The Marathon Watch

by Laswell, Lawrence K

  Something wasn’t right; a piece was missing. “Admiral Timmons is in command of Force Blue. What do we know about him?” Flannery asked, turning to O’Toole.

  Flannery thought he saw O’Toole swallow a smile before he answered. “He was in one of my squadrons years back. He’s no dummy. I taught him a thing or two.”

  O’Toole’s words hit Flannery like the burst of popping white light from a flash bulb. Taught. He couldn’t believe how dumb he’d been. O’Toole was always talking, always explaining, always challenging. He didn’t chew ass in the normal sense. Make no mistake about it, if he came down on someone, they definitely knew what they had done wrong, but he always made sure they knew why and what to do next time, and why that would be better. O’Toole; father, coach, master, dreaded professor.

  Flannery’s startled look must have caught O’Toole’s eye. Smiling, O’Toole raised one eyebrow toward Flannery and asked, “So?”

  Addressed directly by O’Toole, Flannery flipped through his mental index of O’Tooleisms; green water, choke points, audacity, take the battle to the enemy…

  “He won’t do a damned thing we expect. He won’t be where he’s supposed to be,” Flannery began. “He won’t go west. He’ll go east. He won’t head for blue water. He’ll head for the shallows. He won’t defend anything; he’s going to come out and get us.”

  “Where? When?” O’Toole asked.

  Flannery shuffled through the charts and found one covering the eastern Gulf of Mexico and the Straits of Florida. “Here.” Flannery said, pointing to the chart. “He’ll stay just off Marquesas Keys. Cut east and break into the Atlantic. Tomorrow, just after dawn.”

  The implications of what he’d just said gelled in his mind. If that was what Admiral Timmons planned, it was a brilliant maneuver. “It’s perfect.” Flannery gasped. “As soon as he makes his turn, he’ll have the wind on his bow to launch aircraft. Within an hour, he’ll have a squadron of fighters headed north along the coast, and we’re going to be headed south and right into his buzz saw. It would be an ambush on the high seas. We don’t stand a chance.”

  “Unless… ” O’Toole droned.

  Again, Flannery’s mind ticked through all of O’Toole’s tactical bromides. They added up to the naval equivalent of judo or karate, which taught students to use an enemy’s strength, weight, and aggressiveness against him. The conclusion was obvious.

  “We take them out,” Flannery replied, not believing what he’d just said or that he really meant it. He actually believed it. Everything suddenly made sense. It was simple.

  “Where?”

  Flannery looked at the chart. Marquesas Keys looked like an atoll, a circular ring of islands. The major island, crescent shaped, faced south. Off the points of the crescent, dozens of smaller islands completed the circle. Properly stationed, a motionless ship would be impossible to pick out of the radar clutter.

  “Timmons’ choke point is Marquesas Keys,” Flannery began. “If we stay stationary, with all the radar clutter from the islands, they’d never see us, and he’d never expect it.”

  Suddenly everyone in the room was talking at once, except O’Toole, who seemed satisfied to sip at his coffee.

  “Weather’s supposed to be overcast, and there’s no moon tonight. It’ll be blacker than hell out.”

  “Water’s too shallow. I’ve been in deeper swimming pools.”

  “Pool, hell. Look where the ten-fathom curve is. My bathtub is deeper than that.”

  “Forget it; that’s six-hundred-seventy miles. Even if we used flank speed, we couldn’t get there until…”

  “Oh-three-thirty tomorrow morning, just in time to get into position.”

  “And then what? At that speed, we’d burn all of our fuel, and we’d be running on fumes.”

  “And riding mighty high in the water. When is high tide?”

  “Oh-four-oh-six.”

  “That’ll give us another four feet.”

  “To stay still, we’ll have to keep station using our engines. Currents will be vicious.”

  “Guess what? We’ll have to do it by eyeball in the dark. Remember, no radar.”

  “No lights.”

  “No radio.”

  “Shit, we’ve got to clear the Charleston channel in thirty minutes.”

  The room fell silent, and all faces turned to O’Toole. “Well?” Flannery asked.

  “Well,” O’Toole drawled, “since this is a training exercise, I think Flannery should be made acting squadron commander.”

  His worst nightmare had just come true. “What?” Flannery blurted.

  “What nothing,” O’Toole snapped. “You’re in command, Flannery, command.”

  Flannery turned to his fellow captains. “Emergency sortie. Ten minutes.”

  Within a second, the wardroom was empty except for Flannery and O’Toole. Flannery grabbed the telephone and spun the crank to ring the quarterdeck. At the first sound of a voice on the other end, he began speaking in a steady staccato.

  “This is an emergency. Man the special sea and anchor detail. Rig in the brow now. Anyone ashore is going to stay that way. Have the department heads meet me on the bridge. Now. Emergency sortie in ten minutes.”

  Flannery dropped the phone to the table, darted for the door, then stopped. “I didn’t even tell them who was calling.”

  O’Toole, who was studying the charts, looked up. “Don’t worry, I think they know.” O’Toole took a sip of his coffee, then added, “Have you looked at this chart? It’s shallow around Marquesas Keys. Hell, it isn’t even a puddle. This is going to get hairy.”

  O’Toole’s comment sucked all the air out of Flannery’s lungs. This was the second unexplained change in O’Toole’s demeanor in five minutes. What does it take to make this man happy?

  A combination of anger and frustration raised the hair on the back of Flannery’s neck, and he lashed at O’Toole. “With all we’ve been through, we don’t need a puddle. Give me heavy morning dew and I’ll park this damn ship on your front lawn.”

  “Getting a bit audacious, are we?” O’Toole chuckled.

  O’Toole was smiling. It was like a gnarled watchdog growling and wagging his tail at an intruder. No one ever knew which end to believe, but this dog never wagged his tail. Dumbfounded, Flannery looked at O’Toole. Only one word came to mind. “Balls!” he cursed and charged out the door.

  §

  The Mississinewa, heavily laden with oil, plodded northward toward Charleston to rendezvous with the ships of DESRON 23. Oblivious to the slow, graceful roll of the table caused by the following sea of five-foot swells, Captain Kornfeld, settled down to enjoy his dinner. The sound-powered phone mounted under the table interrupted him with its shrill call before he had a chance to get started. Kornfeld shrugged and retrieved the handset. “Captain,” he said, hoping it wasn’t something important.

  “Captain, you better get up here. We just rendezvoused with DESRON 23.” It was the conning officer.

  Kornfeld knew better than to ask the obvious question. They weren’t supposed to rendezvous for another eight hours. “Be right there.”

  When the Mississinewa’s captain stepped onto the bridge, it took him a second to absorb what he saw. It was DESRON 23 all right, in perfect column formation charging southward through the rolling seas. The sense of speed was sensational. Their hurricane bows exploded into the swells to launch great walls of white water that rose higher than their masts, hung motionless for a heartbeat, dissolved into glistening spray, and fell back into the sea. The lead ship was less than a thousand yards off the starboard bow. “What the hell?” Kornfeld blurted.

  The conning officer turned and, seeing his captain, said, “As soon as I had visual on them, I challenged them and asked their intentions via flashing light. In reply, the Wainwright sent us three messages.”

  “And?”

  “It was a single word in plain English; Tallyho,” the conning officer said, making no effort to hide his bewilderment.

 
Kornfeld laughed.

  The young officer frowned, obviously trying to figure out what was so funny.

  Finally, Mississinewa’s captain asked, “The other two messages?”

  “They were in standard code. The first ordered us to shut down all radar and radios and go to darkened ship. The second telling us to rendezvous with them tomorrow for refueling. The rendezvous point is…” The conning officer paused for effect. “Southwest of Key West, Florida.”

  Kornfeld wasn’t surprised a bit. He smiled as he realized the hunter had become the hunted. To his conning officer, he said, “Just don’t stand there; we’re headed in the wrong way. Bring us about.”

  Kornfeld walked to the bridge wing and watched the column of destroyers racing for the southern horizon.

  “Captain,” the quartermaster called out, “to make the rendezvous, we have to make twenty knots.”

  “Very well,” Kornfeld replied. Just before ordering twenty knots, he paused. The thought of his oiler crashing through these seas at flank speed intrigued him. He missed destroyers. Oilers never get to steam at flank speed. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and maybe he could get close enough to be in radio range to hear the play-by-play tomorrow morning. To the conning officer, he said, “Come to flank speed. Make turns for twenty-six knots.”

  The conning officer looked at the seas, then back at his captain, silently asking for confirmation. Kornfeld nodded. The conning officer complied, then asked, “Who is O’Toole?”

  The Mississinewa’s captain reached into his pocket to retrieve two marble-sized brass bearings. He rolled them in his hand for a second and said softly, “The fox we’re chasing.”

  §

  When the scratching sound woke Durham, he could still taste the lime Jell-O in his mouth. The sound was coming from a door opposite his bed that connected to the adjoining room. The door opened, and Commander Beetham peeked around the corner.

  “It’s clear,” Durham whispered, propping himself up in bed.

  Dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck, Beetham entered the room carrying a large, flat box of candy with a pretty little red ribbon on it.

  “Did you bring the stuff?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s all right here.” Beetham opened the candy box to reveal the files, pens, and message forms he’d asked for.

  §

  REKJET RCAEKEOKDY 847362-EIEIEI-RKEKLVBB.

  ZCKEEEEE

  R 26 1301Z NOV 71

  FM: CNO

  TO: COMSECONDFLT

  COMDESRON23 - CAPTAIN PATRICK O’TOOLE

  SUBJ: FARNLEY/OPERATION MARATHON

  BT

  CLASS: CONFIDENTIAL

  FOR COMSECONDFLT: DETACH IMMEDIATE CAPTAIN O’TOOLE COMDESRON23. ORDERS TO FOLLOW.

  FOR O’TOOLE: PROCEED ATHENS DEBRIEFING COMMODORE STONER RE FARNLEY BEST SPEED. DEPART CONUS ANDREWS AFB. CONTACT DUTY OFFICER ANDREWS FOR FILES AND ADDITIONAL INSTRUCTIONS. ADVISE ASSISTANCE NEEDED SOONEST. OFFICIAL ORDERS TO FOLLOW.

  BT

  N0821

  NNNN

  AND DRAGON SLAYERS

  November 1971, Fifty miles north of the coast of Libya

  Operation Marathon: Day 514

  It had been seven days since Javert’s death and two days since Eickhoff had thrown Lee off the ship. Ross was glad to be at sea; it would help him maintain his sanity. At sea, the long hours and monotonous routine would dull the senses and would make past events seem so long ago.

  He had found time to think about Lee, something that filled him with sadness, and he wondered what would become of Lee. Besides, in his heart, he hadn’t said good-bye. Lee had set some high standards, the highest of which demanded that Ross live up to his and the standards he’d learned from Chief Barnes. Ross would forever be thankful to Lee for that; he had his pride back. He knew Lee would survive and, if he guessed right, would find some way to come out on top, but still he missed him.

  He’d also had time to think about Meyers and the orders Eickhoff left, and that was why Ross was standing at his small makeshift desk, little more than a flat piece of metal welded between two stanchions. Ross’ memory was vivid; Meyers’ words had finally sunk in. “I just told you what the admiral ordered me, not you, to do. You do what you have to do. I’ll do what I have to do.”

  Meyers never ordered him to do anything; he was just giving him fair warning for what might happen. Meyers had done with Eickhoff’s orders what he had to do; nothing. Ross was now doing what he had to do and was almost finished.

  Ross had known what his crew had done with the engine room. The transformation had almost been miraculous. He now owned one of the finest engine rooms in the fleet, and his men owned the equipment in it. He owed it to Lee, the men, and Meyers never to let anything or anybody destroy the pride they had in their accomplishments.

  He’d been writing for over an hour in the green bound engineering logbook, and his fingers were cramping from having to press so hard with the cheap navy ballpoint pen. Ross had lost track, but he’d filled over ten consecutive pages with part numbers, descriptions, and locations. When he’d added the last part to the list, he finished his log entry with a single sentence.

  All of the above listed parts have been fully inspected by James A. Ross MCMM USN, Certified Shipyard Inspector C845952 for strict adherence to MILSPEC standards and are hereby certified as Navy Approved Parts.

  By authority,

  James A. Ross MCMM USN

  §

  Leaning on the bridge wing pelorus, John Flannery listened to the sounds of the dead, still night. All he could hear was the gentle purr of the ship’s engines and the adrenaline-charged thump, thump, thump of his heart. It was buck fever, and every man aboard had it.

  Motionless, silent, and dark, the Wainwright lay abreast a small island. Dead ahead lay an exposed reef, the Forrestal, and her fifteen screening destroyers. Secluded in the five-mile-long ring of islands to the east, the other squadron ships waited. To reduce their radar cross section and complicate visual identification, Flannery had ordered the ships to keep their bows pointed at the formation. They hadn’t been detected, and he wondered if the small detail had helped.

  Three hours ago, jubilation had swept the ship when the ELINT operators picked up the battle group’s radars. When the first screening ship appeared off the point of the key, the crew fell as silent as the dead calm night and became as motionless as the satin mirrored sea. Now, only clipped, terse, tense, hissing whispers pierced the silence.

  Flannery turned to see if O’Toole was moving. He wasn’t; he was sitting motionless in the port bridge chair. O’Toole’s behavior troubled Flannery. O’Toole hadn’t moved from his chair or said a word for hours. The last conversation had been only a few words. “Flannery, as acting Commodore, let your exec handle the ship. You’re not to interfere with him under any circumstances.”

  After that, O’Toole returned to his chair and sat staring stone-faced, straight ahead, trancelike. Flannery didn’t like leaving the Wainwright to his exec. He wanted to be part of the bridge crew, to be part of the action. Not being at the helm was harder than he’d imagined. It was harder than letting a child go, but orders were orders.

  O’Toole was a problem, and it was what O’Toole wasn’t doing that was troublesome. Normally, O’Toole exhibited unlimited energy, especially verbal alacrity. O’Toole always occupied himself by sniping at mistakes or dispatching lessons wrapped inside his never-ending sea story homilies. Flannery knew that, despite O’Toole’s inactivity, nothing, not even the smallest detail, had escaped his notice, yet not a word.

  Flannery sighted the Forrestal with the pelorus; another two degrees and she would be dead in their sights. A hand fell softly on his shoulder, and Flannery turned.

  “Is it time?” O’Toole’s voice was so soft and the tone of his question so unintimidating, it startled Flannery.

  “Are you okay, Commodore?” Flannery asked.

  “Never better,” O’Toole began in the same
soft voice. “It’s time; now watch.”

  Flannery, mesmerized by O’Toole’s uncharacteristic tone, lost track of time. After a second, O’Toole glanced down at the pelorus. Flannery took the hint; the Forrestal was in position.

  “One minute,” Flannery called out.

  Without another word, the Wainwright’s exec reached for the radio microphone and keyed it. The radio speaker gave out an almost imperceptible click. To some, it would have sounded like static; to the other ships, it was a signal. Simultaneously, the quartermaster clicked a stopwatch. The whisper “one minute” echoed and rippled through the ship. The exec handed the microphone to the exercise referee who would score the mock attack and turned toward the captain’s weapons console.

  The sound of the engines began to change from a gentle purr to a threatening growl. Softly, the conning officer gave an order. Slowly, without any forward motion, the ship began to pivot so they could use both the forward and aft missile launchers. Atop the bridge, the fire-control radar dish whined, spun, and stopped with a jerk, aimed directly at the Forrestal.

  Oddly, Flannery felt like he was witnessing a ballet; a ballet never practiced, a ballet with three hundred dancers in perfect harmony. The feeling had been the same when he watched the crew maneuver the ship through the maze of shoals and reefs around the key, but he’d missed it. It was different, yet the same, as the chaos he’d seen when the emergency sortie order was given in Charleston. There was a steadfast purpose in what he saw, a perfected confidence in themselves and their shipmates. He’d learned a lesson he would never forget, a lesson he would pass on to all who would listen.

  He listened to the whispered voices.

  “Fire control radar in standby.”

  “Fire control computer on.”

  “Launch sequencer on auto.”

  “Target selection to manual.”

  “Launch command to manual override.”

  “Forty seconds.”