The boy kept trying to hurry him aft. Whatever was happening back there, Craig didn’t want to be in the middle of it. Coupled with being smacked on the head, well, he wasn’t pushing the pace despite the boy’s evident eagerness to get back to the superstructure.
But they did make it just as yet another young man came out of the forward hatch. He excitedly spoke to Craig’s captor. Craig could just make out the heavily accented words “panic room,” but he couldn’t miss the jubilation in either of the two boys’ attitudes and speech.
It seemed as if the Wilmington was in the hands of pirates.
Chapter 9
Aboard the Jason Dunham
That afternoon.
Burke turned the corner on the flight deck. He was never going to get used to running on board the ship. It took about a million trips around the postage stamp-sized flight deck to make a mile, and with the other Marines and sailors trying to get in a run before chow, the “rush hour” made for a crowded work-out. In times like these, Burked missed the long, tree-shaded trails back at Bragg.
As this was not a platoon session, Burke was in his old Army shorts and black t-shirt with the gold “RANGERS” proudly emblazoned across the chest. The lieutenant had proven to be OK, trying hard to keep out of his hair, but in a tradition probably going back to the Roman legions, Burke enjoyed pulling his chain, and wearing the shirt was one way of doing this. Lieutenant Niimoto was Marine this and Marine that, always talking about forging the new Corps, but after the look on the lieutenant’s face the first time he saw him in the shirt down in the berthing spaces, well, Burke knew he had that gadfly. Better yet, he knew the lieutenant would never actually say anything about it.
Running on the flight deck took coordination. It was so small that anyone who deviated from the pace could cause a traffic jam that would make LA proud. And PFC Jesus McNamara was slowing down in the afternoon heat. When Burke had first seen McNamara’s name on his orders, he thought his first name was given by some sort of born-again Christians. But he was Jesus as in Heysus, the Latino pronunciation. He looked Latino, too, and could speak Spanish, but how that jibed with his last name, Burke wasn’t sure yet. He made a mental note to ask Sgt Dailey, McNamara’s squad leader. Burke was of the school that the more you knew about your men, the better able you were able to do your job.
“Come on, McNamara, pick it up. You don’t want to look like a pussy in front of all these squids, do you?” he quietly told the lagging Marine as he pulled up alongside of him.
“No staff sergeant,” the PFC blurted out, with a hint of the drill field still in his voice.
He pushed forward for a few paces until they came to the end of the flight deck, and they had to slow down for the turn. Burke decided to run in back of McNamara to keep him going.
It was easy to lose yourself while running. Burke thought back to his first month on board the ship. The worst thing was the boredom. As a Ranger, he had never experienced so much down time. Oh, there was that time he sat on the runway at Pope for three days, ready to fly down to Guatemala. The fact that they never actually left made that whole evolution seem like a waste even if the brass made it sound like the simple threat of the Rangers did what it had to do. But still, that was only three days. This was over a month and counting.
There had been the initial excitement of capturing the pirate boat, but that had faded when the boat was released. The sailors aboard took it better than the Marines. This wasn’t the first time for them. Several of the petty officers told him later that the pirates were lucky it had been a US ship that took them. Had it been a Russian, Chinese, or even Korean ship, they would be residing at the bottom of the IO now. General consensus amongst the sailors was that maybe the Russians and Chinese had it right—the Marines quickly came to the same conclusion.
After that first bit of action, if you can call it that, the routine had fallen to boring repetition, like the old movie Groundhog Day. They got up for a shit, shower, and shave, held formation, went to chow, held classes, maintained gear, went to chow again, held more classes, had a bit of free time, went to chow yet again, then had movies, books, card games, or limited internet time. There were a few ship-wide drills, and the underway replenishment was interesting enough, but those were Navy-run. The Marines were mere observers.
Burke was somewhat addicted to his Kindle, and he could download books at sea, but he found an old, dog-eared copy of Mr. Roberts in the ship’s library. Right there, in the first paragraph, were the lines:
For the most part it remains on its regular run, from Tedium to Apathy and back; about five days each way. It makes an occasional trip to Monotony . . .
describing the USS Reluctant’s routine. That pretty much described the life aboard the Dunham, too.
Aside for the boredom, life wasn’t bad. The food was good, the rack dry. They had a huge selection of movies, and even the pre-season NFL games were beamed out to them. With the first game of the season coming up in a few weeks, there was a palpable undercurrent of excitement forming.
More importantly, the platoon was gelling. That surprised Burke. He figured with the close quarters and lack of interesting things to do that the Marines would be at each other’s throats. But the squad leaders were actually doing a good job in keeping the Marines occupied. Burke was still rather partial to the quality of Rangers, and when compared to his Marines, perhaps most Rangers were more skilled in the combat arts. But of his three squad leaders, two had always been Marines, and one had been an Oregon National Guardsman. A weekend warrior! Grudgingly, Burke had to admit that all three would have been good Rangers.
And that thought made him feel a bit guilty. He was a Marine now. He had made the decision, and he had to live with it. No second-guessing it. But he was constantly wondering if he had made the right choice, what his friends back in Ranger-land were doing. He was constantly tempted to say “That’s not the way we did it in the Rangers.”
Even though he had initially enlisted as a Marine, in his heart, he still felt more a part of the Army. He felt like a Ranger. He knew he could do his job, and do it well, but for his own happiness and satisfaction, he knew he had to embrace his new life. Or maybe re-embrace it. He remembered how proud he had been at his boot camp graduation parade back in San Diego. He remembered how proud his parents had been. Without ignoring everything else, his service as a Ranger, he needed to not just do his job, but bring back that pride, that sense of being, of existence, which said he was a Marine.
He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t unhappy. He just felt a bit disconnected.
He looked down at his watch before sprinting up a step, telling PFC McNamara “You’ve got 20 minutes ‘til chow. Better get below and shower up. We don’t need you spoiling the squids’ delicate appetites.”
McNamara gratefully nodded and pulled out of the circle of joggers.
“Delicate appetites? Um, seems to me that there were a lot of jarheads losing their lunches on the crossing over here.”
Burke looked up to see Doug pulling alongside of him.
“Well, BM2 Douglas Kaye, US Navy. Next time we go ashore, why don’t you come with us. I’m sure I can find some extra snakes for you to try. But wait, I forgot, you Navy guys need three squares and midrats in order to go to war.”
“Ah, Staff Sergeant Burke R. Davidson, of, Uncle Sam’s Misbegotten Children, at least I could keep whatever you serve down. It seems to me I remember one certain Marine losing his dinner on the crossing.”
Burke grimaced before replying, “Ah man, that’s low, Doug. I thought I was going to die. OK, OK, you guys have the stomachs of iron here.”
They both laughed as Doug slapped Burke on the shoulder.
“Don’t tell anyone here, but I puked non-stop for weeks at Special Boat school before I got used to it,” Doug confided.
“My lips are sealed, good buddy,” Burke told him, then paused for a second before continuing, “Well speaking of puking, I’m getting hungry, and we’ve got pork chops tonig
ht. See you below.”
Burke peeled off and made his way into the hangar and to the ladder leading below. Life aboard the Dunham wasn’t bad, but it was pretty boring. He just wished something exciting would happen.
Chapter 10
Aboard the Jason Dunham
The next day
Tony Niimoto was admitted into the CIC. He was surprised to see the ship’s captain in there as well along with several other senior officers. She saw Tony and merely tilted her head towards one of the sailors sitting at a row of electronics. Tony wondered what was up. Earlier that morning, there had been reports of a pirate action up near the straits, and the Gaffert was steaming post-haste to possibly take some action, but that was surely too far away for the Dunham to do anything about it.
The sailor looked up and gave Tony a headset.
“This is a secure line. Just key this button when you want to speak,” he told him, indicating a small button on the cord connecting the headset to the console in front of him. “You are X-ray-Five-Alpha, and you are speaking with Romeo-Niner-Romeo.”
He handed Tony a small piece of paper on which he had scribbled the call signs. Tony thanked him and put on the headset.
“Uh, this is X-ray-Five-Alpha, over,” he hesitantly transmitted.
There was a short pause. “X-ray-Five-Alpha, this is Romeo-Niner-Romeo Actual. As I am sure you know, we’re on our way to a possible hijacking now in the IRTC . . .”
Tony had to think for second before remembering that stood for the Internationally Recommended Transit Corridor.
“. . . but you’ve got your own confirmed hijacking now. After all this time at sea, we’ve got two at the same time, and I’ve got my own hands full. So you’ve got it. I’ve already sent you an ops order, but your ship is already working on it. They are in charge. Sorry I can’t support you more now, but you’ve got the training. I’ve got full confidence in you. Look, I’ve got to get going here. You got anything for me now? Over.”
Tony felt his heart flutter. A real pirating? And 1st Platoon was getting it? He felt a rising excitement.
“No, sir. I mean, Romeo-Nine-Romeo, I have no questions now, over.”
“Roger, X-ray-Five-Alpha. If you need anything, send me a message. Romeo-Niner-Romeo, out.”
Tony took off the headset and turned towards the ship’s officers. The CO motioned him over.
“Well, lieutenant, considered yourself informed,” the captain told him.
Physically, CDR Stetson was a little heavy, maybe even matronly. But her light blue eyes had a strength of character that brooked no nonsense. There was no doubt that she was in charge.
“We’ve got time to do this right. The ship was evidently taken yesterday, so it’s not like we can stop the attack from happening in the first place.”
And we’re just finding out about this now? he thought to himself.
The captain noticed his expression and said with a shrug, “Evidently, Baltimore Shipping Lines decided that they didn’t want a Russian ship in the area rushing to the rescue, given that our Cossack friends can be a little exuberant, shall we say, in their rescues. How they knew our position and the Russians’, well, that’s another issue altogether. So they waited until today and went through back channels to make sure it would be a US ship that responded.”
She changed tack. “This is nothing different that what we’ve rehearsed. I want you to get your platoon preparing for a helicopter assault, but as soon as you get them started, come back here so we can give you your orders.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “I’ll get SSgt Davidson briefed. My company commander, though, is sending over an operation order.”
She picked up a small bundle of papers stapled together on the corners. “You mean this?”
“Um, maybe so, ma’am,” he said hesitantly.
She dropped them on the deck.
“Well, unfortunately, your commander is not here, lieutenant, nor is he in command here. I am. LCDR Chang here is my Ops O, and he’ll give you your orders as soon as we have them done. Questions?”
Her gaze seemed to pierce deep into Tony’s brain. He felt flustered.
“Um, no ma’am. I understand ma’am.”
“OK, then. I suggest you go down and get your sergeant started. Then come back up here while we work out the details.”
She turned back to the others, clearly dismissing him.
“Aye-aye, ma’am,” he responded as he turned around and hurriedly left the CIC.
He slid down the ladder, feet on the handrails as good as the saltiest sailor aboard, excited to be seeing some action. He was ready. His platoon was ready.
He was grateful that he would be only be facing some third world pirates. The Dunham’s captain, on the other hand, now she would be a tougher nut to crack. He laughed out loud at the thought as he hurried below, a passing sailor looking at him as if he were crazy.
Maybe he was crazy. He joined the Marines, after all!
Chapter 11
Over the Indian Ocean
5:00 AM the next morning
Sergeant Pat Dailey checked the safety on his M4 for the hundredth time. He kept going over everything in his mind, trying to foresee any possible problems. From everything he had read, everything others had told him, the only sure thing to happen was the unforeseen.
He glanced about the MH60 Sea Hawk, but in the darkness, his Marines were more shadows than anything else. Up forward, he could just make out the form of SSgt Davidson. The platoon sergeant wouldn’t normally have been on the operation, but with LCpl Owens down hard with some sort of bug, he insisted on taking Owens’ boat space, and the lieutenant had agreed. At first, Pat had been put off by that. Davidson could be a bit of an asshole, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. The platoon sergeant’s combat experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan could only help.
The helo was pretty crowded, though. Normally, this version of the Sea Hawk would carry 11 combat-loaded Marines, but by pushing the envelope, and by leaving behind things like meals and full packs, they managed to stuff his entire squad of 12 (13 minus Owens) plus Doc Supchak and Davidson. On the other bird, Aiden Stanhope had his squad, the lieutenant, and Cpl Steptoe.
This was Pat’s first taste of action. He was too junior to have served in Iraq or Afghanistan. His duty stations had been Quantico, Camp David, and the embassies in Riga and Berlin. He had been excited to be back in a combat-oriented Corps, but now, racing above the waves, he was having a few doubts. He wasn’t afraid of danger. He was afraid of screwing up.
They had done three rehearsals that evening and into the night, using the Dunham itself as a practice target. Everything seemed straightforward. But it was the unknown that worried him. He hoped he would make the right decisions when that happened. It was a nice security blanket to have Davidson with them, but he knew he was the squad leader, and it was on his shoulders to make sure each Marine did what he was supposed to do.
He checked his safety again.
The flight was supposed to take an hour and a half, but he was sure that they had to have been airborne longer than that already. He checked his watch. Only an hour had passed. He settled down to wait out the remainder of the flight.
When the Navy crew chief started swinging out the fast rope rigs, he knew they were close. He nudged Cpl Salazar, who in turn sent that nudge down the line. He could feel more than see everyone shift in their seat, getting ready.
He got a comm check with each fire team leader. The new Tactical Squad Radios, attached as they were inside the helmet, were pretty high speed. Even with the wind blasting in the open helo doors, he could both talk and hear without too much problem. With a flick of the switch, back, he could communicate with each member of the squad. In the middle position, it was just with the fire team leaders. Forward, it was with the other squad leaders and the platoon commander. A different-toned beep in his headset told informed him on incoming calls and from which level they were.
He couldn’t commun
icate with the crew chief, though, unless he used one of the Sea Hawk’s headsets. He chose not to use one. He figured the crew chief would motion for him to put one on if they had to speak.
Looking out the doors, he could see the faint orange line of the oncoming dawn. The idea was to hit the Wilmington in darkness. He doubted the pirates had night vision gear, so that made sense.
“OK, night vision goggles on,” he transmitted to the others over the squad frequency.
It took a second or two for the goggles to gather in the ambient light, but soon, everything was in the spooky radiation-green hue. But he could see. And everyone was looking back at him.
The helo banked, and they were all pressed deeper into the web seats. He could feel the Sea Hawk slow down, then flare up. He could see the Wilmington’s superstructure come into view.
The crew chief/fast rope master threw out the ropes, first one side, then the other. He gave the signal, and Jones and Torrance, the first two to descend, grabbed the ropes and were gone. There was no turning back now.
Boom, boom, boom. Each Marine left the Sea Hawk. Pat scooted up to follow Cpl Bonaventure’s team. He reached out, grabbed the rope, and pushed off. The night vision goggles tended to flatten out images, making them more 2D than 3D, but they had done this enough before to be able to judge the distance down.
His feet hit the deck, and he let go, quickly moving to the side so Doc wouldn’t land on his head. More feet hit the deck, then the helo lifted off. It was supposed to take a station off the Wilmington’s starboard, ready to give fire support or to rush in and get them in case things got dicey.
Out of the backwash, Pat could suddenly hear. The wind flowing around the superstructure and the waves seemed quiet after an hour and a half in an open-doored Sea Hawk.
The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 31
