Stephen Coonts - Combat

“Ever been on a carrier before, Mr. M?” Lieutenant Hanrahan asked, breaking into McGarvey’s thoughts. He was twenty-six, with a freshly scrubbed wide-eyed innocent look of a kid from some small town in the Midwest. But he was a service brat, his dad was a retired navy captain, and he was as calm and as hard as nails as any man in the SEALs. You only had to look into his eyes to see it. He’d been there done that, and when called upon he was ready, willing, and very able to go there again and do it again.

“A couple of times, but you forget how big they are.”

“About the size of a small city. Only problem is you can’t find a decent saloon anywhere aboard.”

McGarvey had to smile. He was being tested. “A decent legal saloon, you mean.” Hanrahan gave him a sharp look. “I wasn’t always a DDO. And grunts tend to hear a hell of a lot more than their superiors. Don’t shit an old shitter.”

Hanrahan grinned happily. “I read you, Mr. M.”

A red shirt guided them to touch down just forward of the island. The Grumman E-2C Hawkeye AWACS aircraft normally parked there was airborne, and for the moment the elevator to the hangar deck was in the up position and clear. Fully one-third of the Seventh and Third Fleet’s assets were in the air at any one time, making this one of the busiest pieces of air real estate in the world, even busier than Chicago’s O’Hare.

The seas were fairly calm and as soon as the helicopter came to a complete stop, McGarvey and Hanrahan unbuckled and grabbed their bags. There was no sense whatsoever that they were aboard a ship at sea. The deck was as rock solid as a parking lot in a big city, but noisier.

“Thanks for the ride,” McGarvey shouted up to the crew forward.

“Yes, sir. Hope you enjoyed the meal service and in-flight movie,” the pilot quipped.

“Just great,” McGarvey said. A cheese sandwich and a ginger ale while looking out a small window were not usually his first choices for breakfast and entertainment, but he’d had worse.

The red shirt motioned them to the island structure as the chopper was already being prepped to be moved below and refueled for the 350-nautical mile return trip. Just inside the hatch a Marine sergeant in battle fatigues, a Colt Commando slung over his shoulder, saluted.

“Gentlemen, please follow me to flag quarters.”

He led them down a maze of passageways, the machinery noises not as bad as McGarvey remembered from the Independence, but the corridors just as narrow and covered in stenciled alphanumeric legends. Pipes and cable runs were everywhere, and seemingly around every corner there were firefighting stations built into the Navy gray bulkheads. The ship was very busy, evident by all the activity they saw through the hatches in the bulkheads, decks, and overheads, and the constant PA announcements.

Men all good and true, busy at the work of war, the line came back to McGarvey from somewhere. Only these days it was men and women all busy at the work of war.

Another armed Marine sergeant in battle fatigues was stationed at the admiral’s door. He stiffened to attention. Their escort knocked once, then opened the door and stepped aside.

“Gentlemen, the admiral is expecting you.”

Flag quarters was actually a well-furnished suite, sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom, that equaled anything that a luxury ocean liner could offer — thick carpeting, rich paneling, nice artwork, expensive furniture, except there were no sliding glass doors or balconies.

“Good morning,” Vice Admiral Albert Ryland said. He put down his coffee cup and he and the other two men with him got to their feet.

“Good morning, Admiral,” McGarvey said, shaking hands.

Ryland, who was from Birmingham, Alabama, looked and sounded like a tall, lean Southern gentleman from the old school. He was one of the most respected officers in the Navy; it was Halvorson’s opinion that he would probably end up Chairman of the Joint Chiefs within five years. “Don’t try to hold anything back on him, or he’ll cut you off at the knees,” Halvorson warned.

“This is the George’ s captain, Pete Townsend, and my Operations Officer, Tom Byrne.”

They shook hands. The captain looked like a banker or the chairman of some board of directors. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, his hair was thin and gray, and his face was round and undistinguished. Byrne, however, was a very large black man who looked like he could play with the Green Bay Packers. His grip was as strong as bar steel.

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Hank Hanrahan. I have orders to assist Mr. McGarvey.”

“You Mike Hanrahan’s son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s your old man doing these days?”

“He misses the Navy, sir.”

Ryland chuckled. “This would be just the kind of brouhaha he’d like to be in.” He turned back to McGarvey. “Well, the Chinese know that you’re here. They’re watching every move we make. Satellites and OTH radar.”

“Hopefully they don’t know who I am,” McGarvey said. “And we’re going to keep it that way because Hank and I are not going to be aboard very long. Just until nightfall.”

“I thought your helicopter was heading back right away,” Townsend said.

“We’re not leaving that way.”

“Unless they’re sending another bird for you, I don’t have anything to spare.”

“We’re not flying.”

“Are you going to swim?” Townsend demanded angrily.

“As a matter of fact that’s exactly what we’re going to do, Captain,” McGarvey said. “Tonight.”

He couldn’t blame Ryland or his officers for being in a bad temper. They were in the middle of a likely very hot situation with their hands practically tied behind their backs. This was a fight between China and Taiwan. The U.S. was Taiwan’s ally and was supposed to back them up if they were attacked, but the Navy was here only to show the flag. The President’s orders remained very specific: Ryland was not to shoot unless the Chinese shot at his people first. In effect if the PRC navy simply wanted to sail right through the middle of the Seventh and Third Fleets, engage every Taiwanese warship they encountered, and then send troops ashore, there was nothing Ryland could do about it.

Ryland shook his head. “Dick Halvorson said that you were inventive.”

McGarvey smiled faintly. “I don’t think that was exactly the word he used.”

“No.”

Byrne poured them coffee. “Admiral Halvorson said that we were to give you whatever you wanted.” He looked at Hanrahan, who did not avert his gaze. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

McGarvey took a plain white envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Ryland. He figured that if the flag officers were unhappy before, they would be even less happy after reading the letter.

When Ryland was done he handed it to Townsend, and looked at McGarvey. “Okay, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs calls to tell me than the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations is flying out, and I’m supposed to give him all the help I can. I’m thinking that perhaps you’re bringing a magic bullet to get us out of the mess we’re in. And now this.”

Townsend had finished the letter, and he handed it to Byrne. He was clearly upset.

“No magic bullets this time, Admiral. But I think we might have a chance of coming out of this situation with our asses more or less intact,” McGarvey replied. He had decided long ago never to try to argue with a man who has just been blindsided. If you wanted to get through to him, you waited until he calmed down a little.

“That’s a comfort,” Ryland said acerbically. “I’m told to defend Taiwan, but I can’t fire a shot to do it.” He glanced at Byrne, who had also finished the letter. “Now the President tells me that I can’t even ask any questions. Christ on the cross, if we lose here, we lose everywhere!”