“Bearing to Forrestal loaded, two missiles.”
“Bearing to second target one-seven-five.”
“Aft battery clear.”
“Weapons control to manual.”
“Thirty seconds.”
Across the ocean, a distant general quarters klaxon sounded. An alert lookout had spotted their silhouette. The whispers continued.
“Computers engaged.”
“Roger, second target entered, two missiles.”
“Engine room ready to answer all bells.”
“Navigation radar ready.”
“Course to clear the reef one-six-five.”
“Bearing, target three, one-five-three.”
“Roger, third target entered, two missiles.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“Weapons ready.”
“Fire control radar on, now.”
“We have target acquisition.”
“Five seconds.”
“We have lock.”
“Right hard rudder.”
“Weapons free.”
“Solution.”
“Green board.”
“Launch.”
“Navigation radar on.”
“All ahead flank.”
Twelve red flares, two from each DESRON 23 ship, arched gracefully into the black morning sky, signaling the launch of imaginary missiles. The radio blared as referees called out the missile targets, bearings, and ranges.
The mock battle raged. The sky, the sea, the white sand beaches of the key glowed red as wave after wave of red flares arched across the sky. It was over in less than two minutes.
It took the referees three hours on the radio to score the attack. As soon as the attack had begun, O’Toole returned to his bridge chair and his silence. The crew was being served breakfast, but Flannery stayed on the bridge to hear the results. He knew what the results would be; he just wanted to see how O’Toole would handle it. Every man aboard was walking on air except O’Toole.
Finally ready and with clipboard in hand, the Wainwright’s referee motioned to Flannery and approached O’Toole to give his report. “Commodore, I apologize for the delay. Admiral Timmons is upset.”
“I’d be upset if I let myself get butt-kicked like that. Get on with it,” O’Toole snapped.
Flannery was relieved to see O’Toole back in form.
“We gave Force Blue every benefit of the doubt. You see—”
“The results?” O’Toole prompted.
The referee shifted his feet and began reading from his clipboard. “Forrestal took eleven direct hits from the opening salvo. Status; heavily damaged and out of action.”
“Not sunk? Eleven direct hits and not sunk?” O’Toole bellowed. “Are you familiar with the explosive impact of just one missile? Are you familiar with the amount of ordnance the Forrestal carries? Do you know how small the probability is that all eleven direct hits missed her magazines?”
“I know, but Admiral Timmons—”
“Hang the admiral. The rest of the ships?”
“All sunk or sinking,” the referee said in relief.
“What’s the status of my squadron?” O’Toole asked.
“No damage. Force Blue didn’t get off a single shot,” the referee began. “Commodore, if I may, I’d like to congratulate you and your men. This is the finest coordinated attack I’ve ever seen. All the referees are in agreement. The attack was brilliant, simply outstanding.”
O’Toole jumped from his chair. “Outstanding. You call that outstanding? How many missiles were fired at the Forrestal?”
“Twelve.”
“So one missed?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing,” O’Toole bellowed. “And if it hadn’t missed, maybe you would have judged the Forrestal to be sunk. Twelve out of twelve would be outstanding. At best, I’d call this attack adequate.”
Something snapped in Flannery’s mind. Adequate? That was the kindest thing he’d ever heard O’Toole say.
“Commodore, is that a compliment?”
“Why… no… It’s a statement of fact. You met your objective. Your performance was adequate,” O’Toole said with a huff.
All eyes of the bridge crew were on him, and he could hear the phone talkers providing a whispered play-by-play to the rest of the ship. He couldn’t believe it; O’Toole was backpedaling. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he wasn’t going to let O’Toole off the hook.
“We busted our buns to get down here at flank speed in heavy seas. The cooks are still cleaning the food off the overhead. Then, in the dark, without radar, without radio, in darkened ship condition, we navigate in here blind across a maze of reefs. In water you called a puddle! We hold our position in a spot that had less water than I could get in a sponge, then we launch a near-perfect attack and wipe out an overwhelming superior force. Everyone on this ship did an outstanding job. That, sir, has to rate better than adequate.”
“Don’t push it.” O’Toole was growling. “Your tactics got a bit sloppy after the opening salvo.”
“A bit sloppy? There were twenty-four ships angling and dangling at top speed back and forth across the same patch of ocean in the dark without navigation lights. It was worse than a church parking lot after services out there.”
“All right. All right.” O’Toole was forcing his speech, as if every word hurt him. “Your ship did a… a…” The words seemed stuck in his throat, then with an explosive force, they broke free. “A damned adequate job.”
Flannery ignored the shrieks of joy behind him and shouted, “That, I’ll take as a compliment, and I’m dammed proud of the crew.”
Retreating to the bridge wing, O’Toole replied with a snort, “Me, too.”
Flannery couldn’t contain his exhilaration anymore. Satisfied O’Toole couldn’t see him, he danced a little jig to the entertainment of the bridge crew. In the distance, he heard roaring cheers spring up from various parts of the ship. Flannery had never felt prouder of his ship or his crew and, more important, he was happy for them. He looked at O’Toole standing on the bridge wing, alone.
Flannery hurried to where O’Toole stood and said, “Thank you, Commodore.”
“You have a damned fine crew.” O’Toole was speaking in the same soft voice he’d used earlier. The gruffness was gone, replaced with soft admiration.
“You’ve done an exceptional job, and you should be proud.”
O’Toole continued to stare at the horizon. Flannery searched for the right words. “Commodore, we did it because of you. It was your plan.”
O’Toole cut him off. “I didn’t do squat. It was your plan, remember? I didn’t say a word. Your crew, just like the crews of the other ships, did it. You did a good job with your crew. They did it without you, just like you did it without me.”
O’Toole, changing the subject, said, “I just received orders, and a helo will be by shortly to pick me up. In the interim, I’m making you acting squadron commander.”
O’Toole paused and pulled something from his pocket before continuing. “Sometimes good men get promoted to admiral, and their minds go to mush and they forget what’s important. Someday, you’ll make a damned fine admiral if you don’t forget what you’ve learned and if you don’t forget the men. To help you remember, I’ve got something for you.”
O’Toole held out his fist and dropped two marble-sized bearings into Flannery’s hand. Made of brass, they were cool and heavy in his hand. Baffled, Flannery asked, “What are they?”
“What every commander needs; brass balls.”
§
REKEJET RCAEKEOKDY 847362-EIEIEI-RKEKLVBB.
ZCKEEEEE
R 27 1437Z NOV 71
FM: ADMIRAL TIMMONS, COMMANDER FORCE BLUE
TO: COMDESRON23, COMMANDER FORCE RED
SUBJ: GOLDEN LANCE
BT
CLASS: UNCLASS EFTO
1. GOLDEN LANCE HAS SEVERAL MORE DAYS TO RUN. FORCE BLUE DESIRES TO REGAIN THEIR HONOR.
&n
bsp; 2. WOULD YOU CONSIDER BEST TWO OUT OF THREE.
BT
N0821
NNNN
§
REKEJET RCAEKEOKDY 847362-EIEIEI-RKEKLVBB.
ZCKEEEEE
R 27 1445Z NOV 71
FM: COMDESRON23, COMMANDER FORCE RED
TO: ADMIRAL TIMMONS, COMMANDER FORCE BLUE
SUBJ: GOLDEN LANCE
REF: A) YOUR 01 1437Z DEC 71
BT
CLASS: UNCLASS EFTO
1. IN REGARDS REF A, AGREED.
2. SEE YOU IN PANAMA.
3. TALLYHO.
4. BY COMMANDER JOHN FLANNERY, ACTING COMDESRON23.
BT
N0821
NNNN
TRUTHS
December 1971, Fairfax, VA
Operation Marathon: Day 519
To Admiral Durham, it was Independence Day. At last he was forever free of Tufly the Terrible and Scalzo the Sadist. Grudgingly, Tufly had let him have visitors and do two hours’ work a day for the past few days. He knew it tore her apart to see him happy like that, but there was nothing we could do; we had the doctor’s permission. As a going-away present, he had presented Nurse Tufly with a bound copy of the Geneva Conventions and marked the pages related to treatment of prisoners of war.
His wife had converted the downstairs den into a temporary bedroom, where she could be close during the day and he could be close to his beloved books. The room was crowded with the bed, his small desk, and the reading chairs, which made it hard for him to get around with his cast. All in all, Durham was happy to be at home and to be permitted to work a few hours a day, even though the secure phone hadn’t rung.
He hadn’t heard from O’Toole or Beetham, and not knowing what was going on was driving him to distraction. It seemed as if the Farnley had dropped off the end of the earth. As Durham had it figured, O’Toole would be talking with Stoner today, so by tonight or tomorrow, he should have information. He knew something was wrong with the Farnley, and Javert’s death kept haunting him. It was why he had gotten in the accident in the first place, and why he now had so much time to worry about it. He just wished he had the truth about what happened on the Farnley. He hoped someone would give him some information, anything; anything he could act on.
§
Pew had seen it coming and was more than prepared. At Elefsis, he’d seen Eickhoff walk out on extremely thin ice in an attempt to save Operation Marathon and his skin. As he suspected, the ice had broken under his feet, but Eickhoff didn’t know that yet, and Pew wasn’t about to throw him a lifeline. Eickhoff was beyond saving.
After the final meeting on the Farnley, he’d accompanied Lee back to Naples, and Eickhoff had flown to Palma to catch up with the America. In Naples, he’d finished his report on Eickhoff’s behavior and made copies of supporting documentation he’d carefully collected over the months. Since he didn’t know when he would need it, or to whom he would have to deliver it, he’d left the addressee and date blank.
That information Commodore Stoner supplied himself without knowing it. Pew had seen Stoner’s reaction to Eickhoff’s board of inquiry and knew when the trouble started, Stoner would be the bellwether. So while Pew finished his report, he kept in touch with the DESRON 12 yeoman, a lonely sort of clerkish fellow he’d befriended.
Last night, the contact had paid off and told him Durham had sent O’Toole in to investigate. O’Toole had already talked with Stoner and was en route to Naples, probably to speak with Lee. Pew’s contact had even supplied the arrival time for O’Toole’s MAC flight.
Prepared, Pew was satisfied with the way events were unfolding, and since he had the weekend desk watch at the operations center, he wasn’t even going to have to lose any free time. However, he did have to get up early to finish his report. When he got to his small cubicle office in the operations center, he removed the cotton ribbon from his typewriter and replaced it with the one he’d used to type the report so there would be no obvious difference in ink density on the type. He removed the report from the file, carefully registered it in the Underwood typewriter, and addressed it to Captain Patrick O’Toole, dating it the previous day.
Thirty minutes later, Pew was running across the cold rain-swept tarmac, chasing a taxiing C-130 cargo plane that had just landed. Despite the cold, he was sweating profusely from his exertion.
Pew, red-faced and panting heavily, came to a jarring halt about thirty feet behind the C-130 as the engines shut down. Still panting, Pew put his hat on and tried to straighten his uniform as best he could. With a loud, banging pop, the aft portion of the plane’s underbelly separated from the tail section. Motors groaned, and the section slowly started to lower itself into a ramp like position.
The ramp was barely halfway down when a large red-haired officer dressed in a tropical khaki uniform climbed over the cargo pallets inside the plane and jumped to the ground.
O’Toole returned Pew’s salute and walked directly up to him. Pew started to introduce himself, but the disgusted look on O’Toole’s face made him freeze. He felt as if he was being inspected.
“Who the hell are you?”
Pew rocked back on his heels but caught his balance before answering. “Lieutenant Charles Pew,” Pew said proudly.
“I know that,” O’Toole said, pointing at the name tag. “Don’t waste my time telling me something I already know. Tell me something I don’t know. Who the hell are you?”
“A… a… Sixth Fleet NATO Liaison Officer,” Pew stammered.
“I know that, too,” O’Toole said, disgusted. “Commodore Stoner told me all about a puppy dog bitch disguised as a navy lieutenant.”
“Commodore Stoner?”
O’Toole softened his voice and said, “Of course. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, there’s no way you could have known I met with Commodore Stoner yesterday, is there?”
Pew immediately recognized his mistake and corrected himself. “Yes, sir, I do know you spoke with Commodore Stoner yesterday, and that is why I’m here.”
“So tell me who are you. What do you want?”
“Commodore, as you probably already know, I’ve been Admiral Eickhoff’s aide for some time, and in good conscience, sir, I can’t go on like this. I’ve been fighting the admiral on every detail for months. I’m sorry, but I must report what I know to higher authority. And a friend, the DESRON 12 Yeoman, said you’d be the one,” Pew said, handing O’Toole the manila envelope containing his report.
“What’s this?” O’Toole asked.
“My report, sir.”
O’Toole opened the envelope far enough to read the address block and thumb through the pages. Looking at Pew, he said, “Lieutenant, I find it curious that you know my orders, know my travel arrangements, and are so willing to promptly betray your superior the second I arrive. How did you know what date to put on this report? How did you get this thirty-page report done in one day?”
This wasn’t working the way Pew had expected. “But the information in the report is valuable. It has to be worth something,” Pew said.
“To whom?”
“To the navy.”
O’Toole snorted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had truly lost his Irish temper. He couldn’t help himself, but he kept his voice calm and soft. “Pew, I think I have your number, and I make it a point to avoid people like you. Please do both of us a favor and stay out of my sight. If I see you again, so help me, I’ll have you court-martialed for impersonating an officer.”
§
Lee braced himself against the damp, piercing wind blowing off the Bay of Naples as he watched the empty liberty boat pull away from the quay wall. It was afternoon and the boats were running almost empty, but in another hour, the navy landing would be crowded with happy sailors coming ashore.
He was just about to jam his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his coat when he was startled by a deep voice coming from behind him.
“Excuse me. Mister Lee?”
Surprised to see a captain standin
g there, Lee turned and saluted.
“Yes, sir, I’m the landing officer. What can I do for you?”
The red-headed captain returned the salute and seemed equally startled as he looked down on the grinning young officer. “You’re Lee?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry,” O’Toole began. “From what I have heard about you, I thought you would be a lot taller. My name is O’Toole. I’d like to talk to you about the Farnley.”
Lee’s brow tightened, and his black eyes flashed at O’Toole.
“I’m sorry, Captain, I don’t see what good that can do. I don’t want to make a fuss or go outside of channels. You may not know, but I have a preliminary hearing next week on my request for a full court-martial. I just want to keep this clean.”
O’Toole recognized the betrayed look in Lee’s eyes and fought to maintain eye contact despite Lee’s searing gaze. “I know. I just spent an hour listening to half of the Judge Advocate’s office bitch about the case of heartburn you’ve given them. Not many junior officers have the guts to take on a fleet commander.” O’Toole’s voice contained a touch of admiration.
“I just want what’s right,” Lee replied.
“So I’ve guessed. Yesterday I was with Commodore Stoner, and he let me read copies of your engineering logs. They were interesting, to say the least. Tomorrow I’m taking the train to Genoa to meet the Farnley. I’d like to talk with you.”
“I don’t know what good it could do,” Lee replied softly without altering his penetrating stare.
O’Toole could stand it no longer and looked away from Lee toward the harbor. With a sigh, he said, “I understand, and I don’t blame you.”
“Who are you, sir?” Lee asked.
O’Toole watched a blue and white fishing smack entering the harbor for a few seconds before answering, “I can’t tell you, but I’m not connected with Admiral Eickhoff nor your court-martial proceedings.”
The smack disappeared from sight, and O’Toole turned to look directly into Lee’s eyes. “I already know a great deal about you. You’re gutsy as well as unorthodox. You’re resourceful. Some call that wrong. I call that Yankee ingenuity. I think you’re a man of conviction, and from what I know now, you sound like a damn fine officer. You want what’s right. I want the truth. In my book, that puts us on the same side. Where does that put us in your book?”
The Marathon Watch Page 26