Tomcat
( The Sixth Fleet - 3 )
David E. Meadows
American soldiers have been taken hostage behind the enemy lines of Algeria. And if the U.S. continues to make rescue attempts, the hostages die. One at a time. But the Sixth Fleet never makes attempts — they win.
David E. Meadows
Tomcat
To all the innocent victims and their families of September 11, 2001, and the people of New York City who rose in the face of terrorism to show the world the spirit of America.
Acknowledgments
My love and thanks to Felicity for her advice years ago that I should write what I know about. From her suggestion came the first manuscript for The Sixth Fleet.
This series would never have occurred without the sage advice and professional encouragement of Mr. Tom Colgan.
My thanks to my fellow classmates in the class of 2000 at the Industrial College of the Armed Forces who answered my myriad technical questions. I appreciate my friend Colonel “Slick” Katz, USMC, and the no-nonsense time he spent ensuring I understood the Marine Corps perspective on the Navy-Marine Corps team. Whew! Commander (retired) James Hamill, former commanding officer Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two, provided technical support on EP-3E flight characteristics. And to CDR Joseph Beatles for his aviation experience. My thanks for the support and technical guidance provided by Ms. Sharon Reinke, Mr. Art Horn, and Lieutenant Colonel David “Skull” Riedel, United States Marine Corps, in the Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Public Affairs.
Any technical errors or mistakes in this novel are strictly those of the author.
CHAPTER 1
Gunnery Sergeant Stapler peered over the oil barrels in front of him, ready to jump down if the shooting started again. Five minutes of quiet didn’t necessarily mean the end of a battle. His heart pounded against his flak jacket. Sweat poured between the T-shirt under the jacket and his chest, spreading around the belt line, soaking his skivvies. The ringing in his ears, caused by the clanging and ricochets of bullets hitting the empty oil barrels around him. was slowly disappearing.
Two hundred yards away, rolling black smoke from two burning CH-53 helicopters rose straight into the hot, dry, Sahara sky. The air above the ground simmered from the midday heat and seemed to leap around the scarlet flames roaring over the fuselages. The burning silhouette of the pilots appeared and disappeared as clouds of black, oily smoke whipped around the broken cockpit windows.
“Damn,” he said under his breath through gritted teeth.
Three Marine Corps Cobra gunships had escorted the Super Stallions across the Moroccan hills and a hundred miles farther inside Algeria before turning back because of low fuel. Homeplate knew it was taking a chance sending large troop transports into hostile territory without escort, but Intel argued this far south into Algeria was clear and safe. Well, hell … it wasn’t, it ain’t, and what the hell were they going to do now? G2 screwed up. Ain’t the first lime, either. He’d bet his ass the colonel in G2 would shrug his shoulders and say something about the “fog of war.” Hell, this hadn’t been fog; it had been a goddamn thunderstorm. Dead Marines … He counted twenty bodies, including enemy, scattered across the plain between their position and the helicopters.
Two of the bodies on the plain were Marines. Well, one was a Marine: the other was a Navy corpsman. Every platoon had a Navy corpsman, and the Navy corpsman was special. He — and now, sometimes she — was their doctor, the difference between life and death when wounded. It was an unwritten Marine Corps rule that every Marine had a responsibility to protect that Navy corpsman from harm. This time. Stapler had failed.
Gunnery Sergeant Leslie Stapler of Concord, North Carolina, refused to include the two in his battlefield count. Six members of his platoon and the six Marine Corps Sea Stallion crew members never made it out of the 53s. The slight Saharan wind rippled the loose Bedouin clothing of the dead enemy to wave like sleeping flags.
Stapler recalled their Arab translator in Morocco called the long flowing robes tho bes
He twisted his M-16 slightly, pulled the magazine out, did a quick count; eight cartridges of the thirty remained.
He shoved it back into the weapon until he heard the familiar click as the magazine on the nine-pound rifle was set.
Another shot went off to his right. Stapler bobbed his head back and forth, trying to see around the empty barrels where his Marines had sought position. A second three-burst volley erupted farther to the right. Satisfied that the sporadic fire was coming only from his Marines, he pumped his left hand up and down and shouted, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” He scrambled crablike to the left, nearer a Marine rifleman crouched behind a couple of barrels.
Stapler reached over and patted Joe-Boy Henry on the shoulder. His longhaired cowboy private from Texas. Of course, long hair in the Marine Corps still meant it was shorter than a half inch. “They’re gone, Cowboy Joe-Boy.
Save your ammunition. You’re gonna need it.” Stapler took his helmet off and braced it under his knee. With his handkerchief, he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Private Henry looked up. “Are they gone. Gunny?” he asked with a slight tremor in his voice. “Gawl damn, Gunny. That was shit, wasn’t it? That was pure shit. You sure they gone?”
“I doubt it, Cowboy Joe-Boy. I really doubt it, but remember, you are a Marine. I think we were as much a surprise to them as they were to us.” Stapler saw fear in the young man’s eyes. Cowboy Joe-Boy’s knuckles were white where he held a death grip on the M-16. Stapler smelled fear on himself, too: a sharp, ammonia smell, almost like urine but not quite as strong.
“You remember when we pulled into Jamaica a few months ago, Gunny?” The Marine’s eyes kept glancing at the gunny, then staring at the battlefield, as if expecting the dead to rise and charge at any moment.
“Yeah, Cowboy. It was a fun time on the beach,” Stapler replied, his eyes combing the open sand to the front.
“Well, I want you to know that I will never look at a Jamaican reggae band the same way again.” The Marine’s voice nearly broke.
The ringing from the barrels had finally cleared. “Me, either.” He slapped the Marine on the back. “Good job, Marine. Keep a sharp eye out.” Stapler rose waist high and. at a crouch, started to ease around the Marine, ready to roll to the ground if shots came his way.
“Gunny, I can’t help but be a little scared.” Cowboy Joe-Boy lifted one hand away from the M-16 and wiggled his fingers; then he shifted hands, doing the same with the other. His gaze focused on the dry, white Sahara desert between them and the burning helicopters. Gunny knew the young rifleman was concentrating hard to hide the moisture in his eyes.
Stapler patted him on the shoulder again. “Ain’t we all, Private. You stay here and keep alert. And keep an eye on those bodies. Just because they’re still don’t necessarily mean they’re dead.”
“Gunny, what about Butt and Stan? Are they dead?” Cowboy Joe-Boy asked, referring to the Marine and the Corpsman lying on the battlefield. He pointed toward the burning helicopters.
Stapler looked out at the bodies, thought for a few seconds, and then said, “Yeah, Joe-Boy. They’re dead. We’ll bring them in after we’ve secured the perimeter and are sure the enemy has departed the battlefield.” Hell, what was he going to tell the young Marine? Shit, Private.
They’re alive, but they’re not making any noise, so we’ll leave them alone for the time being. The pool of blood beneath Butt’s head and the dark-stained sand surrounding Stan’s body showed the damage done to the two. You put your life on the line for your fellow warriors when they were alive because you expected them to do the same for you. He’d do it now, if he thought they were alive. They were quiet. They had remained motionl
ess since the ambush and never moved from the position in which they fell. Stapler looked for movement from the two even as the firefight raged and the attack faded from the battlefield.
The wounded scream, they cry, they moan for help, and you fight to rescue them. He thought this without it being a negative conjecture, just a “Stapler fact.” Stapler had been in enough battles to know that those who are alive or are going to live let you know they need help. Most times, vocally and loud. The quiet ones were dead or dying.
“Water” and variations of “Mom” were the two most common cries that filled the dreadful, after-combat silence.
The smell of cordite mixed with the sickening odor of burning flesh and fuel confirmed the stories Top Sergeant Macgregory told. Top Sergeant Macgregory said the smell of human flesh was like burnt bacon. The top enjoyed passing on such important tidbids of information during senior NCO poker nights, preferably when someone was eating. Woe to the poker player who showed a weak stomach around the top; Macgregory had a host of stomach-turning descriptions from his experiences in combat, always augmented with the stink of raunchy cigars.
The top said human flesh tasted like pork. Stapler wondered where he had gained that tidbit of information but never asked because he didn’t think he wanted to know the answer. Right now, he wished the old veteran— gross or not — was with them. The devil himself avoided Marines like Top Macgregory.
A crackling sound of the metal in the helicopter twisting from the flames drew his attention for a moment. The burning pyre filled the wavering desert air with black smoke. For a fraction of a second, the dark outlines of the pilots still strapped in their seats appeared through the flames. Stapler glanced up at the sky, his eyes tracking the smoke plume that rose above the helicopters. Not much danger of hiding their location.
Yeah, he was scared, but never let your Marines see it.
Fear is contagious, and he had to be the rock with the captain gone. Damn good thing he hadn’t drunk that third cup of coffee before they left Homeplate. He would have wet himself the past few minutes. Still, he needed to take a leak real bad. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes! They had been fighting only ten minutes? Seemed much longer.
Leslie Stapler walked behind his Marines manning the haphazard line of defense made during the battle. Twenty two years Stapler had been a Marine. He loved the Corps, but had kept secret his plans to put in his retirement papers next year. He wanted to wait till the last moment before he slapped those papers down on desk.
His wife had given him an ultimatum before this assignment: retire or find a new wife. Stapler didn’t have too strong a position on whether he had a wife or not. He did have a strong position on not having a third wife. Two were enough in any man’s lifetime. Another wife was definitely out of the question. What did worry him were those credit cards Carol had. It had taken three years to pay off the last rampage she went on.
“Gunny,” First Lieutenant Nolan said, causing Stapler to jump.
Stapler started to salute, then realized the gesture would identify the officer to anyone observing. “What’s the situation on your end, LT?” Stapler asked, drawing out the L and T with a Southern accent to make it sound like El Tee.
“No casualties. Gunnery Sergeant. And yours?”
“We’ve got two casualties out there: Butt and Stanhope.
Until I take muster, I won’t know how many or who, made it. But I know we lost those two. I don’t know how many failed to make it out of the choppers,” Stapler said somberly. He took a deep breath and looked the young officer in the eye. “You know you’ve got it, LT. The captain didn’t make it. He never made it out.”
The lieutenant’s eyes widened. The young officer held his M-16 loosely in his right hand and with his left reached up and pushed his helmet back slightly. The loose straps hung down. The first lieutenant had only been with the company four months. Twenty-four years old, Stapler recalled. An ROTC graduate from University of Maryland.
The dark black hair and light blue eyes made the lieutenant look more like a high-school teenager than a Marine officer. Lieutenant Malcolm Jeffrey Nolan may as well shave that mangy-looking mustache off, thought Stapler.
“Gunny, I’m a communicator. I’m not infantry.” The LT licked his lips and glanced around nervously. “I just came along for the ride. You know, a chance for experience.
I’m just a first lieutenant. You’ll have to take charge,” Lieutenant Nolan finished almost in a whisper.
His eyes searched around the two, making sure no one heard what he said.
“I beg the LT’s pardon,” Stapler said slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly. “I’m the gunnery sergeant.
You’re the officer. The Marine Corps made it that way for a purpose. You are a Marine, and every Marine is a rifle man and, if you are a rifleman, then you’re infantry. Now, sir, you’re in charge.”
“But, Gunnery Sergeant—”
“I’ll be here to advise you, LT. You can handle it, and you know it.” Stapler grinned at him. “Much younger men than you in Marine Corps history have risen to the occasion.”
Stapler saw several Marines rise from behind the barrels and begin to move toward them.
“Don’t you dare!” shouted Stapler. “Get your butts back in position. This ain’t no field exercise and no second chances when you screw up! They’re still out there.
They may be gone for the moment, but they’ll be back, so get your asses down and quit making yourselves easy targets.”
The Marines turned in midstep and ran back to their positions. Stapler shook his head. How in the hell was he was going to keep this bunch of fresh-faced young grunts alive until rescue arrived? If rescue ever came. Stop that.
No negative thoughts. Top Macgregory would jerk him up by the short hairs for those kind of thoughts.
“You’re right, Gunny,” Lieutenant Nolan replied, rubbing his chin. “But I will definitely need your help, and if you see me doing anything that may endanger us, stop me or give me some options. Any recommendations right now?”
“Yes, sir. I would shave that puny-looking mustache off.” Stapler smiled. When the LT failed to smile and ran his fingers over the mustache. Stapler shook his head, tugged his ear, and said, “I’ll complete my circuit of the perimeter, LT, and report back to you.” He paused and then added, “You’ll do fine, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Nolan watched as Stapler moved off. He ran his fingers across his upper lip again and wondered briefly if they had a mirror inside the office. A small explosion from the burning helicopters caused him to duck instinctively. He started after the Gunny.
Stapler walked slowly, taking in the surroundings of the oil company compound while glancing toward the desert, expecting the enemy to return at any moment.
He made a defensive assessment as he surveyed the site. They had been damn lucky the barrels had been nearby when they landed. They were ambushed as they exited the helicopters. Noises behind him drew his attention.
Several civilians stood up behind other empty barrels located closer to the office complex. Several crawled from under the vehicles parked to the left. He would have a closer look at the vehicles when he got to that side of the compound. He was surprised when he turned around to find the LT walking several paces behind him.
“Looks as if our evacuees are beginning to show themselves, LT.”
Lieutenant Nolan looked to where Stapler pointed. He shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun. “I hope they have more than those pea shooters Gunny.”
Gunnery Sergeant Leslie Stapler grunted in reply. A few of the oil riggers were holding pistols. He pulled a cigarette from a pack crammed into his flak jacket. This was supposed to be an easy evacuation, not like the one his fellow Marines encountered in Algiers two weeks ago.
The Marines were still in Algiers trying to find the American hostages captured during that evacuation. Oh, no, they said. This would be a cakewalk. Long-ass flight, too; shove the thirty or so evacuees into the two helicopters, t
wenty minutes max on the ground, and fly the hell back to the temporary base established in southern Morocco.
Instead, what happens? The twenty minutes on the ground turned into ten minutes of hell with them fighting for their lives. What in the hell were they going to do now?
Those two CH-53s burning out there were the only two the USS Kearsarge off-loaded before continuing its journey through the Strait of Gibraltar. Backup called for the Army to come in from Mauritania. Mauritania wasn’t even near this portion of the border with Algeria, According to what he heard yesterday, the Army helicopters had not even arrived yet at Base Butler. The only thing at Base Butler was a forward Army headquarters element setting up the operation.
Nineteen — two squads and a squad leader — flew out of Homeplate. They sent him along because of his experience.
He figured nine, maybe ten of them remained alive: one squad, three fire teams. If lucky, eleven, counting the LT. He had the fresh-faced lieutenant and himself with the next guy in line being Corporal David Heights. The platoon sergeant was still in the helicopter.
Stapler took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked it in front of him, grinding it into the sand with his boot as he stepped on it. Just like they’d grind him, if he didn’t figure a way for them to get out of here. He patted his shirt pocket. He only brought one spare pack of cigarettes with him.
The prefabricated office building at the rear of the compound reminded Stapler of a West Virginia doublewide trailer. Wow did that joke go? What does a hurricane, a tornado, and a divorce in West Virginia have in common? No mailer which one happens, someone loses a doublewide.
The prefabricated building fronted a low hill. Stapler figured the craggy hill provided afternoon shade for the complex. The front windows had been shot out. Jagged edges of glass protruded from the bottom, and one large piece, like a guillotine blade waiting to fall, hung from the top. Hundreds of empty oil barrels encircled the complex, leaving a small space about a hundred feet between the building and the barrels. Almost as if someone made a fort from discarded rubbish. Don’t bitch about it, Leslie, he said to himself. 1 hat rubbish fort saved our lives when we landed.
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