We Marines don’t leave other Marines, do we?”
“No, we don’t, Cowboy,” Stapler replied.
The hand fell limply away.
“Hold on,” Stapler said, leaning down, grabbing the wounded Marine under the right armpit and left buttocks.
The lean Gunnery Sergeant hefted the 180-pound wounded man across his back. Cowboy’s moans were cut short as the Texan passed out.
“Sorry, Marine,” Stapler said. He gripped the man’s right arm and leg, holding his body across the broad portion of Stapler’s back.
No way he could go back the way he came. He would have to move into the center of the trail leading back to the campsite and hope that he made the mile before those crazed fellows on camels reached him.
His foot nearly slid from under him as he duck walked up the bank leading out of the small depression, leaving four bodies behind. Ten yards later, Stapler reached the trail and began a short-stepped jog down it, knowing each step jostled the wounded Cowboy. He could see the outline of the humvees in the distance. He tried a couple of times to glance behind him, but Cowboy’s body blocked his vision. Imagined sounds of galloping camels running him down gave encouraging impetus to his run. His breath came in short, quick gasps as he kept moving, knowing to stop was to invite death from the hordes of sand-sucking scum bent on killing him. Pain in his legs from the weight threatened with tightened muscles. He stopped for a second and straightened up, leaning first to one side and then the other to give each leg a short rest. He turned and searched behind him, seeing nothing. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
When the spasms in his legs and the small of his hack eased, he started again down the path. He was no longer running but forcing each foot to take one step at a time.
Behind him, angry natives on ugly camels hurried to kill him, but he had yet to hear them, and Cowboy blocked his vision.
The weight of his burden grew with each step. Stapler’s eyes wavered on his feet, watching every step as much as his tired mind allowed. Energy to raise his head to see how far he had to go became too much. Somewhere along the trek, he had begun to move off the center of the path. He was walking from one side to the other, weaving a pattern between the funneled sides of the wadi entrance.
He heard voices and said a quick Hail Mary, believing the sounds to come from the galloping hordes of desert nomads bearing down on him, expecting to hear the swish of the blade just before it lopped off his head. He tightened his grip on Cowboy, ready to ease the unconscious Marine to the ground so he could use his M-16. His senses cleared slightly just as he prepared to let go of Cowboy’s leg when he recognized the sound of someone calling him.
“Gunny!”
It was Lieutenant Nolan. Fine Lieutenant Nolan, who sent him out to find the missing Marine … well, didn’t really send him out, but he went, anyway.
Stapler felt hands lifting the burden from his back.
“Gunny, you all right?”
Stapler leaned forward and put his hands on his knees.
A cup of water was shoved into his face. He took a swallow of the delicious liquid and then the second and last mouthful he swished around inside, delighting in the plastic flavor of the water. A swimming pool — that was what he was going to have installed when he returned home.
Anything that held huge quantities of water, he was going to have.
Lieutenant Nolan reached down and took Stapler’s arm. “Come on, Gunny, we have to get back inside the campsite.”
Stapler straightened, swayed slightly, and pushed himself away from the LT. “The professor’s right. They’re coming, LT. I saw them,” he said, his breath still coming in quick, rapid gasps.
Lieutenant Nolan pointed to — the top of the entrance to the wadi. Faint starlight shadows highlighted the camels that were standing motionless, side by side, with their silent riders in black staring down toward the bottom of the wadi at the Americans.
“You’re right. Gunny. They are already here.”
CHAPTER 9
Dick Holman stood beside his former XO, now the acting skipper of the USS Stennis, as the aircraft carrier prepared to launch the flight of S-3s. Magnificent was the word for watching a super carrier maneuver.
The how turned into the wind. The increasing wind caused him to scrunch his eyes as the ship slowly changed directions. He shoved the cigar to the right side of his mouth so the ashes wouldn’t blow into his face. The carrier steadied up on a northwesterly course when the wind was bow on. Wind speed was a combination of natural wind computed against the relative wind created by ship speed and course. The wind whipped across the deck, from bow to stern, to aid launching the high-performance aircraft on board a super carrier. Only the United States was able to do this.
The French had started to build a similar super carrier in the 1990s and then cried politics when they were unable to complete their first super carrier. Dick always thought it was lack of competence on the part of their
Navy. The United States Navy had offered their advice and assistance during the construction phase only to be politely but firmly told it was not required.
He glanced up at the battle flag flying above the forecastle of the USS Stennis, and a swift wave of patriotic pride flowed through his body. It was something hard to describe to someone who had never experienced the same thrill. Pride turned emotional at times. What a great country we are, he thought, for all of its politics and political factions. He recalled a NATO meeting he attended years ago when a French counterpart joked about how ineffective our government was compared with the well-oiled parliaments of Europe. It was the way our founding fathers — the dead saints of the Constitution — made it.
Our founding fathers were rebels who distrusted governments.
Sure, our government was ineffective, but by being so, it scattered the power and responsibilities across three major institutions with distinct powers. The real stake holders in America’s way of governance were the people. They really wielded the biggest power. They determined control of their government. No other government on earth could claim the same rights.
The wind picked up across his face as the carrier steadied on course. The two S-3s, powered up and ready to go, waited on the catapults for the launch officer to give the go-ahead. Dick watched the routine as the sailor monitoring the metal arm protruding from the nose gear properly seated into the catapult. Satisfied, the sailor gave the catapult officer a thumbs-up and ran to the edge of the deck to disappear below the same protective edge.
“Bridge, Deck, ready to launch, sir.”
Dick reached for the phone, but the new skipper grabbed it first, ginning at him. “Permission granted.”
“Up yours,” Dick mouthed as he returned the grin.
“You know, sir, you bubbas on the Sixth Fleet staff need to leave the ship-driving to us professionals.”
“Tucson, I’d whip your ass, if it wasn’t for the reason it’d take too long,” Holman said, a wide grin stretching his face.
The noise of the jet engines increased as the pilots of the antisubmarine aircraft pushed the power to maximum. Power was the key word on everything they did, whether it was steaming unmolested through the seas or mounting a major military operation like that of the past four weeks.
The catapult launchers used to be senior petty officers, but the last decade had seen them replaced by junior officers.
Both he and the XO leaned over the rampart of the bridge wing, waiting for the magic moment when the aircraft would be jerked off the deck by steam catapults, capable of over 90,000 pounds of thrust, if needed.
Behind the aircraft, the raised blast shields deflected the power of the jet turbines up at a sixty-degree angle into the air and away from the multitude of sailors and aircraft poised behind the two catapults.
Experience told the pilots that, when the catapult officer nodded, it meant the crew chief of the launch team had given his thumbs-up to the catapult officer. The catapult officer looked at the pilot nearest he
r and saluted. The pilot returned the salute. Two seconds later, the catapult officer hit the red button releasing the mighty mechanisms belowdecks. The S-3 shot forward, and in the space of less than 100 feet went from 0 to 140 miles per hour.
The gravity force from the launch shoved the pilot and weapons officer’s heads against their headrests as the plane traveled along the deck, just as quickly releasing the pressure as the S-3 Viking left the end. The plane dropped slightly as it left the carrier. The jets caught, bringing the nose up. The Viking was airborne, heading out to sea. The second S-3 followed ten seconds later.
Dick and Tucson Conroy watched the launch silently.
The shrill of the hydraulic lifts lowering the deflector shields joined the smell of burning jet fuel sweeping across the forward bridge wing. The next launch consisted of four FA-18 Hornets headed out to join the four already on station off the coast of Oran Naval Base.
“Always impressive when they launch,” Dick said, trying to blow a ring of smoke into the wind.
“I know what you mean,” Tucson Conroy replied.
“Being a Surface Warfare officer, I always watch how the other ships manage to make their way to the farther ends of their assigned boxes when we begin to maneuver.” “Well, you’re the one who told me, ‘ a carrier maneuvers, all other ships avoid.’”
Tucson grinned. “I heard that Admiral Cameron intends to keep you on his staff, even after this is over,” he lied.
“Who told you that?” Dick asked, his voice betraying concern.
Tucson laughed. “Don’t worry, Skipper. Just kidding.
However, if you decide to stay, I won’t argue too much. I have discovered that being commanding officer of the USS Stennis is a hell of a lot more fun than being executive officer. Of course, I am considering banning smoking again.”
Dick grinned at the taller, muscular XO. “And how well do you tread water, XO?”
“Now, Skipper, if you ever hit me and I find out—”
“Where’s the master chief when I need him?” Dick joked.
“So, what now, Captain? Think that submarine is coming out for another run at us?” Tucson asked, his voice serious.
Dick shook his head. “Don’t know. Based on the course he is steering, he is headed directly for the two amphibious task forces we have west of us. I dispatched the USS Rampage toward them an hour ago with orders to take charge of the surface ASW effort. Clive Bowen ordered the two amphibious task forces to close our position.
That should increase the distance for the submarine to travel another hundred miles.”
“What does our new general think of all of this?”
“He is still working out. It’s been forty-five minutes since Ranger Twenty-nine spotted the Al Nasser. By the time he completes his Army remedial training, we should have the boat sunk.”
The officer of the deck stuck his head out onto the bridge wing. “Captain Holman, Admiral Devlin asks that you join him in Flight Operations.”
“Tucson, you’re doing a good job. Just don’t move your bags into my at-sea cabin yet. There is still a chance I may be fired … if I’m lucky.” “See you later, Skipper,” Tucson Conroy said as Dick departed.
Dick was heading out the hatch leading from the bridge when the voice of the OOD reached him. “Skipper, do you want to maintain this course after we launch the ready CAP?”
Dick stopped to answer before he realized the OOD was speaking to Tucson Conroy. A little pit of disappointment hit his stomach as he continued through the hatch.
Tucson was right; there was nothing quite as satisfying as being the commanding officer of a United States Navy warship, especially a carrier and especially when you’re doing what it was designed to do: project power. God! He wanted his ship back.
Three decks, two ladders, and four minutes later, Dick Holman entered the Flight Operations space to discover Admiral Cameron and Admiral Pete Devlin in conference with Commander Steve Cloth.
“Admiral, Captain Dick Holman reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Dick, glad you’re here. Watched the launch on the TV.
How long until they arrive on station?”
Steve Cloth answered, “About forty-five minutes, sir.
After the carrier launches the ready combat air patrol, we have two tankers launching. The other two S-3 tankers, already airborne, have refueled the four Hornets on station and are low. We’ll land them next cycle to refuel and should be able to launch them the following cycle.”
“The P-3C is approaching the submarine datum area now.”
“What is the status of Ranger Two Niner?”
“It took some shrapnel damage when they overflew Oran Naval Base. The pilot, Commander Stillwell, refuses to consider ditching the aircraft. I concur with his assessment. Number-one engine is destroyed. They may have wing structural damage, but so far, the aircraft is maneuverable, and he is attempting to make it to Sigonella. He has a hole in the back part of the fuselage. As you know, one dead crew member — the communications evaluator — and three with minor wounds.
The hatch burst open, and General Leutze Lewis, commander, Task Force African Force, entered, wearing his PT gear of shorts and a sweat-soaked gray workout shirt with the word Army plastered to his chest. Hairy devil, thought Dick Holman as the General advanced to where they stood.
“Bring me up to date,” he ordered, speaking directly to Admiral Cameron.
Commander Steve Cloth eased away from the group and returned to the Air Operations consoles.
Five minutes later, the general nodded his head. “What are your intentions, Admiral?”
“Sir, the Algerians fired a shoulder-launched SAM and hit one of our aircraft. We have one crew member dead and three wounded. They have also fired multiple antiair artillery batteries against the same aircraft as it attempted to leave the area. We had indications of Algerian fighter aircraft reacting to the presence of our forces. However, they stopped shy of the coast about twenty miles inland and are conducting a racetrack pattern defensive fighter patrol. I have kept our fighters over water for. time being. We have a P-3C with sonobuoys entering the area where the submarine is suspected to be, and a minute ago we launched two ASW-capable S-3s with two Mark-50 torpedoes each. We should be able to sink the submarine, once we narrow down her location.”
“Why do you want to sink her?” General Lewis asked, wiping the sweat from his face with the tail of a towel draped across his shoulders.
“Sir?” the voices of Admiral Cameron and Rear Admiral Pete Devlin responded in tandem.
“The submarine hasn’t fired on your aircraft, from what you tell me. It was the tugboat, which has already returned to port. Right?”
“Yes, sir. but the submarine is on a course toward our forces,” Admiral Cameron stressed.
“Yeah, yeah, you told me. But we don’t know for sure it is enroute to attack us, do we?”
Dick Holman did not like how this conversation was going. Bad enough when Surface Warfare officers tried to learn air combat maneuvers, but an Army officer trying to learn antisubmarine warfare?
Admiral Cameron shook his head. “No, sir, but we suspect this submarine was the one that attacked the USS Nassau Amphibious Task Force four weeks ago.”
“I was told your AS W forces sank that submarine.”
General Lewis took the towel from his shoulders and wiped his hands on it. Then he wiped the sweat from his face again before draping the wet towel across his neck, holding the ends with each hand. “What I am trying to do, Admiral, is reduce the conflict. My orders are to disengage and to do that we need to pull back from any new encounters and focus on getting your Marines out of Algiers.
Disengagement: That is the key objective. Disengage throughout the North African theater.”
“Sir, the submarine is a threat to our forces. At twelve knots, it will be within range of the fleet within twenty four hours.”
“What if the submarine changes its course and doesn’t come our way, but we go on and sin
k it? Don’t you think that by doing so, we are expanding the engagement envelope?”
Dick Holman eased back and moved over to where Steve Cloth stood monitoring the air traffic control consoles, away from the flag officers discussing — arguing— whether to sink an enemy submarine or not. He wanted the freedom to act by not being privy to what he expected the new Commander, Joint Task Force, to order. What was the world coming to?
“Steve, where is the P-3C?”
The Air Operations officer tapped the ATE on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows, knowing the petty officer had heard Captain Holman’s question.
The petty officer slipped his headphones off his ears and in a low voice replied, “It’s five miles off the coast in a search pattern. It has laid a line of sonobuoys across the last-known course at the ten mile mark, but no joy as yet.”
Dick leaned down. “Son, if they detect it, you are to tell either me or Commander Cloth before passing on the news. Okay?”
The petty officer grinned. “Of course, sir.” He slid his headset back on just as a transmission arrived.
Dick Holman moved slightly to the left, blocking the view of the consoles from the flag officers behind him.
“Ranger Two Niner, this is Sixty-seven. You are cleared direct into Sigonella approach. You are cleared to change to channel two zero for landing instructions.”
“Before they leave our control, ask them for a status report.”
“Yes, sir, Captain. Ranger Two Niner, Sixty-seven himself would like a status report of your situation.”
Several seconds passed before the young petty officer rogered the transmission and turned to Dick Holman.
“Sir, they have three wounded on board from the AAA hits they took and one casualty. Engine number one is destroyed, but wing integrity continues to hold. They do not know status of undercarriage damage, so they intend to overfly the tower at Sigonella with wheels lowered for them to do a visual on the aircraft before they attempt to land. He is unable to pump fuel from the left wing tank and estimates he will be flying on fumes by the time he arrives at Sigonella.” “Who’s accompanying him?” Dick asked Steve.
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