Seawolf tsf-2

by David E. Meadows

  “I know, but …”

  “There are no buts. Captain. You think it was your fault. It wasn’t.

  It is part of the game of war in regards to women who want to play it.

  It’s a part, if we want to play, we have to come to terms with, and you men can’t blame yourselves for it. I won’t be the last woman to be captured. And women are going to be raped and tortured when captured.

  I was lucky being a SEAL. I knew you would come after me.”

  Duncan detected a slight waiver in H. J.“s voice as she mumbled the last sentence.

  “OK, H.J. Just the same, you’re one of my SEALs and I refuse to ignore the concern I feel.” He started to pat her good shoulder, but then thought better of it.

  H.J. shut her eyes and nodded. “Thanks, Captain.”

  Duncan turned to Helliwell to change the subject. “You were wounded in Liberia, weren’t you, Bud?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, looking back at the two.

  “What happened?”

  “Small-caliber fire, similar to one that Lieutenant Mcdaniels got; only mine was in the back and I only had one wound.” Then, smiling, he continued. “Unlike her, I learned fast and dodged the second bullet.

  Unfortunately, it seems I have to relearn this lesson every time I go on an operation.” “Asshole,” she said, opening her eyes and grinning at Helliwell. “Did you get back into battle?” Duncan asked.

  “Hell, no. I don’t even remember being hit. The next thing I remember was being back on the USS Guam, coming out of surgery and spending the next two weeks in sick bay until they evacuated me to Germany.”

  “Well, one thing about this. Neither of you have to prove yourselves in combat. Lieutenant, this was your baptism under fire. For you, Bud — Ensign Helliwell — it’s one more combat action for your record. In today’s Navy, there are not many who can say they’ve been in combat.

  Combat experienced veterans are going to be hard to come by in the next few months, and I think the United States is going to need all it can find. Both of you stay here and rest. We don’t know how long we’ll be at sea before rescue arrives. If something happens and we have to abandon this old tub, you’re going to need all the strength you can muster.”

  “Sir, I think this is cruel and unusual punishment,” H.J. replied with an audible sigh.

  With a bemused look, Duncan asked, “How is that?”

  “Leaving me in a room this small with Ensign Helliwell. He is a junior officer, you know.” She grinned weakly. “Any chance of separate staterooms?”

  “Captain!” came a shout from topside. He recognized the voice as Beau’s.

  “See you two later.” Duncan pulled himself away to head up the ladder to topside.

  “Captain,” H.J. said.

  Duncan turned, one foot on the ladder leading up.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m sorry if I sounded angry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, H.J. Good luck. You, too, mustang.”

  Helliwell turned to H.J. when the captain disappeared. “You were rough on the Old Man, don’t you think?”

  “I know, I didn’t mean to be, but …” Her voice trailed off. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’d be surprised what we understand. Sometimes you women don’t give us a chance before you pull a holier-than thou act on us.”

  Duncan hobbled up the few steps to topside. President Al neuf stood where Duncan had left him. In the distance, about two miles, the small port city blended with the unbroken, sandy coastline.

  “What is it, Beau?” he asked, looking up at the Navy lieutenant commander who was steering the boat.

  “We’ve got visitors,” Beau said, pointing left.

  Duncan took two steps to the port side of the water carrier. On the western horizon a gray speck, spewing white smoke from her stack, was speeding toward them.

  “What’s her bearing?” Duncan shouted.

  “She’s on a constant bearing decreasing range, Skipper!”

  Duncan studied the approaching craft. The amount of white smoke increased. She was pouring on speed. A constant bearing with a decreasing range meant the ship was on an intercept course with the water carrier.

  Duncan turned and pulled himself up to the bridge area. “This thing have a radio, Beau?”

  “Yes, sir. Right here.”

  The bridge-to-bridge radio was mounted awkwardly beneath the panel.

  Duncan lowered himself to the deck, reached under, and flipped the radio on. The frequency band digital display lit up, showing 156.8 megahertz. Channel sixteen, the frequency where commercial vessels and harbor control conducted routine business. He looked for the search-and-rescue frequencies, and it took him several seconds of fiddling with the knobs and switches before 240 megahertz appeared on the digital display.

  Duncan took the microphone and pressed the transmit button on the side.

  “Any United States Navy unit this station, this is Special Unit Two in emergency need of assistance.” He clicked off and waited for a reply.

  Only static came across the channel.

  “Special Unit Two? Who’s that?”

  “Got to tell them something, Beau. The code word is

  “Big Apple,” so we got to call ourselves something until we make contact.”

  Beau looked at the craft speeding toward them. “Better make contact quickly because I would say in about ten minutes we’re going to be in hot shit!”

  Duncan pressed the button again. “Any United States Navy unit this station, this is Special Unit Two in emergency need of assistance.”

  Static echoed from the receiver.

  “Not looking good, Duncan,” Beau said. He bit his upper lip. “I hope they put a plaque up with my name on it in the Fort Myers officers club.”

  Duncan pressed the transmit button and, twice, sent the same message again. U.S. Navy units continuously monitored the international emergency frequencies. Why weren’t they answering?

  “You’re right. Not looking good, Beau.” He hung the microphone back on the side of the unit. “I’ll get the men spread out. Let’s hope he has orders to take us alive and we can lure him in as close as possible. It’s our only chance for a fair fight.” Fair fight! The approaching warship would blow them out of the water before it came within rifle range, but he’d be damned if they didn’t go down fighting.

  A boom drew their attention, causing everyone to turn. A small cloud of smoke rose from the bow of the closing warship. A spray of water two miles away shot up as the cannon shell hit.

  “I would say, Duncan, their orders do not include having to take us alive,” Beau remarked. “What kind of patrol craft is it?”

  “Don’t know. It’s still too far away. I don’t think it’s one of their OSAs.”

  “Why not?”

  “If it was, we’d have a missile up our ass by now. I think it’s a Kebir-class fast-attack craft.”

  “Missiles?”

  Duncan shook his head. “Guns only. Maybe we can hope for a boarding party.”

  “Keep hoping, Skipper. If they were going to send a boarding party, they wouldn’t be shooting at us. But keep hoping. Nothing would surprise those Algerian sailors more than to leap aboard a vessel filled with pissed-off SEALs.” Beau laughed. “Scared, pissed-off SEALs at that.”

  Suddenly the speaker on the radio blared. “Special Unit Two, this is a friendly Ranger. Please provide identification.”

  Duncan grabbed the microphone, only to drop it and see it bounce off the deck a couple of times before he recovered it. He pressed the transmit button. “Friendly Ranger, this is Big Apple. I repeat, Big Apple.”

  Nearly half a minute passed before the voice answered.

  “Roger, we copy, Big Apple. Welcome back. The Navy is here. We have a bearing on you at this time. Can you confirm your coordinates?”

  Duncan looked at Beau, who shook his head. “All we can confirm, Captain, is we are about five miles off the coast of Algeria, west of Algiers, and
fixing to have hostile company.”

  “Roger, Big Apple. Can you provide coordinates?”

  “Friendly Ranger, this is Big Apple. We do not have our coordinates.

  We need assistance ASAP. We have bad news inbound and no way to defend. Looks like a Kebir-class fast-attack craft. Can you help? We are under fire!”

  “Big Apple, stand by one. Keep your transmitter keyed so we can track you.”

  Another half minute passed. It seemed like an hour.

  “What’s wrong with them! Are these radio waves slower nearer the Sahara?” Beau asked. He lifted his cap and wiped his forehead.

  “No, I think they’re relaying our request to higher authority. Or probably checking with someone—”

  Another cannon boom interrupted Duncan. This time the shell was a mile and a half shy of the lumbering boat.

  “Not too good on that gun, are they?”

  “As they get closer, they’ll get better,” Duncan said.

  “Killjoy.”

  “Friendly Ranger,” Duncan transmitted. “It’s getting real unfriendly here, so if you’d like to show up we’d appreciate it.”

  “Big Apple, Friendly Ranger; how will we identify you? Interrogative your vessel?”

  “Ranger, we are embarked on a low-riding water carrier and are the only one being shot at. And if you don’t hurry, we’ll be the only one sinking.”

  “Are you lower in the water than the approaching enemy vessel?”

  “That’s an affirmative, Friendly Ranger.”

  “Help is on its way, Big Apple. ETA five minutes.”

  “Thanks, Friendly Ranger, but five minutes is too long. We need assistance now! Request—”

  A high tonal transmission blanked out Duncan as someone on the net began a constant. keying of their mike. He tried several more times to transmit, only to find the steady keying jammed the frequency.

  “I think they’ve discovered who we are,” Duncan added. He hung up the microphone, leaving the speaker on.

  * * *

  Twenty-five miles off the coast Ranger Two miner, the EP-3E Orion reconnaissance aircraft of fleet air reconnaissance Squadron Two, relayed the information to Commander Sixth Fleet, who passed tasking to the USS Stennis located seventy-five miles northwest of the water carrier. Four F/A-18s assigned combat air patrol duties to the east of the USS Stennis began receiving vectoring instructions from the E-2C air-surveillance platform orbiting overhead the carrier.

  A data link between the E-2C and the Stennis relayed the radar picture.

  The data links between Stennis and the entire American fleet provided them with the same digital layout. With the information provided by the spooks on board the EP 3E and relayed by the E-2C, the carrier fighters went to afterburners. Armed and ready, the deadly Hornets commenced a highspeed run directly toward the water carrier. S-3 tankers trailed the fighters to provide the refueling these gas hogs would need. Ranger Two Nine informed Sixth Fleet that for the duration of the operation their call sign was now Friendly Ranger. They’d explain later.

  The USS Stennis turned into the wind and launched the ready “cat.” Two additional F/A-18s of the United States Marine Corps Moonlighter squadron shot off the cat dipped slightly below the flight deck before reappearing at a forty-five-degree angle, afterburners on, heading for altitude. The bongs of General Quarters sent the ship’s company running to battle stations. The lone American carrier was entering combat.

  Captain Holman smiled. The sight of the gigantic battle flag of the United States of America flying overhead brought moisture to his eyes.

  The battle group was closing the action area. Another pair of fighters moved into launch position. The hot, oily smell of idling jet engines stung his eyes. The deck crew hurriedly connected the two F/A-18 Hornets to the catapult. A mile ahead, the two alert F/A-18s broke to the right, having reached two thousand feet altitude. One minute later, the F/A-18s merged with the two Hornets on combat air patrol.

  “Algeria, you’re up shit creek. I have more firepower idling on my deck than you’re got in your entire Air Force,” Holman said to himself.

  He pulled a Dutch Masters Panatela cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it. He leaned back in the captain’s chair and took a deep drag. Cuban cigars were okay, but too expensive and too strong. Of course, he had smoked his last Havana Monte Cristo last night.

  Stomping ass and taking names was what carriers did best. Naval air at its finest. He looked again at the flag overhead. He wished he had the flag from his living room in Norfolk. The one from his collection with a hissing snake entwined across the field of red and white stripes, with the notation

  “Don’t Tread on Me” hand-stitched in gold thread across the bottom. John Rodgers, here comes another payback.

  Life doesn’t get much better than this, he thought as he took a deep drag on his cigar. Then started coughing — wasn’t supposed to inhale.

  He grinned, thinking about the expression on the faces of his officers as the Ramage had towed the carrier safely through the Strait of Gibraltar. He’d told them not to worry. He was glad it worked. He had kept his fingers crossed the entire transit, unsure himself if his guess was right.

  * * *

  “They’re getting closer. That one was about a thousand yards. Life doesn’t get more exciting than this, Duncan.”

  “Or last much longer if help doesn’t arrive soon.” A burst of machine-gun fire from their stern caught their attention.

  “Hold your fire!” Duncan shouted. “They’re too far out for small arms yet.”

  “Beau, put the son of a bitch off our port stern. It’ll reduce our cross section. It’s taking him about a minute between firings, so we’ll stay this course until we’re within range of his guns. Then, every time he fires, we’ll give him a chance to reload and then change course.”

  “I’m willing to try anything. I can’t stand to think of the wailing and crying at the Fort Myers officers club if I got myself killed.”

  Beau reached down and twisted the volume knob on the radio. The loud screeching of the jammed frequency filled the air. He shook his head as he spun the wheel to starboard.

  “Shout if they quit jamming!” Duncan yelled.

  “Sure! You’ll be able to hear me all the way to Washington,” Beau replied, then added in a whisper, “Which is where 1 wish we were.”

  Duncan climbed down from the open bridge.

  “President Alneuf, would you go below and watch the wounded? It looks as if things are going to get hotter out here. And you and them put on life vests!”

  The Algerian president nodded, and climbed down the narrow ladder to the cramped kitchen area below the bridge.

  “Mcdonald, Monkey! Come here!” Duncan shouted.

  “Sergeant Boutrous,” he added. “Space your men around the ship and try to pick off anyone topside on the craft. Our only chance is to keep them at a distance and hope their aim fails to improve.”

  “Oui, man capitaine,” the Algerian replied with a snappy salute. He hurried off to brief the remaining Guardsmen.

  The two machine-gunners stopped in front of Duncan.

  “Listen up,” Duncan said to the two men. “We’re turning tail to the patrol craft. You keep that forward deck where their gun is clear. If they can’t stay topside, then they can’t fire that peashooter of theirs. Rake the bridge, too. Convince the captain of that Kebir to stay away from us and we have a chance. Keeping them at a distance is the key. Too close and they won’t need accuracy to sink us.”

  He knew they wanted more. They wanted assurance they were going to survive. But there were few assurances in life, and even less in the SEALs. “Help is on its way,” Duncan added. “All we have to do is stay afloat until it arrives.”

  “We’ll keep that deck clear, Captain. Just leave it to Mcdonald and me.”

  “You know, if they hit this old tub it’ll break apart,” Mcdonald said.

  “Then, let’s make sure we keep them far enough away they don’t hit
it,” Duncan told him. “Good shooting and good luck, men.” “No sweat, Captain,” Mcdonald said.

  The two SEALs hurried aft. Monkey stopped at the engine compartment and yelled for Gibbons to get his butt topside. The African-American crawled out. The two put their heads together for a quick conversation. Gibbons turned, reached into the compartment, and retrieved his carbine. Monkey pointed to the approaching patrol craft, easily visible about five miles from them. Gibbons nodded twice, strapped his carbine to his back, and scrambled up the aft mast.

  Duncan looked up at Beau. “Beau, be careful. You’re awful exposed up there.”

  “Duncan, if they hit me, they get the entire boat.” “Good luck, shipmate,” Duncan said earnestly.

  Duncan limped aft, moving carefully as he watched his footing along the narrow one-foot-wide walkway between the curve of the water tank and the deck edge.

  Behind him, Ensign Bud Helliwell crawled up, his face scrunched in pain and bathed in sweat. Lieutenant H.J. Me Daniels held his belt to help her up the small ladder. Tears eased down her cheeks from the pain she was fighting to make the short trip topside. Bud let his satchel fall to the deck.

  Seeing the captain moving aft, they turned to Beau. “Where do you want us?” H.J. asked, her breathing short and rapid.

  “Washington, D. C.” is where I want us, but you might as well sit down right where you’re at. See how many times you can send the sailors on that patrol craft scurrying belowdecks. Three points for each sailor, four for an officer, and you get five points if they fall overboard.

  Six if a shark gets them. Winner to be determined later.”

  “H. J.” you ever get a straight answer from Commander Pet tigrew?” Bud asked.

  She used Bud’s good arm to ease herself down against the starboard side of the cabin. Sweat-matted hair stuck to the side of her head.

  “I’ve known him about a week. I think a straight answer from him is like truth out of a politician. Of course, it could be he had a troubled childhood.” She shut her eyes and took several deep breaths.