"VP-15, turn left, 185 degrees, call on base."
"Roger, VP-15" Commander Alex Johnson, aircraft commander, glanced at the ball and needle as he banked the latest model of the P-3 Orien into the downwind leg for Moffet Air Station. His crew and he both were enjoying their weeks flying in the brand spanking new bird. She was capable of taking out the best of Ivan's newest subs, and had more electronic surveillance gear than any other naval patrol craft in existence.
The four stretched and higher powered turbo-prop engines droned at their consistent rpm as his copilot adjusted the prop pitch to slow their speed down to pattern speed.
Just returning from their first long haul armed mission in the E model, they were all elated. She had performed beyond their expectations, and even the next 16 hour long flight tomorrow over their training area at sea would be a pleasure.
Well at least most of it. The boredom would always be there, unless of course they happened to spot something. Their chances were better than most, since they had all that new equipment. But in reality he knew it would most likely be another routine training mission. It would be nice if CINCPAC threw in a U.S. sub for testing of the planes new systems. They would at least get the thrill of a contact and perhaps a chase.
Nodding to the co-pilot, the man began to read out loud the rest of the items on the pattern checklist, pausing only when he got to the flaps. Again with a nod, Alex moved the flap lever to 5 percent, and replied audibly, "Flaps 5 percent".
They worked their way down the checklist, each operation bringing them closer to their landing. Ahead of them, the Los Gatos hills of the Santa Cruz Mountains could be seen peeking through the ever present smog cloud, looking like pyramids sticking through a bunch of dirty frosted sugar donuts suspended above the ground. As he began to make his bank, he radioed, "Moffett Approach, VP-15 on base".
"Roger 15, cleared TACAN approach, runway 02L. Wind is 10 knots at 310, altimeter is know 29.92. Change to Moffet Tower, 221.34."
"Roger 15 is cleared TACAN runway 02L, moving to 221.34." Clicking the radio frequency digits, he spoke again, "Moffet Tower, VP-15 on base for TACAN 02L."
"Copy VP-15, cleared for TACAN runway 02L. Traffic for 02R is approaching from course 275, 3 miles your position."
"Roger will call when runway in sight, VP-15."
Now Alex got very busy as the began the approach checklist and he tuned the ILS indicator for the Moffet landing. This too was new. In fact few of the Oriens had the commercial gear that this one had. Since most of them had been manufactured in the sixties, they hadn't been delivered with current technology navigational systems. Therefore when the Navy had spent the bucks to upgrade to inertial guidance and other high tech avionics for search of subs, they simply left out the luxuries of instruments that could only be used on a few military fields where an Orien could be expected to land.
Alex loved the ILS system, his faith in its simplicity and the low failure rate in the last fifteen years had made it a safe and easy method for landing in inclement weather.
Not that they really needed it today. They could easily VFR in til they broke through. The ceiling was broken at 1200 feet. But since there was the possibility of them flying through dense banks of clouds on the way in, it was safe practice to remain on instruments until well under the broken cover.
"Mr Dayton, I'm Fredricks, Commander Delta. Sergeant Normont says you've got a hard on for Delta so I guess I'm a wet dream come true for you."
Buck winced at the derision in the Colonel's voice.
"Look let's get that sorted out right here. My last assignment was aboard the U.S.S Kennedy out in the Mediterranean. You know the little sub chase?"
"Oh yeah, heard about that. In fact ...uhh Commander Jackson and I had a little discussion about that earlier."
Buck decided to lay on his "I'm a straight shooter" routine, hoping to work his way into the fold. At least that way, he might get a chance to really see the workings of Delta. Even if the censors killed the best parts of his work, he might be able to at least paint a good picture of the dedication of men like Fredricks.
"Okay, so you probably know that I'm not about to screw up your operation. I just want to be in on the details so I can make a real story out of it without all the bullshit some of my colleagues tend to throw around. And you should know I'm not some super liberal looking for a something to spear a hawk with. I write from the heart and am damned proud of it."
Fredricks looked him in the eye for a moment and confirmed Jackson's assessment of Dayton. A pain in the ass, but honest. And about as close to a hawk as a newsman could be today and still be in business.
"Okay Mr. Dayton. I'll go along with this crazy idea. We share it all with you. But if this burns, rest assured that I will outlast you in these circles. I'm the best at my business, and I'll be around to scratch your name with black crayon every time pool applications come up. Believe, me I mean it."
"Fair enough. I'm also the best at my business, so we can cut the bullshit and get down to the fat. By
the way, Buck is fine."
"Okay, Colonel is my name. Here's the situation..." and Buck grimaced more to himself. Great, a straight arrow. Glad we're all buddies now.
Pilot Alex Johnson heard a click in his headphones. He kept his attention on the instruments of the P-3, but wondered at the pause. "Who goes there", he quipped and then Junior Murtberg's voice came on, "That's weird".
"What's weird, Junior."
"Sorry Sir. I don't know. It was if I had a momentary lock on."
"Right. Maybe the other bird cycled his gear."
"No way, sir. I got a heavy direction sense on it, and it was toward the bay. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd swear it was out in the middle."
"Subs slinking around Alviso, Junior" quipped Bosco, the copilot.
"Yeah..." with a laugh, "...guess I'm a little anxious to prove 15 is a super hawk. Okay, I'll shut up."
"Anytime, Junior. Log it. Can't expect everything to be perfect. Lots of electronics to debug on this lady."
"Aye Sir, its logged."
Alex grinned at the copilot and they both reflected on their previous experiences on P-3s. The older birds were only 80 percent alive at any one time. The patch-worked electronics were always giving them fits, and the standing joke was that more subs had been spotted under the concrete of Moffett Naval Air Station then any of the hot spots in the oceans.
As they approached their turn for final, Alex winked his landing lights at the other P-3 a few minutes away from his turn, flying directly at them winging in from across the mountains. This plane was probably a nuclear armed rig, just returning from a long 16 hour patrol mission out at sea.
The other plane winked its lights, as Alex keyed the mic, "Moffet Tower, VP-15 on final, 3000, outer marker."
"Roger 15, descend on TACAN, call when you have field in site."
"Copy Moffet, call when visible."
Alex and Bosco finished up the checklist, and the copilot stuffed the laminated card into the small pocket in Alex's seat. Ahead the spotty clouds hid the field, but of to their right, the strobes at San Jose International could be seen beckoning the commercial jocks home.
Adding more flaps while Bosco reduce the pitch a little more, they settled into their 500 feet per minute descent, the Pratt & Whitney engines purring effortlessly. Alex appreciated the new plane and its engines for yet another reason. The older birds had shook from the vibrations of the commercial engines so long that when the military folks upgraded them, the lose panels inside the plane and the stiff reinforcements had driven even the hardiest crews batty. Finally when earplugs had become standard issue, the newer "military design" models came along and had reduced the sound level somewhat. But even in those birds you could feel the vibrations of the engines, your whole body aching after a grueling 16 hour flight.
This new plane also boasted of a smoother ride, and Alex was, so far anyway, convinced it was not idle bragging by Lockheed. Driving the VP-15 was like swinging around in a Eldorado after spending ten years in a stiff corvette. Except this Eldorado out performed the older corvettes. Again he heard the click in his headphones, and Alex was about to chew Junior out for leaving the gear on this late in the landing, when he saw a red light pop on the weapons counsel.
"Evasive Three, jamming" shouted Junior.
Alex only hesitated for a second then jammed the left rudder hard, swinging the tail of the P-3 toward the right side of their flight path. At same time he rammed the throttles to full military power. As soon as he caught the indication of the rpm change, he poured in full pitch, and yanked up on the flaps lever.
"VP-15 ABORT ABORT ABORT, turning left to 300 degrees, full power ascent to 5000" he radioed firmly hoping like hell the controler didn't give him any shit.
"Uh, roger 15, I'm clearing a hole for you now.
"Say status 15, when you can."
"What the fuck, Junior" he shouted over the intercom. But his ECM officer didn't have to answer, cuz as he watched in horror a racing streak broke through the clouds to their right and below them and disappeared behind them.
"Holy Shit" echoed twelve overlapping voices.
"Moffett, 15, One arrow just by us. Repeat just evaded an arrow. Request targeting perogative."
"What the shit you pullin' 15...Holy Shit!" was the reply as they all saw a flash reflected off the clouds and felt the concussion of the explosion.
"Moffett, 15, VP-23 is down, Repeat VP-23 is down. I need that green light, NOW!"
"Standby 15, working on it."
"Junior did you get a fix on the bandit?"
"Roger, Sir. It's in the bay. Come right to 00. I'll give you the spiral in a second. Okay its in the computer."
"Rog.", then switching back to his radio, "Moffett, I have the initiative, target IDed on the shot. Get everyone out of my way. I going vertical at the far end of runway 02L."
"Rog 15, traffic is of no concern up to north end of Bay. Oakland says watch your six."
Alex grinned despite the sudden crisis, then nodding to Bosco, he armed the obligatory conventional Harpoon hanging hidden in the bomb bay, and smoothly forced the column forward. As they picked up speed in their dive, he and Bosco were bringing the bird into combat mode.
"Jamming on all bands now, Sir." reported Junior, his tense voice revealing his own busy hands at work. For 50 miles around Moffett, every VHF and UHF radio set began to squeak and howl. Television in all parts of the bay went off the air.
Alex checked the instruments again for a moment, then prepared for the sudden vision he expected as he broke through the patchy clouds. Sure enough as the P-3 burst through the cloud layer, he had to resist to yank back on the column. The ground seemed to race at them, especially after seeing mostly the depth-deceiving gray clouds.
"Target is illuminating" reported Bosco, and Alex searched the bay in front of him looking for the launcher of the missile.
"And I've got another Radar probe."
Ahead he could only see the dirty gray and white of the salt layers of Alviso, but he knew that off to his left there was a slight green tinge of somewhat deeper water.
"15, Moffett, switch to NAVCOM 4."
"Finally" muttered Alex, as he switched his main radio channel over to the secure command channel.
"15" was all he said into his mic, and the reply was just as short, "Roger 15, Green Light, Charlie."
"Roger, 15 is green charlie, out." Alex was now in command of a conventionally armed war bird, with full detection, tracking, and attack perogative.
Bosco reached over and switched Alex's combat tactical to the FLIR pods camera, and Alex chanced a quick look down to see the electronic version of the target. Obviously a small boat, probably a fishing boat or pleasure craft.
"Junior" he spoke into the intercom, "What's our chances of confusing another arrow?"
"Pretty good, I'd say, that last one was intended for us" the ECM operator answered. "What about us blowing a fisherman out of the water?"
"No chance, Sir. Computer locked this one the instant it fired. We have a track all the way, and we've been tracking his IR ever since."
Alex exchanged a quick glance with Bosco, and with determination moved the final arming switch cover to the "ARM" position. "Arming number 1" he echoed as he moved the arming switch to on. The yellow lights on the weapons console blinked to red, and Alex swallowed hard. He was about to blow a small boat out of the water, risking the chance that he was mistaken, and risking the entire plane if he was not. Just to cover his ass, he took a second key down on the command frequency.
"VP-15 Able" letting his commander he was on his attack run.
"Roger 15, Carry On. VP-23 is a Broken Arrow."
"Copy Command" replied Alex understanding that VP- 23 had been nuclear armed, and that the cleanup of the crash was taking dimensions that even the very capable Sunnyvale Public Safety Office would find difficult to deal with.
Alex released the lock-on button with a vengeance. VP-23 had taken the surface to air missile intended for him. Not only was he scared out of his wits, but he was pissed as hell.
"Standby" he warned on the crew channel, then stood the P-3 on its left wing, the airframe groaning against the max-G turn, and Alex felt the gut crushing grab of the partial G-suit as it kept him from blacking out from the stress. Looking down for just a glimpse he saw the area where the target should be. Just for a moment a power cruiser, about 22 foot was jumped in and out of his sight as it jumped across the choppy water of the bay.
It gave Alex a start to see it, but then when he careened the huge P-3 into the opposite turn of the figure eight, he glanced down at the instrument panel again. The weapons officer centered the sights of the FLIR Pod's high mag viewer onto the back of the boat. For just a moment they could see the details of a deadly launcher tube. That was enough for Alex, and he moved the launch switch to "ENABLE" and a blinking red light told him the WO was ready to shoot.
"Go for launch, WO" he said quietly confirming his electronic signal, and they felt a jerk as the bomb bay doors shot open, released their one and only Harpoon, and then snapped closed again. With a flash the Harpoon seared away from them toward the boat, and Alex banked into the final side of the figure eight. Then with a long hard pull, he shot back up towards the clouds.
"We hit 550 on the dive, Sir" reported Bosco, and Alex resisted an urge to tremble. "Not yet, man" he told himself. Hang on a little longer.
Another concussion shook the plane, the flash searing their eyes as it was reflected off the clouds ahead of them.
"Got him" yelled Junior, and several cheers echoed his outburst.
"Can it guys" ordered Alex. He was damn scared and didn't feel like celebrating. What the fuck was going on? Who had shot that thing? Was it the beginning of something he didn't want to admit could happen?
"Command, 15. Splash surface target. Say again, splash one surface target. Confirmed one Sierra Alpha Mary."
"15, Command. Copy your splash report. Ready to Copy Orders?"
"Go Command" replied Alex, dreading to hear the code sign which meant it was war time, time to head out to sea and not return.
"Maintain station, hold on Woodside 275 hold pattern. Will advise."
"Roger Command" he replied again, a wave of relief washing over him. "Uhh anything you want to tell us about?"
"Negative 15, We WILL advise!"
"Rog, 15."
Alex looked again over at Bosco. The man was pale, and was rubbing his hands together. Alex and he had been straining pretty hard on the control column despite the power assist of P-3. It was certain that they had overstressed the bird, breaking all the peacetime rules in a three minute battle.
"If I look like you do, somebody is gonna accuse me of being a honky" quipped Johnson, hoping to calm his pilot down. But despite the man's quick grin, Alex could see it was short lived. The poor fellow was really shook.
And why shouldn't he be. After all, no one expected to be in battle while tooling around over Silicon Valley. It was...well...ludicrous. God what the fuck was going on?
Lt. Commander Dale Scott picked up the Red phone in the Moffet tower and clearing his voice spoke in his best voice of command.
"COMTAC, this is Lt. Commander Scott, D.O. in the tower. We have a confirmed downing of a P-3. I repeat a confirmed downing P-3 at this time. I am placing the base on condition 1. Have the Wing Commander call me on this line. Also call into tower number 3333 and standby for a Flash Early in one minute."
Pressing the next button on the phone, the D.O. started calling the numbers he knew by heart. "Security, this is the D.O. in the Tower. Secure the base, especially the dumps. This is not a drill. We have an incident. Flash Early in one minute. Hold this line."
Then on yet another line,"OPS, this is the D.O. We have a Flash Early in one minute. Warm up the birds, condition 1". Without a breath yet, he finished up his obligatory calls.
"Wing, this is the D.O. in Tower. Flash Early in one minute. Find the Wing Commander NOW! Red phone waiting."
He hung up, exhaling. The adrenalin high he was on did not offset the worry knawing at his stomach, and he understood finally what combat command was like on the land. On a ship, your variables were a lot simplier. You secured the ship with a General Quarters, and people scurried. Here he had to do most everything himself. As if he were on the bridge of the ship, he was currently at the CON, since the P-3 downing was reported by radio to the tower. Shortly, COMTAC would take over, the folks in Combat Tactical already talking with the P-3 driver over the combat frequency. And with any kind of luck, the Wing Commander would call in on the Red Phone to take the CON away from him. He remembered another important tactical move.
"Davies, notify TACAN to shutdown. We are not going to help someone inbound find us."
"Aye Sir" replied the chief as he added this call to his list of notifiees. This move would shut down the normal peacetime navigational beacons.
Realizing that this would mean the San Jose Airport area would be without one of its navigational aids, the D.O. said,
"Harold, get onto the civilian pukes at San Jose FAA. Let 'em know we are responding to an incident and shutting down. Also advise condition two on the Navy frequencies.
"Aye Sir. To all stations, this is Moffett. Condition Two. Repeat Condition Two" responded the young rating at the tower radio, sending the last transmission for at least several hours.
But FAA personell did not have to be told. They're combat awareness unit had already intercepted the original message from the lucky survivor P-3 and had seen the "washout" as the P-3 jammed the airwaves. Team Manager Dave Williams had already reported to Washington, and had received permission to begin the crash investigation.
"Let's move it Henry. I want everybody on the chopper in five minutes. Cindy, get your people ready to hit the neighborhood a maximum of five minutes after we arrive. This is confirmed combat, so sequester anyone who knows the nature of the incident. I want you to hold for intelligence who I'm sure won't be far behind. Anyone who squawks gets read the intelligence act, then the aid and abeit bit. We are operating on a confirmed kill, and prior intelligence info, so let's not be shy."
"Oakland Center, this is Alpha 3 Heavy, we have everyone back except Moffett. Advise."
"Copy Alpha 3. Climb and maintain 11,000, your vector is zero, zero, four. Do not use your transponder, say again do not ID. Your mandatory destination is Sacramento, say again, Sacramento. Contact Bay Area departure on 135 point 4. Copy?"
"What the hell Oakland Center. I'm low on fuel right now, Sacramento is a far stretch. I need confirmation on that."
"Just do it, Alpha 3. We have one helluva mess down here. Unless you want to get a missile up your ass, I suggest you don't make yourself a target. Now move."
"Christ" was the only reply as the big heavy swung around to the south and the pilot spied the cloud of smoke issuing from the ground eighty miles away. Back inside the jumbo, stewardesses swore as passengers wailed and the last of that final drink spilled all over the place.
Back on the radio similiar instructions were being given to all aircraft in the bay area. Leave. Now. Quickly. Don't hesitate.
"Red Neck this is Porcupine with a Flash Early message in three parts."
The duty officer at the SAC command post at Mather AFB near Sacramento, California, jumped. Another ORI, Operational Readiness Inspection. A daylighter too. What a bitch. He thumbed the alert button, and bumped the toggle on the klaxon for the combat crews.
"Wing, this is the Command Post, we have an Early Flash."
"Right, hit it. Wing Commander will be on the line in two."
"Yes, Sir, I already did it. Doesn't sound like a message only, Sir."
"Okay, Gordie. Hang in their. Command is on its way."
Lt. Gordie Abrams grimaced. Not that he thought he was ready to take command of this situation, but it did rile him to think Wing didn't have the confidence. But then again, he had voiced it. He had a funny feeling about this one. Middle of the afternoon, rush hour, and all that. Not exactly what SAC liked to do. Their speciality was 5:00 am Sunday, not when everyone was expected to be on the job.
"Red Neck, message is as follows. Golden Retriever, Crystal Palace, Seven Three. November, Calistoga, Century, Two. Alpha, Red, Papa, Three. Copy by Authentication Only. Zulu, November, Customer, 1, 2, 8,9,4. Red Neck."
Gordie didn't bother to dechiper the command yet knowing his codes were not able to do so. Instead he took the time to ring the Maintenance Commander for the base, a political move that usually paid off.
"Message for Colonol Thomason, this is Lt. Abrahms at Command Post. We have an item of interest in the news today. Could you pass that to the Colonel, immediate. Thank you."
Then he rolled his chair over to the keyboard, and transferred the voice message's hardcopy backup to the cipher machine, just as the teletype and computer displays began to light up with digital form of the voice message.
He keyed in the mornings 32 bit cipher code and waited for the computer to authenticate and decode the message.
Seeing the flashing authenticate blinking, he worried over the speed of which the primary message had been deciphered. That was damn fast. It wasn't normal to say the least.
"Wing this is Command Post, message is authenticated."
"Roger, Command en-route...oopss Command just switched, they must be coming in the door."
Sure enough the Wing Commander strode into the command post in a golf shirt and cleats. Gordie stood, starting a salute.
"Can it Gordie. And sit down. This isn't a drill at this time of day. Buddy, find Cec, no time for inter-rivalry shit either...yes what is it Gordie?"
"I already let him know, Sir."
"Okay Gordie. Enjoy the Old Grand Dad when you get it. Cec will be real happy. Now shoot the message over to my terminal."
Wing Commander Buster Cole, typed in his pass code and watched as the single words were converted into specific paragraphs aimed at all the SAC bases in the U.S.
"FLASH EARLY, ALL COMMAND STATIONS AT CONDITION TWO. ATTACK OF MILITARY AIRCRAFT, LOCATION MOFFETT NAS, CALIFORNIA. CONFIRMED SAM DOWNING OF P-3 ORIEN. AIRCRAFT IS A BROKEN ARROW, NO SURVIVORS EXPECTED. COS NOTIFIED. BAY AREA AIR CORRIDORS CLOSED, TRAFFIC ROUTED TO SACRAMENTO, STOCKTON, RENO. LAUNCH ALL AIRCRAFT ON DELTA FIVE UNLESS RECALLED. RECALL IS TWO, NINER, SEVEN, STROKE, XRAY, CHARLIE. AUTHENTICATION, CRYSTAL PALACE, NORAD, 21:00 GMT."
"Okay, Gordie, this is for real. Move them out to the taxi ways, get the first bird on the threshold. Buddy, close the base. I want no justify on that. Shoot to kill. Ahh Cec..." he gestured to a seat next to him, inviting his old friend and a former SAC combat crew commander to join him as he came in.
"...Okay, we have a real incident down at Moffett. P-3 taken out by SAM, probably shoulder launched shit but who knows. Question to you is what's our strength?"
"Uhh, estimate about 80% combat, 10% less peacetime, and 10% marginal at taxi. In other words, General, if it were an ORI, we wouldn't fail, but just only so. Since its not, I'd say we can launch 90% of our combat aircraft and all of our tankers. We can loiter for about two hours here to help out the other planes enroute, then divert to secondary as planned."
"Okay, thanks for the confirmation. Buddy, launch the buffs. Tankers ten minutes after, send one group to sortie at secondary and help any stragglers en- route." Then swiveling around in his chair, the General addressed everyone in the Command Post.
"Listen up everyone. We are at condition 2, no drill. Ladies and Gentlemen let's do it right. No calls. Off base families will be get the note by dinner time so don't worry about them."
Mary Thomason stopped at the barricade at the front gate of Mather AFB, having never seen this obstacle before in her life as an Air Force wife.
"What gives Sergeant" she said, her annoyance at bay due to the strangeness of the situation.
"Sorry mahm. Base is closed."
"Not another ORI?"
"Don't know mahm. But..." and the Air Policeman gestured in the direction of a pair of Combat dressed serviceman carrying M-1 automatics and dressed to kill, literally.
"Ohhh" was all that escaped her lips as she turned the car around and rushed to her best friend's home in Rancho Cordova. Turning on the radio, she hoped she would hear nothing.
"...reported to be down in Silicon Valley. Here is Admiral Pensinch at the Pentagon."
"We regret to inform you of a downing of a U.S. Naval aircraft on approach to its base at Moffett Naval Air Station. It is confirmed that the aircraft was downed by a surface to air missile or SAM, and that there are no survivors. We will report on the situation as it occurs. At this point all military forces are under alert, and will remain so until the situation is clearer. That is all I can tell you at this point." Then the reporters voices blared in "..Admiral, Sir...Can you..."
Mary shut off the radio, her breath coming out in a rush, her heart thumping. At least it wasn't incoming ICBMs. Well, she would just have to get word to the kids to come to the Moberg's. Damned she was scared. Oh Cecil, hang in there you big lump.
"Holly here" answered the rugged looking man sitting at a desk in the Pentagon. He didn't match the environment one bit, and at times it showed. But he did match the title on the frosted glass of the door to his office which read "Commanding General, US Marine Recon". But few ever saw this office. For the halls it cornered off of were within that great inner circle of the five sided building. Such as it was. A two star General in the midst of four star Generals and their vast staffs, Holly was relegated to unseemingly spartan offices.
Never-the-less Dutch Holly no longer felt the pang of dissappointment. In order to accomplish his mission, he had necessarily ignored the surroundings for the last two years. His attention remained elsewhere. Again as necessary. Like clockwork, every month, his attention had been drawn outside the continental U.S. He had adjusted admirably, keeping his men and his attention centered on Terrorist or Government Insurgent activities. As a further necessity, he attempted to ignore any activity inside the U.S.. This contradiction, this ignorance of domestic terrorism was a direct response to those in the government who feared an elite group of overly capable, the overt action cadre that his Force Recon represented.
But now things had changed dramatically. Those same forces rebelling to the formation of Delta and other elite units in the military, were now clamoring, albeit behind closed doors, but clamoring never-the- less. They wanted action, not entirely cool headed action, but action still. And Dutch was not about to disappoint his former critics. Granted he would step gingerly in home territory, but God help any terrorist found by his men. It was a sad fact, but he had long ago given up on interviewing a terrorist captured by Marine Recon. Given the typical circumstances of a capture necessitated by the calling in of Force Recon, few of the bad guys lived to talk about their actions.
Focusing his attention on the action report from Moffett, he ground his teeth, once again setting himself up for a dental appointment and a mouthgard for sleeping. "I've got it General. Yes, Sir I know what to do. Yeah, Semper Fi." He hung up the phone breaking the connection to the Marine Commandant and pondered the information he had received earlier.
"The balls of the terrorists!" he said out loud. It frightened even him, frightened him enough to push down on the intercom toggle.
"Julie, get me Colonel Davies, on the double."
"Davies here" the lined hissed, but Dutch was amazed at the quality considering the security measures on the line, and the distance separating them. The man was probably out fishing again.
"Chuck? Jimmie. You heard about Moffett? Oh, okay, in ten words or less. Some son-of-a-bitch shot down a P-3 over Moffett in California. Yeah, I know, that's what I said. Look I don't like this shit one bit. After the poop on the folks coming across the border, I'm a little hinky. Yeah, no shit. Look, grab your boots and get on out there. Yeah, now you idiot. Oh, okay, bring the damn thing in. No I won't settle down. You wanna trade jobs? Oh come on. You've been saying that for years. Hell man, in Vietnam I told you I'd never be your boss, now look at us. Okay, enjoy it asshole. Sure. Later."
"Sheesh" he said to himself, trying to figure out how an irreverant SOB like Chuck Davies could still command Recon in the field at age fifty. It was incredible. Three of his junior officers had wound up commanding the man and none of them got anymore respect from him now than any of his current people. Respect was where you earned it, in the field. Oh well hell.
"Berry? Chuck. Training time. Twenty Hundred hours on the ramp. Right. Fuck you too."
"Sammie? Chuck. Training time. Twenty Hundred hours on the ramp. Oh shit. Tell her sorry for me. Okay, see ya there."
"Eddie it's Chuck. Get your gear together, I'll be needing you for some intensive training at Andrews by Twenty Hundred hours. No, sorry, no choice. Yeah. No don't leave now, you SOB. Twenty Hundred will do just fine. How come you always take so much of my time? No it's not cuz I like you. No way. You're too ugly for anyone to like you. Okay, see ya there buddy. Say bye to Sally. Yeah, tell her I love her too."
God how he hated to call them up this way. But what choices did he have? It was a damned sight better than the few who he couldn't reach personally, to receive a telegram and authenticator from some impersonal courier.
He continued on his list, calling in his Recon Patrol leaders.