Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

The political posturing surrounding this whole incident was pure bullshit. Beltway bureaucrats safe in the inner rings and sub-basements of the Pentagon sat on the fence and on information until it was too late to save a bad situation. Things did not get much worse than this.

The North Koreans had signed a nuclear non-proliferation treaty with the South. This gave the United Nations, on paper at least, access for study teams. A first chance for the west to get a good look at the North Korean Nuclear Research facilities and assess their present capabilities.

Abrahams had read “Mao’s Little Red Book, The Art of War,” and the collective writings of Ho Chi Min. The mindset of move and countermove was not foreign to him. He felt the Treaty was a ruse. Upon its inception, he had written a paper outlining concerns to this effect. Unfortunately being the Commander in Chief of a Carrier Task Force took him out of the careful and pedantic machinations of the Pentagon loop and its inner circles. His paper received a lukewarm reception from his peers, and then carefully pierced by other adversaries, it sank into the morass of Pentagon politics without a trace. Abrahams would love to say “I told you so” to those polished bastards. But an attitude like that could and had ended many budding careers, in no short order. He had seen it done to men far better connected than him. “God hath no wrath like the ring on a witch hunt.”

So the North had waffled and stalled the UN’s best efforts for the last year, hanging on to their beleaguered regime by sheer grit and determination. To apply pressure, and remind the North just who had the bigger stick. “Team Spirit,” annual exercises held by US and South Korean forces, had been resumed. It was as good a cover as any to allow temporary bolstering of American assets in the field along the thin border of the Demilitarized Zone.

It had been tense, but things had stabilized and the North moved back to the table in Geneva to discuss their so-called concerns. Then disaster struck. An independent newspaper in Seoul published the diary of a top defense official in the South Korean government. The diary excerpts outlined the South’s development of a nuclear weapon. The weapon would be used against the North in the advent of resumed hostilities. The North had demanded an immediate political apology. The South rejected these demands. The North’s answer to the snub had been given a week ago. This time, Abrahams had the grim feeling it would go all the way.

A seaman standing in the corner watching the air displays called out, “Sir, the Airboss says a COD is inbound from Japan.”

Abrahams frowned. “There isn’t one due for two more days till the Mail Run.”

The seaman glanced down at a checklist on his clipboard. “Yes sir, no delivery scheduled for another forty eight hours.”

“Well get on the horn and see what Okinawa has coming out here.”

“Aye, sir.”

Abrahams turned back to his Tactical display. What the hell was so important that a COD would be sent out with no notification to Flight Ops?

“Uh, sir?” The young seaman was back.

Abrahams did not look up from the display. “Spit it out seaman.”

“Pri Fly says to expect visitors. That’s all the information they could get out of the COD’s pilot.”

“Thanks.” Abrahams dismissed the man. Probably another Senatorial junket out to see their tax dollars at sea. No, that was a best case scenario and Abrahams had not risen through officer ranks by always going for the best case. He turned to the Eisenhower’s Captain, Tom Mulray. “This doesn’t look good, Tom. I’m going to head down to Pri Fly and see what else the Airboss has. Take care of the fleet for me while I’m gone, will you?”

The Eisenhower’s Captain moved over to the TID. “Something not right?” There was worry in his voice. If it bothered the Admiral, it bothered him.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll keep you posted.” Abrahams left the CIC and made his way down and then back through the carrier’s sail to the air control perch known as Pri Fly, the dominion of his Airboss.

It may have been his fleet, but the Boss sure as hell made sure command knew who stopped his gung ho young pilots from spreading themselves all over Eisenhower’s nice clean flight deck.

The soundproofed confines of Pri Fly reduced the roar and thunder of twin engine F-18C Hornets to a dull rumble in his chest. Abrahams loved that feeling. It was pure, unadulterated power. The planes rocketed off the steam catapults into a darkening sky. As one left, the crunch and squeal of another hitting the arrestor wires could be heard.

Commander Bob Garfield was in full swing when Abrahams arrived. The small Midwesterner was fully engrossed in the intricate ballet of getting the planes he had just launched and was still launching into the stations of exhausted flight crews who were bringing their fuel-hungry birds home to the Eisenhower’s roost.

Abrahams was used to his Air Commander’s quirks. Garfield put in incredibly long hours. The man seemed tireless. What drove him, Abrahams could only guess, but the man’s record spoke for itself. Since he had been the Airboss on the Eisenhower, her safety record was the best in the entire Navy. With a record like that, Garfield was destined for Gold and Anchors.

The Commander got the last of his birds into the pattern and handed control over to one of the freckle-faced air controllers. The young seaman did not look old enough to control a school crossing, let alone be responsible for the safe landing of multi-million dollar aircraft. Just looking at the number of young faces in this room made Abrahams feel old.

Garfield turned to face his Admiral. His accent was a droll twang. Midwest for sure, but where was anyone’s guess. He knew exactly why Abrahams was there and answered his question before it was spoken.

“I don’t know what’s with the COD. They won’t talk to me. Just some babble about need to know. If you ask me, sounds like spooks.” He held his hand up, still keeping Abrahams at bay. “But on their present inbound track and speed, it will come in just behind our birds returning from BARCAP and then you can ask all the questions you want.”

“How long will that be?”

Garfield looked down at one of the radar sets. “Give me forty minutes to recover our birds. That should cover any bolters.” He gave Abrahams a, “Don’t you have anything better to do?” look.

Abrahams laughed, “Bob, don’t ever change.”

Garfield just snorted and waved his hand at his commanding officer. “Go do some Admiral shit will you, or a bunch of our guys are going swimming.”

Abrahams left Pri Fly and made his way down to an open air observation deck just above the main flight deck. He grabbed a pair of ear and eye protectors from the rack by the door. The sun was setting. Gold and red fire tinged with purple clouds arched across the horizon. It looked like the squall the Met section had reported on earlier was making its initial moves. To the aft of the flight deck, he could see the nose gear landing light of a Hornet as he lined up for approach. He frowned in frustration. Just what the hell was going on? Unannounced visitors on a Task Force at DEFCON 2? He had an ominous premonition. As bad as it was now, ten minutes after that COD landed, it was going to get a world worse.

When the news came, it was far more terrible than even he had imagined. “What!” The word smashed off the walls of the Admiral’s cabin, causing Gayle to flinch in spite of herself. Abrahams leaned over his desk and waved the briefing file Gayle had given him. “This is accurate?”

Gayle swallowed hard. “To the best of our knowledge, it’s backed up by the NSA and Military intelligence sources.”