Joint Task Force #1: Liberia (19 page)

“As if that isn’t enough.”

The wardroom door opened and Captain St. Cyr appeared. He walked purposefully toward Admiral Holman. The other three French officers joined him. He stopped near the chair. “Sir, Admiral Colbert says he is prepared to see you now. If you will follow me—”

“Sorry, Captain,” he said, smiling. He gripped his right thigh and squeezed it several times. “Bad leg and all that, you know. Since we are all right here, I am sure Admiral Colbert won’t mind coming here for our discussions.” Dick bit his lower lip. Now, was that a tinge of fear spinning across St. Cyr’s countenance, or shock from being told no by an American admiral? He forced down an urge to chuckle.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not realize your medical condition, but Admiral Colbert is very busy and it would be most kind if you could accompany me to where he is working. We will take it slow.”

Holman leaned forward, rubbing his leg a couple of more times. “And where might that be?”

“Sir?”

“I said, where might the admiral be working?”

“Sir, Admiral Colbert says he will meet you in his wardroom. . . .”

Holman leaned back. “Then, I am sure he can come here much easier than I can go there.”

“But—”

“On the other hand, Captain St. Cyr, we were unaware of the high tempo of operations distracting you from our visit, so why don’t we arrange for us to leave and next time we will offer Admiral Colbert the comforts of the USS
Boxer
? I’m sure we can afford him similar hospitality.”

He shouldn’t be but—
damn it,
he was enjoying this, in a perverse sort of way. Nothing knocks a hole in smugness more than innocent-sounding jabs that twist and turn until they find an opening. This St. Cyr had his ass in a sling. If the French captain failed to deliver Holman to Colbert, the French admiral would chew up and spit out St. Cyr when he returned with Holman’s ultimatum. They both knew the truth. St. Cyr had no authority over Holman, Upmann, and Davidson. And he had even less authority over Colbert. All the French officer could hope for was to cajole or browbeat them into following his directions. The browbeating approach had already failed.

“But, sir, I assure you, the admiral would be most grateful if you . . .”

Holman grinned at the man’s obvious discomfort. He wished he could reach around and pat himself on the back. The cajoling of St. Cyr was music to his ears. Ought to be a song about cajoling.

“. . . could find the energy to accompany me. And I would be most grateful, Admiral.”

Ouch! That must have hurt. However, Holman didn’t start this charade, but he sure as hell was going to play it to the end.
The prestige of the United States Navy and the United States itself rested on small diplomatic challenges such as this.

“I sure would like to, Captain, and I know how challenging it is to lead a two-carrier battle group. I have lead smaller battle groups such as this one several times. Luckily, I have been
blessed with great captains, such as Captain Upmann and Captain Davidson, who are able to do day-to-day operations and free me for entertaining my allied counterparts.”
There! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, asshole!
St. Cyr didn’t know that Davidson was an intelligence officer and would be hard put to know the difference between battle group steaming, independent steaming, and tied up to port. Well, maybe the lines over the sides would give her a clue.

“Yes,
L’amiral,
” St. Cyr continued. “Admiral Colbert is also blessed with many capable captains, but he has seen fit to become intimately involved in operations to ensure we execute our assigned mission as ordered.”

Holman saw his chance, and from the expression that crossed Davidson’s face, he knew she had also.

“And what are those orders, if I may ask?” Davidson asked.

St. Cyr opened his mouth to reply, then thought for a second before answering, “I think Admiral Colbert might be the best person to answer that, Captain Davidson. If you would follow me, you may ask him directly.”

“You have me confused, Captain St. Cyr,” Mary Davidson continued. “Only a minute ago, you were going to sit us down and tell us what our limitations were—”

“I may have used the wrong word,” St. Cyr interrupted.

“—and if you were going to tell us our limitations, then obviously that dovetailed nicely with your mission. Since you felt empowered to lay limitations on an American battle group, then you must have authority to take action if we violate those limitations.”

St. Cyr raised his hand at her and looked at Admiral Holman. “Admiral, my apologies, sir. It seems I have inadvertently offended you. It was not my intention.”

“I understand, Captain. Tell you what I am prepared to do so we can move forward. We’ll wait here for another few minutes while you arrange our transportation back to our battle group. Okay?”

Was that a bead of sweat across the French captain’s brow? Damn, what a shame!

St. Cyr started to speak, stopped, and then finally said, “Sir, if you will excuse me, I will go speak to Admiral Colbert and
see how long he will be, sir. I know he would not wish you to leave with a false impression.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Captain. If the admiral is too busy, I fully understand. It was hard to rearrange my own duties to come here as a courtesy to Admiral Colbert. We can always arrange another meeting. I would appreciate it if you’d swing by your air boss and have him arrange our return trip. I too have a battle group to lead, and the sooner we return the better.”

Captain St. Cyr’s eyes seemed to weigh Admiral Holman, the Frenchman’s pencil-thin mustache outlining his upper lip appearing to vibrate. Finally, St. Cyr sighed. “
Mais oui,
Admiral. I will go to Admiral Colbert and see if he is able to . . .” The French captain searched for the right words. “—Take time to discuss our terms.”

Holman laughed. “Captain, your English accent is flawless, but your choice of words leaves something to be desired.”

A questioning look crossed the Frenchman’s face.

“ ‘Terms.’ The word ‘terms’ implies a stronger force telling a weaker force what they can and can’t do.”

St. Cyr nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand. But . . . we are the stronger force.”

Upmann shook his head. “Yeah, you got the ships, but there’s more to warfare than having the stronger force.”

Holman reached out and lightly toughed Leo’s arm. Blood vessels along his Chief of Staff’s neck and across his forehead stood out. Holman had seen those marks of anger several times in the two years they had been together. As much as this visit seemed to be heading for the Dumpster, Holman still had a faint hope of salvaging this horrid meeting of two allies. He shook his head slightly at his Chief of Staff. Upmann would have to keep quiet and let him face the situation. A burst of anger would only work against them.

“Captain, we’ll be here when you return.”

“Admiral, this is Lieutenant Jacques Jean. He will make you comfortable until I return. I apologize for the miscommunications, sir. It was never my intent to upset—how you Americans say—the apple cart. No, sir, not in the least.”

The lanky, gray-uniformed officer that St. Cyr pointed out stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, and nodded.
“Welcome to the
Charles de Gaulle,
” Lieutenant Jean said, his accent very heavy. It took Holman a moment to realize what the officer had said.

“With your permission, sir,” St. Cyr said, saluting Admiral Holman before turning and leaving the wardroom.

Damn! He must be nervous. He finally saluted
.

Holman looked at the French lieutenant standing in front of him. The Frenchman had a grin that stretched across his face, pulling smile lines down from around deep-set eyes that seemed to sparkle.
Here was an officer comfortable with his rank,
thought Holman. But he didn’t need the man hovering over them.

“Lieutenant, may we have some coffee?”

A puzzled look crossed the young lieutenant’s brow before a smile spread across his face. Jean snapped to attention and said, “Welcome to the
Charles de Gaulle
.”

Holman nodded. “Thank you once again. May we have some coffee?”

The man’s eyes shifted back and forth. The grin seemed to fade for a moment before it whipped back across the young face. “Welcome to the
Charles de Gaulle
.”

“Where the hell did they put the batteries in that guy?” Upmann asked.

Mary Davidson leaned forward and in flawless French asked for coffee. The French lieutenant’s eyebrows arched upward, and he responded with a burst of rapid French.

“You speak French, Mary?” he asked.

“I thought I did until he answered my request for coffee.”

“Shit,” Upmann muttered. He stepped forward, walked around the French officers, and went to the coffee machine installed in the corner of the compartment on top of the shelf.

When he grabbed a cup and stuck it under one of the spigots, the light came on in Lieutenant Jean’s head, and he shouted instructions to another junior officer, who quickly took the cup from Leo.

“Café!”
Lieutenant Jean said.
“Vous voulez figan de café. Une moment.”

“Somewhere a village is missing an idiot,” Upmann mumbled.

Holman motioned Upmann back to his side as the French
officers busied themselves with coffee, arranging the accoutrements on the table. One of them stepped into the back pantry and emerged with pastries, rearranging the end of the wardroom table. It gave Holman an opportunity to chat briefly with Upmann and Davidson. For U.S. warships, the unwritten rule with allies was that Americans visit their ships first—they had the wine and the beer. The Americans brought the pretzels.

The sea was truly an unforgiving mistress, and at sea all mariners were brothers; nowadays sisters too. He weighed the events, anger rising inside him. Not about the slights being shown, which were sufficient to cause him to be angry, but realization that his superiors and Washington too, must know something and were withholding it. Knowing how the military worked, he decided two things could have caused the Deputy, European Command to withhold information. One, he had been ordered not to share it, or two, the deputy had no idea himself and didn’t want to raise concerns where there might not be any. Either way, someone in his chain of command knew something that affected Holman’s ability to do his mission and they weren’t telling him. By God, when he got back to the
Boxer,
he was going to find out just what in the hell was going on.

Holman glanced at the three French officers surrounding the coffee machine. Typical European conference going on there, he thought, as two of the officers tried to direct the unwilling third who was operating the machine.

“Mary, tell the lieutenant to forget the coffee. By the time they figure out how to operate the thing, we’ll either be talking with Admiral Colbert or on our way back to the
Boxer
.”

Coffee was something they didn’t need anyway considering the fifty-mile helicopter flight back to the
Boxer
ahead of them and no head on the aircraft. The older you got, the less flexible the bladder.

The door to the wardroom opened and Captain St. Cyr stood there, holding it open. The three French officers turned and fell into line for a moment.

Then, Lieutenant Jean leaped forward and took the door from St. Cyr. Admiral Colbert entered. He was a short man with a slight paunch, a dark, almost Algerian complexion with similar-toned eyes shadowed by heavy black eyebrows. The
top of the man’s head was completely bald and reflected somewhat the fluorescent light of the compartment. Heavy dark hair ringed the bald spot. Sprinkles of gray near the ears and in long sideburns ran down to the bottom of the earlobes.

Admiral Colbert stopped and stared at Holman, who returned the stare with a nod. Holman looked past Colbert to St. Cyr, who looked directly into Holman’s eyes for a moment before breaking eye contact.

For that fraction of a second, Dick saw hostility. Probably lost half his ass having to tell Admiral Colbert to either meet with his American visitors or fly them back to the American force.

Captain St. Cyr pulled out the chair at the head of the wardroom table. Admiral Colbert sat down. He was a stout man. Made Holman think of a football defensive end at first glance. The man the deputy of European Command had warned him about looked nothing like Holman had expected. The French admiral put his hands on the table and pushed away. Holman figured he was about to stand to shake hands, so he stepped forward forcing a smile.

Colbert slid his chair away from the table back sufficiently for him to be able to cross his legs. The man’s eyes never left Holman’s face. They sparkled briefly, almost as if he knew that the American admiral had misinterpreted his movement.

Several chairs down the table length, Holman pulled a chair out and sat down at the table with Colbert. Everyone else remained standing.

“Admiral Holman,” Colbert said. “I had hoped that Captain St. Cyr could answer your questions. I offer my apologies for being unable to spend as much time as you were led to expect, but I am sure you understand from one admiral to another how full our days are.” He crossed his arms.

“No, I don’t. I don’t understand why you invited us to visit if you were too busy to see us. I do understand how the challenges of commanding a battle group formation can be, which is why I have qualified officers under me who are more than capable,” Holman said, forcing himself to remain calm.
Who in the hell was this asshole to think he could treat him like this? Moreover, fail to extend even the most common acceptable courtesies to a visiting ally?

Colbert’s lower lip pushed his upper lip upward. His head tilted to the left slightly as he shrugged with his head. “You are right. But of course, you Americans are always right.
N’est pas?
”

“Admiral,” Holman said firmly. “I would like me and my officers to be returned to my command ship as soon as possible. I think we have started on the wrong foot. You’re very busy and I have many items on my agenda that I need to finish.”