USS Towers Box Set

by Jeff Edwards

  A few seconds went by, but he didn’t receive an answer. He keyed the intercom again. “How’s it looking back there?”

  No answer.

  Chavez turned far enough in his seat to see into the rear of the cabin. Petty Officer Haynes was slumped over in her seat, her head hanging limply, bobbing and rolling with each movement of the aircraft. A dark stain was spreading across her chest, but against the olive drab of her flight suit, it was impossible to tell if it was blood. The helo took a particularly violent bump, and the young woman’s head lolled far enough to the side so that her face was partially visible. A dark red bubble formed over one nostril, broke, and then another one began to form. It was blood all right.

  Chavez keyed his intercom. “Mojo is hit!”

  Lieutenant Brolan was silently chanting, “Come on baby … come on baby … come on baby …” With a rapid interplay of hand and foot work, he managed to throw his crippled helo far enough to the side to avoid another hail of bullets. At least he thought he had avoided it; the airframe was rattling so badly that they might have taken a hit and not been able to feel it. He keyed his intercom. “How bad is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Chavez said. “But it doesn’t look good.” He keyed the intercom again. “Mojo, can you hear me? Come on, Mojo, talk to me. You’re gonna be okay; you’ve just got to hang on for a few minutes.”

  He switched back to the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. My SENSO is hit. I can’t tell how bad, but it looks like a chest wound. I’m going to need a medical crew standing by as soon as I hit the deck, over.”

  “Roger, Gunslinger.”

  Another burst of gunfire came from the oil platform, but this one fell short, the tracers dropping harmlessly into the ocean at the ends of their trajectories.

  “I think we’re out of it,” Lieutenant Brolan said. “I think we’re …” The tension in his voice was easing. He looked up. “What’s our damage like?”

  “I can’t tell,” Lieutenant (jg) Chavez said. “My dials are all over the place. But I think I’m smelling oil.”

  Lieutenant Brolan nodded. “Yeah, I smell it too. Think we can make it back to the barn?”

  The radio kicked in. “Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. We are approaching at all speed. Return to home plate, over.”

  Brolan stared at the radio as if it were from another planet. “No shit.”

  Chavez thumped his instrument panel, where a red tattletale was flashing. “Oh shit! I’m showing a ‘chip-light’ on engine one.”

  “Is it for real? Or are your instruments taking a dump?”

  “You want to chance it?”

  Lieutenant Brolan shook his head. “No way.”

  According to the flashing tattletale, a sensor in the oil sump had detected metal filings in the starboard engine. If the sensor was reporting an actual condition (instead of an erroneous reading caused by instrument damage), the engine could seize up, tearing the aircraft apart, or even exploding like a bomb.

  “Shut down engine one,” Lieutenant Brolan said. “I’ll mow the lawn,” he said under his breath. “I’ll help the kids with their homework. I will never look at another woman again …”

  The aircraft took on a shudder so violent that it jarred Brolan’s teeth. Only four hundred feet up, they were starting to lose altitude. The cyclic and collective were becoming less responsive with every second, and now he’d been forced to shut down one of his two engines. He hoped the increasingly powerful stink of burnt oil was coming from the now-dead starboard engine. If it was coming from the transmission casing or the port engine, they were going to have to ditch in the ocean. And no matter what the Navy’s air-sea survival courses taught, he knew that the odds for surviving a helo ditch were not good at all.

  The copilot keyed up the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. My starboard engine is out, and I am losing altitude.” He glanced at his Tactical Air Navigation screen before continuing. “My ETA to Benfold is three mikes. Request emergency green deck, over.”

  The reply came over the radio a few seconds later. “Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Towers is designated as your home plate. You have emergency green deck on Towers. Do not attempt to rendezvous with Benfold, over.”

  Pilot and copilot both stared at the radio. “What the hell are they thinking?” Chavez asked. He immediately keyed the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. I have an emergency. My SENSO is injured, I am down one engine, and my aircraft is about to fall out of the goddamned sky, over!”

  On the TACAN, Benfold was approaching at thirty-five knots. Towers was limping after her at eighteen and a half knots. Benfold would be within range a hell of a lot sooner.

  “Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. I acknowledge your emergency. Your ETA to Towers is six mikes. You are not, I repeat not authorized to rendezvous with Benfold. Their deck is red to you, over.”

  “This is Gunslinger Four-One. Roger, out.”

  Lieutenant (jg) Chavez looked out his side window at the ocean, only about three hundred feet below and coming up way too fast. “I sure hope those guys brought some body bags.”

  CHAPTER 45

  USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

  CENTRAL ARABIAN GULF (OFF THE COAST OF QATAR)

  MONDAY; 21 MAY

  0812 hours (8:12 AM)

  TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’

  The executive officer looked at Captain Bowie. “You sure about this, Jim? If those guys have to ditch, all we’ll be able to do is steam around in circles and try to fish the body parts out of the water. It will take an act of God to get one of them out of that thing alive.”

  Captain Bowie nodded slowly. “I know.”

  “Benfold can recover that aircraft in …”

  The captain cut him off. “By the time Benfold recovers the helo, that submarine will be gone. Right now, if they pull out all the stops, they might get lucky and catch it on the surface. With a busted screw, we can’t get there in time.”

  “What if we can’t get to the helo in time?”

  “We will,” the captain said quietly.

  “But, what if we don’t? That air crew is going to die …”

  Captain Bowie wheeled around. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you really think for a second that I don’t know that?”

  The XO didn’t say anything.

  “How many people are dead already?” the captain snapped.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “We lost three to that goddamned torpedo, not counting the wounded. Benfold’s whole bridge crew was wiped out; that’s six more. Plus our three, that makes nine. One on the Ingraham makes it ten. Call it an even hundred and fifty on the Antietam. And let’s not forget the Kitty Hawk; they lost fifteen, plus two entire air crews—that would be six more. And how many have the Brits lost? Nearly all hands on the York. Their crew would be, what? Two hundred? Two seventy-five?” He covered his eyes with his left hand and rubbed his temples with thumb and fingertips.

  When he dropped his hand, his voice was much softer. “We will do everything we can to save the crew of that aircraft. But those subs have racked up an unbelievable body count. We sink that bastard, priority one. Everything else is a secondary consideration. If it costs us three more lives, then we pay the price.” He turned away and half-whispered, “We pay the price.”

  * * *

  They stood in silence for several moments, until the TAO interrupted. “Captain, Gunslinger is on final approach.”

  “Is the crash-and-smash crew standing by?”

  “Yes, sir, and Sick Bay is prepped to receive casualties.”

  The captain punched keys on his console, and views from each of the three flight deck cameras popped up on the Aegis display screen. The video was black-and-white but very high resolution. Even so, the helo appeared as a blur at first, a gray and white smudge against black waves.

  The pilot had bought himself some time by jettisoning his torpedo and ejecting his load of s
onobuoys. Somehow the helicopter was still managing to claw its way through the air, darting and fluttering like a sparrow with an injured wing.

  * * *

  The crippled aircraft came in from the aft starboard corner of the flight deck, and it was immediately apparent that its angle of approach was all wrong. The LSE (short for Landing Signal Enlisted) tried to wave the helo off, but it was obvious that it didn’t have the power to gain altitude for another approach.

  The helo’s tail wheel caught the edge of a flight deck net, and the belly of the aircraft slammed into the deck, crushing the landing gear.

  The pilot cut power instantly, but the helo rolled far enough onto its port side for the rotors to scrape the deck. The blades shattered, and shrapnel flew in all directions.

  A hand-sized chunk of the rotor hit the chock-and-chain man just below the right knee, shattering the bone and nearly amputating his leg. A larger piece of rotor hit the front window of the helo control tower, turning the safety glass to an instant network of spider webs. A smaller piece dealt the LSE a glancing blow to the side of the head, dropping him to his knees, but his cranial helmet reduced the impact to merely bruising force.

  Miraculously, though pieces of the shattered rotors ricocheted off the deck and bulkheads, no others found human targets.

  The crash-and-smash team started moving the instant the helo was on deck—one team spraying the wrecked aircraft with firefighting foam, and another rushing up to access the cabin and rescue the crew.

  The pilot and copilot, both of whom could walk with assistance, were out in less than a minute. The SENSO, Petty Officer Haynes, had to be carried out on a stretcher.

  * * *

  The Helo Control Officer watched as his crash-and-smash team continued to blanket the downed aircraft with foam. “We’re going to have to push it over the side,” he said.

  “We need the captain’s permission to do that,” the LSE said.

  “Of course we do,” the HCO said. “But it’s not like he’s going to have a choice. No way that bird is leaving the flight deck under its own power. Maybe if we were back in the States, they could crane it off and haul it back to the squadron for a rebuild. But right now, it’s blocking the flight deck, and we can’t launch or recover Firewalker until it’s gone.”

  * * *

  His words proved prophetic. Ten minutes later, the captain ordered a fifty-man working party to muster on the flight deck. Working together under the orders of the HCO, they rocked the damaged aircraft back and forth until they could roll it off the deck.

  Gunslinger Four-One slipped over the side. The crippled helo floated only for a few seconds before disappearing beneath the waves.

  CHAPTER 46

  USS BENFOLD

  CENTRAL ARABIAN GULF (OFF THE COAST OF QATAR)

  MONDAY; 21 MAY

  0818 hours (8:18 AM)

  TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’

  The image on the left Aegis display screen was a live video feed from the Benfold’s mast-mounted sight. The high-resolution black-and-white camera was focused on oil platform Golf.

  Captain Vargas pointed to the screen. “Look at those bastards. Going about their business-as-usual routine, just as innocent as you please. And not a hint of the fact that they just cut one of our aircraft to ribbons a few minutes ago.”

  “Can’t say I blame them for playing nice,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said. “A couple of shots from our 5-inch gun, and they’ll be visiting Allah in person. A helo is one thing, but they’re not stupid enough to risk mixing it up with a destroyer.”

  “Looks like the sub is gone,” Captain Vargas said, still watching the screen as Benfold swung around to check out the back side of the oil platform.

  “It hasn’t had time to go very far, ma’am,” said the USWE. He started punching buttons on the CDRT. “I’m setting datum at the northern edge of the oil platform, since that’s the last known location of the sub.” He punched another few keys and watched the display screen. “Okay, here’s our farthest-on circle. I’m building in the assumption that the sub got under way about fifteen minutes ago, or within five minutes of the last sighting by Gunslinger Four-One. Based on a maximum submerged speed of twenty knots, that sub has to be within ten thousand yards of the oil platform.”

  The captain nodded. “What’s our predicted sonar range?”

  “About forty-five hundred yards,” the USWE said. “But I’d rather err on the side of caution and base our search plan on thirty-five hundred yards.”

  “We can cover the search area in three parallel passes,” the captain said.

  “My thoughts exactly, ma’am.”

  “Do it. Execute your search plan.”

  “Aye, aye,” the USWE said. He keyed his mike. “Sonar—USWE. Go active on sonar. Commence your search. Remember how shallow the water is and adjust your depression angles accordingly.”

  “Sonar, aye.”

  “UB—USWE. I expect to gain contact within the next few minutes, and the water is too shallow for ASROC. We don’t know what side of the ship this guy is going to show up on, so go ahead and prep an over-the-side shot for the port and starboard torpedo tubes.”

  “UB, aye. Recommend we configure both weapons for shallow runs, minimum initial search depths, and minimum ceiling depths.”

  “Good call, UB,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said. “Make it so.”

  He watched the CDRT, waiting for the first sign of the submarine. “We’ve got you now, you son of a bitch,” he said softly. “The fat lady is about to sing, because this opera is over.”

  * * *

  But twenty minutes later when Benfold came to the end of her search run, there was still no sign of the submarine.

  Captain Vargas laid her hand on Lieutenant (jg) Sherman’s shoulder. “How did he get past us, Alex?”

  Her USWE stared at the CDRT, still devoid of submarine contacts. “He didn’t, ma’am. He couldn’t have.”

  “Then he’s still here.”

  “I don’t think so, Captain. We would have picked him up.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Alex,” the captain said. “The sub is either still here, or it got past us. Which is it?”

  “He’s here, Skipper.”

  “Then maybe he’s under the oil platform, blending in with its sonar return,” the captain said.

  Sherman furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t think he can do that, Captain. Between the scaffolding, and the piping, and the pumps, there’s an awful lot of equipment down …” He stopped. “What did you just say, ma’am?”

  “I said, ‘He might be under the oil platform … ‘“

  Lieutenant (jg) Sherman shook his head rapidly. “Not that part, ma’am. The other part.”

  Captain Vargas shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I said something about the sub blending in with the oil platform’s sonar return.”

  Sherman snapped his fingers. “Not the oil platform, the bottom.”

  “You think the sub is sitting on the bottom?”

  “Could be, Skipper.”

  “Wouldn’t sonar have picked him up when we ran over the top of him?”

  “No, ma’am,” the USWE said. “The SQS-53D’s automatic gain control clips the bottom return out of the signal when it processes it. If it didn’t, the system would show a sonar return in all directions; our scopes would be saturated. If the sub is sitting on the bottom, his signal could be getting clipped out along with the bottom signal.”

  “Can we just shut the automatic gain control off, or bypass it?”

  “No, ma’am. The bottom return would saturate our scopes, and we’d be completely blind.”

  The captain stared at him. “You’re telling me that the American people spent millions of dollars on a sonar that refuses to see the submarine?”

  “I’m afraid so, Skipper.”

  “And that submarine could be directly underneath us at this very second?”

  “That would be a hell of a coincidence, but yes, ma’am. It’s certainly pos
sible.”

  “There’s a case of our tax dollars hardly at work. Can we call him up on the underwater telephone and invite him to come out and play?”

  Lieutenant (jg) Sherman’s eyebrows went up. “That’s not a bad idea …”

  “Great,” the captain said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now all we have to do is find someone who speaks German.”

  Sherman smiled. “Actually, Skipper, what we need is someone who speaks Submarine.” He keyed his mike. “Sonar—USWE. Does your On-Board Trainer’s sample library contain a recording of a Mark-54 torpedo?”

  “USWE—Sonar. Yes, sir. It does.”

  “Sonar—USWE. Can you patch an audio signal from the OBT into the underwater telephone?”

  The reply took several seconds. “Uh … yes, sir. I guess so. Is that what you want me to do?”

  “Affirmative, Sonar. Go ahead and rig the patch and load the Mark-54 recording, but do not transmit until I give the word.”

  “Sonar, aye.”

  The captain nodded slowly. “You’re going to broadcast a fake torpedo signal and scare the sub off the bottom?”

  “That’s the idea, ma’am. When the sub hears that torpedo start up, he’s going to assume that we’ve detected him somehow, and that he’s about to get a high-explosive enema. He’ll be off the bottom, running his torpedo evasion maneuvers in nothing flat.”

  “He’s going to launch a counter-battery attack as soon as he detects our weapon.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s how we’re going to locate him. As soon as he shoots, we’ll put a torpedo down his firing bearing.”

  “So we have to draw fire from his torpedo to get a firing solution for our own torpedo?”

  “I know it’s a risky plan, Captain. I just can’t think of a better one.”

  Captain Vargas didn’t speak for over a minute. Finally, she said, “Neither can I. Looks like we do it your way, Alex.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman keyed his mike. “Sonar—USWE. Commence transmitting your recorded torpedo signal and keep it up until I tell you to stop.”

  “Sonar, aye. Transmitting now.”

  The next two reports came back-to-back, less than thirty seconds later. “USWE—Sonar has active 53 Delta contact off the starboard quarter, bearing one-five-five. Initial classification: POSS-SUB, confidence level high!” Before the USWE could acknowledge, the Sonar Supervisor started in on his second report. “All Stations—Sonar has multiple hydrophone effects off the starboard quarter! Bearings one-five-five and one-five-seven. Initial classification: hostile torpedoes!”