A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11.

by Joseph Pignataro

  He paused to listen to the silence on the other end. Even Eric looked up from his puzzle and leaned forward to touch the radio dials.

  "It's on," he commented dryly.

  "No shit," Tommy came back with sarcasm. Clicking the button again, he repeated, "This is Unit Three-Four-Echo-Sierra, radio check, over."

  They waited another moment and then, finally, a voice answered.

  "This is Base, Three-Four-Echo-Sierra," the male voice announced. It was one that they did not recognize. "Remain off the air until further instruction, over."

  Eric finally put down his pencil and clipboard and sat up straight.

  "Who the fuck was that?" he replied as Tommy watched his partner's reaction, thinking exactly the same thing.

  "This is Unit Three-Four-Echo-Sierra, say again, Base, over," Tommy answered with a professional tone and as if he had not understood the first message. Again, they waited only a moment before the voice abruptly broke through the silence.

  "Stay off the fuckin' air!"

  Tommy and Eric stared at each other in momentary shock. This guy just broke radio protocol and no one was reprimanding him.

  "'S'at asshole kiddin'?" Eric blurted suddenly, the "'hood" attitude entering his speech at that time.

  "Somethin's not right," Tommy replied with a slow shake of his head, as he raised the radio to his lips once more. "Base, this is Unit Three-Four-Echo-Sierra," he began hesitantly. "Need verification of current Code status, over." No answer. He repeated the message. After another tense minute, the silence was again broken.

  "Fuckin' Code Nine, Unit!" the voice was insistent, shrill, and (Tommy thought) scared. "Stay off the air!"

  Tommy slowly pulled the receiver away from his mouth, his eyes drilling into the radio's controls as he tried to figure out just what the hell was going on here.

  "Code Nine?" Tommy whispered. "I don't even know what that is." Turning to Eric, he continued. "What the hell's a Code Nine, Eric?"

  Eric's face was stony and confounded as he shook his head, staring out the window into the serene-looking New Haven Bay. Finally, his gaze switched toward Route 95 to their left where he noticed that the normally fast-moving traffic was at a dead stop. Tommy, still staring down at the radio, felt an urgent tapping on his elbow. Looking over toward his partner, he noticed Eric's gaze out the opposite window and followed it. The traffic had indeed stopped on one of the busiest highways in the U.S. What was disturbing, however, was seeing the mass exodus of people from their vehicles, frantically making calls from their cell phones or anxiously talking to each other while looking or pointing up into the bright blue skies.

  CHAPTER TWO

  An Enemy Among Us

  As Joe ran down the long corridor, he began to see other personnel scurrying through the passages, some confused, some casual, but most tense. He continued on a few decks until he emerged into a larger area near the outer levels of the Gulf. It was almost too apparent at that point that there was something "big" happening, for the entire ship was swathed in sailors running in the general direction of the helicopter hangar. It was something he was not familiar with, all this bustle for an announcement of some sort. Normally, the order was given and everyone would move in a pretty orderly and rather non-urgent manner to the designated location. This was usually the helo deck because it had plenty of room indoors for a mass formation. There was definitely a different vibe in the air today, despite the clear and peaceful-appearing skies.

  As he neared his destination, Joe spotted one of his drinking buddies, Calen Wakefield, a black, nineteen-year-old communications tech of some talent. He hailed from Detroit and constantly informed his shipmates that he was going to be the next Rob Parker, an NBA sportscaster with ESPN. When his friends invariably answered, "Who?", he would always claim that they were just jealous of his good looks and boyish charm. Once Calen saw Joe approaching him quickly, he reached over to pat him hard on the shoulder.

  "Joe, what's up, brother?" he greeted without his usual smile. "What's this shit all about?"

  "I think we've been hit, Calen," Joe answered with a serious stare ahead. Calen slowed his pace as other sailors jogged by the pair. Joe halted and turned toward Calen.

  "Whaddaya mean, 'hit'?" His face was frozen in a frightful gaze.

  "Hit, man!" Joe reiterated with more force. Patting him on the bicep, he nodded over his shoulder. "C'mon!" Turning, he began jogging again. Calen snapped out of his momentary thought bubble and caught up quickly.

  "As in, someone attacked us?" came Calen's shrill reply.

  "Yes, Calen," nodded Joe as he continued to move forward without meeting his buddy's worried face.

  "Where?" Calen became more insistent. "When?"

  "I was watching the news this morning, about ten minutes ago," Joe conceded, "and there was a fire or something at the World Trade Center. Looked like a plane hit it." He still ran as he finally looked over at his friend matching his pace. "I'm watching this shit, Calen, and another fucking plane flies right into the second tower, too."

  Calen's face dropped as his eyes widened.

  "Get the fuck—" Calen started, but cut himself off. Looking forward, he finally realized that this was real and it was serious. "Two planes hit both buildings?"

  "Yeah," Joe nodded sadly. "The fuckin' news people don't even know what's going on. It took them, like, five minutes to figure out that the second plane hit the tower. Seriously, Calen, I'm watching the first building smoking…and there's this big fuckin' hole in the building from the first plane, right…and then, right there as I'm watching, this big-ass airliner comes right across the sky and slams into the second tower!"

  "Holy shit," Calen muttered as he shook his head.

  The helo hangar was crowded, but not nearly as much as it could have been due to the lack of personnel aboard the ship. Still, the throngs were impressive enough. Joe and Calen moved through the crowds to their unit's designated formation spot on the hangar deck and joined their other squad members.

  Matthew Hahn, another young black sailor of twenty, was already in formation as the two approached. Hahn was the brainy guy who was always reading whenever he had a free chance. One morning, about a year before, Joe had challenged him to stop reading books, magazines, and newspapers for a full week. The bet was for a hundred dollars and Joe figured this was like shooting fish in a barrel. After a week, it appeared that he was wrong. No matter when they saw Hahn, no matter where he was, he wasn't caught reading. That is, until Calen finally snagged him red-handed in the mess hall, reading the labels on the ketchup, mustard and mayo packets. When Hahn protested, explaining that, technically, these weren't books, magazines, or newspapers, Joe finally had to back down and pay up. Regardless, it was still viewed by most in their circle of friends as a loss for Hahn because of his crazy obsession with the written word. At their arrival, the three exchanged fist-bumps and greetings.

  "What up, squids?" Hahn said with a wide smile. "Another fine Navy day!" Calen and Joe nodded, but failed to join in the joviality. Hahn noticed. "Yo, what's up, man?" he asked of Calen when he saw his drawn face.

  "Pigz said that some planes flew into the World Trade Center," Calen explained quietly, not sure if others on the ship were privy to the details. He figured they would find out soon enough.

  "In New York City?" Hahn asked. Normally, this would have served as an appetizer for the jests that would follow, but today, Joe and Calen merely nodded. Quietly, Hahn replied, "Lord God, Almighty."

  The hangar was abuzz with all sorts of conversations, ranging from what the mass formation was about to who was puking their guts out the night before at the club. Joe listened carefully, but noticed that talk of the World Trade Center event was naggingly absent. Doesn't anybody watch the news?

  Hahn leaned in close to the other two and spoke.

  "So, uh, what does all this mean?" The others peered at Hahn in a sluggish sort of way. "'Z'is mean we're goin' to war?" As he said the word, the other two cringed inside.

&nb
sp; "Fuck that," Joe answered emphatically. "There is no fuckin' way that I'm deploying with you fuckin' lifers."

  "Lifers?" Calen bellowed. "You must be crazy! I ain't no lifer, you pansy-ass, wine-drinkin' mutha-fucka!"

  Hahn and Joe began laughing as the latter geared up for a comeback.

  "What the fuck options do you really have in life, Wakefield?"

  "I got options, pig-fucker," Calen went back at his friend.

  "Like what?" Hahn asked with a guffaw. "Smokin' weed is not a career."

  "Like hell it ain't!" answered Calen as he began bee-bopping and pretending to smoke a roach. "I'll be doing my play-by-play in the first half of the day, reclining in my big chair down at courtside with my man, Spike, and then be chillin' with my harem in my penthouse pub, smokin' a big fat one, and toastin' you sad-ass mutha-fuckas on some bathtub Tomahawk exercise in the middle of the Mediterranean!"

  They were all laughing, but Joe began to become worried. As he watched the events in New York City unfold only about thirty minutes ago, the thought never even occurred to him that he would be trapped on this ship, deployed because of some stupid war. If there was anything he feared more than deployment right now, it was deployment without even saying goodbye to Toni and Liam. He had heard from other, older sailors about how they would get the word that they were called up and they had to drop everything, write up a Last Will and Testament, get it notarized, and then pack and rally for deployment within forty-eight hours.

  This was different, though. War had not been declared by the United States. We had been attacked…on our home soil. Joe was sure that the guys who were stationed at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, were not able to go and say a quick farewell to their families. Why would this Navy give him such a privilege?

  "They better not lock down this fuckin' ship," Joe murmured, mostly to himself.

  The other two ceased their laughing and turned to their friend.

  "Who said anything about 'lock down'?" Calen spoke with revulsion at the mere hint of the term.

  "You think they're gonna lock down the base, Pigz?" Hahn's voice became suddenly serious.

  "I don't know," he answered, "but I sure as hell am not gonna go on deployment with a newborn son at home."

  "You mean, your wife is not gonna let you go on deployment with a newborn at home," came a familiar voice from behind them. It was Dominic. They all laughed as he greeted them.

  "You got that right," Joe agreed with a smile as he shook Dom's hand. "Toni'll tear this shit up if they take me away."

  Calen took a hard look at Dominic and then tapped Hahn and Joe on the arm.

  "This wrinkly-ass mutha-fucka just crawl out of a dryer?" Calen cackled with laughter as he bent over and slapped his knee.

  "If I just crawled out of a dryer, you dumb-ass, why would my clothes be wrinkled?"

  Joe high-fived Dominic as Hahn pretended to keep score.

  "By my tally, it's Seputa, twenty-two, Wakefield, eighteen."

  Calen seemed put out.

  "Eighteen! You must be outa your mind!"

  "Attention on deck!" came a sudden, booming voice that brought all the visceral emotion of a fresh cadet back to the forefront. The sailors all snapped to attention and faced forward as they saw the tall, older black sailor in his pressed and perfect uniform. This was Master Chief Macleod, one of the senior staff of the Gulf who sported a perpetual hardened visage and a small streak of dark hair on an otherwise silver pate. Not much was known about this man, as far as his personal life was concerned. What the general populace on this ship did know, was that he had lost his wife of thirty years to cancer and seemed to be uniquely capable of coping with this tragedy by meting out the most severe punishments and extra duties to any squid who was unfortunate enough to be standing closest to him at that particular moment.

  Behind him, and entering the area as if he was a rock star being introduced by his stage manager, was Captain Martin "Don't-Forget-The-Tea" Thompson. The sailors typically called him that behind his back because there was a rumor going around for a while that he never traveled anywhere without a large supply of Earl Grey in his baggage. Joe had actually confirmed the fact one night when he had gotten the personal assistant to Captain Thompson drunk on Maker's Mark Bourbon. The assistant was obliged to reveal that the Captain drank about one cup per hour and was noted for saying, "Don't forget the tea," whenever he left the ship. He was also in the head about once every twenty minutes. Joe had always imagined that the staff meetings were short and to-the-point. He got a rush out of imagining the Captain doing the toddler "pee-pee dance" while the Weapons Officer was giving his daily briefing.

  Captain Thompson had his hands clasped behind his back as he walked forward slowly and deliberately; Most likely a skill perfected in Captain's Stances 101 at the academy, thought Joe as a small curl bent his lip.

  "This morning, at eight-forty-six, Eastern Time, American Airlines Flight Eleven, crashed into the World Trade Center's North Tower," the Captain intoned morbidly and without emotion. The silent crowd of sailors momentarily lost their military bearing and murmured in whispers and low voices. The Captain continued, "It has been assumed that everyone on board the seven-sixty-seven was killed on impact." As the murmuring increased in volume, Master Chief Macleod stepped forward.

  "At ease, people!" His statement brought quick and absolute order to the crowd, but they were not prepared for the Captain's response at all.

  "Mac, it's all right," the Captain's voice suddenly said in a low, almost fatherly tone. The surprised sailors looked upon Captain Thompson's face in a new light. Joe could see that his countenance was tired and worried. "About ten minutes ago, at nine-oh-three, United Airlines Flight One-Seventy-Five, hit the South Tower."

  This was too much for the crowd as protocol was forgotten and sailors began shouting out questions, expletives, and exclamations in no one's particular direction. Joe noticed that many of the sailors who hailed originally from the New York Metropolitan area were dumbstruck or angry. Some began to well up in tears.

  "Listen up, please, everyone…" the Captain's voice broke over the sounds of the crowd. He held up both hands for emphasis. "Listen up!" The formation quieted down and he placed both hands back behind him again. "Five minutes ago, we were informed that the FAA has banned all nationwide takeoffs going to or through New York airspace. The United States government is viewing these events as a deliberate act of terrorism, ladies and gentlemen." Again, the crowd erupted in questions. The Captain turned to Master Chief Macleod and said something to him. Macleod began nodding and then walked off quickly.

  "All right, people!" Thompson's voice rang out over the crowd again. "In order for me to continue, you have to settle down!" When everyone had ceased talking and faced forward again, the Captain went on with his announcement. "I was going to talk to you through the PA system, but thought it would be better to face you and speak to you frankly."

  Uh oh, Joe thought with sudden dread, here it comes.

  "There has been no announcement by the President yet, but we are assuming that this will happen within the hour. This situation has warranted a military presence in the New York City area and we have been tasked with providing airspace security, along with the Air Force, for the skies surrounding Manhattan and Long Island." The Captain paused and paced to his left as he searched for his words. "That means that we will be gathering a few supplies from the base and then heading out of port to New York Harbor."

  New eruptions of questions suddenly rose into the air as Master Chief Macleod returned to the Captain's side.

  "Listen up!" Macleod barked. "Let the Captain finish!"

  "Are we at war?" the question rang out clear and high above all the fray. Suddenly, the entire hangar became quiet as all eyes turned toward Hahn. The Captain and the Master Chief gazed toward him as well.

  "We don't know yet," the Captain's voice was small and unsure. Murmuring began anew, but quickly, turned to silence once again.

  "I'm going to give
all of you the opportunity to contact your families before we leave port, but understand," Thompson was emphatic now, "…understand that this act of terrorism has now put all military personnel on notice. We have been elevated to Threatcon Delta."

  Threatcon Delta. This was a condition that had never been implemented while Joe had been active in the Navy. He wasn't even sure what it entailed, but he was completely confident that it meant that he was not going home anytime soon. Wakefield began to voice his opinion, but Joe shushed him.

  "Threat Condition Delta dictates that we prepare to get under way immediately, cancel port and depart," Thompson instructed. Without waiting for another round of questions, he continued. "Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir!" the assembled masses said in tandem. The Captain leaned over and said something to Macleod as everyone attempted to hear his words. Macleod snapped to attention and barked.

  "Crew, attention!" All snapped to the position of attention.

  "Stay sharp, people," Captain Thompson said just before departing the hangar bay area. When he had disappeared, Master Chief Macleod shouted again.

  "At ease!" The entire assembly relaxed and continued to stare at the Master Chief with nothing but questions in their eyes. For most of them, this whole situation seemed almost surreal, and they were genuinely scared. "Now, listen up! We've got only a small window here and we need to make sure that we're doing things by the book. As of now, all leave is terminated and all personnel are to be recalled. That means that I want all work center supervisors getting on the horn with your missing personnel and have them report back to the ship ASAP. Got that?"

  The supervisors all answered in the affirmative.

  "I don't care if they're attending a funeral for their grandmother," he continued gruffly, "they need to get their asses here in record time." He paused for the sailors to digest the significance of this situation. "Second, I want a small contingent of sailors armed as a topside SDF as soon as you're dismissed. Chief B.," he turned to face Burkowski, who looked up in surprise, "you're in charge of that detail." Chief B. nodded and Macleod then turned his gaze back on the crowd. "Third, I want all E-six and below on the quarterdeck for work details." He paused as everyone was still confused as to what exactly was happening. "Crew, attention!" The entire group came to attention, a terrible feeling of dread slowly crawling over them. "I want these orders carried out quickly and neatly. This is not a drill, people, this is the real deal. SDF parties topside…your heads better damn well be on swivels. You see any birds not squawkin', you'd better not hesitate to shoot them down. We have no idea where they might be coming from, so eyes open! Understood?" The garrison answered loudly.