The Marathon Watch

by Laswell, Lawrence K

  The suction between the ships tugged at Farnley’s stern, pulling it slowly, inextricably toward the oiler. Without power, Biron had no rudder to compensate.

  “Sound the collision alarm,” he yelled. The high-pitched, pulsating klaxon sounded, and shouting men ran to safety.

  Biron took a deep breath and wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. It was going to be close. The ships were almost even now, and the Farnley’s stern continued its slow swing toward the oiler.

  Miraculously, the Farnley’s stern swung past the oiler’s stern with less than five feet of clearance. Biron ran across the bridge to the opposite wing and sighed in relief when he saw the guard destroyer behind him heeling heavy into a turn to avoid collision. They had made it. Drained, he braced himself against the bridge rail.

  “Biron!”

  It was Meyers. Biron pivoted and looked back through the bridge house. The oiler seemed closer now. He had thought they were safe, but the bow was now caught in the suction and was swinging menacingly toward the oiler.

  On the port bridge wing, Meyers was screaming at the refueling crew on the open torpedo deck just forward of the bridge. “Clear the deck! Clear the deck!”

  All Biron could see was the gray mass of the oiler’s side as he ran to the port bridge wing. Just as he reached the door, Meyers threw Sweeney through the door. Sweeney and Biron collided full chest but caught each other. Charging like a fullback, Meyers drove a shoulder into Sweeney’s back, pushing both men well into the bridge.

  Biron fell backward. Meyers’ and Sweeney’s combined weight crashed onto his chest. In pain, Biron screamed as the weight crushed the air from his lungs.

  For a second there was silence, then the impact. Its immediate effect surprised Biron. There was no loud crash, but it felt and sounded as if they had run head-on into a wall of water at ninety miles an hour. He bounced on the deck, and Meyers and Sweeney were thrown clear.

  Metal started tearing, groaning, screaming. Biron saw the port life raft cage crush, break free, and cartwheel like a toy, dropping mangled onto the port bridge wing.

  Still gasping for air, he pulled himself up to the bridge windows to check the bow. The deck was clear, but the bow was scraping down the oiler’s side.

  There was a loud bang. At first he thought it was a gunshot, but then there was another. He couldn’t tell what had caused it. The oiler’s stern pulled ahead of the Farnley’s bridge with another loud bang.

  Biron looked down toward the noise. The steel cable that made up the Farnley’s main deck rail had snagged on a piece of equipment on the oiler. As the oiler continued forward, the snagged cable ripped stanchion after stanchion from the deck with loud bangs.

  The oiler was ahead of them now, trailing the cable with bent stanchions twirling in the air. The last stanchion broke loose. The cable, with its bitter end attached to the most forward part of the bow, snapped taut with an ominous twang.

  The bow jerked slightly before the cable snapped. Biron didn’t have time to duck. The cable, with stations dangling from it, snapped and shot back toward the Farnley. There was a loud bang; then it was over.

  “Sound general quarters.”

  Biron turned. It was Meyers giving orders and helping bridge crewmen to their feet. “Tell engineering I want a damage control report now.”

  Their eyes met. Meyers seemed remarkably calm. Stopping to wipe some blood from his forehead, Meyers said, “Biron, I’ll take the bridge. You get below and check for casualties and damage on the main deck.”

  Without thought, Biron bolted from the bridge and descended to the torpedo deck. It was littered with debris. He worked his way forward until he saw an officer lying face down on the deck forward of the refueling station. It was Lee.

  §

  The captain of the America had heard Severn’s terse message crackle over the radio circuit. The collision could be serious or just a brush. Logically, he had two choices; wait for a status report or respond. There was no decision to make. Injured men would need help; men could be in the sea. Seconds counted.

  He snatched the phone set to Flight Operations from its cradle and began issuing orders. “Vector three SAR helos to Severn now. Spot a P2 on the catapult for possible medevac. Clear all flight patterns. We’re coming about now.”

  §

  In the engine room, the general quarters klaxon echoed through the darkness. Ross got to his feet and quickly surveyed the main platform. He could account for four men. He ran to the railing overlooking the lower level and shouted the roll call of his watch into the darkness below. As he shouted the names over the general quarters klaxon, the déjà vu he had experienced earlier returned. He shook it off and continued shouting names into the darkness. After each name, the darkness echoed an “Okay.” Satisfied no one was hurt, he turned his energy to restarting the boiler.

  §

  The captain of the America sat serenely in his chair and, without giving any outward sign, monitored the dozen simultaneous events taking place on the bridge. Aircraft were cleared from their landing pattern, equipment re-spotted on deck, new course and speed computed, and screening destroyers notified of the change. He hadn’t had to give an order; the bridge watch had heard Severn’s call, and everyone knew what needed to be done.

  The America’s captain knew there were two powerful forces motivating his crew. The sea was cruel, full of vicious surprises and instant death. All sailors were comrades pitted against a common foe, and to refuse assistance was unthinkable. It hadn’t changed since man had invented the sail.

  The second force was more powerful and difficult to understand. Somewhere deep in the American psyche was something special that produced fighting men who would risk all to save the life of a single comrade. It defied logic and military doctrine. Time and again, it produced the greatest acts of heroism in military annals, as the helicopter rescues of downed pilots in Viet Nam would attest. Unable to explain their acts, the heroes in these rescues dismissed their heroism with the same casual words, “Just doing my job.”

  The America’s captain watched as his crew did their job. Signals flashed and radio circuits, crowded with voices, rapidly converted the battle group to a search-and-rescue force. It barely dawned on the America’s captain that he had by default taken control of Admiral Eickhoff’s forces. Eickhoff obviously agreed.

  The America’s conning officer shouted, “Left full rudder. All ahead flank.”

  It had taken less than forty-five seconds to convert the battle group from the business of war to that of rescue. Seven thousand men and billions in hardware were now devoted to that single purpose that wouldn’t change until all hands were accounted for. Steel Henge could wait. It all seemed natural, the way things should be.

  §

  Biron made his way through the twisted mass of metal pipes and light metal on the torpedo deck, and scrambled to Lee’s side. He saw no blood, so he pulled at Lee’s shoulder. “Lee,” he called.

  Trembling, Lee rolled over, his eyes wide, dazed, his face white and solemn. Lee looked up. Biron followed Lee’s eyes to the stanchion buried halfway into the bulkhead just a foot above Lee’s head.

  “You okay?” Biron asked.

  “Yeah,” Lee said, still trying to regain his composure. “I came back out to make sure the deck was clear, then we hit, and my escape path was blocked.”

  §

  Admiral Eickhoff had taken an extended lunch to read the Washington Post and get caught up on the political analysis and speculation coming out of Washington. As usual, he left orders not to be disturbed, which explained his surprise when a staff aide entered.

  “Admiral, the Farnley just collided with the Severn.”

  “What?”

  §

  The light seemed to be the only constant, the only absolute naked truth left in Javert’s life. The sun’s rays burned bright, stark, and harsh through the jagged hole in the forward bulkhead of his cabin. The light flowed down the length of the stanchion that protruded almost to hi
s desk, then cascaded daggers of white light across the floor.

  Javert tried to regain control of his trembling body. His emotions whipsawed from anger, to embarrassment, to shame, to fear, to panic, to humiliation, and back to anger again.

  His mind churned. What have you done? You could have killed someone. What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you command? You can’t blame the officers; you did this yourself. Ross didn’t sabotage you. He had no way of knowing. He would have thought Biron had given the command.

  Twenty years in the navy. Your first command. Your last chance for promotion. Are you worthy of a promotion? Are you worthy of command? God forgive me! I could have killed someone! I have to do better. The navy is my life; I can’t give up. I can’t quit the navy. I was trying too hard. I made a serious mistake. Captains aren’t allowed to make mistakes. Captains aren’t allowed to fail. You’re a failure. The harder you try, the worse you fail and the bigger the mistakes become.

  The chaos of voices on deck had subsided. The Farnley was silent, but other sounds continued. Helos were overhead, and a ship was hailing them by bullhorn close to starboard. These were the sounds of the Sixth Fleet, the voice and arm of Admiral Eickhoff. Javert wondered if he would lose his ship. His promotion? His career?

  Javert fumbled in the darkness for the picture of Admiral Eickhoff and him when he took command of the Farnley. It wasn’t on his desk. He pulled the desk drawer open and rummaged in the pool of blackness. He pulled some loose papers and pens from the drawer, then grabbed at the biggest object. He held his service 45 semiautomatic pistol in his left hand while his right hand probed. It found the picture, and he placed it on the desk. Javert dropped the gun into the drawer and banged it closed.

  Javert looked at the picture and remembered how confident and proud he’d been that day. This was his ship, his chance at promotion, his only chance to stay in the navy. It was all slipping away. Eickhoff would punish him, as his father had so many years before.

  Tears filled Captain Javert’s eyes and blocked out the light. Spasm after spasm racked his body. He fell to the floor, pulled his knees to his chest, and wept.

  DAMAGE CONTROL

  August 1971, Mediterranean Sea south of Crete

  Operation Marathon: Day 420

  Damn, I wish he’d get back, Eickhoff cursed to himself. Everything hangs by a thin thread. Operation Marathon and my future may well be lost. Eickhoff couldn’t believe the tightening downward spiral of events. Every step took him deeper, and now he had to trust Pew to save his skin.

  Trust Pew? Never!

  But it was the only way out.

  Eickhoff knew Pew was a double-edged sword, and the very traits that made him valuable also made him dangerous. Eickhoff never gave Pew more information than he needed and always kept him on a short leash. Now Pew was the cornerstone in Eickhoff’s damage control operation because he had no other choice.

  If he had helo’d another officer to the Farnley to investigate, he would never have been able to contain the damage, and his mistake of giving Javert a command and his lie to Durham would be exposed. He had to make the incident seem minor. He couldn’t go personally. Admirals wouldn’t get involved in minor incidents. That only left Pew, a minor lieutenant for a minor incident. It seemed to fit, but now Pew knew too much. Damn!

  Eickhoff’s only public involvement had been the simple bland message to the Severn and Farnley that all reports about the incident would be coordinated and filed through his command. In the message, he also set up Pew’s visit and set some rules for the investigation. Such things were normal and considered almost administrative, and wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

  Eickhoff had read the preliminary report from the Severn and Farnley. The Severn, merely a spectator to the incident, was no problem. Apparently, neither ship suffered structural damage, and no one was injured nor killed.

  The thought made Eickhoff shudder. It was like a ghostly echo of O’Toole’s voice a year earlier when they had argued over Operation Marathon. “This operation of yours is a disaster. Pray no one gets injured or killed.”

  Eickhoff reconsidered his cavalier attitude over safety. Serious injury or death would have made the incident major, something he would never be able to cover up. Safety wasn’t important in itself, but his cover behind Operation Marathon was.

  Eickhoff knew his mistake. Javert was too weak, too inexperienced, and he was the only flaw in his Operation Marathon. Eickhoff wanted to relieve Javert, but relieving a captain would be a high-visibility act. Remove him and everyone would start asking questions. They’ll look at the Farnley and Javert’s record, and the conclusions would be inescapable. Eickhoff had made a grievous error in judgment, then covered it up at Messina and in the Naples inspection. He knew it could end his career and Operation Marathon. Eickhoff needed political leverage. He needed the Farnley, and he needed to keep Javert out of the way. Operation Marathon was important, and he was in too deep to back out. It was all or nothing.

  If he kept Javert, heaven only knew what would happen. The man’s an idiot. He had to be neutralized but kept in place until Operation Marathon was over. After Operation Marathon, who cares?

  Pew presented a different problem. Pew knew too much. If he pulled this assignment off, he would hold a big marker that he would certainly cash in for everything it was worth.

  Eickhoff had to be rid of Pew, but how? Buy his silence with a choice assignment? Send him to an insignificant remote post? Or destroy him with bad fitness reports and fabricated disciplinary problems? That was the only way out. Any other way would leave Pew’s credibility intact. Destroy him and his attacks would look self-serving and vindictive.

  §

  Pew slipped out of the horse collar when his feet hit the Farnley’s deck. This was the third time in three hours he’d been lowered onto the deck of a ship from a Sea Stallion helicopter and the second time he’d been lowered to the Farnley. Meyers met him on the fantail and headed forward, leading Pew to the captain’s cabin.

  As they walked forward, neither man spoke. There wasn’t much to say. He’d already debriefed Meyers, and if Pew guessed right, everyone except Javert knew about the blown fuse because Javert had sequestered himself in his cabin and had barely spoken a word with Meyers.

  The fuse was a one-in-a-million quirk that happened at precisely the wrong second. The odds of it happening were astronomical. Javert’s meddling started the chain of events, but it was an accident nonetheless. The fuse would make it simple to keep the collision quiet and keep men higher up from asking questions. If Javert didn’t know about the fuse, it would be easy to keep Operation Marathon going.

  So far, everything had worked out well indeed. This was a play in three acts, and now only the final decisive act remained. First, Pew had toured the Farnley. She had taken a heavy hit, but things looked worse than they really were. Other than huge scrapes down the port side, the damage was minimal, a davit, two life raft tubs, a dozen deck stanchions, and three gear lockers. Injuries were limited to a few cuts and bruises.

  Next he debriefed Ross, Biron, and Meyers individually. Ross was the plum, the crown jewel of the day, the man who would make the plan work. Ross blamed himself, claiming that the fuse shouldn’t have mattered since it was his error in judgment on when to cut power that caused the real problem. It was fortunate he’d started with Ross.

  After receiving written statements from the three, he shuttled to the Severn to inspect the damage and debrief the captain. The Severn’s captain was naturally upset. Someone had scratched his ship, but really, that was all that had happened. A few gallons of haze-gray paint and all evidence of the incident would disappear.

  Technically, the visit to the Severn wasn’t necessary, but Eickhoff insisted he make Javert sweat as long as possible. It was why Eickhoff’s message to the Farnley instructed the officers not to discuss the incident among themselves until the investigation was complete. That also increased Javert’s isolation. Pew was learning quite a bit from Eickhoff. The man
was good at this.

  The key ingredient to Eickhoff’s plan was a letter Eickhoff had drafted just in case it was needed. Eickhoff was going to owe him for this, but no matter what happened, Pew knew he could cash in on Operation Marathon.

  Meyers knocked on the captain’s door, introduced Javert to Pew, then left. This was the first time Pew had met Javert, and the captain struck him as almost comical. Javert was obviously nervous, and when Meyers left, he snapped to attention. His tall, skinny body and drawn face made his exaggerated attempt to stand at attention look ridiculous. Pew knew he was in a position of control.

  Pew looked at Javert for several seconds to increase Javert’s discomfort, then, motioning toward the couch, said, “Please, Captain, have a seat.” Pew sat in the desk chair.

  “Captain, I’m afraid we have a little problem,” Pew began while leaning back in Javert’s chair, “but with your help, we can work it out.”

  “I’m… sorry. It’s all my…” Javert stammered, but Pew cut him off.

  “We’re all sorry about what happened, but this whole thing is a minor incident. An accident, actually, but we’ll get to that.”

  Javert bolted from his seat to retrieve some papers he had on his desk, which he handed to Pew. “It’s all right here in my report.”

  “Sit down, Captain, and please relax. Everything will be okay,” Pew said. Once he had Javert’s attention again, Pew slowly tore Javert’s report in quarters and threw it into the wastebasket. It seemed to have the desired effect; Javert looked petrified.

  Pew reached into a manila envelope and retrieved a single piece of paper. “Captain, we don’t need your report. We all know what happened. We also know what really happened at Messina.”

  The last statement was a gamble on Pew’s part, but Javert blanched and took a deep breath. Confident, Pew continued, “I’m going to make you a proposition, and just so you know, I have the authority to do so, Admiral Eickhoff has written you a short note. Please read it.”