One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  “Well, Timmy boy, you’ve got your Friday…” he said to himself as a rumble of thunder rolled across the valley. “Let’s see if you can keep from fucking this up!

  Chapter 6: Replenishing Hands

  The USS Hughes sat at anchor five hundred yards out from the small Sri Lankan port, and the skipper, watched from the wing bridge as the whaleboat overloaded with fuel drums came alongside. The destroyer had seen better days, and the lack of crew evidenced itself with the lack of preventative maintenance. The paint was chipped and rust showed through, the chains and handrails were rusty, and there were several dents and a huge gash in the hull feet above the waterline. Right now, Lt. Cmd. Wright had a handful of conscripts welding metal plate over the gash. Over the last several months, they had hopscotched up the Horn of Africa, stopping at every small port to gather what supplies they needed. What the skipper really needed was a full crew, and he was well on his way to achieving that. In every port, they had shanghaied every able-bodied person they had found, and now had a complement of around thirty men, women and children. Language was a bit of a problem, but discipline turned out to be easier than he’d thought.

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Johnson?” he called down over to the whaleboat over a bullhorn.

  “Rasheed says he doesn’t want to work anymore. He’s tired.”

  “Oh really, is he now? Bring him up here to the bridge!”

  Ensign Johnson grabbed the thin Somali man by the shoulder, pushing him up the ladder, while ordering the other men in the boat to start transferring the bunker fuel up using a hand pump.

  The skipper sat back in the captain’s chair on the empty bridge and lit his pipe. He could smell the food the Indian women were cooking in the galley from here, and even though he really wasn’t fond of curry, he had to admit they were pretty good at making a decent meal out of water buffalo and rice, but the goddamned curry was stinking up the wardroom.

  Ensign Johnson came onto the bridge with Rasheed in tow. The bony black man stood shirtless and shoeless, glossy with sweat. His yellow eyes showed fear, but also exhaustion.

  “Mr. Johnson here tells me you won’t work anymore, is that correct?”

  “Yessir! I am tired and need a rest. I been working for two day straight now.”

  The skipper put down his pipe and looked at his hands for a moment.

  “Come with me.” He got up from the chair and walked out to the wing bridge. “Haven’t I been very generous with food?”

  “Oh yes sir!” the man beamed with perfect white teeth.

  “And haven’t I provided you with a nice bed to sleep in?”

  “Oh yes sir!” he said again, nodding his head vigorously.

  “All I ask is for you do a little work for me in return for my generosity.”

  “Oh, but it too much work! From way before sunup, to way past sundown, we work seven days!”

  Commander Winthorpe Wright started to get a little tic under his right eye, but smiled in a friendly way and put his arm around the skinny Somali. They walked over to the railing and looked over the water.

  “So, you think I work you too hard, is that it?”

  “Oh yessir! Just asking for a rest is all.”

  “Well, that’s that then. You want a rest, I’ll give you a rest.” He pulled a Beretta M9 9mm automatic pistol from his holster and in one fluid motion, put the muzzle to the man’s head, pulling the trigger. A muffled ‘pop’ was heard all the way down to the whaleboat, where the other workers looked up at the sound. The skipper holstered the pistol and motioned for Ensign Johnson to toss the limp body hanging over the railing into the harbor. The body hit the water with a loud splash. Grabbing the loudhailer, he brought it to his mouth and pointed it down to his ‘crew’.

  “Now hear this. You will work until I say it is time to stop working. Is that FUCKING CLEAR?”

  The others in the boat all scrambled back to work, pumping the fuel into the ship’s bunkers as rapidly as the pump would allow, not daring to look back at their captain but eyeing the floating body drifting slowly away from the ship.

  “And get someone in here to clean up this mess on my deck!” he said to Johnson, and walked back to the dimness of the bridge.

  He sat alone for several minutes, closing his eyes, and he again saw the carnage on the day when everything when to shit. The replenishment ship alongside the cruiser cutting into the hull of the warship, the fuel lines breaking and igniting… F/A 18s flying into the rear deck of the carrier like Kamikazes from another era, bursting into flames… That ship turning to port wildly at thirty knots, cutting another destroyer in half before grounding itself on a shoal several miles away where it burned for days. It was all too much for the man, and he opened his eyes to see Ensign Johnson return with a sari-clad East Indian woman carrying a mop and bucket. The ensign pointed to the blood and brains on the deck, and then went over to the captain.

  “Make it quick!” he snapped at the woman, who may or may not have understood him, but did make it her business to be quick about it. Just being around the captain scared her.

  “Sir, we should have the bunkers topped off by 2100 hours tonight. It’d be nice if we could get an oiler fired up and brought alongside, but there’s nothing seaworthy at the docks. Looks like a pretty good typhoon came through a while back and tore everything to shit.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, sir, me and Nakamura got the engine room pretty shipshape. He was a blessing, and he’s been a great help getting everything in engineering automated. By the time we’re about to weigh anchor, we should be able to run everything from the bridge.”

  “Nakamura?”

  “Yes sir. He’s that Japanese guy we pulled off the fishing trawler north of the Seychelles about a month ago. He’s really happy to be working, and he’s been a big help down there.”

  “Good. When we set sail, let him have the pick of the women for a few nights,” the captain said with a wink.

  “Aye sir,” Johnson nodded, with an inward wince. He hated this.

  “How are our weapon stores?”

  “We’ve got all of the 20mm ammo for the Phalanx and 30mm for the Bushmasters, all of our Mk 46 and 50 torpedoes, plenty of small arms ammo for the 16s and shotguns, all of our Tomahawks, Mk 41’s and RIM 66 missiles. The only thing really we’re low on is ammo for the forward five inch gun. We used up a lot of that sinking those last two tankers off of the Maldives before we got here, sir.”

  “And our Tomahawks? Are you certain we don’t have any 109As?”

  “That I’m sure of. I double checked myself. Everything we have is B, C or D.”

  “Damn! Very well, son. See to the refueling, and we’ll weigh anchor at first light. High tide will be at 0700.”

  Ensign Johnson was about to take his leave when the captain asked one final question. “Do you think there’s any BGM109As at Diego Garcia?”

  “Sir, that would be an Air Force issue, or the Brits. They were supposed to be getting the 109s starting in ‘09, but I don’t know if they have any As and it is a British base.”

  “So you don’t think it would be worth heading back south then?”

  “It’d be a long shot sir, and we’d waste fuel on a…a wild goose chase.” He almost said, ‘fool’s errand’, but caught himself in time.

  “Very well, carry on, Johnson.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Johnson made his way aft and below, and as he made his way through the passageways to the weather deck he was seriously wondering about old ‘Winnie’s’ mental health. He smiled at the name. ‘Winnie the Pooh’ was tacked onto the skipper in plebe year at Canoe U, and he hated it. Once he overheard an enlisted man mumble it, and he thought the man was going to be drawn and quartered. And why was he so gung ho on getting the As? He couldn’t arm them without the codes.

  The thought of crazy old Winnie with nukes made his bowels turn fluid. The BGM109A, was a nuclear armed Tomahawk cruise missile, that had a W80 thermonuclear warhead, with a yi
eld of about 20 kilotons.

  Thank fuck we don’t have any of those.

  The only real smart thing the captain was doing was sinking all derelict vessels they spotted. They were definitely a hazard to navigation, but it was using up a shitload of the 5” shells in the process. Maybe he could talk the skipper into using up some of the Mk 46 torpedoes next go around. If anything, it was a morale booster to shoot the shit out of some hulk and send it to the bottom. His ‘crew’ loved the show, and it showed off the captain’s prowess. But the way he was collecting the crew made him sick too. It harkened back to the way the British Navy did it back in the 1700s— pull into a port and announce the presence of the ship. Any survivors would come scampering out and jump at the offer of a clean bed and food, were welcomed aboard, and then were shanghaied and forced into becoming a member of the crew. He had witnessed just a few minutes earlier how discipline was enforced. Anytime now, he figured, they would reintroduce keel-hauling.

  Shaking his head, he came out onto the weather deck to see the hoses trailing up to the fuel bunker fill caps. He looked down and saw several Kenyans and Somalis taking turns with the hand crank. Sure was a shitty way to refuel.

  If the asshole would just grow a pair of balls and come alongside the pier for once, they might make the job go a little bit shorter than seven goddamn days. Alas, the skipper, for all his bluster, was really lacking in the boat handling department; the gash in the portside that another crew was repairing was testimony to that. Another shudder ran through him. When he was on the bridge earlier he’d snuck a quick look at the chart table. A red line was drawn on the acetate cover of the chart in grease pencil from Sri Lanka due east to the Strait of Malacca between Sumatra and Malaysia. It looked like the skipper’s next port of call was going to be Singapore. If they could just get there without running aground or worse, sinking, he’d be a very happy man. He leaned on the railing, and looked down at his work party. They were pumping away, singing some song he’d never heard, but the rhythm was going with the cranks and he guessed it was helping them work.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Johnson?” he heard from behind him. He straightened up and turned to see Petty Officer Suplee standing at the hatch.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “We should be pretty well topped off in about two thousand more gallons, sir.”

  He did the mental arithmetic and figured four more trips in the whaleboat. “Okay, we’ll be at this for a while yet. Rig up some lighting over the side for when it gets dark, and tell those fuckwits that the smoking lamp is definitely not lit until we secure from refueling!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I’m not real happy about the other crew over the side welding at the same time, but the skipper wants to sail at first light.”

  “Ah, sir! We won’t even have time to put a coat of primer over the patch!”

  “I know that, Suplee. I’m not happy about any of this shit.”

  “You said it, sir. What’s Winnie’s next move?”

  “I’ll forget you called him that right now,” he grunted. “I’m really not sure he’d take kindly with you calling him that. You saw what happened earlier, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Just between you and me, sir, if I can speak frankly?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think Old Lead-Bottom has lost both oars.”

  “Suplee, you have been watching too many reruns of McHale’s Navy.”

  “No shit, sir. I mean, look at what he’s been doing.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hijacking all these people, then when they get outta line, he puts a bullet in their melon. It just ain’t cool, sir!”

  “I don’t like it either, but really what choice do we have?”

  “Dunno, sir. Just sayin’ is all.”

  “I do know one thing. With all these people we’re getting, it’s going to be an interesting dynamic.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Suplee asked, scratching his head.

  “Look at it this way. We’re gathering a group of people from all over this part of the Indian Ocean— Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Pagans; Kenyans, Somalis, Indians, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans. Next we’ll probably get some Indonesians, and once we’re out in the Pacific, we’ll probably pick up Samoans, Maoris, Tongans, Fijians, all peoples who traditionally hate each other. The captain thinks the discipline is hard now? Yes, it’s going to be very interesting indeed.”

  “I never thought of it like that. It’s like having a crew of Israelis and Palestinians. Nothing good will come of that.”

  “Exactly, and to answer your first question, bets are pretty even odds that our next port of call will be Singapore.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll get on those lights right away.”

  “And Suplee, belay anymore of that other bilge, alright?”

  “Aye, sir!” he said and vanished into the darkness of the passageway.

  Ensign Johnson decided to take a quick tour of the ship, and made his way aft to the hangar deck near the fantail where the one helicopter they had, a MH-60 Seahawk, was secured. There he found Petty Officer Stevens talking to two of the Sri Lankan ‘draftees’ that were brought aboard last night.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Johnson!” he said with a smile. The sailor was enjoying this just a little too much for Johnson’s taste, but he had to stifle his feelings.

  “Stevens,” he said, nodding. “The smoking lamp is still out,” he added, pointing to the cigarette the sailor was smoking.

  Stevens quickly tossed it over the side. “Hey, Mr. Johnson, one of these Sri Lankan guys says he’s a helicopter pilot! I was just showing him the Seahawk.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, and the taller of the two dark skinned men came over and offered his hand.

  “I am Major Vishdi Paleen, Sri Lankan Air Force, at your service.” After a brief handshake, the man saluted.

  “I’m Ensign Johnson, US Navy. And it is I who should be saluting you. Welcome aboard.”

  “It is a pleasure, I’m sure,” he said, and Ensign Johnson’s expression belied his thought: Oh I don’t think so, Major…

  “I’m sure the captain will be pleased to hear you’re an experienced pilot. He has been waiting to commence air operations for a while. What aircraft are you familiar with?”

  “I am greatly familiar with the MI8 and the UH1, nothing as technical as this fine aircraft I’m sure,” he said, gesturing to the MH-60.

  “But you do think you can fly it?”

  “I am sure, sir.”

  “Very well, the captain will be most anxious to meet you, Major,” Johnson said, again turning to the seaman. “Make sure you direct the Major to the Wardroom at 1800. Make sure our newest crewman is berthed, and make sure the Major gets a bunk in Officers’ Country.”

  “Aye, sir!” the seaman said. “I’ll see you for supper in the wardroom, Major. I’ve got to complete my rounds now,” he said, turning to walk forward and look up at the mainmast. A tattered American flag flew, and it had seen far better days.

  “Seaman Stevens?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  See if you can scare up another Stars and Stripes. That one has seen better days.”

  “Aye, sir, but wouldn’t a Jolly Roger be more apt?” he said with a grin.

  “Just do it, Stevens!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Stevens said to the Ensign’s back.

  Ensign Johnson agreed with the seaman, but kept his feelings in check.

  At exactly 1800 hours, or 6 PM local time, Ensign Johnson entered the Wardroom, followed by Major Paleen. The skipper was already seated at the head of the table meant for about twenty people; the destroyer’s officer complement should have been around thirty. The Ensign made the introductions and was shown to a chair. A bottle of Scotch was presented, and the Ensign had the honors of pouring the drinks.

  “For years, it was the tradition in the US Navy that no alcohol was permitted on ships. I’d like to keep that tradition alive for the enlisted ranks, but I’m lifting the rule for us officers,” the
captain said, raising his glass for a toast.

  They all sipped their drinks, and the captain spoke again. “Mr. Johnson here tells me you’re a helo pilot.”

  “That is true, sir. Twenty years in the Sri Lankan air force. About four thousand hours in the MI8 and UH1.”

  “And you think you can fly our bird?”

  “Yes, sir! Let me have some time to familiarize myself with the controls, and I am certain I can fly her.”

  “Major, that makes me very happy.” Two sari-clad Indian women came in and began serving the evening meal. “I’m not sure what this is, curried goat brains I think.”

  Major Paleen winced inwardly at the comment, but said nothing. This was far better than what he’d eaten over the last several months, and he was truly grateful for it.

  Between bites of food, the captain went on. “We’ve got about thirty or so people on board now, and we’re doing our best to shape them into sailors. I know it won’t be easy, but we’ve had some good luck so far. As long as they want to work they’ll be well taken care of.”

  “But of course,” the major agreed.

  “I believe in discipline, Major.”