Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Mike, it is hard , I know, but my people are telling me this guy is out of his depth — if you’ll pardon the pun. They ran a little operation yesterday, and one of his pilots was blinded by a laser from a druggie yacht. Meyerkopf’s guys found it and sank the sumbitch, but they got some intel. Seems the druggies are raising the stakes.”

“I heard. So, that’s a good thing, right? When faced with a threat, he acted. And his people did an outstanding job getting the pilot back. He—”

“Mike… Mike, we’re gearing up for a fight with Venezuela that is going to be primarily an air/sea fight, and my people are telling me the guy on my carrier is wrong for it. That he’s a submarine guy and doesn’t have the background.”

“General, Admiral Buck Rogers is getting Theodore Roosevelt underway in three days. He’s an aviator, and senior to Roland, and when he gets down there and working for you, he can be the task force commander doing your will and fighting your naval component. And Roland will do what he says. I have every confidence.”

Exasperated, Freeman got to the bottom line.

“Mike, why do I have to live this way? My people— and I— do not have confidence in him right now. I’m sure he’s a water-walking superstar, but right now I want Pete Peterson to send me a guy who is proven and has the right background. I’m not asking , Admiral, and if you elevate this to the Chairman, I assure you I’m going to win it. We’re talking about a one-star brigade-level commander who is going to be replaced on the eve of battle. It happens, and I’m not going to give it a second thought. I need support now , and it’s Pete’s job to provide it. He asked me to inform you as a courtesy, and I did.”

Dwyer avoided eye contact with his staff as he took another humiliating body blow from a combatant commander, one who knew little about naval warfare. He would get even with Pete Peterson for not pushing back and defending a fellow naval officer — and with the junior admirals on Freeman’s staff who put him up to this.

“Thank you for the call, General. How else may the Navy help?”

“Pete’s been great, and our staffs are working well together. We are probably a week away from initiating action, but with the hostage situation, State is now pushing for an immediate response. I may not have time to flow forces according to plan. You know what Castro is doing around GITMO?”

“Yes, sir, and we’re loading an Amphibious Ready Group of Marines in North Carolina as we speak. You’ll have it the middle of next week.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure an ARG is going to answer the mail. We may need to airlift some Marines to GITMO now, so I plan to call Dave Keller over at Air Force after we finish. Mike, I appreciate your position, and I know this is not an easy conversation to have. Pete will handle it, and I thank the Navy for your support. We can’t do it without you guys.”

“Absolutely, General, all of us service chiefs are here this morning and wish we could be down there in the fight. Please don’t hesitate to call anytime you need me.”

“Will do, Mike. I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon. Bye now.”

Dwyer put the receiver down and exhaled. His EA walked over.

“Sir, Admiral Davies just gave up strike group command last week and is still in the Norfolk area.”

“Yeah, Devil Davies lives for this shit. He’s a warrior… and he’s probably who Peterson will send. Draft a P4 message for Admiral Peterson: ‘Discussed Coral Sea leadership situation with SOUTHCOM. Proceed. Dwyer sends.’ That’s it. No warm regards or any of that happy horseshit. I’m pissed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Dwyer looked at the plaques and career mementos on the wall of his office, an office occupied by men like Nimitz, Burke, and Holloway. Warfighters who sent forces and orders to combatant commanders. Now the COCOMs called the shots and Mike Dwyer was all but irrelevant. He served as the Chairman’s butt boy who testified on the Hill and talked to frickin’ reporters… and played charity golf with glad-handing beltway bandits.

Damn , he thought, wishing he could be a one-star again on a flagship like Coral Sea , gearing for battle.

Seated in his ready room chair, Wilson sipped coffee from his mug as he reviewed the message board. Russian bombers flying down the east coast. Forces massing near GITMO. The American diplomat arrested at gunpoint in Caracas. Ho-ly shit . He felt Coral Sea vibrate underneath him as it continued east along the southern coast of Hispaniola. They were going somewhere fast, and when they reached “somewhere,” the ship would orbit and await tasking in the Navy’s familiar hurry-up-and-wait modus operandi .

Wilson had visited Trench in sick bay earlier that morning, a difficult visit. The doctors hoped an eye surgeon could save his sight, or somehow improve it, but they weren’t too optimistic. Trench was resigned now, but depressed that he had to leave that day on the COD. It was bad enough that he had to leave on the cusp of potential combat, but having to contemplate an unknown future made it even worse. Wilson saw the worry and fear in Trench’s face, a fear he could not relate to. Blind at 28 years old.

The duty desk phone rang, and Macho, the duty officer, answered it. “Skipper, XO is on the phone for you.”

Wilson stepped over and took the receiver. “Skipper.”

“Flip, Annie. We have a situation here. May we meet in your stateroom to discuss? Now, if we can.”

“Roger, see you there in five minutes.” Wilson handed the phone back to Macho. He picked up his mug and washed it out in the sink before leaving the ready room.

He wondered what this was about and hoped it was a material vice a personnel problem. With Trench out of action, VFA-16 had a hole to fill. Air Wing staff officers and Weed could step in to fill the flight schedule requirements, but it wasn’t the same as having your own guy. And, if this spin-up involving action all about the Caribbean basin turned into actual combat, any hole in the roster make scheduling more difficult.

He reached his stateroom a minute before Annie arrived. Wilson shared a head with fellow CO Billy Martin, and, instinctively, he and Annie spoke in low tones as they sat facing each other. Annie began.

“One of our junior officers is being bullied by JOs throughout the ship.”

Wilson nodded, absorbing the information. “Let me guess. Macho.”

Annie shook her head. “Look at this.”

Opening a folder, she pulled out a photo and handed it to Wilson. It was a computer printout of his intelligence officer, a photo of Shane taken from behind. She wore blue jeans, but her back was bare. Her face was identifiable in profile as she looked over her shoulder in a pensive pose. A design was tattooed on her lower back.

“Okay, what are your thoughts?” he asked.

“The photo is relatively tame, but I don’t think intel officers welcome this in their backgrounds. But it’s worse. The airwing guys found this, and the smoking gun points at Coach.”

“Others have seen this?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s all over the ship, all over it.”

“Does Shane know?”

“I don’t think so.”

Wilson exhaled. “I mean — how do they surf the Web from the ship? Don’t we have filters for this stuff?”

“Yes, but Coach was tipped off about the photo and had a friend on the beach do the research. The friend then sent Coach the photo in an email — and it has now been distributed locally.”

Wilson shook his head in disgust. “What a great squadronmate! So who tipped him off?”