an interior decoration of the Pearl Harbor officers’ club, it had materialized mysteriously in the corner of the wardroom during the night prior to the Carlson’s sailing, complete with a hand-lettered CAPTAIN GARRETT’S PROPERTY sign spiked into the soil of its redwood planter.
The officer of the deck, the gangway watch, and the interior security patrols all stoutly denied knowledge of the miniature palm’s arrival. While Amanda thought that the handwriting on the sign bore a significant similarity to that of a certain female intel of her acquaintance, there wasn’t enough definitive evidence to warrant action.
There was only one possible dignified counter to the Ensign Pulverish prank. Amanda took the little palm under her personal care. Setting a grow light up over the leafy intruder, she bid that it stay.
The funny part was that she was actually growing rather fond of the ridiculous thing.
Stone Quillain was waiting for them at the center table. As the task force’s senior Marine officer and Amanda’s personal ground-warfare advisor, she wanted the rawboned leatherneck in on this ad hoc planning session.
Quillain came swiftly to his feet as Amanda, Christine, and MacIntyre entered.
“Good to see you again, Stone.” MacIntyre exchanged a handshake with the Marine. “How are your Sea Dragons working up?”
“Tolerable, sir, tolerable. Of course, so far it’s just been drill work and exercises.” A speculative glint came to the Marine’s dark and rather narrow eyes. “We’re going to have to take some real fire before we can say for sure.”
Quillain’s 1st Provisional Raider Company, more commonly referred to as the Sea Dragons, was yet another of the “great experiments” Amanda found herself dealing with. A unique five-platoon company, three of its elements, the heavy-weapons platoon and two of the rifle platoons, were standard Marine SOC (Special Operations Capable) line units. The remaining two platoons were fourteen-man Marine Force Reconnaissance units specialists in deep battlefield infiltration and covet intelligence gathering.
I warned you about being careful of what you ask for, Stone,” Amanda murmured. “Wishes can sometimes get granted at the most awkward of times.”
Coffee mugs were filled from the big stainless steel urn, more by reflex than from any real desire, and the four officers clumped at the center table.