"C'mon, you idiots," Dominic complained. "He's probably got nothing left in his stomach as it is."
"Oh, man, Pigz," Calen ignored the last comment and continued. "I got this wicked, cheesy, smelly-ass toe jam between my toes and last night, I'm biting my toe nails and the taste – ughh!"
Sexton suddenly stood up and rushed off toward the head. Calen and Joe burst out in hilarity.
"Congratulations," Dominic muttered. "You managed to make Opie puke up his one remaining kidney."
"This is the Captain," came a sudden announcement over the speakers. The sailors in the mess deck all shut their mouths and listened intently. "All hands topside, to the skin of the ship."
A pause occurred as the room remained quiet. Sexton entered the mess deck, looking more wretched than before he left.
"We're about to begin transit through the Suez Canal. Our mission is simple. We're to be the vanguard ship through the Canal, followed by the Roosevelt and then the Ramage. The Taliban knows that we're on our way and they will not be rolling out the welcoming carpet, mark my words. However, they are keenly aware of our maneuvering capabilities while in the Canal and will try to take advantage of that during our passage. If we are incapacitated and the Ramage is equally crippled, the Roosevelt will be trapped in the middle, defenseless, with no way out."
Joe looked over at Calen and Dominic who appeared to be worried.
"We are not going to let that happen," the Captain continued. "The Taliban government is responsible for the harboring of Osama Bin Laden and refuses to hand him over to the authorities and now they defy world pressure to cooperate. They feel invulnerable and will do everything they can to stall us in this mission. If the Taliban are so colossally stupid as to fire upon this or any other vessel in Uncle Sam's fleet, or even any of our allies, we will swiftly and decisively return fire. "Hoo-rah!" Joe and others in the mess deck shouted with broad grins spreading over their faces.
"Let's move, people!" came the Captain's rally before he shut off the speaker button.
Calen slapped Dominic on the shoulder and whooped it up.
"You ready, Seputa?" he shouted to the armorer.
"I hate you," Dominic whispered as he elicited laughs from his cohorts.
Joe wolfed down the rest of his meal as the rest of the mess deck began to clear their tables and rush out toward the exits. Dominic stood slowly and Calen bumped fists with Joe as he dashed away from the table.
"Stay sharp, boys!" he called to them as he hoofed it toward the departing crowd.
"You gonna be okay?" Joe asked Dominic as he swept up his tray and used napkins.
"I'll be fine," Dominic answered, "soon as this coffee kicks in."
"Good man," Joe replied. "See ya' topside."
Dominic nodded as he gulped down the rest of his coffee and shook his head quickly.
"God awful coffee," he said to himself as he found his way out.
Captain Thompson stood before all of his senior staff and was contemplating his next words as he listened to the celebrating crew members over the speaker.
"Sounds like we've got an enthusiastic bunch out there," he said to them with a curl of his lip. The staff laughed lightly and appreciatively. While they normally enjoyed these gatherings, this was especially important, considering that many of them had never been in a situation like this before and it was somewhat comforting to know that the Captain was going to bestow upon them words of wisdom that would help guide them and make their decision-making abilities a bit more confident.
Turning to face the wall for a moment to help gather his thoughts, he tucked his hands behind him in the familiar fashion and finally spun again to address them.
"The tip of the spear," he began in a low voice. "We can either be sitting upon it…or we can be it. Since we are the vanguard ship, I expect that we will all go out there and be the tip of the spear. We can't afford any mistakes while we travel through the Canal. How many of you have been through here before?" Scattered hands are raised, but not many. The Captain's mouth stretches into a thin line as he nods grimly. "The Canal is hellishly narrow. At points, these Arabs could play ping pong across the damned thing." Some laugh while most remain quiet. "I don't mean to make light of this, ladies and gentlemen. It's just that I feel that we are foolish to underestimate the capabilities of these enemies. Look what they were able to do back home."
The staff looks around with profound understanding of the Captain's words.
"Make no mistake," he began again. "These people mean to do us harm. A show of force may deter some of the weaker ones. But they are going to use this opportunity to test us…to find out just how far we're willing to go to protect our own. I hope that I'm wrong. I hope that we will travel through this waterway without so much as a curse word in Arabic being hurled in our direction. I hope that our heightened alert status will frighten off these radical hero-wannabees. My only fear is that we overreact in a situation that doesn't warrant lethal force."
He began to pace around the table and his shoes clapped the carpeted deck with muffled thuds. The senior staff sat quietly as their eyes followed him faithfully.
"Ideally, I would like to see us pass through this Canal without incident, but if we must react to hostile activity, then so be it. But, please be sure to rein in any knee-jerk retaliation. If these yahoos out there come at us with rocket launchers or some other anti-aircraft weapon, then by all means, respond. But if they start up firing off A-K Forty-sevens, let's not go crazy. These people may hate us, but they are not well-supplied. Their logistics are Mickey Mouse, at best. We are talking about soldiers who turned themselves in to CNN crews during the Gulf War, for Christ's sake."
More laughing rises from the table.
"I need you to be vigilant and resourceful. But I also need you to make the split-second decisions that will be required if we take on fire. No mishaps! Please."
The officers around the table nodded and appeared serious again.
"Weps?"
The weapons officer, a young lieutenant named Crosby with freckles and a fledgling moustache, looked up and answered.
"Sir."
"I want the ship's self-defense force ready in one hour and instructed not to open fire unless hostile intent is evident. In other words, while I would like to avoid any embarrassing mistakes by micromanaging the situation, I want our boys to have the freedom to make the decision to fire if they deem it necessary. Let's not bog them down with a bunch of orders that make them too afraid to respond. Form them up, explain the situation to them as I just explained it to you, and then let them know that they will not be awaiting orders to fire if necessary. This situation is going to be dangerous. And most of these kids, I'm betting, have never fired upon another man in their lives. They're going to be petrified. That said, we need to allow instinct to rule our senses here. Trust in your men. They'll make the right decisions. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Crosby answered softly.
"I want all non-essential personnel topside at all times. A show of force needs to be impressive. We can't have an empty deck while we're gliding through Egypt. We don't want them to catch on that we're severely under-manned. Get it?"
"Aye-aye, sir," the others answered in unison.
"If they want a fight," the Captain said in a near whisper, "they'll get one. The department heads nodded in agreement as they stared at the hardened face of their captain.
"Let's get to work, people."
The table cleared quickly as they went directly to their duty stations. The young weapons officer paused as everyone departed and looked at the captain.
"Sir?"
"What is it, Luke?"
"I have not…not had the, uh, the opportunity to…" he stammered nervously.
The captain reached out a steadying hand and gripped the man's shoulder.
"You've never had to do this before," Captain Thompson finished his statement. The lieutenant nodded slowly after a deep sigh.
"Sorry, sir," he went on. "Just nerve
s."
"That's fine, lieutenant. I'd be worried if you weren't nervous."
The weapons officer smiled and nodded.
"I guess that'd be bad, huh?"
"I remember back in Grenada, there was this young officer…Pickman," the captain elaborated with a distant gaze and a smile. "Crazy son-of-a-bitch." Crosby laughed. "This insane little man runs down the gangway with a twenty-two in one hand and a Japanese Samurai sword in the other, screaming something in Spanish about the Conquistadors!" Crosby laughs even louder as Captain Thompson imitates his running stance. "This is the guy who wasn't ever fearful of what could possibly go wrong. He was given orders and gladly – happily – accepted them and went on a rant if he couldn't get to the area of combat fast enough." He paused in his tale to straighten his uniform and regard his young weapons officer. "I don't need a Pickman right now, lieutenant. I need someone with a level head and a steady voice. Know what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir," Crosby answered as he stood a bit straighter and sounded more confident. "We'll be ready."
"Good job," responded the captain with a proud glint in his eye. "Get to work, lieutenant."
The weapons officer scurried away as the captain waited for the door to close. Then, he turned and gazed intently at the map on the wall of the Suez Canal, squinting and taking in a deep and self-reassuring breath.
"At least one of us is ready," he murmured to himself.
On the third of October, 2001, at 0600 hours, the USS Leyte Gulf, at the head of the Roosevelt carrier battle group, slid slowly and quietly into the northern terminus of Port Said and into the lighter waters of the canal.
Built in the late 1800s, construction of the Suez Canal had suffered many prior terminations of plan when various engineers who erroneously deemed the project too dangerous because of perceived deviances in the sea level versus the land, scrapped the project. Regardless, the canal was too important a waterway for complete abandonment, as many considered it the most significant shipping link between the Mediterranean and the Red Seas. Even as far back as the time of the Pharaohs, visionaries were attempting to join various bodies of water through elaborate canal systems, the evidence of which can still be viewed today through aerial photography.
The canal was just over 120 miles long and nearly 80 feet deep. From bank to bank, a width of over 600 feet could be measured. When the ship exited the canal, they would be leaving via Port Tawfik at the city of Suez and entering the Gulf of Suez, eventually spilling out into the Red Sea. This route southward would lead them past Yemen and eventually around to the east and into the Persian Gulf.
Joe and Calen were dressed in combat camouflage, helmets, and flak jackets, manning the 25 mm. machine gun. All along the rails stood sailors with M16s, held at the ready position. Above, at various posts were other sailors with weapons poised. Joe could also see Senior Chief Simms high above near the 50 cal. station. Its operator, Ted Wilson, was a twenty-one-year-old yahoo from southern Ohio; ill-tempered and seriously paranoid about his stunted social standing. Calen once remarked that if it wasn't for World of Warcraft and Facebook, Wilson would spend his life alone with only his Hustler magazines to keep him warm on cold nights.
Calen stared out at the blazing hot sands on the upper banks of the canal and marveled how people ever managed to survive in this environment. Bedouin tents could be seen here and there, as camels stood quietly still, conserving their energy and keeping body temperatures in the passive range.
Joe watched Calen as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel. Calen caught Joe's gaze.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he said toward his friend. "You one of those androids or something?"
"What the hell're you –" began Joe in response as Calen cut him off and pointed at him.
"You ain't sweating," he observed with noticeable irritation. "You are drinking, right? You're supposed to be –"
"Of course, I'm drinkin', you panty-waste!" Joe countered.
"At ease down there," Simms yelled over the railing from above, eliciting looks from many of the other sailors on board who were within earshot. Calen and Joe silenced themselves. A few moments later, Calen spoke in a subdued tone.
"That movie Bladerunner had these androids that didn't sweat."
Joe shook his head and attempted to ignore him, trying to concentrate on the endless dunes as they slid by his vision.
"It ain't natural, man," he continued. "You're always grumpy. Maybe that's because the toxins are building up in your body 'cause you're keepin' it all inside your sweat glands."
Joe turned to face him.
"If you're thirsty, then drink something, asshole!"
"I don't need a drink, Artoo-Deetoo," Calen volleyed. "I have perfectly functioning bodily secretions –"
"Close your cock suckers!" came a bellowing order from Simms.
The two shut their mouths and tilted their heads downward toward the horizon.
"You can have the last Snapple, ass-licker," Joe murmured.
"Thanks, dude."
Calen reached into the cooler and grabbed the bottle of iced tea. As he opened the bottle and took a swig, his eyes spotted a man in regional garb atop a horse. The man carried a rifle and was staring directly at the Gulf as she passed.
Lowering the bottle from his lips and swallowing, he tapped Joe on the shoulder and pointed in the rider's direction.
The man's eyes locked with the crews' as each one of them appeared to be making eye contact with him. As Calen's and Joe's position neared the man, the rider's head swiveled and he stared long and hard. As they remained within each other's gaze, several more heavily armed men on horses moved up behind the lone rider. Within moments, more of them appeared farther ahead, high on the smoldering dunes.
"Oh, shit…" Joe and Calen murmured in unison as the crew became suddenly alert and nervous.
A wind over the sands brought the sounds of the horses' burring and whinnying to their ears as the constant splashing of the waters below played noisily in the background. Suddenly, they could hear the sounds of men speaking in Arabic. The lone rider, it appeared, was the leader. One of the other riders, near to the lone rider, was speaking animatedly to him. The crew watched in silence as the inconceivable then occurred.
The lone rider reached almost casually into his robes and drew a pistol. Without even a second's hesitation, nor a glance toward his subordinate, he raised the weapon, pointed it directly at the face of his partner, and fired.
"Holy shit!" Calen shouted as a commotion broke out amongst the crew. The shot rang out and echoed across the water, bouncing off the metal of the ship. "Did you see that?"
Joe sat stone-faced and immovable, mouth agape, and unable to speak. All at once, the lone rider raised an open hand and kicked his mount, leaping forward across the sands, maintaining an easy stride to match the ship's speed. The others followed suit, leaving behind the body of their comrade as they fetched up the reins of the horse and led him along behind them. Within moments, more of the mounted riders appeared and, with a break in the mounds of sand, the crew was able to discern many more racing along behind the raised banks of the canal.
"Oh, this is bad," Calen observed in a panicked voice. "They're following us!"
"I can see that!" Joe snapped as he now pushed Calen toward the handles of the 25 mm.
Calen obediently and fervently took the handles and swung the machine gun to his left to train on the lone rider.
"What the fuck was that, man? What the fuck, man? He just fuckin' popped him, Pigz!" Calen illustrated worriedly as his hands began to tremble.
"Pull it together, Wakefield!" came a voice from their right. It was one of the sailors at the rail, Malis, a lifer and a deadly shot. He had an M16 trained on the riders and was not happy about Calen's distracting comments.
Calen nodded and began whispering to himself.
"Who fuckin' shoots their own man?"
"I dunno, Cal," Joe answered as he readied the ammo belt for action.
; High above, Captain Thompson was observing the riders through a pair of binoculars. An assistant with his own pair was beside him.
"Twenty-six, sir," the assistant spoke. Nodding, the captain continued to watch the riders.
"Mmm…" he muttered deep in his chest as he lowered the spyglasses from his eyes and continued to stare intently. Another sailor entered the room and approached.
"Temran says they're not Egyptians, sir."
The captain's eyes cleared and he turned to look at the new arrival.
"Who are they?"
"Not sure, sir," the sailor answered. "He thinks, possibly, Syrian."
Thompson's hardened look became distant again. The Syrians definitely had a dog in this hunt. A sound suddenly brought the captain's attention back to the action as he looked down to see what had made the noise.
A large, round stone arced across the expanse of water between the ship and the embankment of the canal, landing with a clattering skid across the metal decking.
"You gotta be shittin' me," Calen burst out as he looked down the deck toward the piece of smooth granite. If he wasn't so scared, Joe might have laughed at the irony. "These fuckin' ragheads are hittin' us with rocks!"
"Chill, Cal," Joe attempted to calm his partner. "They're just rocks, man."
"This is Navy warship five-five! Stand clear or you will be fired upon," came the warning over the speakers, its words resonating through the air.
The riders continued to keep pace with the ship as the mounts gradually drew closer to the banks at the bottom of the dune. Joe could see that the riders, who were armed, were taking stones from satchels and lobbing them toward the ship.
"This is Navy warship five-five. Stand clear or you will be fired upon," came the second warning. The lone rider continued to stay ahead of the pack, but he remained atop the dunes as the rest of his band hugged the water's edge below. By now, the line of twenty-five mounted fighters had separated and put large intervals of space between them so that the rear of the line stretched as far back as the Ramage in the rear. Rocks were pelting the other battle group vessels as well.
A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11. Page 10