The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

  If Cathy returned today, would he take her back? She had hurt him, but deep inside he still loved her. You don’t spend twenty years of your life sharing a house, sleeping in the same bed, and enjoying the little challenges that creep up without love growing deeper. He must have done something wrong. He didn’t know what. He wished he did. He’d do anything to win her back except grovel. He wasn’t going to beg. Even so, this emergent deployment to the Mediterranean sealed his hope of saving his tattered marriage.

  For once, maybe Hodges was right. Maybe a few weeks in the Mediterranean, focused on operations, would take his mind off his problems and when he returned he might discover her waiting for him. Then, again, he may not.

  “Damn,” said Beau as he rounded a curve and hit the brakes. They had come up against the inevitable Washington bumper-to-bumper gridlock.

  Duncan accepted it as another example of how things were going this week. He looked up at the darkening clouds and gliding seagulls. He knew one of those birds had his name engraved on its asshole and that was probably next on the agenda for Duncan James. He put his hat on. Instead the birds disappeared as a summer shower burst upon the two men. Duncan shut his eyes and tilted his face upward letting the rain beat on his face, baptizing away his marriage. His hat fell off into the small space behind the seats. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat remained.

  “Yeah, there’s something about the eyes of Spanish women, Duncan!” Beau shouted as he jumped out of the car to raise the top.

  “Bedroom eyes! That’s what they got.”

  The summer shower turned into a downpour.

  “Damn, Duncan, the top’s stuck! Give me a hand.”

  He ignored Beau as the rain soaked them — a perfect ending to a perfect day. Behind him the cursing of his number two, straining to raise the top, was muffled by the heavy rain pelting the hood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Captain, the coolant pump on the starboard close in weapons system broke again, sir. The electronic technicians are running in-depth diagnostics and we should know something in a couple of hours. And, yes, sir, I have already checked and Supply has a spare pump if we need it.”

  Captain Heath Cafferty stretched and jumped down from his bridge chair.

  “Keep me informed. Ensign O’Toole. We turn east soon and that system needs to be on-line. It’s on the side of the ship facing Libya.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Mr. O’Toole replied. Saluting sharply, he turned to leave the bridge.

  “Mr. O’Toole,” Cafferty said, stopping the ensign, who was halfway through the hatch.

  “Yes, sir.” Ensign O’Toole stepped back onto the bridge.

  “That’s the CIWS you’ve had problems with since departing Norfolk. After you finish fixing it, I want a wrap up of everything that has gone wrong with that lemon. We’ll send a message to SurfLant telling them to do something or I’m going to use it as a spare anchor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Mr. O’Toole, if you’re going to wear the ship’s belt buckle then shine the damn thing.”

  “Yes, sir. Captain.”

  Cafferty scratched the end of his sunburned nose. Naval Surface Forces Atlantic couldn’t do anything his ship’s force hadn’t done, but it was better to keep those no-loads at SurfLant informed in case it turned into a major casualty.

  Then when they swarmed on him like a bunch of pissed off hornets, asking dumb questions — why hadn’t he done this, why hadn’t he done that — he could point to the messages, showing he had given heads-up on the problems.

  “Mr. O’Toole, if it’s still broke at noon I want a casualty report issued. Let the battle group commanders and SurfLant know that the starboard CIWS is inop. You’ve got two hours, no more. So, go and fix the damn thing and bring me great tidings of joy when you do.”

  “Aye, aye. Captain.” Ensign O’Toole, the electronics maintenance officer, nearly bumped his head on the overhang as he hurried off the bridge, trying to put as much space as possible between him and the captain before the Old Man remembered some other piece of instruction to sling at him. The chief could have told the captain, but had refused. Said it was the officer’s job to carry bad news to the skipper. Bad enough he had one of the most important jobs on the ship, keeping everything electronic and electric working, but he was a real officer — college degree and all that — not a mustang like his predecessor. An electrical engineering degree was a whole world away from practical application. That redheaded bastard was making life miserable for everyone. He never thought he’d miss the old captain. Commander Cafferty smiled as he watched the gangly ensign scurry away. One thing he’d done right since his arrival was making his presence known. Relieving in the middle of a deployment was never an easy transition for a new commanding officer, especially when you inherited a lax ship. He sauntered over to the open hatch, the sound of the boatswain mate of the watch yelling “Captain off the bridge” ringing in his ears as he stepped onto the bridge wing. Raising the binoculars from around his neck he scanned the horizon to starboard before focusing ahead on the haze that masked the shore.

  After a few minutes, having seen nothing, he stepped back inside, to the background of the BMOW shouting, “Captain on the bridge.” He grabbed his porcelain coffee mug with the USS Gearing’s emblem on one side and commanding officer on the other and immediately stepped back outside, smiling as the BMOW shouted, “Captain off the bridge.” Had a nice ring to it. Each time the BMOW announced the captain the quartermaster made an entry in the ship’s logbook. Handwritten logs remained a Navy tradition even with portable computers humming in every office, nook, and cranny on the modem warship. Even the bridge had two portable computers, one for the navigator to conduct ship’s business, since he was also the administrative officer, and a second for the captain, although no one had seen him use it yet.

  Cafferty leaned on the railing, his cup cradled in both hands and eyes partially shut as he allowed the rays of the hot summer sun to bathe him. He pulled a small tube of cream from his pocket and rubbed some of the ointment on his nose to protect it from the sun. A soft breeze flowed across the bow created by the ship’s twelve knots as it cut through the mirrorlike ocean of the Gulf of Sidra. No natural breeze stirred and no waves broke the surface and the ship-made breeze did little to cool the desert heat coming from the south. The Mediterranean lay quiet, like a mirror on its back reflecting the sky, making the ship appear to be sailing in midair. Its wake the only thing, besides an occasional flying fish, to break the illusion. A school of porpoises played, riding the pressure ridge created by the ship’s bow as it knifed through the still sea. Cafferty finished his coffee and sat the cup on a shelf below the starboard railing. Pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped the sweat from his face.

  The navigator stepped onto the bridge wing and waited to be acknowledged. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

  “Yes,” Cafferty said, without turning. He raised his binoculars.

  “Sir, we’re five miles to track—” The sudden turn of the captain startled the navigator, causing the junior officer to stop in mid-sentence and stumble backward a step.

  “What are you basing our position on?” he asked gruffly.

  The captain’s binoculars swung back and forth on the thong around his neck. Cafferty narrowed his eyes, hoping it enhanced his attempt to look stern.

  “GPS, sir. We tried a running fix, but the haze over the coastline is hiding the landmarks.” The navigator licked his dry lips.

  Cafferty shaded his eyes and looked up.

  “Have you thought about taking a fix from the sun, mister, or have we forgotten how to do proper navigation?”

  “No, sir, we haven’t, but—”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me, Navi-guesser; either you’ve done it or you haven’t and I can tell you haven’t, so get your butt in there and break out the sextant and charts and get me a fix before we arrive on track!”

  “Sir, that’ll take me longer than five minutes.” />
  “Then bring it to me when you figure out how to do a fix from the sun, Lieutenant Junior Grade. That is, if you ever hope to make lieutenant. Now get your act together!

  We’re sailing in an area where anything can happen and you’ve done nothing but flip a switch and hope some satellite, sitting overhead, is right. In my eighteen years of naval service I can tell you there are multiple reasons for technological convenience to go wrong. There is no substitute for good, precise stubby-pencil work. Do you understand?

  If not, let me simplify it for you: GPS isn’t sailing into danger, we are!”

  Cafferty flicked his thumb back toward the bridge.

  “Now move it and I don’t want to see you again until you know our exact position!” he said through clenched teeth, never thinking how that order would endanger the ship within the next twenty-four hours.

  The navigator scrambled back inside, to the relative safety of the bridge. His knees wobbled slightly as he walked to the navigation table on the port side, unaware of the skipper smiling behind him. Only two more years left and his obligated service was up and the Navy could color him gone.

  The lead quartermaster watched the entire episode on the bridge wing. She had seen enough ass-chewings to recognize one. Her officer’s pale face revealed enough for her to know that whatever the ass-chewing was about it meant extra work for the navigation team. She rolled her eyes up and thought. Lord, protect me from scared junior officers and rank-seeking commanding officers.

  “The captain wants a sun reading to complement the GPS position,” the navigator said angrily.

  “That’s dumb and it’s a waste of time, sir,” she said, grabbing a nearby compass rose. “GPS is exact and even if we do celestial we’re going to be a few miles off. This close to land we need a running fix. It’s more accurate than a sun fix.”

  “Don’t argue with me, First,” the navigator said with a low growl.

  “Break out the sextant and charts and get busy.”

  “Yes, sir,” the first class replied, whipping off a brusque salute and tossing the compass rose onto the navigation table.

  “I hope the lieutenant junior grade is aware that the sextant is packed away — God knows where — in the chart room. I’ll have to find it and then it’s going to take a while to unpack it and set it up … not to mention probably have to wash the goddamn thing to get the dust off the lens.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time. So hurry up and do it,” he whispered.

  “That’s an order. And, we don’t salute inside the skin of the ship.”

  “No, sir, and we don’t do celestial when we got GPS either,” the first class replied.

  “First, not another word. Go fetch the sextant and quit wasting time arguing with me.”

  “Well, sir, the last thing I would want to do is waste time when I’ve been given a direct order.”

  The quartermaster sauntered off, enveloping herself with a cloud of curses about “wuss” officers and muttering about the new Navy as she slammed the hatch leading into the chart room.

  Cafferty, unable to hear, had witnessed the exchange. It may have been a lax crew he inherited, but, by God, he was going to turn it into a fighting ship if it killed him.

  This may be a routine Freedom of Navigation operation to everyone else, but for him it was an opportunity to hone the crew. Knock out the little things that impact the fighting edge a warship needs.

  A torrent of nautical terms sprinkled with a stream of colorful curses reached his ears. He leaned over the railing. Below on the main deck, a First Division working party was sanding, scraping, and knocking away flaking paint from the motor whaleboat. A second class boatswain mate paced back and forth behind the nonrated seamen, with a steady stream of circus-quality invectives decorating his professional instructions.

  “Boats!” the captain shouted down to the second class.

  The second class boatswain mate stopped his dialogue abruptly.

  “What the fuck!” the boatswain mate yelled. Holding the ubiquitous cup of destroyer coffee in his left hand he shaded his eyes with his right to see who was shouting at him. Recognizing the captain, he turned the shading hand into a snappy salute.

  “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you.”

  “How’s that job coming?” Boatswain mates were the real Navy. They were the true nautical flavor of the Navy, running through history all the way to sailing ships. A language of their own and a job that technology had yet to replace.

  “Pretty good, Captain, but we won’t be able to paint the goddamn thing until we turn out to fucking sea again!”

  “Why’s that?” Captain Cafferty asked, a puzzled look on his face.

  “It’s this shit-sticking sand, sir,” the boatswain mate shouted. He held his hand up, rubbing his fingers together.

  “See! It’s everywhere. Captain. Can’t do a proper paint job with this shitty stuff everywhere. It’s like a fine dust. It’ll mix with the paint and we’ll have to redo whatever we paint within two weeks. The ship will need a good wash down when we finish this shore water operation and even then, sir, I don’t think it’ll get rid of this shitty stuff.”

  “You’re right. Boats. At least it’ll give us a chance to exercise the seawater wash-down system and see if it really works.”

  “Fucking a ditty bag, sir!”

  “Carry on. Boats, and let me know if you see anything else I should know about.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the petty officer replied, hiking his pants up as he returned his attention to the detail. Yeah, the captain was a fucking a-okay Joe, even for an officer. He yelled at a seaman to quit goofing off. Yeah, the captain was okay.

  Cafferty stepped away from the railing, leaving the imprint of his hand on the gray stanchion. He wiped his hands and then brushed his khaki shin near the belt line where desert sand from the railing had stained it.

  “Damn.” The captain stepped inside.

  BMOW shouted the usual, “Captain on the bridge.”

  “Boats,” the captain said to the BMOW.

  “Call the executive officer and the combat systems officer to the bridge on the double!”

  “Yes, sir.” The BMOW grabbed the 1MC microphone and lifted the boatswain whistle to his lips to pipe the summons, but the intercom interrupted.

  “Bridge, Combat; is the captain still there?”

  “Combat, Bridge here; that’s an affirmative.” The officer of the deck glanced at the captain to ensure he heard.

  Cafferty nodded and motioned to the boatswain mate of the watch to belay the announcement.

  “Go ahead. Combat, the captain’s listening.”

  “Captain, Combat Information Center watch officer here, sir. We have a helicopter off the port bow about sixteen miles.”

  The captain eased past the ODD, who moved quietly to one side. Cafferty pushed the reply button and said to the CICWO, “That’ll put him over land. What’s he doing?”

  “Sir, we’ve been tracking him about three minutes. He came from the east and is flying due west. Not sure if he is conducting a reconnaissance, doing routine zone flying, or just transiting.”

  “Electronic Warfare got anything?”

  “Just a sporadic radar reading that may have come from him, but it wasn’t up long enough to identify. The direction he’s flying his radar isn’t pointed our way so doubt if we can get a valid identification.”

  “Combat, I would say it’s Libyan since it’s over the coast. Any other air activity out there?”

  “Only the Harriers flying a combat air patrol about eighty miles northwest of us, sir.”

  “Do we have contact with the USS NassauT “Yes, sir, we do, but we are experiencing some sporadic communication difficulties caused by the sun, but that’s to be expected. So far, nothing serious enough to keep us from exchanging operational information. The Harriers are operating under the control of the Nassau’s ATE.”

  “How about Sixth Fleet?”

  “Sir?”

  “Comms! We go
t comms with Sixth Fleet?”

  “Sorry, sir, yes, sir; when we conducted morning communication checks, everything was flyers with Sixth Fleet and Commander Fleet Air Mediterranean. The Nassau is one hundred fifty miles northwest of our current position and the op order calls for them to steam eastward to maintain a closing position so that her air arm can support our operation.”

  “Is the executive officer down there?”

  “Yes, sir. He just came in.”

  “XO, this is the captain. Come up to the bridge, please.

  CICWO, keep tracking that helicopter and inform the Nassau and Sixth Fleet that our presence is probably known by the Libyans. We’ll assume worst-case scenario that the helicopter is flying a coastal recce.”

  CICWO acknowledged the order as the hatch opened and the executive officer walked onto the bridge. “BMOW, go ahead and call the combat systems officer.”

  The BMOW keyed the mike and the boatswain whistle echoed over the 1MC loudspeakers throughout the ship.

  “Now hear this. Combat Systems Officer, lay to the bridge on the double!”

  “On the double” meant a situation existed that required the immediate attention of the person to whom it was directed.

  To be summoned “on the double” meant dropping whatever was being done and running to wherever the summons ordered.

  Less than a minute later the hatch burst open and the combat systems officer rushed breathlessly onto the bridge, bumping the quartermaster, who had just walked out of the chart room, carrying the wooden box containing the sextant.

  The quartermaster lost her grip, dropping the box, but with a quick grab caught the sensitive instrument before it hit the deck. She felt the sextant move against the inside cradle that held the sensitive instrument tight to protect its calibration.

  “Damn, sir,” the quartermaster said.

  “Sorry,” the combat systems officer replied as he walked around the petty officer.

  “Captain,” he announced his presence.

  “Lieutenant, glad you could make it.”