Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  As if hearing him, the speaker blared. “Stennis, Yorktown; missile miss; I repeat missile miss. Second and third shots in the air at target zero six three.”

  The NTDS operator rolled her mouse to the video designated as zero six three and hooked the inbound missile. She glanced at the displayed data on her NTDS console. “Inbound zero six one; time to impact one minute four seconds! Zero six three and zero six four; time to impact one minute ten seconds.”

  In combat, even seconds counted. Holman worked through the amazement of how combat and war seemed to slow time. A minute seemed longer when you were fighting for your life. The odds of them stopping the three remaining Exocet missiles were against them. Aircraft were ineffective this close.

  “Splash!” cried the NTDS operator, her voice obtaining a high note.

  “Track zero six three off scope!”

  “Stennis, Yorktown; zero six three destroyed. I repeat zero six three destroyed.”

  “Stennis, Hue City, I am moving to your port side to engage the inbound.

  Estimate three minutes to position. Am unable to engage missile.”

  Holman recognized the voice from the USS Hue City as that of its commanding officer, Captain Horatio Jurgen Mcteak, fondly known as Buc-Buc. “Not enough time,” Holman whispered to himself in reply to Buc-Buc’s broadcast. He breathed a sigh of relief. The Aegis cruiser Hue City was trying to steer herself between the Stennis1 and the remaining two inbound missiles. The heavier firepower of the Hue City, positioned directly in the path of the Exocet missiles, would probably destroy the last two. The cruiser brought with it not only its surface-to-air missile vertical launch systems but also two Close In Weapons Systems — CIWS — designed for such enemy attacks. But he wanted no other situations like the USS John Rodgers on his conscience. Not another surface warfare sacrifice done for the good of the battle group, which was what Dick considered the Stennis. He and the Stennis were one as long as he was the commanding officer. But he wasn’t CO now. The USS John Rodgers, an aging Spruance-class destroyer, had maneuvered herself between the USS Stennis and four inbound torpedoes when the battle group reached the Strait of Gibraltar five weeks ago. The Stennis had been saved by the bravery of the officers and sailors on the USS John Rodgers but at the cost of the destroyer and all those who sailed her. Not one body had been recovered from the fireball that engulfed and destroyed the ship. Holman had personally written the Medal of Honor citation for Captain Warren Spangle, commanding officer of the destroyer, and had it endorsed by Admiral Cameron. It was one of the last things Admiral Cameron did before he was relieved yesterday and flown off the carrier toward whatever fate awaited him in Washington.

  “Stennis, Hue City; decoy effective — track zero six one. I say again, we have successfully decoyed track zero six one. It is inbound our way. You can say good-bye to that son of a bitch!”

  “Stennis, Ramage; sir, I cannot fire without endangering the carrier.

  The last missile is directly in line with me to you.”

  “Stennis, Yorktown; same here, over.”

  Tucson Conroy, commanding officer of the USS Stennis, picked up the microphone. “Battle group, this is Stennis, Charlie Oscar speaking.”

  The doors to Combat bounced off the bulkhead as Rear Admiral Devlin, the new commander United States Sixth Fleet, burst in. Devlin had stayed as long as he could in the Sixth Fleet staff Combat Information Center. He needed to be nearer the action. This was only his second day as the new Sixth Fleet commander.

  General Lewis, the commander of the Joint Task Force African Force, had called both him and Admiral Cameron into his stateroom late yesterday.

  To the surprise of Devlin but not Admiral Cameron, the Army general broke the news that Admiral Cameron had been ordered to return to Washington. Admiral Cameron was to answer questions about the terrorist attacks, the sinking of the USS Gearing, and his own leadership responsibilities. Devlin demanded to be relieved along with Cameron.

  General Lewis ignored the request and, in front of the man who took them to war, the general read an order from chief of Naval Operations reassigning Devlin as commander, United States Sixth Fleet. Devlin and Holman had yet to find an opportunity to discuss the events.

  “Hue City, continue your approach. We estimate missile impact in forty-five seconds.” He pointed to the TAO and mouthed, Give me the speaker. “Ramage, request initiate antisubmarine tactics in the event this is a coordinated event. York town, take position five miles off my port side and provide air defense.”

  Tucson raised the microphone to his lips. An involuntary but audible sigh escaped Richard Holman as Tucson’s voice traveled over the circuit.

  “Men and women of the Stennis, this is the commanding officer speaking.

  We have an inbound Exocet cruise missile. We’ll see if our Close In Weapons System, the Vulcan Phalanx, works. Prepare for impact.” He paused for a second before keying the 1MC again. “I expect everyone to do your duty.”

  Tucson hung up the microphone and turned to Dick Holman and Rear Admiral Devlin, who had invaded his space. He remained standing beside the captain’s seat. He knew the turmoil going through his former skipper’s mind, but this was his command now, his space, and he knew they knew.

  “Admirals,” he said, granting Dick Holman the higher, un proinoted rank, “I would recommend grabbing something and holding on.”

  The IMC of the ship blared with a boatswain whistle from the bridge of the huge aircraft carrier, followed by the voice of the officer of the deck. “Stand by for missile impact port side. All hands, brace for impact. Time: twenty-five seconds.”

  On the flight deck, sailors ran from the port side, fleeing to the starboard side and safety, some diving into the walkway that encircled the massive flight deck. The crackle of the depleted uranium shells of the two CIWS mounts on the port side gave new urgency to their dash for safety. The CIWS only fired at targets within its five-mile limits.

  “What happened to the last two missiles?” Pete Devlin asked. He had been in the passageway running to the Stennis’s Combat Information Center when the electronic warfare suite about the USS Hue City decoyed one of the remaining two Exocets.

  Before Holman could answer, the sound of an explosion off the port side echoed through the spaces. The ship actually rocked to starboard slightly from the impact.

  Devlin grabbed the side of the captain’s chair. He saw Holman start to fall and grabbed him as he lost his grip. The impact barely shook the ship, but it still managed to catch Holman off balance. Amazing what an aircraft carrier can take. During World War II, the last time aircraft carriers endured air attacks — until the North Koreans tried it last week — they took multiple hits and still continued to launch and recover aircraft. The USS Stennis dwarfed by three times the size of old World War II carriers.

  The TAO pulled his headset off his ears and turned to Tucson. “Captain, CIWS hit the target off the port beam, causing it to spin before exploding on our port side near the aft elevator. Damage control parties are on scene, and we should have initial reports soon.”

  “How many casualties?”

  The TAO shook his head. “Unknown at this time, Captain.”

  Admiral Devlin leaned toward Dick Holman. “Dick, let’s clear the area. I want the battle group relocated fifty miles farther out while we assess damage.” Devlin pointed at the forward bulkhead. “To the northwest. The shift will complicate further enemy actions and put more water between us and the shore.”

  “We may be giving them what they want, Admiral.”

  “So? What’s fifty miles to a carrier?”

  Holman nodded. “Yes, sir, I will order the battle group north fifty miles and establish a new operating area — a MODLOC— for us.” He reached forward and touched Tucson Conroy’s shoulder. “You hear?”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Will do,” he replied.

  “Captain,” said the TAO, “so far, no casualties in the attack. Damage appears to be minimal, and damage control has already
extinguished the fire the missile caused. But so far, we have fourteen wounded. I will have medical’s report as soon as they provide it.”

  “Roger, Commander. Tell the battle group we are moving north.” The commanding officer of the USS Hue City was the senior surface warfare officer in the battle group. Usually the senior SWO was assigned the duties of commander, Task Force Six-zero, with overall tactical authority over the warships in the battle group. In this case, Buc-Buc had been passed over in favor of Commander Tucson Conroy, a fellow SWO but one rank junior. The proximity of commander, Task Force Six seven, and commander, Sixth Fleet, caused Admiral Cameron to appoint the commanding officer of USS Stennis as the commander, Task Force Six-zero.

  The Iron Leader had insisted on keeping the elements of command together.

  “Define a new operating area about fifty miles from here, clear it through me, and Sixty-seven and we’ll broadcast it to the fleet. But turn the fleet north now.” He turned to Dick Holman and Pete Devlin.

  “Orders under way, sir. This will give us time to assess the situation and, if the enemy wants to mount another attack; they’ll have to come farther out.”

  Tucson reached over and lifted the headset off the TAO’s ears. “Keep us at general quarters for the time being. Do not secure from it unless I personally authorize it. I am going to the bridge to survey the damage from there and then will probably go on down to the impact area, once damage control efforts have eased.” Tucson knew his presence would disrupt the damage control parties around the elevator, so he chose reluctantly to delay going to the damaged area.

  He turned to the two observers. “Would you gentlemen care to join me?”

  Dick Holman let out a deep breath. “Tucson, you don’t know how hard it was to keep quiet. You did an outstanding job.”

  “Skipper, I think I know, and I appreciate you letting me fight the ship.”

  “I feel the need for a strong cigar. May I offer both of you one? They are Havanas.”

  Devlin nodded. “I think I could use something stronger than a cigar, but a Havana sounds good … only later, not right now.”

  “I’ll pass on the cigar, Captain.”

  “Good job on fighting the battle group, Captain Conroy,” Pete Devlin added. “You didn’t have much time to react, and your forces pulled it off as the true professionals they are. I’ll let you and Dick go shake out the jeebies, while I return to discuss this with my staff. Dick, we need to talk about the recent changes after I have a meeting with General Lewis. At least we were blessed with him staying in the commander, Joint Task Force — CJTF — ops space.”

  “That may have been more a case of him not knowing how to find his way around the carrier.” Dick grinned. Then he realized he had an overwhelming urge to urinate.

  “I’ll be on the bridge, sir,” Tucson Conroy said, turning toward the ladder leading upward from the center of the Combat Information Center.

  “Admiral, I’ll call as soon as we know the extent of damage. Even a small cruise missile like an Exocet can do a lot of damage if it hits the right area,” Dick Holman said. “We need to see how much damage. It doesn’t sound too bad. If what Damage Control passed is accurate, we should have the flight deck up and running within the next hour. If it is worse than the initial report, we are still going to have the flight deck up and running in an hour. We have no choice. I have aircraft out there with nowhere to land.

  It’s too far to Sigonella, the Spanish and French probably won’t react well if we bingo our fighters to their soil, and the French and British carriers are incapable of taking our aircraft on board.”

  “We could land them at the Bouhiemme International at Algiers. We own it right now,” offered Pete Devlin.

  Holman nodded. “Let’s hope we don’t have to. If you will excuse me, sir.” He turned and made a beeline for the head located just outside Combat.

  * * *

  The helicopter crew chief worked his way toward Duncan. Duncan took his earphones off as the young sergeant bent down.

  “Captain, we will be crossing the coastline in about two minutes. We are about ten miles west of Algiers, sir. Captain Cochran, the pilot, asked me to tell you two enemy aircraft fired air-to-surface missiles at the Stennis. Apparently one hit the carrier.”

  “Do they know how much damage?” asked Duncan, shouting over the noise of the rotary engine overhead.

  The young Marine shook his head. “No, sir. We haven’t been told to divert yet, but the captain is considering staying in Algiers after he lets you off.”

  Duncan nodded. “Let me know if you get any additional information.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” he replied and then weaved his way slowly back to the cockpit.

  “Duncan, why is it that whenever I am with you, excretus occurus,” said Beau.

  “Excretus occurus? “

  “Yeah, shit happens. I’m going to stop going places with you if you don’t rid yourself of this unlucky cloud that keeps following you.”

  Monkey, who had been scanning the sea out of one of the small, oval windows in the cargo bay shouted, “We’re over land!” He hated flying.

  The sooner they were off this traveling bucket of low-bidder bolts the better.

  The helicopter rocked slightly as the CH-53 swung left onto an easterly heading toward Algiers. Captain Cochran pushed his aviator sunglasses back onto his nose. He tugged his flight gloves tighter and wiggled his fingers. Only six more months before he would have been out of the Marine Corps, and now he had been told he was in for the duration. Duration of what? He had a job lined up, flying helos between oil rigs and the shore along the Gulf of Mexico, and would probably lose it because of this.

  The crew chief leaned over Dale Cochran’s shoulder. “Captain, I told Captain James. He wants to be kept abreast of any additional information you get.”

  Dale nodded. “Yeah, if they tell us anything,” he shouted over the noise of the helicopter. “I have been calling for the past five minutes and have yet for them to answer. I know they’re not sunk because I hear others talking with them.”

  His fellow Marine Corps copilot, Captain Luke Blair, pressed the intercom button. “Maybe they have more on their minds right now than a lone CH-53, flying unprotected over hostile territory at an outrageously low altitude toward a city occupied by its own forces.” He gave Dale a forced smile, widening his eyes as he showed his teeth.

  Luke, ever the clown. “Thanks, Butt Hole. Just what I need. Pleasant thoughts to occupy my mind.” Dale jerked up on the controls, causing Luke’s head to snap back and the crew chief to nearly fall. “Remember, I have the force with me.”

  “And, may the force remain with you,” Luke replied.

  The crew chief reconnected his intercom. Dumb air jockeys, he thought.

  He grabbed the bar behind the pilot to steady himself. Four years in the Marine Corps had prepared him for this. At least, he hoped so. He connected his harness to a nearby clip so he wouldn’t fly all over the cockpit if the pilots decided to outdo each other jerking the heavy helicopter all over sky. He liked the two men, but every so often, the two forgot they were Marines and acted like college jerks. He hated the idea of being in the helicopter with them when they decided to play Animal House in the air.

  He heard a ping and glanced around the cockpit, looking for the source.

  It was an unfamiliar noise. He leaned forward to ask the lieutenants if they heard it. The bullet caught the sergeant under the chin, penetrated upward into his brain, where it lost momentum and bounced around inside his skull, turning his brain to jelly. The forward motion of the crew chief turned into a fall, and his body fell onto the two shoulders of the men. The safety harness held him up. Red blood and brain mush jetted out of the sergeant’s nostrils, ears, and mouth to cover the two men. “What the hell!” shouted Dale, trying to wipe the stuff off his neck and flight suit. There was a brief moment of wondering what the stuff was on his gloves before realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

  Two
more pinging sounds echoed in the cabin. They were being shot at.

  Dale pulled back on the throttle, pulling nearly a g before easing back as he fought to gain altitude. He heard the noise in the back as the SEALs were thrown back and forth against their harnesses. The shift in weight influenced the trim of the helicopter, causing him to overcorrect. The engines missed a beat and with it, so did his heart. If he had teeth in his ass, he’d be chewing a hole in this seat right now.

  Luke pushed the dead crew chief off them and grabbed the throttle, ready to take over if something happened to Dale. The body of the crew chief swung back and forth on the safety harness. Luke felt the engine miss also. His stomach tightened, and he had an overwhelming urge to pee. He looked down at the controls.

  “We’re loosing revs, man. We’re loosing revs! Hydraulic pressure dropping. Damn!”

  “Find a place for us to put down!” Dale shouted as he banked the helicopter south, heading away from the coast, trying to avoid enemy fire.

  “Shit, man, you can land anywhere here. It’s all gawldamn desert!”

  “Tell Stennis we’re going in, then warn our passengers we’re ditching.”

  A minute later, Luke was back in his seat. “Did you tell them?” Dale asked. The power to the engine was missing and stuttering every few seconds before returning to full power. One of those bullets must have hit the engine, he guessed.

  “Naw, they were sleeping. I thought why wake them and tell them my bestest friend in the world, Captain Dale Cochran, United States Marine Corps, has gotten us shot down where we are going to have to crash in hostile territory where enemy forces are going to capture us, pull our toenails out with red-hot pliers before cutting off our balls and stuffin’ ‘ in our mouths. Naw, I didn’t wake them.” He shoved himself into his seat and put his headset on.