watching the air-cushioned landing craft finish passing. He would write the tactic up and submit it through the chain of command. Holman would incorporate the tactic in his next exercise, and share the lessons learned with his counterpart on the West Coast, Rear Admiral Prentice, Commander, Amphibious Group One. He experienced that little thrill of pleasure that came from identifying an innovative use of a weapon system that only a warrior could appreciate.
Leo finished reading the message. “Sir, should we stop the exercise and reembark the Marines?”
Dick lowered his binoculars and shook his head. That little spark of pleasure evaporated as his mind returned to current events. “Won’t work,” he said, shaking the ashes off the end of his Cuban cigar. “We’re too far along with the exercise to do it properly. All that would happen is we would have a lot of confused Marines milling about smartly ashore, wondering where in the hell the rest of their comrades had disappeared to.” He took a deep puff. “When we reembark, I want them embarked in such a fashion that they are ready to conduct another amphibious operation without us having to pull into port, offload, and reload. Besides, I want to see how this new wave of the future for Naval aviation pairs off against those F-14 Top Gunners from Oceana.”
“Understand, sir; but if we stop now, we should be able. . . .”
Dick looked toward the shore. The second wave had landed their Marines, hoisted their ramps, and were turning back out to sea. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes, he figured, before the second wave would pass through the third wave of conventional landing craft. “No, Leo. The good thing is this exercise will serve as a rehearsal in the event we have to do one once we reach Liberia. Normal steps of an amphibious operation—embark, plan, rehearse, reembark, execute.” He grinned. “Shoot, Leo! We’re already sixty percent ready unless we stop the exercise. If we stop it, then sortie across the Atlantic to arrive without the Marines having had an opportunity to flesh out any operational cliches . . .” He stopped, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. With the slow-burning cigar held loosely between the first two fingers of the right hand, Holman pointed at the message his Chief of Staff held. “Rachel, keep this to yourself for the time being. You may share it with Captain Hudson, but pass along my orders to keep the contents close-hold until I say differently.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she said. She saluted and left the bridge wing.
Dick knew she would return to the radio shack, print another copy of the PERSONAL FOR message, and take it to Captain Jeremiah Hudson, commanding officer of the USS Boxer . Only flag officers had the privilege of sending informal PERSONAL FOR messages via official channels. The tradition of sending formal PERSONAL FOR messages had been replaced by e-mails sent via classified channels, but most of his peers knew Dick’s propensity for staying well clear of computers. Computers meant being indoors. Dick preferred the fresh smell of salt water and sea breezes passing over the deck of whatever ship permitted him to embark. Until he was appointed as Commander, Amphibious Group Two—the premier Navy organization for the Atlantic amphibious fleet—PHIBGRU Two seldom went to sea. In the one year since he had taken over, the administration functions of the group had been passed to a subordinate amphibious squadron and he had packed PHIBGRU Two’s seabags and headed out to sea.
So many times at sea that many of the senior captains andcommanders who had fought for orders to the group as their last tour before retiring looked for easier billets elsewhere, which was all right with Dick. If you didn’t want to go to sea, in his book, then why in the hell were you in the Navy? It was like being in the Air Force and refusing to fly, or in the Army and despising camping. He flicked ash off his cigar over the
Donald Luskin, Andrew Greta