* * *
On board the Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two EP-3E Orion aircraft, flying the central Mediterranean track, one hundred fifty miles north of the action, the mission commander turned to the crypto logic officer.
“Are we sure?” he asked, disbelieving.
“Lord, you’ve got to be wrong. Maybe it’s a Libyan exercise?”
“No, it’s not an exercise and yes, I am sure. Your front end crew verified the presence of Harpoon emitters. The Gearing is the only ship in this vicinity that has Harpoons.
The lab op detected missile seekers of the old Soviet Styx missile. The Libyans still have Osa and Nanuchka warships that carry those antiques,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from her flight suit, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
“The Gearing was called off station last night by Sixth Fleet and, according to this morning’s pr emission brief, she should have been about a hundred and fifty miles from where you’re saying this took place. Because of that, we weren’t briefed to keep track of her,” Lieutenant Commander Andrews argued.
Without replying Lieutenant Gamer handed the mission commander a message with four short lines on it and knew, even as she handed it, that the message was going to stir the United States as nothing had since Pearl Harbor. Even men cried in battle, so she felt no timidity that a few tears dotted her cheeks.
“We only have ELINT, but a quick triangulation against the Gearing Aegis radar shows her over thirty miles off the Libyan coast. I would say that’s a great difference from the hundred fifty she is supposed to be.”
“Why?” he asked, trying to comprehend the enormity of what Gamer was saying.
“I don’t understand the why of it,” Lieutenant Sue Garner, the crypto logic officer, replied.
“Neither do I,” Lieutenant Commander Andrews, the mission commander, answered.
“Neither do I.”
Andrews folded the message and walked toward the cockpit. Every eye in the aircraft watched his progress as he hurried through. Every member of the crew had a piece of the puzzle, knowing the whole picture rested on the piece of paper in Lieutenant Commander Andrews’s hand.
The last reflection was the Mig-23 pilot declaring an in-flight emergency and reporting the American warship sinking. Onboard electronic warfare suites had pinpointed the location of the action.
At the cockpit the mission commander handed the message to the pilot.
“So, we’re sure this is true?” the senior pilot. Commander Stillwell, asked.
“Yes, sir. We can’t be completely sure without actually seeing it. But our sensors show, and every one of the analysts believes, it is a valid event. That at approximately zero seven twenty Zulu, zero eight twenty hours our time, forces of Libya attacked and sank the USS Gearing while she was operating in international waters.”
The pilot initialed the message, adding his own line.
“Go ahead and send it. I wrote that we are remaining on station, awaiting further instructions.” He looked at the gauges.
“We’ve only been airborne a couple of hours; we can stay up another eight if we have to. I hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope so, too. This is one time it wouldn’t bother me to be told how I screwed up.”
“We’ll wait here,” said the pilot. He put the EP-3E into a racetrack orbit. Here, they’d wait for further instructions, which he knew would come.
Within four minutes of the time that Lieutenant Gamer recognized what was happening, the message landed on the desks of Commander Sixth Fleet, Commander in Chief U. S. Naval Forces Europe, Commander in Chief Europe, and other battle force commanders throughout the world.
Six minutes after the message left the aircraft the duty watch officer in the basement of the White House ran up the stairs to wake the president. Within three hours, CNN would interrupt normal broadcasting to spread the news that would send angry Americans into the streets, demanding revenge.
The curtains to the cockpit opened.
“Message, sir,” said the radioman who handed the slip of paper to the pilot.
“What’s it say?” the copilot asked impatiently.
“Descend to sea level, approach the action area, and verify.”
“Who’s it from?”
“CTF Sixty-seven — Fleet Air Mediterranean. Admiral Devlin says that if we encounter any reaction to our presence we are to depart the area immediately and bingo to Sigonella.”
The mission commander walked into the cockpit.
“Well, here it is,” said the pilot to Andrews as he passed the message to him.
“Uncover those lenses from that video camera we carry and take pictures. I’ll not want to stay all night in debriefing. Take the Intell bubbas some photos and they’ll leave us alone.”
Andrews quickly read the message.
“Okay. Says here we’re directly under Sixth Fleet direction.”
The pilot nodded as he took the intercom.
“Crew, this is Commander Stillwell. You all know what we think has happened. We’ve been ordered to visually verify it. We are descending to sea level, probably around a hundred feet.
Then, we’re going to approach the action location. Once there, we’ll commence a broadening circle search.”
“We are going to be within easy reach of Libyan fighter aircraft, so I want all of you on your toes. If you see even the tiniest indication they know we are there, I want to know about it. Meanwhile, everyone put on your SV-2s and parachutes. Just a precaution in the event we have to run for it.”
Activity erupted as twenty-four crew members jostled and bumped each other as they put on their survival vests, followed by bulky parachutes pulled from overhead storage racks. The SV-2s and parachutes restricted movement somewhat, but if they had to, they could evacuate the EP3E in a minute.
“I am sending the flight engineer back and I want number three life raft and provisions ready to drop. Put our main radio in with number three. Officers, throw your survival radios in the plastic bag. If the worst has happened, they’ll have more need of them than we will.”
The EP-3E continued west as it descended to an altitude of one hundred feet and then, when onboard sensors showed no radar painting the aircraft, it turned south. The noise increased from the four turboprops as Commander Stillwell applied more power. The turbulence caused by the low altitude and max speed bounced the aging aircraft as it hurried south. Aircrew fastened their seat belts and secured their coffee cups without being told. Stillwell bowed his head slightly. He was not a religious man by nature, but he asked God to make their analysis wrong.
Ten minutes later Stillwell announced, “We are five minutes, fifteen miles from the datum. There is dark smoke on the horizon and we’re steering toward it. Lieutenant commander Andrews, have your camera ready. I want an air crewman at each of the windows, searching for anything that looks like surface debris, a ship, life rafts, anything.”
Andrews moved to the large window near the aft exit and set up the video camera. In the cockpit. Commander Stillwell continued relaying information to Commander United States Sixth Fleet.
Three minutes passed.
The plane started down as the pilot spoke.
“We are descending to fifty feet altitude. It’s going to be a rough ride, so stay buckled in your seats if you don’t have a reason to be up. Ahead of us is the stern of what looks like a ship, sticking out of the sea. I see several life rafts near it.”
The EP-3E veered right slightly to broaden its turn as it started a left circle over the protruding stern of the ship.
In large black letters the word Gearing stood out. From the front of the aircraft a short cry of anguish broke the silence.
Below them, waving from life rafts, were the survivors of the USS Gearing. The presence of the United States Navy aircraft gave hope. The survivors knew their battle had not gone unnoticed and a sense of relief, that only mariners can understand, spread through the survivors. The presence of the aircraft told them rescue was o
n its way.
Little did they know, nor would they have believed, that rescue would take four days.
Lieutenant Sue Gamer shoved two air crewmen aside as she ran up the aisle to where Lieutenant Commander John Andrews filmed the scene. She grabbed his flight suit.
“Gotta go! Gotta go, John! Multiple bogies airborne out of Benghazi and Tripoli. We gotta go! They’ll be feet wet in thirty seconds!” Andrews tossed his camera to the chief beside him and ran to the cockpit.
“Break off. Commander. Fighters on their way!”
“Screw them!” the pilot answered angrily. He then reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“I’ve just finished talking to Sixth Fleet. Admiral Cameron has given me charge to decide what we do.”
“Not supposed to smoke,” the copilot said calmly, handing his lighter to the pilot.
“Screw you, too. I’m not smoking; I’m just holding it in my mouth,” Stillwell replied, flicking the lighter until a flame appeared.
“John, we’re gonna dump the life raft and provisions before we leave. I’m not going to abandon our shipmates yet. We can’t outrun those fighters anyway, so we’ll dump the stuff and then lead them away from here.”
As Gamer and Andrews departed the cockpit, they heard the pilot say, “Mr. Copilot, no smoking is fine for peacetime, but I would submit to you, that now with a state of war existing, we can smoke. May even mean we can have sex again?”
* * *
Captain Heath Cafferty waved. He gave a thumbsup to Lieutenant Commander Nash, fifty yards away, in another life raft, helping survivors crawl into it from the water. Every raft had an officer or chief. Like the others, Cafferty and his fellow passengers continued to pull survivors from the water. The EP-3E finished its turn and headed toward them.
The door to the aircraft opened and a bright orange package tumbled out, inflating into a life raft as it hit the water.
Several sailors, still in the water, swam to it. The aircraft wiggled its wings before applying power to the engines.
He watched as it turned north, leaving them to the waters. How long would it be before rescue arrived? They were closer to Libya than to allied forces, and Cafferty was damned if he intended to be a prisoner of war to be paraded through the streets like in scenes from Vietnam.
He was about two hundred yards from the stern of the USS Gearing. The valiant warship was slowly sinking, almost as if fighting to remain afloat. The life rafts, the wave less mirror ocean, the haze along the horizon, the stern of the ship with its rising thick column of smoke gave the scene an eerie Salvador Dali quality.
Near the stern of the Gearing a head popped up. It was the warrant officer. Under each of her arms was a sailor.
“I dogged the warrant into women’s berthing,” a smoke faced young man said to no one in particular.
“The missile hit. I wanted to leave the hatch opened so they could escape, but the warrant ordered it shut after she jumped into the compartment.”
“Paddle over,” Cafferty ordered, ignoring the sailor.
“We’re the closest.”
Using their hands to augment the two paddles, they moved along the smooth surface toward the warrant officer.
Minutes later they reached out and pulled the two women from the warrant’s grip.
Cafferty reached down and held the exhausted warrant officer up as she rested her head against the side of the raft. Her breath came in short, rapid gulps.
“Good work. Warrant,” he said, when she looked up.
She threw up over his hands, too tired to wipe the vomit from her mouth.
Cafferty and another sailor pulled her into the orange vinyl craft.
“Warrant, I’m sorry. I thought you were dead,” the young sailor on the other side said. He lowered his head onto his arms and cried silently. “Don’t worry about it. You did what I told you to. You saved the ship long enough for it to whip ass and take names,” she gasped in short whispered words.
“Besides, you don’t think I’d risk my life if I thought I was going to die, do you? Naw, ain’t gonna happen — too many boy toys I ain’t met for me to die yet.”
Several minutes later, the warrant slid over beside the captain.
“Captain!” a sailor shouted, pointing south.
“It’s a helicopter!”
Cafferty knew it wasn’t American. The helo flew within a mile of their position and hovered for about ten minutes.
Sunlight reflected off the camera lens from the interior of the helicopter.
“Assholes,” said Cafferty. They were filming the disaster.
What he wouldn’t give right now for a handheld surface-to-air missile.
“I guess tonight we’ll be featured on Libyan television.”
“Let’s not disappoint them. Captain. Come on, everyone, give them the Hawaiian good luck sign,” said the warrant, holding up the middle finger of her left hand.
Cafferty joined the others in greeting the Libyan helicopter.
Two sailors in another life raft stood and dropped their trousers, turning their naked cheeks to the Libyans.
He grinned for the first time today.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Admiral, everything ordered has been in accordance with your standing op order. I talked with Commodore Ellison a few minutes ago, directly after the EP3E report. Seems he was trying to contact us at the same time to report that someone, masquerading as the commanding officer of the USS Gearing, spoofed CTF Sixtyone earlier this morning. Captain Ellison has launched four Harriers back along the battle group’s course to see if they can locate the destroyer, but the Marine Corps aircraft do not have the legs to reach the attack area. Ellison originally believed Gearing was heading his way at flank speed, before he realized he was being spoofed. By then, he had already recalled the combat air patrol, turned toward the Strait of Sicily, jacked the speed up, and started focusing the battle group transition from FONOP to a noncombatant evacuation op — a NEO. Sixtyone has now slowed their progress to await your directions.”
“Clive, I don’t like the sound of this. Where are they now?” Admiral Cameron asked his chief of staff. He ran his hand through his brown mane of thick hair. His graying eyebrows bunched as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. The dull ache from the wounds on his back reminded him to be careful in his movements.
“The battle group is in the Strait of Sicily,” Captain Clive Bowen replied.
The admiral bent down to slip on his shoes.
“Clive, I’m sorry to ask this, but can you give me a hand tying these damn things?”
The chief of staff bent down and tied the admiral’s shoes and then grabbed the khaki shirt draped over the back of a nearby chair and helped the admiral pull his shirt over the thick bandages. Two three-star rank devices held the collars down.
“Thanks, Clive.” He stuck his hand out and Clive helped the man to his feet. Admiral Cameron walked to the chest of drawers near the door to his private head.
Looking in the mirror, the admiral commented, “Damn, Clive, I look like a lopsided Hunchback of Noire Dame who’s gotten the shit beaten out of him.”
Changing the subject, he asked, “What is VQ-2 doing?”
referring to the parent squadron of the EP-3E.
“Is CTF Sixty-seven aware?” The sound of urine hitting the metal side of the commode accompanied his voice. The strong smell of ammonia reached Clive a few seconds later through the open door.
“Yes, sir. I talked with Rear Admiral Devlin and, with our concurrence, he has directed the EP-3E into the action area to visually verify the report.”
“Okay, Clive, but a four-engine turboprop Orion is no match for fighter aircraft. I want them out of there at the first sign of any reaction. I mean any. It could be a trap to bag one of our aircraft. Just because Qaddafi’s dead and gone doesn’t mean whoever’s controlling Libya is any less radical and anti-U. S.”
He started toward the door.
“Let’s go to Combat.
I want to be there when the aircraft arrives on the scene. Your job, Clive, is to run interference with the doc and that attractive nurse out there.” He opened the door.
The admiral and Captain Clive Bowen walked into the outer room.
“Doc, don’t say a word,” the admiral said, smiling and waving his hand at Captain Jacobs, the Sixth Fleet surgeon snoring on the couch, and, without breaking stride, continued to the stateroom door. The nurse rose from the nearby table.
“I have to go to Combat,” Admiral Cameron muttered.
“Admiral …” Lieutenant Commander Kathleen Gray, of the nurse corps, started to argue. She took two steps toward Admiral Cameron, afraid he was going to fall.
“Stay here with the doc. Nurse. If I need you, I’ll call.”
“What’s going on?” Doctor Jacobs asked, half-asleep.
Clive winked at the nurse as he shut the door behind them. So much for him running interference.
Outside, the two Marine sentries saluted the admiral and fell in step behind the two men. Since the attack the lone Marine orderly had been replaced by two. The two Marines had shifted from their casual uniform into combat cammies, their M-16s a sharp contrast from the usual Colt-45s they wore holstered around their waists.
One ladder, six frames, and two knee knockers later they were inside the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center.
One Marine took position outside of CIC while the other followed the admiral inside.
“Sixth Fleet in Combat,” said a voice as they entered.
The staff duty officer rushed over.
“Admiral, the EP-3E is entering the area now, sir, if you would like to listen.”
“Yes, I would, Commander. Lead the way.” A wave of dizziness swept over Admiral Cameron. He reached out and braced himself as fresh beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Clive Bowen’s hand surreptitiously took the admiral by the arm.
“This way. Admiral,” Captain Bowen said and removed his hand as Cameron straightened.
Initially, the damage to the USS La Sane and USS Simon Lake was thought to be so severe that they would have to abandon the ships, but the quick damage control by the ships’ companies had mitigated the damage. It took divers a whole day to cut away the sharp metal edges protruding around the damaged sterns and another day to rig a temporary seal to restore watertight integrity. By the time the USS La Sane and the USS Simon Lake had been refloated, Admiral Cameron had been released from the Italian hospital and given a quick physical at the U. S. Naval Hospital in Naples. He walked aboard with a little help from Clive and Doc Jacobs the same day the ships were refloated.
The Sixth Fleet tsf-1 Page 24
