Kevin Miller - Raven One

Wilson watched as Swartzmann’s eyes burned holes into Cajun, then shifted to Wilson, who held his gaze for a moment. Screw you, sir , he thought, and returned his attention to the admiral.

Cajun didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir, and the answer is a radar-to-FLIR-to-visual delivery. We can see on the radar if anything is along the wharf, sweeten it on the FLIR, and then roll in visually on goggles to refine the aimpoints. Wherever they moor these guys, we can hit them. And if nobody is home, we have alternate targets. There’s a boat crane here and a gasoline pipeline pump here connected to the fuel tank that services everything on the wharf.”

Smith studied the targets again. Bandar Abbas was a tough nut, and his A-team had to get in there. With an element of surprise, and led by Cajun Lassiter, they could suppress the defenses and take a toll on the Pasdaran before they could even react. Follow-on strikes along the coast would attrite Pasdaran assets to prevent further raids in Hormuz, of that he was certain, but could they destroy boghammars in numbers ? Damn things could hide in every cove and along every breakwater, or in some shack along the beach.

Smith motioned for Cajun to continue and followed him through discussions of the expected weather, DMPIs, contingencies, show stoppers, command and control nets, rules of engagement…. The list was exhaustive, and Smith let him move along, knowing they could anchor down on any of these subjects — and be here all night discussing the nuances and contingencies. Damned media! Smith surmised the Iranians could blow up a dozen of their dhows anywhere and blame America. He knew CNN and the BBC would run with it without questioning the source. Smith looked at the threat rings: big and lethal. How many of my aircraft and aviators will I lose?

“Any questions, sir?” Cajun was finished. Jolted from his daydream, Smith rapped his pen on the table and spoke in his low baritone.

“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.

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.