Acts of Vengeance

by Robert Gandt

  “Damage control teams are still getting the inner hull plug in place in the aft machinery room bulkhead.”

  “Flooding in the turbine rooms is contained. All six compartments are sealed, and the plug should be in place within an hour.”

  “Situation now stable amidships fourth deck. Fire fighters report the machinery room blaze is under control.”

  “Three men overboard still missing, and five picked up by the destroyer Crockett.”

  “Reagan’s engineering officer reports number four steam turbine and propeller inoperative.”

  “Joplin has finished taking all survivors from Baywater aboard.”

  At this, Fletcher turned to Vitale. “How many?”

  “Only eighteen, several of them critical. A hundred-ten missing and presumed lost in the explosion, including Commander Borden, the skipper.”

  Fletcher felt a pall of gloom descend over him as the enormity of the loss of the ammunition ship and its crew sank in. In a single flash, the lives of over a hundred men and women had been snuffed like a light. Not since World War II had an American vessel suffered such damage from hostile action.

  Fletcher didn’t want to think of the outcry in the press and in Washington. The Gulf of Aden had turned into a killing ground.

  Still on the prowl was a killer submarine.

  “Update on the sub plot?”

  “Nothing new,” said Vitale. “No new contacts. Our guy, whoever he is, has either bugged out without being detected, or he’s in deep hiding.”

  “Waiting for his next shot,” said Fletcher.

  “That’s possible, but it would be suicide. As soon as he makes a sound or takes a peek with the scope, they’re gonna be all over him like a cheap suit. We’ve got more sub-hunting equipment on station than we had in Desert Storm. We even have P-3s on the way down from Masirah in Oman.

  “What about the SSNs?”

  “SUBLANT has ordered the Bremerton to rejoin the battle group ASAP. They’re on their way out of the Red Sea, clearing Bab el Mandeb—the strait at the end of the Red Sea—in about an hour. On station by nightfall. Tulsa is on its way from Diego Garcia and won’t get here until late tomorrow.”

  Fletcher nodded. Bremerton and Tulsa were Los Angeles class nuclear attack submarines whose specialty was hunting other subs. For most operations, a carrier battle group had at least one and usually two attack submarines assigned. Because of the Reagan’s unscheduled departure from Dubai, the battle group had assembled without the immediate company of an attack submarine. At the time, Fletcher hadn’t been concerned. He was on his way to engage third-world guerillas in Yemen, not undersea enemies.

  Another bitter lesson, he reflected. One of many. When the battle of Yemen was dissected and analyzed by military strategists, it would be declared one of the Navy’s most egregiously arrogant blunders. Unfortunately, the name of Langhorne Fletcher would be forever linked to the blunder.

  “COMFIVE wants to know our status and intentions, Admiral.”

  “Stand by,” Fletcher said. He picked up the direct line to the captain’s bridge. “Sticks, this is BG.”

  “Go, Admiral,” came the voice of Sticks Stickney.

  “I know you’re up to your butt in alligators. A quick yes or no. Can Reagan maintain station?”

  “If the DC team gets the plug in the inner hull, yes, sir. I should have that nailed down in the next fifteen minutes. We won’t be a hundred percent, but we can operate.”

  “How about air ops?”

  “With only three turbines and the damaged hull, engineering can’t give me more than about twenty knots. That restricts our aircraft weights for launch and recovery. And there’s another problem. When the turbine was hit, we lost steam to the waist catapults. We’re down to the two bow cats.”

  “But we could launch a strike if we had to?”

  A pause. “Technically, yes. CAG will have a problem with only two catapults. He might have a bigger problem if we can’t give him enough wind over the deck to launch the bombers.”

  Fletcher considered. The carrier wasn’t sinking, despite the two torpedoes she had taken. Like all Nimitz-class carriers, Reagan had been constructed with a double-bottomed hull. The idea was that the outer hull would absorb the damage of a torpedo attack while the inner hull maintained watertight integrity. Until today, the design had never been tested in combat.

  “Okay, Sticks. Get back to me with the damage control report.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  As Fletcher hung up the phone, he felt Babcock watching him from across the room. For a moment the two men exchanged looks. Fletcher yelled to the yeoman across the room. “Call the Air Wing Commander. I need him up here on the double.”

  He caught Babcock’s surprised look. He looks worried. Whitney Babcock looked like a man who was losing control.

  Chapter Twenty

  Metamorphosis

  Gulf of Aden

  1045, Thursday, 20 June

  Something has changed.

  Boyce couldn’t put his finger on it, but he sensed it the moment the Marine sentry let them onto the flag bridge. It wasn’t the same Rear Admiral Langhorne Fletcher.

  Boyce brought Maxwell with him, not only as a current authority about the ground situation in Yemen, but for a back up. For sure, there would another of these tedious godamned arguments with Fletcher and Babcock.

  He felt the tension in the flag compartment. Babcock was standing in the corner, wearing a petulant look. Fletcher was in his high padded leather chair that afforded a panoramic view of the flight deck and the sea beyond.

  “Who are we at war with, Admiral?” asked Boyce.

  “Al-Fasr for one, and now with the owner of the submarine who torpedoed us.”

  “Do we know who that is?”

  “SUBLANT’s running a check on every diesel/electric in service. Ruling out the Brits and Israelis, it comes down to only a few possible players. The Russians are already screaming innocence, although they won’t deny that it could be one of their export boats, maybe even a Russian crew.”

  “I suppose you’ve considered the possibility that it’s the same guy we’ve been fighting in Yemen.”

  Fletcher nodded. “It’s been considered, and that’s why I sent for you. How soon can the air wing launch a strike in support of an amphibious assault?”

  At this, a spluttering sound came from Whitney Babcock. He strode across the room. “Admiral, this hasn’t been discussed with me yet. There are national security implications here, and you don’t have the authority to initiate a military strike without consulting me.”

  Fletcher picked up a sheet of paper from his console. “Remember this? These are my orders from the Commander of the Fifth Fleet, endorsed by the Commander in Chief, Atlantic, authorizing the local commander—that’s me, by the way—to use the all the forces in my command to insure the recovery of our personnel in Yemen.”

  “Those are contingency orders. I’ll remind you, Admiral, that more is at stake here than the immediate rescue of the marines.”

  Fascinated, Boyce watched the exchange. This wasn’t the same Fletcher. The old Fletcher was a spineless toady who had sucked his way up the promotional ladder.

  The admiral swiveled his chair away from Babcock and faced Boyce. “Captain Stickney reports that the Reagan has only the bow catapults available. He also says that he can only give us about twenty knots forward. How much of a problem does that give you?”

  Boyce thought a second, then deferred to Maxwell.

  “The forward speed is no problem for the Hornets as long we have wind,” said Maxwell. “Ten knots will do. With only two cats, it’ll take longer to get the jets launched. We can do it.”

  “I concur,” said Boyce.

  Fletcher said, “The senior Marine commander on the Saipan says he can have his assault force ready to lift in ninety minutes. How long will it take to do the load out for the strike package, CAG?”

  “We’re ready. I gave the go ahead this morning.”r />
  Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “Without getting a tasking order from the battle group commander?”

  “I was, ah, anticipating the order, sir. The jets are fueled, ordnance loaded, crews assigned and briefed. All we need is a final weather and intel update.”

  Babcock looked like he was choking on something. “Admiral, we need to speak in private.”

  “Later.” Fletcher waved him away and turned to Vitale. “Signal COMFIVE and all CVBG commands that the Reagan battle group will maintain station. We’ll activate the Bravo op plan at—” he glanced at his watch—“1730. It’s now T minus ninety-eight minutes.”

  “Admiral Fletcher!” Babcock’s voice was swelling with indignation, “I’m giving you an order. You will defer the strike until I’ve had a chance to consult with Washington.”

  Fletcher swiveled in his chair to face Babcock. “About what, Mister Babcock? About the marines we abandoned while you negotiated with Al-Fasr? About the 110 Navy men who perished on the Baywater while we cruised out here like a sitting duck? About how your negotiating partner lured us into Yemen so he could shoot down our jets and kill our people? It’s time I talked to Washington also.”

  Babcock glowered at Fletcher. “You are now several levels out of your depth. I’ll remind you that this is a complicated and sensitive diplomatic situation. This has implications that your puny little military mind obviously does not understand.”

  “The one thing my puny mind understands is that we have to get our people out of Yemen. While we’re doing it, I don’t mind if Boyce and Maxwell here bomb the living shit out of your friend Al-Fasr.”

  “This is preposterous. You are violating the President’s explicit instructions.” Babcock headed for the door. “I’ll put a stop to this. You’ll be removed from command of the Reagan Battle Group.”

  Fletcher raised a hand and motioned for one of the marines stationed inside the flag bridge. The sergeant strode briskly to the admiral’s chair, carrying his M-16A2 combat rifle.

  “Take that man into custody, Sergeant.”

  The marine gave him a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep him confined in a space with no phone, no computer, no communication devices.”

  “What?” spluttered Babcock. “You’re going to lose those stars, Admiral.”

  The sergeant was joined by another marine, a burly African-American corporal. They seized each of Babcock’s arms.

  “You can’t do this!” Babcock yelled back at Fletcher as the marines led him out of the compartment.

  “Looks like he just did,” observed Maxwell.

  The watertight door clunked shut behind them. For several seconds no one spoke. The flag bridge was silent as a tomb. Every man in the compartment was staring at Fletcher.

  He glanced at his watch. “T minus eighty-five,” he said. “What are you standing around for?”

  For another few seconds, Boyce studied Fletcher, seeing something in the man’s lean, aristocratic features that he hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps, he thought, because it hadn’t been there.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” He gave the admiral a smart salute.

  <>

  B.J. Johnson stormed though the front door of the ready room. Heels hammering on the steel deck, she marched directly to the coffee mess at the back of the room where Claire was talking to Maxwell. She was no longer wearing the sling on her left arm.

  “Someone’s made a mistake,” she said to Maxwell, ignoring Claire. “I’ve been assigned as squadron duty officer.”

  “What’s the problem?” said Maxwell.

  “I should be on the schedule for the air strike.”

  “You’re still medically grounded.”

  “The flight surgeon says I’m okay. I don’t have to be grounded.”

  “The flight surgeon is not the commanding officer. I say you’re still grounded.”

  B.J.’s face reddened. “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been shot down once.” Maxwell kept his voice low. “What do you think they’ll do if you’re shot down again?”

  Her eyes flashed. “You were shot down. What will they do to you?”

  “I’m a man. It’s different.

  It was the wrong thing to say. B.J. turned livid. “So that’s it. I’m not flying this strike because I’m a woman?”

  Maxwell looked like he was suffering a migraine. “This is not a gender thing. I need eight fully capable pilots for the strike, no more. You’re not one of them for a simple reason: You’ve been wounded.”

  “It was you who wounded me!”

  Maxwell’s migraine was worsening. B.J. had the attention of everyone in the room.

  He leaned close to her and said in a low voice, “Listen up, Lieutenant. I am the commanding officer. I have decided that you will not be on the schedule. Period. Knock off the bitching and do your job.”

  B.J. started to protest again, then caught herself. “Yes, sir.” She gave Maxwell and Claire one last baleful look, then stomped back toward the duty officer’s desk.

  Claire waited until she was out of range. “I think she’s angry.”

  “She wants to fly.”

  Claire shook her head, still watching B.J. at the far end of the room. “No. It’s more than that.”

  Maxwell was giving her that perplexed look again. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s perfectly obvious,” she said. “The girl is in love with you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Battle Joined

  Al Hazir, Yemen

  1230, Thursday, 20 June

  Gritti listened to the sharp exchanges of automatic fire, trying to distinguish the staccato sound of the M249 SAW—Squad Automatic Weapon—from the intermittent crackle of the Kalishnikovs. The smoke blanket was drifting southward, still obscuring the hillside where his three fire teams had penetrated the Sherji positions.

  He motioned to Master Sergeant Plunkett. “Who’s firing the SAW?”

  Plunkett knelt next to Gritti. “C team. Corporal Ricci reports a clean hit, maybe twenty Sherji down.”

  “Pull ‘em back, set up again a hundred yards north. What’s going on with B and D?”

  “Nothing. They’re still under the smoke, no enemy contact.”

  Before Gritti could answer, he heard the muffled bark from the .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle. It meant the snipers were finding targets. If they could spread a little fear and confusion, the Sherji’s interest in overrunning the perimeter might be dampened. And if the fire teams were successful in ambushing the advancing enemy, the marines still had a chance of holding out until darkness.

  He heard another rapid exchange of automatic fire, this time more AK-47 than SAW. That was a bad sign. The bastards were shooting back, probably at real targets. The advantage of surprise hadn’t lasted long.

  From beneath the smoke blanket came a long burst of M249 fire. “That’s B team,” said Plunkett, listening to the brittle sound of the automatic gun. “Hitting the right flank of the main force.”

  Gritti nodded and pointed with his hand toward the hillside. “The smoke’s drifting to the east.” They had only a few more minutes before the fire teams were exposed. “Advance the next three rifle teams past the perimeter. We have to bottle them up while we’ve still got cover.”

  It was a hell of a gamble. He would have half his available marines outside the perimeter, dispersed inside the enemy’s advancing troops. He was counting on the Sherji being unprepared for a counter attack.

  Another long rattle of automatic fire came from the hillside, answered by a crackle of individual bursts.

  “D team’s not answering, Colonel. A is under fire. B is pinned down, in the open now. They say the Sherji are moving up maybe a battalion-sized force, going straight for the perimeter.”

  “Have we got more smoke?”

  “No, sir. We used everything we had.”

  “Okay, we’ll try to pincer them, put teams on either side.” He saw Plunkett’s dubious look. “Well? Damn it, Sarge, spe
ak up if you’ve got a better idea.”

  “No better idea. I was wondering how long you think we can hold out before. . .” He left the thought unfinished.

  “Before we run up the white flag?”

  Plunkett nodded.

  Gritti peered back out at the hillside. Long wisps of smoke were drifting eastward, leaving the terrain naked and exposed. He heard another sharp exchange of automatic fire. It wouldn’t take much, he thought. If he just had another battalion, he could chase these assholes right back to their hooches.

  But he didn’t. So what was he trying to prove? Was he prepared to sacrifice fifty brave young men to demonstrate that they could die like marines?

  He felt Plunkett looking at him. “When we can’t hold out any longer, Master Sergeant. Until then we fight.”

  <>

  “Runner One-one,” came the voice of Guido Vitale. “You’re cleared to push.”

  Maxwell acknowledged. He and his first flight of Hornets were cleared inbound to the target area.

  “No joy from Boomer,” said Vitale. “We think it’s his batteries. Since you won’t have forward air control from the ground, the Cobras will mark targets.”

  “Runner One-one copies.”

  Without a forward air controller in position, spotting targets would be tough. The FAC was inbound to the target area, aboard one of the CH-53s in the assault force. Until he was set up, they depended on what the Cobra pilot spotted. And on what they saw from their own cockpits.

  The battle line ran roughly east to west. From the previous strike, Maxwell had already gotten a look at the Marine perimeter. The toughest job was distinguishing the Sherji positions from the friendlies.

  He had three divisions, four Hornets to a division. Each jet carried twelve Mark Twenty Rockeye canisters, as well as a standard load of AIM-9 and AIM-120 air-to-air missiles and a full load of twenty millimeter. They no longer had an altitude floor. They could come in as low as they needed.

  He punched his elapsed timer and rolled the Hornet into a turn toward the target area. Thirty seconds behind him, his wingman, Pearly Gates, would push. Every thirty seconds, another Hornet would head for the target. A steady rain of cluster bombs was on its way to support the marines.