Globall War of Terror: Ringside Seat

Global War of Terror - US Navy 'Press Release' Entries

Ringside Seat | Raid 17 | Hangar Bay | Direct Commission | Intercept | Coastal Action


I am woken by loud ringing bells and a WHOOP that fills the small cabin I share with three junior officers. The ship's PA system - the MC - is speaking, louder than a rock concert.

"General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations. The flow of traffic is up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on the port side. Set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. This is not a drill. This is not a drill."

I am fumbling for my shoes when my assigned handler, the junior PAO ("Public Affairs Officer") grabs my feet and puts them on. "Follow me!" he demands as he races through hatches, some of which are already being slammed and secured - dogged in Navy parlance.

I follow him to part of the ship I am rarely permitted to visit. The CIC, or Combat Information Center. The living brain of the carrier battle group. On the way the PAO warns me, "Say nothing, do nothing. Just watch."

The PA system is still blaring. "Battle Stations Missile. Battle Stations Missile. This ship is at war. This is not a drill. Scramble, scramble, scramble."

When we make it to CIC, an armed Marine braces himself in my way, putting the barrel of his rifle across my face. "As you were," the PAO snaps, and he allows the person he does not recognize - me - to enter the space.

The commander of the air group is standing in the dimly lit space. It is full of computers and consoles, something out of Star Wars or Star Trek. But everything in this room is very real and anything within a hundred miles lives or dies according to commands given in this room.

"Trawler bearing 186 track 2128."

"Designate track 2128 hostile. Kill track 2128 with birds."

"Confirm. Trawler is Chinese intelligence platform."

"Confirm. Kill track 2128 with birds."

A dot lances out on the display and moves with lazy speed - until you consider that you are seeing distances of miles compressed into pixels. And the dot is an anti shipping missile.

"Track 2128 is trashed."

And fifty Chinese sailors are dead, probably never knowing what hit them.

My brain is still catching up to the reality of this room. I have not heard the words exercise or drill. I hear rumbling in my feet, the muffled sounds of a scramble - many aircraft being launched as quickly as possible, making the largest ship in the US Navy shudder.

A Navy officer from the Admiral's staff whom I do not recognize walks in with a sheaf of ordinary manila envelopes - with broken seals. He hands one to the CAG and then to certain selected stations.

He then walks to the 1MC and makes an announcement, while the sheafs of ordinary paper in the envelopes are being read.

"Now hear this. Now hear this. The carrier battle group is at battle stations missile and we expect to be attacked shortly. The United States of America is at war with the People's Republic of China. At 1105 hours Pacific time today, the city of San Francisco was destroyed in a submarine launched ballistic missile attack. We have no further information on the details at this time.

"This carrier battle group is now the spearhead of America's vengeance. What you do in the next hour will determine how many American lives we can save. Do your jobs and do them well. Out."

The CAG - one of the highest ranking men on the ship behind the Admiral commanding, the Captain and the Executive Officer - yanks the staffer into a side cubicle, intended for brief conversations in the midst of strategic war.

I am numb. The news is unreal, absurd. It must be a drill, some kind of new exercise.

The CAG stalks out and walks to a particular console. He mutters, "Get me Pacific Fleet" and puts on a headset. He is exchanging demands and keywords - being passed from operator to operator.

Someone slaps a binder into his hand. It is slightly dusty. It has been removed from an open safe. He removes a plastic envelope, takes out a plastic card, and breaks the card in half. Then he writes the numbers and letters on the card in a blank provided on one of the forms in the binder.

"I copy ...." and he continues in gibberish. He hangs up the headset. He signs the blank at the bottom fo the form.

"CIC, page the Admiral. We have a rules of engagement change to nuclear active."

The manila envelopes contain what is called a targeting package. The small plastic card is a security measure, to make sure that no enemy of America could order what we have just been ordered to do.

"Verify target lists. All ships are authorized for active defense. All ships are authorized to engage and destroy enemy or unidentified contacts without further approval."

The 1MC sounds, controlled from another location. In a day of shocks it can shock still.

"Security breach! Security breach! The security force will respond to Flag quarters immediately! Security breach!"

The CAG turns to the PAO. "Handle that. Take him!"

Half the Marines standing guard outside the CIC are already in motion. The PAO and I follow behind them as they rush through the narrow corridors, "dogging" and undogging hatches as needed. Sailors get out of their way - one who does not is stepped on, through and over.

The Marines are shouting, "Security Breach! Security Breach!" They are waving loaded weapons with every intent and authority to use them.

This is part of the ship I know. The officer's country, the Flag quarters - where the Admiral and his staff live and work.

"Corpsman and stretcher bearers to Flag!" the MC bellows.

I have a brief glimpse into the officer's wardroom, just one, before the Marines push me back from the door.

A man is lying half across the wardroom - officer's lounge - table, with his head blown apart. I cannot tell at a glance who he is, but the inference is obvious. Suicide.

The PAO is talking quickly to sailors and Marines. He turns to me and abandons years of training in handling the media for simple truth.

"The XO just killed himself."

"Why?" I ask out of a reporter's instincts.

The PAO is angry, almost sarcastic. "He lives in Diamond Heights, his son works at SFO and we're about to kill millions of people. What the fuck do you think?"

I blink and try to focus.

"Say what?"

"This ship is about to engage in unrestricted nuclear warfare." He drags me with him to a stairwell, up two flights of what the Navy calls stairs and everyone else calls ladders, finds a phone and calls CIC. He briefs the CAG. Then he drags me up further flights until we get to the PriFly area. The air traffic control tower for the carrier, overlooking the deck.

He gestures to the contrails from every ship in sight, all aimed west. Heavily loaded aircraft rumble off the launch catapults. There are additional manila envelopes, I see.

He picks one up. The top is labeled "TOP SECRET NOFORN WAR PLAN RED"

"I'm not cleared for it."

"READ IT," he orders with all the gravitas of a Naval officer.

I do. I get through three paragraphs, I look around for a trash can - strapped to the bulkhead, and retch.

It is a targeting list. I have seen these before, in the Balkans and in Iraq. The specific places to be attacked and with what.

It is a list of Chinese coastal cities. Naval bases. Airports. Industrial and military facilities.

"Millions of people" is not hyperbole.

And every single target is to be struck with nuclear weapons. Missiles from submarines and from ships. Land based ballistic missiles courtesy of the Air Force. The second round to be delivered by bomber, both strategic bombers such as B-52s and tactical aircraft such as the ones carried by this battle group.

The carrier starts a turn. I can see from the position of the sun that we are turning directly west.

"We are going to hit China again and again and again until there is no China or we are out of munitions."

I have been given a tour of the storage bunkers below decks. I know there are fleet replenishment ships with us. And I know that during the Gulf War, carrier aircraft pounded targets in Iraq for week after week after week.

Now it is our turn to do the same.

"VAMPIRE! VAMPIRE! Many tracks, incoming missiles! Killing Vampires 1 through 18 with birds."

If we survive.

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Approved for distribution. Prichard.