The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

  There was still a lot of damage to be repaired and neither ship could get under way on its own steam, but for the time being the La Sane had been restored to duty as a command ship and the Simon Lake — a submarine tender-had its repair facilities working round the clock.

  Everyone followed the progress of the wounded leader.

  Admiral Cameron’s presence restored the shattered confidence that resulted from the terrorist attack. Spontaneous applause started with a couple of claps and then broke throughout the staff Combat Information Center into a cacophony of cheers.

  Admiral Cameron had returned to the damaged flagship the previous night from two days in the hospital, recovering from the wounds he’d sustained during the coordinated terrorist attack. He ran his hand through his hair. Memoriesof the attack at the bistro exploded across his mind.

  That attack had followed the one on the ships by minutes, leaving eleven dead and eight wounded. One of the dead had been his wife, Susan.

  The applause as Cameron walked through the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center did as much for the troops as it did for the admiral. Admiral Cameron waved and smiled as he moved to the center of Combat. He tried to stand as erect as the bandages allowed as he walked. If Cameron was back on the job, things were all right. Rumors of his death — wildly exaggerated — the death of Admiral Phrang, and evolving events in the Mediterranean had created an apprehensive atmosphere of uncertainty among the officers and sailors. Seeing the “Iron Leader” in Combat, alive and moving purposely, was the medicine needed to start morale climbing back up the ladder. Word began immediately to spread through the fleet that the Old Man was back at the helm.

  Admiral Cameron and Captain Bowen stopped near the surface plotting table as the applause died and the sailors returned their attention to their consoles.

  “We’ll be able to hear them through this speaker, Admiral.”

  “If I want to talk to them, can I do that from here?”

  Clive brought up a high-back stool and pushed it up behind the admiral, who nodded and sat down.

  The door to Combat opened and Clive saw the fleet surgeon enter and move quietly, out of the way, to a nearby bulkhead. He nodded and hoped Dr. Jacobs wouldn’t be needed, but the admiral had scared him a little when he swayed as they entered. The man had only been out of surgery a couple of days and here he was thrust into a wartime situation. If he passed out, Clive had no idea how it would affect the exuberance they’d seen when they first entered. Sailors, at heart, were a superstitious lot.

  “Yes, sir, you can talk to them, or anyone else you want to, Admiral, right from here. This microphone has been connected to the secure voice circuit. CTF Sixty-seven released the EP-3E to our control a few minutes ago.”

  The admiral nodded.

  From the speaker crackled the voice of the EP-3E pilot.

  “Sixth Fleet, this is Ranger Two Niner, there is a column of dark smoke rising on the horizon. Am altering course to one six zero and descending to fifty feet.”

  “Roger, Ranger Two Niner. Report when you are five miles from scene,” the voice of the ATE crackled from the speaker.

  “Roger, Sixth Fleet; I am approximately fifteen miles out now.”

  A chief petty officer walked up to the staff duty officer, waited a few seconds, and when an opportunity presented itself passed a note.

  The SDO looked at it and turned to the admiral.

  “Admiral, General Jacques Leblanc’s office is on the phone and asking to speak with you.”

  Admiral Cameron looked at his watch.

  “It’s going on nine in the morning. Who is he?”

  “He was Admiral Phrang’s deputy. Admiral — the new French general who arrived two months ago. You haven’t met him yet. We had you on his calendar for next week, but his plans conflicted so we were rescheduling for later in the month. When that car bomb killed Admiral Phrang two days ago. General Leblanc assumed command of Allied Forces Southern Command. He is now in charge of all NATO forces in the Mediterranean.”

  “What does he want?” the admiral asked the staff duty officer. Commander Bailey looked at the note, then at the chief, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. Admiral Cameron looked at the chief.

  “He doesn’t say. Admiral. Just that it is important that he talks to you,” the chief answered.

  “Tell him that I can’t come to the phone at this moment, Chief. Don’t tell him why. Take a number and tell him I’ll return his call as soon as I can.” The admiral looked at the chart and then, thinking of something else, said to the departing chief, “Give him my regrets, Chief, and tell him that it is impossible for me to talk at this moment. He should understand, considering everything.” Cameron reached in his back pocket and pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. God, don’t let me pass out.

  The staff intelligence officer walked up beside the admiral.

  “Morning, Kurt. How you doing?”

  “Very good. Admiral. The important question is how are you? You look like shit.”

  “It hasn’t been a good week, Kurt.”

  The staff duty officer nodded at the chief, who hurried away to pass the message to General Leblanc’s office.

  “Sixth Fleet, Ranger Two Niner; I am five miles and approaching the area. I count eight life rafts. We are taking count of souls on board the rafts. There are people in the water. I am approaching …” The voice stopped for several seconds.

  “Sixth Fleet, Ranger Two Niner; I am overflying the stern of a sinking ship. The stern is approximately forty feet above the water. Two propellers exposed. Ship is Navy gray. There are letters on the stern …” Commander Stillwell, the EP-3E pilot, paused. “Sixth Fleet,” then his voice rose in pitch, “Gearing. I say again, the words read Gearing. Do you copy? The motherf-The sinking ship is the United States destroyer USS Gearing.” The Sixth Fleet staff heard the tremor in the voice of the unseen pilot.

  “Ranger Two Niner, request you verify. Can you see any other part of the ship other than the stern?”

  “Look, asshole. I’ve got American sailors in the water and an American warship down by the bow! I count two goddamn holes in her starboard aft side. I see one that would have been below the waterline, probable torpedo hit.

  Another hole is at the waterline that could have been either a torpedo or a missile. If I got any closer I’d be inside it. I don’t like telling it any more than you enjoy hearing it, but we have American sailors, in dungarees and khakis, in the water and in life rafts. We’ve got a major problem here!”

  No one spoke in Combat. Everyone looked at the admiral.

  He picked up the microphone.

  “Ranger Two Niner, this is Admiral Cameron. What are your intentions?”

  “What the hell … Sorry, Admiral, standing by for further instructions.”

  “You are the on-scene commander. Ranger Two Niner.

  You tell us what your assessment is, your recommendations, and then we’ll decide.” He paused and before the EP-3E could respond. Admiral Cameron added, “We’ll take care of the assholes who did this. I know how you feel, but right now we need accurate information to save those sailors. Okay?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” An audible sigh came over the speaker before Stillwell continued.

  “My intentions are to circle over this group as long as possible. There are still sailors treading water. Those in the life rafts are pulling them in. No waves or wind at sea level, making the rescue by those in the rafts fairly easy. I have my aft door opened and my intentions, Admiral, are to drop the number three life raft, along with provisions, PRC radios, and bottled water on my next pass. My recommendation is to do something ASAP to rescue our shipmates and then I recommend bombing Libya back into the Ice Age!”

  “Roger,” Admiral Cameron acknowledged. He turned to his intelligence officer.

  “Kurt, what is the situation in Algeria?”

  “Sir, we need to keep the Nassau headed toward Algiers.

  As of
yesterday, one American was dead and they had an incident near our embassy, resulting in a small firefight between our Marines and the rebels. The ambassador said the Algerians are laying siege to the embassy.”

  “Clive, what do we have available to pick up the Gearing survivors?”

  “Sir, there is the USS Miami, SSN-755, in company with the Nassau.”

  “Too bad we don’t have our Sigonella squadron,” Captain Kurt Lederman added.

  “If Dod hadn’t overridden our recommendation and relocated HC-4 back to the States we’d have long-range helicopters to—”

  “Clive, how about the Air Force?” Admiral Cameron interrupted.

  This was not the time to be bashing an administration, even one out of power.

  “If they do have any, they’d be in Germany somewhere.

  We’ll call and start them on their way.”

  The admiral nodded.

  “Do it.” Meanwhile, detach USS Miami from Nassau battle group and tell her to make best speed toward Gearing datum. If nothing else, it puts her and her Tomahawks within striking range.

  The speaker burst to life.

  “Sixth Fleet, I count minimum of sixty-two souls in the life rafts and the water. Am making another pass to drop.” The voice paused.

  “Wait one, Sixth Fleet.”

  A moment later Stillwell said excitedly, “Sixth Fleet, we have multiple bogeys airborne out of Tripoli and Benghazi.

  Minimum nine fighters and a possible TU-20 Blinder. I have no idea why a Blinder would react against us. I find it hard to believe a bomber that old can fly.”

  Admiral Cameron grabbed the microphone.

  “Ranger, get out of there. Hit the deck for home, now!”

  “Admiral, if I hit the deck any lower I’m going to be submerged. As you said, sir, I am the on-scene commander and, unless otherwise directed, this on-scene commander is going to complete this run and drop the number three life raft and provisions. Then, we’ll outmaneuver the entire Libyan Air Force.” The number three life raft was the largest one of the three aboard the EP-3E.

  The admiral keyed the mike a couple of times, fighting the urge to order the pilot to obey his command. Then, he caught himself and released the key. Most times the best one to determine the threat is the one in contact with it.

  He recalled his own experiences in Desert Storm and remembered his father’s tales about Vietnam and rear-echelon quarterbacks … though quarterbacks wasn’t the term he used. He’d be damned if he was going to be a REMF. He handed the microphone back to the duty officer.

  The chief petty officer returned, walking briskly to where the admiral stood. The admiral looked at him.

  “Well, Chief?”

  “Sir, General Leblanc himself is on the phone and demands that you talk with him now.”

  “Demands?”

  “Yes, sir. Demands is what he said, though he is French so he may not understand what he’s saying. I told him you were busy, but he ordered me to tell you that he did not care what you were doing, you worked for him and he wanted to talk with you and he wanted to talk now.”

  “He did, did he?” the admiral asked, amazed.

  “Yes, sir. He said it was very important.”

  “Then leave the bastard on the phone. I’m busy. Tell him he can wait, but it’ll be at least an hour before I answer.”

  The chief left, hurrying through Combat and carrying with him a perverse sense of pleasure at being able to tell a flag officer, even if he was French — in a tactful manner, of course — to go to hell. He waited until he left Combat before he smiled. Only the British would enjoy better what he had been “directly” ordered to do.

  Three tense minutes passed before the unarmed reconnaissance aircraft called again.

  “Sixth Fleet, we have dropped provisions, wiggled our wings, and are turning north. The Libyan aircraft are feet wet twenty miles off their coast and about twenty-five miles from us and closing. Estimate intercept in five minutes.

  Commencing evasive maneuvers at this time. Have opened our side windows so we can at least shoot forty-fives at them.”

  “Spirited pilot,” commented the admiral. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Around him, the command team wore coats and sweaters in the fifty-degree air-conditioned space, but it seemed hot to him.

  “Twenty miles from us. Have lost the Tripoli aircraft, Admiral. Their last course was zero zero seven at twelve thousand feet and we counted the Tripoli formation as one TU-20 and three Mig-25 fighters; could be four fighters.

  Don’t know what in the hell they’re going to do with the TU-20, guess we could fly side by side and fire our pistols at each other.”

  “What is the Libyan Blinder doing over the ocean, Kurt?” the admiral asked his intelligence officer.

  “Admiral, the last thing we had on Libyan Blinders was that they were inoperative from lack of proper maintenance and spare parts. They used to do free fall bombing runs on their ranges east of Tripoli. But that was over a decade ago. Of course, they could have converted them into maritime reconnaissance aircraft.”

  “Sixth Fleet, Ranger Two Niner; intercept time is two minutes. We are reflecting six Mig-23 Floggers out of Benghazi. Bandits are beginning to descend from twelve thousand feet altitude.”

  The admiral turned to his staff duty officer.

  “Where are those Harriers?” His handkerchief fell out of his hand and landed on the tips of Bowen’s shoes.

  “Wait one, Admiral,” he replied as he ran to the air plot table.

  Clive bent down, picked up the handkerchief, and placed it in the admiral’s hand, who nodded weakly, took it, and wiped the sweat from his face. Clive noticed the fleet surgeon, Captain Jacobs, move from his place along the bulkhead and cross Combat to stand directly behind the admiral.

  Their eyes met briefly before Clive turned back to the displays.

  He was glad Doc had disobeyed the admiral and followed them to Combat.

  Admiral Cameron leaned back against the back of the stool and quietly watched the exchange between the staff duty officer and the Sixth Fleet Combat team.

  The staff duty officer shouted across Combat.

  “Admiral, they’re too far out, sir. They’re one hundred miles southeast of the Strait of Sicily. Nassau will have to recall them in fifteen minutes due to fuel state.”

  “Can they reach the EP-3E?” the admiral asked. “Sir, they can try, but then it’s going to be a race to bingo to Sigonella. They won’t have the gas to return to Nassau.”

  Clive interrupted.

  “They’ve got Air Force KC-130 tankers at Sigonella. Call air traffic control at Sigonella and tell them to launch the alert tanker.” He pointed at the air traffic control operator.

  “Identify the nearest refueling orbit point and issue a verbal air traffic movement to Sigonella.

  Tell them we’ll worry about hard copy later.”

  “SDO, I want a launch estimate on that tanker from Sigonella ASAP!”

  “Roger, Admiral.”

  “Clive, get Commodore Ellison on the phone and tell him to turn the Nassau around and close his aircraft. Tell him to launch the other four Harriers also. Further, order Sixtyone to vector his aircraft to intercept the EP-3E.”

  Clive rushed over to the console.

  “SDO,” said the admiral, “sound General Quarters. I want this space brought up to combat standards now. And I mean now.”

  The SDO reached behind him and flipped the lever on the red sound box. Throughout the USS La Sane the ear shattering bongs announcing General Quarters caught a much fatigued crew unprepared, but by the third bong, adrenaline surged through their arteries and startled-awake sailors raced to battle stations. Fear lurked in the back of each mind that once again the USS La Sane was under attack.

  On board the USS Simon Lake and the USS Albany, tied alongside, similar General Quarters bongs broke the summer morning stillness of the surrounding village of Gaeta.

  One hundred and twenty-five Italian military
Special Forces, who had arrived within hours of the terrorist attack two days ago against the ships, unslung their weapons. The Italians raced for their assigned defensive positions, unaware of what danger caused the Americans to go to full security, but no more attacks on Italian soil were going to occur without the attackers facing Italy’s best.

  Male sailors raced through the hatch of Combat pulling on their shirts, while female sailors crammed their hair under ball caps as they ran to their stations.

  “Sixth Fleet, this is Ranger Two Niner. I have Libyan fighters all around me, according to our sensors, but I can’t see any. We show them on the same course at six thousand feet altitude. We are under a cloud bank that bends to my ten o’clock. I intend to remain under it. My altitude is fifty feet and this aircraft is shaking like a banshee!”

  “Why haven’t the Libyans intercepted them?” Clive asked.

  “They may not be able to see the EP-3E,” Kurt answered.

  “That close to the water the surface of the ocean is probably obscuring the fighters’ radar picture. It’s not like our Aegis or the F-14 Tomcat’s radar.”

  “Admiral,” the lieutenant supervising the crew manning the strike consoles interrupted, “Sixtyone says its Harriers are reporting multiple air bogeys at their two o’clock on a course of zero one two at altitude eight thousand.”

  “Ask them what the location is!” ordered Admiral Cameron.

  “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  “Sixtyone, this is Sixth Fleet,” broadcast over a different set of speakers from the ones that connected Sixth Fleet to the EP-3E.

  “What is the location of the bogeys and total number being reflected?”