Front Burner

by Kirk S. Lippold

  “Kirk, Commodore Hanna here. I contacted Tarawa. I don’t know what their problem is but I’m sorry; no more food will be coming out to you until dinner. I know that’s a lot to ask of your crew but can you hang on until then?”

  Not that we had a choice. I tried to be as upbeat as possible, “No problem, sir. We can wait ’til dinner. The crew’s hungry but we’ll get the word out and just deal with it. Thank you for your help, sir.”

  “I’ll be coming out to the ship with Admiral Fitzgerald. He just wants to get out to the ship and see how you and the crew are doing.”

  “Sounds good, sir. We’ll be standing by for your arrival.”

  He again expressed his own frustration with how the support logistics were unraveling but was just as adamant that everything would be solved, and in short order. Like me, when I shared this news with Chris, he expressed the same resigned frustration. Given everything else we had been through, more pressing issues overshadowed this inconvenience. It was an unusually hot day, but it was also the day that we expected the last of our crew to be recovered from inside the ship by the FBI team.

  Admiral Fitzgerald had visited almost every day since Sunday. Since he was responsible as the Determined Response commander for our overall safety and welfare, as well as the coordination of all the U.S. government elements that had flown into Yemen in response to the attack, it was important for him to keep tabs on how we were doing. John had already briefed him back at the Aden Mövenpick Hotel on the psychiatric team’s assessment of the crew’s mental state, but there was nothing like actually spending more time with the sailors to get a true sense of their feelings and morale.

  This time the admiral would be bringing some high-ranking dignitaries: FBI Director Louis Freeh and Ambassador Bodine, as well as Captain Hanna and about twenty other people. Around 1300, the launch from Tarawa pulled up to the back of the refueling pier as the ambassador and Director Freeh, followed by a gaggle of officers and civilians lead by Admiral Fitzgerald, clambered out of the boat and headed toward the brow. Still without fanfare, they were welcomed aboard with only a perfunctory greeting and introductions to the leadership of the ship before we started out on the standard tour route.

  As we walked by the amidships area and up to the forecastle, Director Freeh greeted the divers still working down in the destroyed engine room, as well as the FBI and NCIS agents involved with remains recovery and evidence collection—in fact, a forensic analysis of a recovered sailor was in progress. Director Freeh and I slipped behind the draped off area for a few minutes to speak with Don Sachtleben and the other agents and get a quick briefing on their work. Once we were back out from behind the curtained area, everyone walked up to the forecastle where the director specifically commented on how many sailors were busy helping out the FBI/NCIS evidence collection groups.

  Clearly, Director Freeh was pleased that the crew was so well integrated with the FBI’s work and apparently happy to be contributing to their efforts. Like everyone else at first exposure to the site of the explosion, he was taken aback by the utter devastation. As we paused at each major area, the specific acts of heroism and hard work that had followed the attack were explained in detail. In the mess decks, the cuts in the forward bulkhead behind the drink line were stark reminders of how hard we were working to locate and retrieve the remaining dead sailors.

  After about an hour walking around, I asked Director Freeh if he would be willing to address the assembled crew. It would mean a lot to them to hear from the director himself that the FBI was going to find the terrorists responsible for the attack and hold them accountable. He understood the importance of the moment and within minutes, the crew was assembled on the flight deck with a temporary sound system set up with a microphone. His speech was short and to the point. He thanked the crew for their valiant effort to save the ship and their continuing work with his agents and those from NCIS. He emphasized that they would find those responsible for this heinous act and bring them to justice.

  Until that moment, we had not heard that assurance from any American official, yet it was probably the thing most important for us to hear. An American ship of war had been attacked in an act of war, and we needed to know that the blow would not go unanswered.

  After the director and the ambassador returned to the task force headquarters in the Aden Mövenpick Hotel, Admiral Fitzgerald remained aboard for another hour or so to walk around by himself and chat with the crew. Perfect. Petty Officer Crowe was designated as his escort and Chris and I turned our attention back to the routine of managing and running the ship.

  The crew of USS Cole in formation and manning the rail for a group photo the day before deployment to the Middle East and our rendezvous with destiny. Photo courtesy of PHCM Charles Pedrick, USN (Ret).

  USS Cole crossing the Atlantic en route to Mediterranean port visits at the beginning of deployment.

  USS Cole two days after being attacked. A ship’s life raft blown out of its fiberglass container is hung up on an antenna above the bridge.

  USS Cole moored at the refueling pier in Aden several days after the attack. Mooring buoys are visible just off the bow and stern of the ship.

  For several days after the attack the crew had to sleep outside under the stars since there was no power to berthing compartments in the forward part of the ship.

  The view standing along the mess line near what was the galley entrance. Sunlight is shining through the hole in the side of the ship and everything within twenty feet of it is blown inside.

  Damaged watertight door, left, to main engine room 1 making entrance impossible. The destroyed general workshop is in the background.

  Command Master Chief’s office with the picture of his daughter on the wall. Debris and food trays were tossed into the space during rescue efforts in the galley.

  Starboard propeller shaft as it enters main engine room 2. Wooden wedges and oakum slowed the floodwaters coming in around the shattered shaft seal.

  Wooden ladder made by Norfolk Naval Shipyard workers and used by MDSU-2 divers to enter upper level of main engine room 1 for the recovery efforts to find missing sailors below the waterline.

  The U.S. flag that flew at full mast over the ship, lighted at night, until every sailor killed in the attack was recovered. This Battle Ensign was lowered and replaced only after the memorial ceremony to honor our seventeen fallen shipmates.

  The United States Navy Ceremonial Guard honors fallen members from USS Cole at Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, after their arrival on October 14, 2000.

  USS Cole resting on docking blocks on M/V Blue Marlin.

  The 40-by-40-foot hole in the port side of USS Cole. Personnel on the deck of M/V Blue Marlin give perspective to the size of the hole and force of the explosion.

  USS Cole at the refueling pier, as viewed from the al Qaeda safe house where covert observation and planning for a small boat attack on a U.S. warship took place.

  USS Cole Memorial to honor the seventeen sailors killed in the al Qaeda terrorist attack and the valiant crew who never gave up and saved their ship from sinking.

  A short time later, the admiral came up to speak with me. We briefly discussed a number of issues that had arisen and been dealt with over the past six days. He told me he was pleased with not only the progress of everything on the ship and the level of cooperation and support given to the crew but also the attitude of the crew in wanting to help the FBI and NCIS agents, and the divers. He then broached a sensitive subject.

  He told me the crew was “tender” right now and that I needed to take their emotional state into account when making critical decisions affecting them. Coming from an admiral, this was unexpected enough; then he told me he was not sure they could “take another hit.” I held my emotions in check, but this was hard for me to swallow. My answer was very frank. The crew did not have a choice, I said; they had to be ready to take another hit. We were battle-hardened professionals and the crew needed to act like professionals. This was serious busines
s. We had been attacked and from my vantage point, we were still in combat.

  Even as we were speaking to each other, I learned later, intelligence analysts determined that the terrorist threat had increased to a point that the task force was starting to shift all personnel out of the Mövenpick and out to Tarawa for security reasons. While I heard and understood what Admiral Fitzgerald was telling me, inside, my feeling was: “Tender?” What did that mean? This wasn’t the time for a feel-good game of patty-cake. If another attack came, I had absolute confidence in the crew. Yet here was this admiral questioning our ability to survive another hit. While not outwardly disrespectful, in my mind I was thinking, “Thank you for your advice and concern, Admiral, but please go away and give us the support we need to let us continue to get this ship ready to leave port.”

  As he prepared to leave with his entourage, Captain Hanna came up to me to thank me for having everyone on board. It was only then that I shared with him the morale-busting problem of the thefts by Tarawa sailors. I truly felt sorry for him as I saw the expression of shock and frustration on his face. Evidently, there had been a number of other issues that we were not privy to regarding the support and behavior of the recently arrived amphibious ready group. He promised to look into this issue and, like the noon meal problem, fix it.

  As he was about to turn away and join up with Admiral Fitzgerald, Captain Hanna said, “Admiral Moore is going to come down tomorrow and would like to visit the ship again. Is there anything you need from him?”

  This was a golden opportunity. I could ask for anything. Given how well the crew had been holding up in the heat and humidity and the stress of recovering our dead shipmates from wreckage, the satisfaction of seeing the crew embrace the psychiatric support team’s mission, and who knows what else, maybe just plain hunger after subsisting on a lunch of tuna fish and crackers, I knew exactly what to request. With the impending recovery of the last of our shipmates, I told him, “Captain, I think it would be a nice treat if the crew could have some ice cream.”

  Looking at me as if I must be out of my mind, he just smiled and replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Maybe the stress was getting the better of me. Over the past several days, the Fifth Fleet chaplains and some of the psychiatric team members had given the crew the impression that they were going to be evacuated from the ship and sent home in just a few days. Whispers and rumors filled the passageways as wisps and tidbits of unfiltered information also trickled out from the support ship sailors. It seemed to the crew that everyone knew what was going to happen next—everyone except the captain.

  This background chatter made me feel as if my crew and command were slipping away from me. My judgment and decisions were being second-guessed. Some of the task force staff were questioning how the crew was being managed in support of the FBI/NCIS investigation and evidence collection efforts; the psychiatric team leader briefed the task force commander on the crew’s status without giving me any direct input into his comments; and now, the chaplains and other sailors were telling the crew they were going home as soon as a replacement crew from Norfolk, Virginia, could be organized to relieve them. There is nothing more important than unity of command. I had a growing sense that the crew I commanded through a horrific terrorist attack was being pulled away from me from several directions without consultation or forethought about the repercussions.

  These feelings now led to the most significant meltdown of my career.

  Two of my officers sheepishly approached me midafternoon with some disturbing information. Command Master Chief Parlier had privately met with the chief petty officers. They had urged him to approach me about letting the crew go home as soon as possible. As a group, many of them had talked themselves into believing the ship was unsafe, and that they needed to get out of there. During that discussion, my officers said, the Master Chief changed his view from support for me to support for them. He, too, also began to question the structural integrity of the ship. The chiefs had also expressed their fears about the known and growing threat of another attack. To add fuel to the fire, the Master Chief had allegedly questioned my judgment in understanding the risk of a follow-on attack and ability of the crew to respond effectively.

  To my mind, this confirmed the unsubstantiated rumors I had heard. One of the three key leaders on Cole could no longer be trusted to back Chris and me in our decisions about our future. The ship and crew could not afford this. Decisive action must be taken. Pacing back and forth near the inflatable boats, I summoned Master Chief Parlier.

  “Master Chief, I understand you have been going around the ship questioning my authority,” I confronted him. “I heard you don’t think the ship is safe and that the crew can’t handle another attack. How dare you undermine me in front of the crew? Why didn’t you come talk to me? Why didn’t you come tell me about this before?” I loudly and heatedly demanded.

  The look on his face was one of complete disbelief. He just stood there with his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. After a few seconds of tense silence between us, he spoke softly. “Captain, I never said any of those things. I know the crew is still nervous about the ship but I would never say any of those things about you.”

  I didn’t believe him. The stress of the attack and body identifications, lack of sleep, the possibility of a follow-on attack, and growing paranoia that I might be relieved of command at any moment all converged viciously in fury aimed right at the man standing before me.

  “Master Chief, if I ever hear of you undermining my authority on this ship again, I will relieve you of your duties and send you home on the next plane out of here. Do I make myself clear?” I tightly said to him, leaning menacingly forward into him.

  In a voice cracking with emotion, his eyes pleading for me to understand and have faith in what he had told me, he just said, “Yes, sir. I understand, but, Captain, I didn’t do it.”

  I felt as if I were in a vise. My breaths were coming short and shallow. My temples thumped with the rhythm of a runaway heart. I wheeled about and stormed toward the quarterdeck and my makeshift office. Rather than going back to work, I grabbed my flashlight and announced to no one in particular that if anyone needed me I would be walking around the ship. I needed to cool down and try to make sense of what just happened. I didn’t need to worry about surrendering my command to anyone; I was doing a fine job of losing it all by myself.

  The walk around the ship was intense and hurried. The overload of adrenaline slowly dissipated, but only after an hour of struggling to burn it off. Eventually, my dark and overheated cabin in the forward superstructure became my refuge. Long since abandoned and left undisturbed for the most part since the explosion, it seemed like a faded memory that now haunted me. Sitting in a chair with the back to the desk, I surveyed my dark, unpowered, and unlit surroundings.

  The flashlight pointed straight up at the overhead and cast a faint light about the dark room. Odd shadows with soft edges highlighted some features while others disappeared into the inky darkness. The round table once centered in the room and toppled over by the flexing of an exploding ship stood upright and shoved to one side. A slight dusty haze slowly floated in the air. As my head sunk down into my chest, the large coffee stain on the dark blue carpet stared back at me as if to say I had created a blot that now soiled the ship, my command.

  This issue could not fester. My reaction, without absolute concrete proof, was not that of a leader. The crew deserved better and certainly, the Command Master Chief deserved better. Slowly, with a tired sense of failed resignation, I pulled myself up to go find Chris and talk with him about it. Composed but unsure what to do next with the Master Chief, I walked down the ladder and back out into the brilliant heat of the day. The sun burned my eyes. Hopping back up onto the fender, Chris was already clearly aware of what had passed between Master Chief Parlier and me. He cut straight to the point: he did not know of any instance nor had he heard any circumstances where the Master Chief had purposely challenged my authori
ty. His meeting with the chiefs had not gone as well as it could have, and while he may have said some things that were best left in private, he was still loyal to the ship and us. Still on edge and slightly defensive, I just listened intently. He told me that Master Chief Parlier was devastated by the accusation and even more by the threat of being fired.

  Not more than a few minutes later, the cell phone in my pocket rang persistently for attention. It was Master Chief Greg Pratt, the Fifth Fleet Commander Master Chief, who told me that he and Master Chief Parlier had just spoken about the incident. True, the discussion with the chiefs may not have gone as planned, but Master Chief Pratt was adamant that Master Chief Parlier was absolutely supportive of what I wanted to do with the ship and crew. That gave me a lot to think about. Perhaps I had been wrong. This incident with the Master Chief had to be addressed but I wasn’t ready to face it again—at least not yet.

  Near the end of the day, everyone—the crew, the FBI/NCIS team, the divers, and other support groups—was mentally spent. As the day wrapped up, the grumbling in our stomachs returned with a vengeance as everyone looked forward to an overdue hot meal. By 1830, though, nothing had arrived for dinner. A few minutes later we heard over the radio on the missile deck the announcement of a boat puttering into the harbor from Tarawa. With the bridge security team notified of its approach to the pier, it slowly swung in a gentle and unhurried arc to a stop at the landing area. The crew again hopped out and unloaded a stack of several large boxes onto the pier. Just as quickly, they motioned that the boxes needed to be brought on board. Quickly they were stacked on the flight deck as the boat crew cast off their lines and headed back out into the harbor on a return trip to Tarawa.