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

by Joseph Pignataro

  During this trip, Captain Thompson called all his heads of departments and the Executive Officer together for a staff meeting that would lay out the important next details of their mission. The XO, a salty and savvy officer of twenty-five years, was the bespectacled Vincent Graft. He was well-known for his hard-nosed adherence to military code and also trusted by all superiors to follow orders closely and in all situations to bring to fruition all such missions that required the most difficult of choices.

  As Thompson entered the Wardroom with Graft, the staff came quickly to their feet when the XO barked, "Attention on deck!"

  "As you were," he said distractedly as he put down a thin brief and a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey on the long table in front of him. Everyone seated themselves once more and organized the papers in front of them. Oddly, this meeting did not have the usual enlisted seaman from Operations and Tactics to take minutes of the meeting, a staple for all official gatherings of this nature.

  "As most of you are undoubtedly curious as to our exact mission, I want to make things crystal clear starting now," he began in a serious tone. He dunked the tea bag in his cup several times before removing it and mixing it with a spoon. The light metallic ringing of the utensil on glass sounded ominously noisome in the suffocating silence. These department heads had been agonizing over the past few hours regarding their mission and exactly how long they would be deployed. For all their guessing and surmising, no one could be quite sure that they weren't going to be halfway across the world in pursuit of some radical Muslim splinter group or in support of some worldwide manhunt of Osama Bin Laden. Many publicly denounced any proposed or offered "what-if" scenarios that in any way, shape, or form had this strike group falling ultimately under NATO or (worse yet) United Nations control.

  "First off, I want to personally apologize to all of you for the apparent from-the-hip conduct of this mission since oh-nine-hundred this morning," he said directly after a sip of his beverage. "As you can imagine, ladies and gentlemen, this whole day was a learning experience for us all, beginning with the elevation of our Threat Condition to Delta." There was a general murmur of agreement. "Frankly, I had to crack open the Military Regs just to read the specifics of Delta because I wasn't sure how to proceed." General light laughter filled the room as the department heads nodded. "Truth be told, I issued the depart order from Norfolk after consulting with the Captain of the Vella Gulf. Neither one of us could get the Admiral on the horn because of the circuit problems, so we made a command decision based on past security breaches and, well…here we are.

  "We are as of right now, attached to the first strike group to be deployed in support of the mission called "Operation Enduring Freedom." The primary stages of this mission include the immediate security of New York and Virginia waters. Obviously, we are headed to New York. Once there, we are to patrol the waters around Manhattan and the Long Island Sound, and support the air strike groups already established in the vicinity."

  Several of the department heads were scribbling notes, while others merely stared open-mouthed at their captain.

  "Once the primary stage has been completed…and that could take three days or three weeks…we are to get underway to the Red Sea by way of the Suez in support of the Roosevelt." Those seated who were furiously scribbling notes suddenly paused to look up at their commander. Without looking up from his folded hands, Graft spoke in a low voice.

  "Sir, we have only half our crew."

  Thompson sipped his tea and nodded.

  "I'm aware of that." Tapping a pen on his brief, he opened the cover and directed his next question across the table. "What are the expectations of manning the weapons systems effectively with our current crew numbers?"

  The officer shrugged.

  "It depends on the ratios, sir. If we have two-thirds utility crew and one-third specialists, then we can operate confidently with that. If it's less, then we're certainly a no-go. We'll need to staff up in New York or maybe in Greece or Spain before the trip south."

  Captain Thompson turned to his Executive Officer and tapped his pen again nervously.

  "Do we have an accurate number of the personnel on board yet?"

  "Yes, sir," answered Graft while consulting a paper in front of him. "One hundred and twenty-five enlisted and ten officers at three o'clock muster."

  Chatter ensued among the department heads. Thompson nodded as if he readily accepted their lame-duck status, but was secretly worried.

  "Do me a favor, Vince. I want a mock-up of the specialist staff we currently have on board versus the stations we need to man during a full-scale assault, best and worst case scenarios."

  "Right, sir."

  "Once we arrive with the Roosevelt, we're to conduct boardings of all non-compliant vessels in support of Enduring Freedom to uphold the oil embargo in and around the Gulf."

  The table erupted in conversation again as the seriousness of their mission just skipped a notch upward. Tilting his head back, Captain Thompson finished his tea. Standing, he addressed the group.

  "I gotta use the head," he announced. "Stay right where you are. We've got a lot to discuss."

  The mess deck was swarming with people as sailors from all departments were amassing here to commiserate with their shipmates, considering that most of them had been unsuccessful in establishing contact with their families.

  Joe was approaching a long table with a tray in hand. Dominic was sitting there with Sexton, Calen, and Mitchell Schmidt, a twenty-year-old, red-haired, freckled kid who was such a virgin in so many ways for the rest of them, it was hard to know where to begin the insults.

  As Joe got close to the table, he leaned near Schmidt's ear and said with a comical tone, "Just like momma used to make, huh, Schmidt?"

  The redhead looked up from his untouched meal.

  "You know what this shit is, then?"

  "Lasagna?" Joe guessed as he looked down at his plate. "Or maybe last month's scrod?"

  Calen looked up from his meal.

  "Did I just hear Beaver Cleaver say the word, 'shit'?" he quipped.

  Joe sat next to Dominic and grabbed a salt shaker.

  "Shut up, Wakefield!" Schmidt called down the table. "Nobody asked you."

  "Sounds like your prom, Mitch-ell," Calen replied, emphasizing the "ell" at the end of Schmidt's first name. Ever since Calen had stumbled across pronouncing his name this way, it had infuriated the redhead to no end. The funny part about this from the guys' points of view was that there didn't seem to be any reason for Schmidt's irritation at being called "Mitch-ell." That was probably what made it so funny.

  "You are so funny, Ca-len," Schmidt retorted, always going back at Calen with the same unfunny pronunciation of Wakefield's first name. Joe had told Schmidt on many occasions that he just shouldn't try to go toe-to-toe with anyone in the realm of witticisms, but Schmidt couldn't help himself. Every time someone (usually Calen) insulted him, Schmidt felt oddly compelled to respond. Joe had finally given up trying to save Schmidt's hide and decided it was more fun just to join in the pile-on.

  Sexton spit his food out as Schmidt fired back, but not because he thought it clever. Looking over at the armorer's assistant, Schmidt scowled.

  "Oh, my Gosh, you guys are such –"

  But Calen cut him off.

  "Stupid heads?" he finished Schmidt's insult. Sexton laughed and joined in the merriment.

  "Idiot farts?"

  Laughing continued as Schmidt pursed his lips in anger.

  "Dum-dum brains!" Dominic threw out casually, resulting in even more laughter.

  "You know what?" Schmidt yelled as he stood, tray in hand. "Screw you all!" He stomped off and sat down heavily at the next table, moving his cafeteria-style plastic chair so that his back was completely facing the group.

  "Oh, well, now you did it, fellas!" Calen said loudly so that Schmidt could hear him. "You went and pissed off Opie."

  In response, without missing a second of opportunity, Joe began whistling the theme son
g from the Andy Griffith Show. Immediately thereafter, the others joined in, and finally, nearly the entire mess deck was whistling along with them.

  Schmidt raised a middle finger without looking over his shoulder, sending them all into another crack-up. As the mess deck ended the song and cheered the results, the group decided to lay off the redhead for a bit.

  "Master Chief wants me to pick the last member of the boarding team for the Gulf," Dominic said off-handedly to Joe.

  "What boarding team?" Joe asked disinterestedly.

  "Operation Enduring Freedom," Dominic replied. "When we get over to the Gulf, we're gonna be boarding other ships in the area to make sure they're not hauling oil or weapons." He paused to regard his friend's face. "You want in?"

  "Can't," Joe said without looking up from salting his food.

  "Why not?" Dominic's face fell slightly. He had been betting that Joe would want in on the cushy detail.

  "Top Secret clearance, man," responded Joe as if this was obvious.

  "What the hell does that have to do with a boarding team?"

  Calen overheard the conversation and threw a comment into the air.

  "It means his wife would kill him."

  The others laughed, but Joe remained impassive.

  "Means I'm not expendable like you friggin' losers," Joe added with a smirk.

  "Oh, I'm expendable, asshole?" Dominic came back with both hands on his chest.

  "What can I say? I'm an important guy on the ship. You…" He paused and chuckled. "You're not."

  "This fuckin' guy," Dominic thumbed in Joe's direction as he laughed and shook his head. Calen cackled hysterically as Sexton spoke up.

  "I can do it, Seputa." Everyone quieted down. "Put me on the team."

  "Listen, Sexton, no offense, but I need someone who can cover our backs out there…" Dominic began. "Last thing I need is some kid being weaned off his ADD meds."

  Sexton looked disappointed as laughter rose at the table again.

  "A-D-H-D," Sexton corrected with a miserable face.

  "Attention Deficit in High Definition!" Calen joked loudly, sending the others howling in merriment.

  "Okay, Ca-len!" Sexton spat angrily, trying to use Schmidt's piss-poor pronunciation method.

  Dominic choked on his Pepsi as Joe put his fork down and bent over in fits of joviality. Calen, not to be outdone, went in for the kill.

  "Yo, Sexton, man, I heard the cruise book committee is looking for someone to take pictures!"

  More laughs echoed through the area when a sailor appeared at the door of the mess deck and shouted to everyone present.

  "Hey!" came the loud voice. "You gotta see this!"

  Everyone stood quickly and ran to the quarterdeck.

  As Joe reached the rail, a familiar site met him. They were approaching New York Harbor. On the left stood the Statue of Liberty, jutting out proudly from the mouth of the Hudson. On the right was Manhattan Island. And there, at the southern tip closest to them, eerie, disturbing, and unreal all at the same time, was a gargantuan plume of grey and black smoke rising from the exact place where two majestic towers had stood less than seven hours before. The rolling cloud that billowed away into infinity was, for Joe, the equivalent of watching the gentle and delicate souls of all the hapless victims ascending to an eternity of blissfulness never imagined in this life.

  "It's like the whole world's burning," Sexton muttered with a devastated visage. Joe continued to stare at the Statue, not wishing to ever look on the missing towers again. As his eyes rose to her face, he thought for a quick moment that he could see Lady Liberty crying.

  Captain Thompson sat alone in his Stateroom staring at a framed photograph of his only son, Michael, pictured there in his dress whites. This boy was lost to him in combat nearly a year ago, but the pain of the loss had not subsided.

  The phone began to ring, bringing the Captain out of his meandering thoughts. Walking into the office, he pushed the button on the phone for the speaker.

  "Captain Thompson," he answered professionally.

  "Cam, it's Daniel," came the voice of Admiral Daniel Johnson, Thompson's direct superior.

  "Dan, evening," Thompson answered as he sat down and picked up the receiver. "What's the word?"

  "You get underway okay?"

  "Everything considered," the Captain replied through a deep sigh. "We just hit New York Harbor five minutes ago."

  "Good, good," the Admiral responded. "Crew?"

  "Not many, Dan," he said, "I'll be honest. We are definitely below half-strength."

  "Below, huh?"

  "Ten officers," he continued.

  "Ten?" The Admiral's line became quiet. Then, "How're you holding up?"

  "A couple hours sleep and I'll be good as new."

  Johnson heaved a great sigh and blew air through pursed lips.

  "You ready for the news?"

  "Hit me," Thompson said dryly.

  "Okay, from the top down, they're all pretty much convinced that this is the first wave of a full-scale, multi-level attack. They haven't ruled out anything, Cam. It's safe to say that everything's on the table."

  "Christ," the Captain intoned miserably. "Nuclear?"

  "Everything's on the table, Cam," the Admiral repeated.

  Thompson exhaled and removed his ball cap.

  "There's been talk about this 'dirty bomb' stuff, too," the Admiral continued. "You know, these nutjobs scrounging together the remnants of other undetonated missiles and old warheads and, well, any other crap they can find, and packing it all into one explosive."

  "Where the hell do they come up with this stuff?" Thompson asked with disdain and disgust. A long pause ensued. "So, what do you need from me?"

  "Let me ask you a question. How many times have you been passed over for promotion?"

  Thompson's face screwed up in anger. Was this guy serious?

  "Sir?"

  "Don't give me that 'sir' shit, Cam," the Admiral chided. "I get a communication on my desk an hour ago telling me you're not prepared to support the Roosevelt." Thompson remained quiet. "Listen to me. The Roosevelt battle group is the only strike force deployable at the moment. Which means that the Leyte Gulf is the only Tomahawk platform deployable at the moment. Am I painting a good picture, Cam?"

  "I've got less than half my –"

  "Yeah, I got that, Captain!" the Admiral raised his voice by one decibel. "You think I was under some illusion that you were going to be a hundred percent staffed…knowing how this all went down." Silence met his ear. "Cam, I'm gonna be blunt. That one-billion-dollar piece of machinery you're stewarding right now could be deployed with a quarter of its intended crew and it would still be one of the deadliest and most destructive vessels on the planet. Most of your contemporaries would kill for this opportunity and, quite frankly, I've had offers from others to go in your stead."

  Thompson's ears pricked up slowly.

  "You're my friend for a long time. I get that you're concerned about all those kids under your command. I am, too." He paused for a moment. "But I'm not gonna let you pass on this one. That star has been long overdue. You owe this to yourself." He paused again and then went for broke. "And to Michael."

  With those last words, Thompson shut his eyes tightly and grimaced in pain.

  "Cam, you're a hell of an officer and you raised a hell of a kid. Michael was exceptional."

  "You kept his death from me for three weeks," Thompson said softly, tears brimming in his tightly closed eyes and his voice tightening.

  "Brandy asked me personally to wait until you came back home, Cam. Your wife had your best interests in mind. You know I would never have made that decision on my own."

  "Dan…"

  "Tragedy and adversity build stronger men in order to build a better world," Johnson cut him off quickly. "Michael was one of those men who was building a better world. And he was who he was because of you."

  Thompson stood and ran his fingers through his silver hair tiredly.

 
; "My crew needs to know what's coming," the Captain insisted.

  "It's a Top Secret priority assignment, Cam. They can know the destination, but the stated public address is that you're there for a show of force. Nothing more. It's imperative that we avoid leaks. The fewer that know, the better. Ben Franklin said it best, Cam. 'Three men can keep a secret…if two of them are dead.'"

  Thompson sighed again and retrieved his cap from the desktop.

  "We have a target?"

  "There's a Taliban base in Kabul, Afghanistan…the Benni Hissar Compound. It's pretty much been determined by the State Department that this Osama Bin Laden is the mastermind of the whole attack today and that the Taliban government is harboring him. This base is being used as Bin Laden's headquarters for the foreign legion and there're apparently a dozen or more camps around the country providing training in small arms, explosives, and logistics. The Benni Hissar Compound is believed to be holding weapons of mass destruction."

  "Strike package?"

  "By next week."

  An audible 'hmm' came to the Admiral's ears through the phone.

  "We're requesting that you deploy ahead of schedule by two weeks and be ready to launch when tasked."

  "So, this whole New York thing –"

  "Was necessary to secure the airspace and maintain the highest level of secrecy on your upcoming mission."