by Don Brown
“What?” Surber looked at Brubaker. “What do you mean by crimes against humanity?”
“I don’t know yet, sir. No other information. But they have an urgent request for you.”
“What request?”
“They want us to send a Navy doctor to the freighter.”
“What ships do we have in the area?”
“Vicksburg and Emory S. Land.” Surber’s heart pounded at the name Emory S. Land. His daughter’s ship, her defenseless supply ship, was in the middle of a potential war zone. Against her mother’s wishes, Stephanie had followed him into the Navy. No time to dwell on that.
He looked over at Brubaker. “You familiar with this situation, Arnie?”
“Somewhat, sir,” Brubaker said. “The secretary of defense briefed me before I woke you.”
“Let’s step into the office and put this on speaker.”
“Yes, sir,” Brubaker said.
“Irwin, hang on just a sec. We’re going to put you on speaker.”
They walked a few feet down the wide hallway, away from the Lincoln bedroom. A Secret Service agent pushed open a door to the right. They stepped into a side office adjoining the bedroom.
“I’ll take care of it, Mister President,” Arnie said as he punched three buttons on one of the telephones on the desk. “There. Mister Secretary, can you hear us?”
“Loud and clear.” Lopez’s voice boomed through the speaker.
“Okay, gentlemen.” Surber crossed his arms. “What are the pros and cons of our sending one of our doctors out to this Chinese freighter?”
The secretary of defense said, “At a time when China and Taiwan are shooting at each other and we’re trying to get them to stand down, if the Chinese find out about it, they’ll think we’re picking sides in favor of Taiwan.”
“That’s favoring Taiwan? Sending a doctor to provide care for shot-up Communist sailors?” Brubaker asked.
“Arnie, I see your point,” Lopez said. “But we’re already sending the fleet into a potential powder keg, and now Taiwan wants a military doctor. That’s a naval officer in uniform. If it were a civilian doctor, it might be different.”
“We couldn’t ask a civilian doctor to step into that situation,” the president said.
“Agreed, Mister President,” Brubaker said.
“Irwin,” Surber said, “how would the Chinese even find out about it?”
“Depends on how it unfolds, sir,” the secretary of defense said.
“Why not send the doc in, but limit his time on board the freighter to two hours. Let him render all the aid he can, and then get him the heck out of Dodge,” Surber said. “That way we help the injured, reduce the chances of the Chinese finding out about it, and we find out about this ‘crimes against humanity’ thing they’re talking about.”
No response from the secretary of defense.
“Irwin, you still there?”
“Yes, sir. Just thinking. We could do that, Mister President, and that would reduce the chances that the Chinese would find out. But what if our doc finds some sort of life-threatening situation among his patients that requires more than two hours’ worth of treatment? Are we going to leave patients behind to die?”
Surber thought about that possibility. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But if people are hurting and there’s been a request for our help, we need to help. That’s the right thing to do.” He needed to make a decision. “Besides, if the Chinese find out about it, I’m prepared to defend that decision on humanitarian grounds. We’re sending a doctor. Not a SEAL team.”
Arnie Brubaker nodded.
“Mr. Secretary, tell Seventh Fleet the request is approved. Unless I extend the time, the doc can stay on board that freighter a maximum of two hours to render aid and to give me a report on these crimes against humanity. I want a report transmitted back to Seventh Fleet while he is on board. I’m headed back to bed, but Irwin, I want you to wake me up when that report is back in.”
“Yes, Mister President,” Secretary Lopez said. “I’ll notify the Pentagon Communications Center to get the message to Seventh Fleet.”
“Very well,” the president said. “Have a good night, gentlemen. I need some more shut-eye. Unless something else blows up, we’ll chat in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Headquarters
United States Seventh Fleet
Yokosuka, Japan
2:10 p.m. local time
Captain. FLASH message from National Command Authority.” Commander Walls strode across the office, paper in hand. “They’ve approved the request for a doc to the Shemnong.”
Captain Draxler took the message from Walls. He quickly perused it. “I’ll advise the admiral.”
Sick Bay
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
2:15 p.m. local time
Commander Jeter. Report to the bridge.”
At the sound of the announcement over the 1MC, Lieutenant Commander Fred Jeter, in the middle of afternoon sick call, stopped his examination of a sailor who had just come in. “What’s that all about?” he muttered at his corpsman assistant. “Petty Officer Randall, take over for me, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Randall said.
“Sorry, Seaman Martinez,” Jeter said to the patient. “I’ve gotta run. But you’ll be in good hands with the corpsman here. You’re going to be fine.”
“Thanks, Doc.” The young sailor coughed as he spoke.
Jeter handed the stethoscope to the corpsman, then stepped over to the small sink, squirted some soap on his hands, lathered up, then swished his hands under running water and dried off with a paper towel. He stepped out of sick bay, imparting a “Catch ya later, Corpsman” in the direction of his enlisted medical assistant as he stepped out into the passageway.
Whatever the reason, Fred loved avoiding sick bay, the most boring part of his job at sea. The routine of treating headaches, colds, seasickness, and minor cuts and burns could get old. Nothing a good corpsman couldn’t handle.
Back out on the main deck in the afternoon sunlight, he stopped just for a second to set down the medical bag and reach into his pocket.
“There you are.” His mouth watered when his fingers felt the small plastic-covered cardboard box. Extracting one cancer stick for a much-needed nicotine quickie, he jammed it between his lips, then fiddled in his other pants pocket for a lighter. Relief. Thank God. Actually, he should ask God to help him quit rather than thanking him for another cigarette. As he inhaled, the nicotine brought jolting relief to his body.
He picked up the bag and, with cigarette in mouth, hustled down the deck toward the forward section of the ship, sucking in smoke as fast as he could as he walked.
A moment later, he flipped the cigarette overboard. Climbing the ladder in double-time, he soon stepped onto the bridge, where the captain, the XO, the navigator, the helmsman, the radar and communications officers, and a number of petty officers hovered around the control panel, their backs to him as he entered.
“Doc’s on the bridge,” the officer of the deck announced, prompting the captain and the XO to turn around.
“Doc, I need you to pack your seabag, get some emergency medical supplies together, and be ready to fly out of here within the next fifteen minutes,” Captain Kruger said.
Fred was stunned. “Absolutely, Captain.” He hesitated. “Permission to inquire as to my mission and destination?”
“Certainly,” Captain Kruger said. He handed Fred a document. “This came in. We sent it to Seventh Fleet. They sent it to Washington. Looks like this order is coming back down from the president himself.”
Fred studied the order. “I’m headed to a Chinese freighter?” He kept reading. “Crimes against humanity?”
“Your guess is as good as anybody’s, Doc. But whatever that means, you’ll be the first to find out. And as you can see from the endorsement, the president wants a report on it.”
Fred looked at the captain. “Skipper,
I don’t know if I can carry out these orders.”
Captain Kruger crossed his arms. “What do you mean?”
“Two hours … to render emergency medical assistance and to investigate whatever this other thing is … that’s not much time to get the job done.”
“What do you suggest?” Kruger asked.
Fred thought for a second. “I’d like to take one of the corpsmen along. The corpsman could render medical assistance while I’m investigating these alleged crimes against humanity.”
The captain looked at the XO. “What do you think?”
“Well, the request to Seventh Fleet was only for the doc, sir. And they ran that all the way up the chain to Washington. So that means that Seventh Fleet considers this to be a sensitive matter. The request went to SECDEF, and he considered it to be so sensitive that he ran it up to POTUS. Technically, we have permission to send the doc.” The XO nodded at Fred. “I’m not sure it’s a great idea to run this back up the chain again. Not sure we have time.”
The captain considered his options. “Technically, you’re right. But I think one can imply that the doc may need a degree of assistance from a corpsman. It’s an urgent matter, and we don’t have time to run it back up the chain.” He paused. “Okay, Doc. Permission granted. Take one of the corpsmen with you. If we catch any flak, I’ll take the heat.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“XO, order that chopper into the air ASAP. Order the chopper that’s on search and rescue back to the ship. Helmsman. After we launch the chopper, resume course to Itu Aba. All ahead full.”
“Aye, Captain. All ahead full.”
Bridge
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
2:30 p.m. local time
In calm seas and under an afternoon sky punctuated by an occasional cloud, the sun’s rays pounded the ship. Because Emory S. Land’s bridge was located up toward the front of the vessel, closer to the bow than most US Navy ships, someone perched in the bridge could look down and see everything on the bow area.
At the front of the bridge, Commander Bobby Roddick was finishing off a banana while manning his station alongside the helmsman and was taking advantage of the view.
Down at the ship’s forward watch station, her back to the bridge, her face to the sea, her regulation-cropped auburn hair blowing in the breezy afternoon, Stephanie Surber held binoculars to her eyes, scouring waters in front of the ship, hoping, praying for any sign of human life.
Despite the it’s-not-your-fault pep talk Commander Roddick had given her, Stephanie was still taking the downed helicopter hard. She was a tough young woman. A fledgling naval officer with unlimited potential. Not a hint of self-entitlement because of who she was. In fact, if one did not know, one would never know.
She lowered her binoculars and turned around. Her back now to the sea, her face to the ship, she looked straight up at the bridge, as if searching for him. For a moment, a brief moment that was all too long, their eyes locked.
Roddick tossed the banana peel in a trash can and brought his binoculars to his eyes. He gazed out to the blue horizon, way above her head.
“XO.”
He did an about-face. The senior chief from communications had a message in hand. “Just in from Seventh Fleet, sir. FLASH.”
“Thanks, Senior Chief.” He took the message from the veteran sea dog and started reading.
FROM: Commander, Seventh Fleet
TO: Commanding Officer, USS Emory S. Land
PRECEDENCE: FLASH
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
SUBJ: South China Sea Search and Rescue for Missing US Navy Chopper
1. Be advised Seahawk helicopter from USS Vicksburg conducting search-and-rescue efforts in your sector for missing US Navy helicopter is being recalled for another assignment.
2. USS Emory S. Land directed to continue search-and-rescue efforts until sundown today unless otherwise directed.
Respectfully,
JW Wesson, VADM, USN
Commander
“Bad news,” he said. “They’re pulling the chopper off search and rescue.”
“Agreed,” the senior chief said. “Without a homing beacon, and now without a chopper, it’s gonna be hard to find anybody out there.”
“Almost impossible.” Roddick sighed. “You’re excused, Senior Chief. I’ll alert the Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Roddick turned around as the senior chief left the bridge and looked down at the bow. She now was facing forward again, her binoculars scouring the seas.
“Captain’s on the bridge!” the officer of the deck announced.
Roddick turned as Captain Wilson stepped back onto the bridge and removed his garrison cap.
“Bad news, Skipper.”
“What’s up, XO?”
“Just in from Seventh Fleet.” He handed the message to the captain. “They’re terminating the air search. Pulling the chopper back to the Vicksburg.”
Wilson studied the message. “Not good.” He looked down at Stephanie. “She’s wasting her time at this point.”
“Probably.” Roddick nodded. “She’ll take it hard. She’s blaming herself for it.”
“Helmsman. How much longer until we reach the position of the last transmission?”
“One hour, Skipper.”
“Well, for the time being, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” the captain said. “We’ll steam out to the position of the last known transmission and see what we can see. It may be a waste of gas, but we’ll steam loops in the water until sundown, when Seventh Fleet is ending the search.”
CHAPTER 11
South China Sea
somewhere between USS Emory S. Land and USS Vicksburg
local time unknown
The whistling breeze, mixed with a rhythmic, hallucinating sound of sloshing water was making him sleepy. With the wet trousers draped over his head and the life jacket holding his head above the water, Gunner closed his eyes. His tongue was parched dry. His mouth tasted cottony. He had already dozed off at least a couple times.
The heat was draining his strength. He tipped his head back, face skyward, his eyes covered by the salty-wet pants. He yawned and closed his eyes, drifting off to a state that was half awake and half asleep.
In his mind, he saw the sun-drenched peanut fields of southeastern Virginia.
The wind grazed over the green leaves, rustling them in the September sunshine along rows spanning the massive acreage surrounding his mother’s farm home known as Corbin Hall.
“Gunner! Dinner’s ready!” The sound of his mother’s voice. A rifle shot cracked the air. Off across the way, at the edge of the field, a twelve-point buck stood. Four hunting dogs charged across the field, sending the buck scampering across the rows.
Another rifle shot. Another miss.
Then splashing.
Chippering.
A bump against his leg.
Gunner started unwrapping the pants legs from around his face and was greeted by a splash of water in his eyes.
The peanut fields were gone. The dolphins were back.
Their tailfins splashed around him in a playful fury, raining droplets of seawater on his head.
One of the dolphins bumped against the back of his life preserver, and then bumped again.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the afternoon sunshine, and saw them, all three of them, playing in the water. Two of the dolphins splashed their flippers, spraying water across Gunner’s head. The third one, displaying his nose and a broad smile, swam up and began nudging him around to the right, in the direction of the spraying.
Pushed by the nose of the dolphin, Gunner turned around in the water.
There! Off in the distance! The orange pup tent bobbed in the water, perhaps a hundred yards away!
“Thank God! The life raft!” He wasn’t alone!
“Lieutenant!” Gunner screamed across the water. “Lieutenant!”
Nothing. He was too
far away, he thought.
Gunner kept his eyes focused on the life raft. He reached down and put one leg through his trousers, and then the other. He pulled the trousers up around his waist and began swimming toward the raft.
“God, keep that raft right there!” He swam hard, he wasn’t closing the distance. The raft seemed to be moving away as fast as he was swimming.
“Please, God, let me get there!”
He swam harder. Faster. But still was unable to close the distance.
Harder.
Faster.
He looked up.
It was all for naught. The raft was moving farther away. His heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath. He stopped swimming and let himself float. He could see the raft, but he couldn’t get to it.
Then the wind picked up again, and the orange tent disappeared behind the waves.
His heart had revved back to a frantic beat. He replayed his survival-school training 101. Conserve energy. Swimming against a current is fruitless. Exhausts you and makes you thirstier.
Treading water, Gunner squinted in the direction where the orange tent had been. He thought the wind might whip into it and blow it back toward him.
He waited. The sloshing of the waves and the whistling of the wind were his only companions. Even his dolphin friends had left him.
“Conserve energy. Never give up. Survive.”
He took off his pants and draped them around his head again. He closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 12
Helipad
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
The loud roar of the US Navy Seahawk helicopter, combined with the powerful air draft generated by its props as it sat in takeoff position on the ship’s helo pad, made conversational speech all but impossible. So as he stepped from the ship’s deck into the helo’s cargo bay, Lieutenant Commander Fred Jeter shot a thumbs-up to his corpsman assistant, Hospitalman First Class Christian Randall, who was already strapped into the jump seat. Randall responded with a thumbs-up.