Unfortunately, the tugs were clearly not experienced at working a ship like Cole next to the pier. What should have taken us ten minutes to get the ship tied up instead took almost an hour. The tugs could not keep the ship in place for more than a few seconds and allow us to tighten on the mooring lines without risk of parting them. After more than thirty minutes of sliding back and forth alongside the pier, I was finally able to convince the pilot to not have the tugs press against the ship while we worked with the line handlers on the pier. In short order, the line handling teams were able to get the first lines to the pier at 0851 and within about fifteen minutes the ship was finally moored.
One of the security measures in the force protection plan I had agreed to implement had been to launch an armed picket-boat into the harbor on fifteen-minute standby. I chose not to carry out that step because I knew that given the geography of the port and the island structure of the refueling pier, a boat not ready for immediate action would be of little use. In time, this decision would have a momentous impact on Cole.
By 0935 the crew was finished with the sea and anchor detail. As we stationed the in-port watches, the engineers began the detailed preparations to refuel. Since we would be stationing the sea and anchor detail again later that day to get back underway and leave port, the bridge was left operationally ready and most equipment was not stowed, as it would be for a normal in-port visit. Navigation charts were left out, navigation equipment—the alidades for each bridge wing pelorus—were left out, and the handheld bridge-to-bridge radio was left near my chair.
Walking down from the bridge to my cabin, I was looking forward to getting around the ship. I was not always successful, but at least twice daily I tried to visit as many of the crew’s workshops and offices as was practical. Getting out of my cabin and away from the drudgery of paperwork was good for me and just being with the sailors always gave me a sense of pride in how well they were doing in keeping up the ship and working together as a team. As I walked into the central control station (CCS), the heart and nerve center of the ship’s engineering plant, Lieutenant Deborah (“Debbie”) Courtney, my engineer officer, had already signed and approved the watch bill and was now working to make sure everyone was completing the necessary checklists before we actually started pumping fuel. Seeing that everything was well in hand, I continued to walk around the ship and visit with the crew.
I arrived back in my cabin around 1000 and sat down at my desk. The main propulsion assistant (MPA), Ensign Andrew “Drew” Triplett, knocked on my door and asked, “Captain, do you have a minute to review the inport refueling checklist?”
By now we were running behind schedule—something he must have been aware of. As he handed me the sheet he offered to speed up the refueling by having me sign the engineering report now, assuming that Debbie would also verify that the checklist was complete and find everything mechanically in order, especially the fuel valve alignment, so that we could start. I looked at him, smiled, and told him, “MPA, I know you are just trying to speed things up in an effort to get out of this port as soon as possible. Let’s wait until the engineer is done with her checks, signs off on the checklist, and then I’ll sign it.”
Drew, one of my best officers and a true professional, let his head drop to his chest in mock and exaggerated disappointment, and walked out mumbling, for my amusement, “Every time we want to get some work done, procedures get in the way.” He left to await the engineer officer as she finished her checks. Drew had joined the Navy as a young Fireman Recruit and had always been an exceptionally talented and hard working engineer. After thirteen years in the Navy, as a chief petty officer, he decided to become a limited duty officer (LDO), a technical specialist, with the rank of ensign. He was exceptionally well liked by the crew.
This was the last time I saw him alive.
Around 1025, Debbie knocked on the door to my cabin with the completed in-port refueling checklist in hand. As she left my cabin, I heard her calling the quarterdeck watch on the ship’s wireless internal communication system, an internal walkie-talkie system, to inform them that she had permission from me to start refueling the ship. She asked them to hoist the Bravo flag, indicating the ship was conducting refueling operations, and announce over the 1MC general announcing system that the smoking lamp was out, prohibiting everyone from smoking or engaging in any activities that would produce flames or sparks. It seemed like a routine morning as I turned back to my desk and the mounds of paperwork that awaited me. At 1032 the announcement came that refueling had begun.
At 1040, the supply officer, Lieutenant Denise Woodfin, knocked on my door and asked for a few minutes to review some items with me. Denise told me that the Yemeni husbanding (logistics) agent, who had come aboard the ship via boat shortly after arrival alongside the pier, had made all the arrangements for the sewage removal and refueling operations requested in our logistics message to the embassy. The sewage barge, about twenty by forty feet in size, was already tied up to the port side of the ship near the back of the flight deck preparing to remove sewage and waste water. As any good businessman would do, the husbanding agent had made an additional offer to Denise to have three small garbage barges come out to the ship and remove all of our trash, plastic waste, and hazardous waste materials, for the very reasonable equivalent of about $150. He or his colleagues had made the same arrangement, for three garbage boats, for other Navy ships before us. Denise was quite pleased at the prospect of getting all this material off the ship at so little expense. She also foresaw the opportunity to reduce the amount of work when we pulled into Bahrain.
But I told her I didn’t want to take up the offer, for several reasons.
First, I tried to run the Cole on a fiscally conservative budget and preferred to use as much of the appropriated money as possible for the crew in either purchasing tools to allow them to do their jobs better or items that would benefit them in other ways, like equipment and organizational clothing. The ship was scheduled to arrive back from deployment in February 2001. Norfolk at that time of year was usually cold and wet, and $150 could buy two foul-weather jackets for the boatswain’s mates. It wasn’t a large amount of money, but I preferred to spend it in the United States rather than in this small, hole-in-the-wall port. Second, none of the Cole’s storage areas was overflowing with any trash or other items. I also knew the growing collection of waste paper and metal trash could be disposed of for free that evening once we were at sea and far enough away from land. Additionally, there was more than enough storage capacity on the ship to last until we pulled into Bahrain in about five days for our in-theater briefings by Naval Forces Central Command/Fifth Fleet and, hopefully, some liberty. I had also been told that Bahrain had facilities available for visiting ships to remove their plastic waste and hazardous material at no charge.
Hearing my explanation, Denise politely rolled her eyes and smiled as she walked out of my cabin. I thought the issue was closed, but she returned at 1050, this time with the executive officer in tow. As they walked in, I asked, with some amusement, “I take it you want to discuss the garbage barges some more?” Both laughed as Chris began a lengthy explanation about why spending this $150 was a good investment in time and savings for the crew. From both of their perspectives it was well worth the money, even considering that the ship would need more foul-weather jackets in February. I looked at both of them, shook my head, and said, “OK, fine. Go ahead and bring the boats out to us. Let’s pass the word and get everything off the ship.” The $150 was not worth the minor battle this was shaping up to be. How long it was going to take to refuel the ship remained foremost in everyone’s mind.
Denise had anticipated that the XO could get me to change my mind, and had already notified the quarterdeck that three garbage boats would be approaching the ship. Two of them had already crossed the harbor and were now alongside. One was back by the flight deck and fantail area near the sewage barge, collecting trash and hazardous materials; the other was amidships, directly below the a
rea between the stacks, where it was collecting plastic waste being brought up from the plastic waste processing room under the mess decks.
Chris brought some good news. The refueling was going faster than we expected. “We’re probably going to be done between 1230 and 1300,” he told me. “I would like to start lunch early and get everyone moving through the line so we can get the sea and anchor detail stationed early in preparation for leaving port.” Instead of the 300 to 500 gallons per minute that we had been expecting, we were getting closer to 2,500 gallons per minute. This huge difference in pressure had initially complicated the refueling operation, since that amount of fuel being pumped onto the ship so quickly was over-pressurizing the fuel tanks, threatening to cause a spill. The Cole’s engineers had to ask the Yemeni fuel workers on the pier to close down the valve to slow the rate to around 2,000 gallons per minute.
Chris had already discussed with the supply officer the possibility of opening the galley and mess decks early to feed the crew. Since we normally started feeding the crew around 1130, the supply officer quickly checked with the petty officer in charge of the noon meal, Mess Specialist Third Class Ronchester Santiago, in the galley and promptly determined that opening thirty minutes early would not pose any problems. Everything was lining up to allow us to leave earlier than expected.
I told Chris this was a great idea. He then left my cabin to go down to the quarterdeck to make the announcement, and said he would be in the classroom in the aft part of the ship holding a meeting of our welfare and recreation committee.
Around 1115, the sewage barge, shortly followed by the two trash boats, left the side of the ship and headed across the harbor to dump their waste. The quarterdeck watch and security personnel stationed topside had been told to expect the third boat to come out to the ship shortly to pick up any remaining material.
With the quiet hum of a ship at work in the background, I slid my chair up to the desk and turned back to the never-ending grind of paperwork in front of me. The smell of lunch being prepared for the wardroom wafted into my cabin and, despite the slight delay getting into port, the revised refueling schedule had buoyed everyone. Soon, Cole would be underway and back out at sea where we belonged and ships are safest.
4
Attacked
SUDDENLY, AT 1118, there was a thunderous explosion. Eight thousand four hundred tons of guided missile destroyer thrust quickly and violently upward and to the right. Tiles from the false ceiling in my cabin popped out and landed on the floor. The coffee and water on my small round table tipped over, spilling onto the dark blue carpet. Everything that was not bolted down lifted off my desk and seemed to float twelve inches in the air for a split second before slamming back down with a dull thud. Around me, it felt like we had just been speared like a giant fish as the ship rose up and flexed back and forth, so quickly and violently that I had to pull myself out of my chair, stand on the balls of my feet in a crouched position, and grab the underside of my desk to keep from being knocked over. The Cole seemed almost to float slowly in a counterclockwise direction before settling back down in the water. All the lights went out and the emergency lighting came on. Everything rolled from side to side as the ship surged forward and backward alongside the refueling pier in an odd three-dimensional circular motion.
As soon as I gained my footing, I turned left toward my cabin door and staggered to the opening, holding the doorframe on either side. One emergency light from a battle lantern right above the door shone brightly towards the floor in front of me. Another, halfway down the passageway, glowed eerily in the dark, illuminating the path from the wardroom (the officers’ mess) on the port side of the ship opposite my cabin.
Engineer Officer Debbie Courtney, who had been in her cabin working, came flying out of her stateroom, steel-toe boots untied, heading for the central control station to try to find out what had happened, looking wordlessly into my eyes as she ran by. A cloud of smoke and dust came rolling from the port side and down the passageway toward me. There was almost complete silence. No noise—not a fan, not an alarm, no announcements from the quarterdeck watch—just blaring silence. As the cloud washed over me, I could smell dust and the pungent odor of fuel, and something else—a repellent acrid and metallic tang that seemed to sink into my mouth and nose.
Lieutenant (junior grade) Jim Salter, the system test officer for the Aegis weapon system, came out of the stateroom immediately to my left and grabbed the doorframe. “What the fuck was that?” he asked me, and for a second he stared into the distance. Then he gasped “Fuel!” and took off down the passageway. He ran toward the refueling laboratory outside main engine room 1 to see if the fuel we were taking on had exploded during the refueling.
Instantly I knew that we had been attacked. How, by whom, and how badly we had been damaged I could not know. But as the ship was moored with the right side to the refueling pier, I knew that if fuel had exploded, either on the pier or inside the ship, we should have been shoved to the left. Instead, Cole had been violently thrust up and to the right. On the left side of the ship was the open harbor area around the pier. Something must have detonated on that side. I had to get down to that area of the ship and find out what had happened.
Quickly, I turned around and went back into my darkened cabin. In the small safe near the headboard of my bed, I kept the keys to all the weapons for the ship—missiles, five-inch gun, close-in weapons system, torpedoes, and so on, but also a personal weapon: a Sig Sauer P229 9 mm pistol and three thirteen-round clips of ammunition I had brought with me on deployment. At that moment I didn’t know if we had been boarded, or if we would come under sniper fire, or anything else. I took the pistol in my right hand, grabbed a magazine full of ammunition and shoved it into the butt, chambered a round and decocked the gun before heading out of my cabin, two spare magazines clicking against each other in my left front pocket.
One deck below, outside on the starboard side of the ship next to the refueling pier, I glanced around. Not a single person was anywhere in sight—no one. The area in front of me, where the quarterdeck watch had been positioned—the officer of the deck, petty officer of the watch, and messenger, the “front office” of the ship in port—was deserted. Manned by three experienced watch standers, Storekeeper First Class Rodney Jackson, Ship’s Serviceman Second Class Craig Freeman, and Ship’s Serviceman Third Class Paul Mena, I knew they would not have abandoned their watch unless absolutely necessary. Already the crew had raced out to find out what had happened.
The ceremonial wooden podium that served as a desk for the deck log and held routine paperwork used by the watch team lay splintered and scattered across the deck. Thick black wires, still attached to the crossbeam of the mast—all that was left of our high-frequency radio antennas—were draped across the deck. Dirty black water was dripping down off everything. Small pieces of blackened debris lay scattered all around.
I did not know if this attack would be just the first of many. I didn’t know if we were going to be, or had already been, boarded by someone carrying out this attack and now wreaking havoc throughout the ship. I had to get to the port side.
Holding my pistol pointed upward and ready to use, I ran around the corner towards the epicenter of the explosion, ready to die to defend my ship, my crew, and my country. A memory flashed to mind. On July 6, 1977, I had stood in the center courtyard, Tecumseh Court, at the U.S. Naval Academy, sweat running down the middle of my back, my hair closely shorn and my crisply starched and freshly issued uniform beginning to smell of the sweat of the unknown. “What have I gotten myself into?” I wondered over and over as my classmates and I stood in the still of the late afternoon sun to enter the U.S. Navy. Moments later, I swore an oath to my country, to support and defend our Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I was now committed to giving my life to defend my country. Those words spoken over two decades before were now stark reality as I took a deep breath and steeled myself to face what might be my own death.
&n
bsp; As I reached the middle of the port side amidships area, on the left side at Cole’s midpoint, Gunner’s Mate Chief Norm Larson ran up, wearing an open flak vest and a Kevlar helmet, its chinstrap dangling loosely down his cheek. He and I stopped and stood still for a second. Locking eyes, I made a quick, sweeping gesture with my hand as if silently asking about the devastation surrounding us. Clearly, this was the center point of the blast. The deck was littered with debris. Measuring back about twelve feet from the back of the port brake—a semi-enclosed shelter used by crew members working topside in bad weather—and five feet from the side of the ship, the central part of the deck bulged up about eight inches into a slight peak. Several of the fiberglass lifelines that had lined the port side had been snapped off by the force of the explosion and lay limp on the deck in front of us or hung over the side.
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