The Marathon Watch

by Laswell, Lawrence K

  §

  Startled by the sharp clap of plastic on plastic, Pew jumped and examined the phone until the ringing subsided from the phone’s equally startled bells. O’Toole had slammed the phone back down on the cradle with such force, Pew couldn’t believe the phone hadn’t cracked like an egg.

  O’Toole spun away from the counter in the communications center and scowled at the ceiling. “Balls.”

  Pew had listened intently to O’Toole’s half of his conversation with Admiral Durham. O’Toole, who had done most of the talking, started with an amazingly accurate summary of Eickhoff’s handling of the Farnley. Pew hadn’t been able to discern a single word of opinion or judgment in O’Toole’s brief summary. Then the conversation changed.

  O’Toole became agitated and yelled, “No,” and “Damn it, Ron,” into the phone several times, then concluded with a “Yes, sir,” before trying to demolish the phone.

  The conversation had been strange and nothing like what Pew had expected. He guessed that sooner or later it would be over for Admiral Eickhoff, but he didn’t know when or why. What really troubled him was that he had no idea of where he stood.

  “What do we do next, sir?” Pew asked.

  “We? I’m going to the America. You get me a helicopter ASAP and a secure radio link to the America’s captain.”

  “Why?” Pew asked, hoping O’Toole would let him know what was afoot.

  “‘Cause, damn it, when you’re in command, you command.”

  §

  Hayes was disoriented in the heavy seas. He’d frantically spun around several times, tangling himself in the safety line trying to find either the Farnley or Morrison, but ever-moving mountains of water blocked his view. Without a reference point, he didn’t know which way to swim to find Morrison. He knew he would have to think this out.

  From his water-level vantage point, the Farnley would only be visible for a few seconds at a time as she rose and fell from peak to trough. Spinning around was counterproductive.

  Carefully, he untangled the safety line, turned in the direction he thought the Farnley would be, and waited. Staying steady in the heavy seas was almost impossible. His body was shoved up, down, forward, and backward as the sea tossed him about. After what seemed an eternity, he heard a sickening sucking sound behind him.

  Hayes turned and watched the port side of the Farnley’s airborne stern, her half-exposed screws chopping at the surface, fall back into the sea not ten feet from him.

  §

  Meyers and Biron caught a glimpse of Hayes as the surge of water from the falling stern threw him clear of the ship. “He’s lost it. He can’t tell where he is,” Biron yelled.

  Meyers thought for a second, then grabbed Sweeney’s arm. “Get me a line gun, then stand by the ship’s whistle.” Then to Biron he said, “Hold your position. You’re sliding past them.”

  §

  Biron knew it. He was in a box. With Hayes in the water, he couldn’t go around again. If he stopped his forward motion, he would lose control; he had to keep the bow into the sea. The only option was unthinkable, impossible; ships weren’t designed for it, especially not in these seas. Backing down was madness.

  “Man in the water five-five minutes. Survival time remaining five minutes.

  “All back flank,” he ordered.

  §

  Meyers took the shotgun-like line gun from Sweeney, checked the throwing ball and the large metal rod attached to it. Satisfied, he inserted the rod into the barrel and checked that the line was safely coiled on deck. Shouldering the gun, he guessed the windage and readjusted his aim when he got a glimpse of Morrison. With his peripheral vision, he watched for Hayes; the men couldn’t be more than forty feet apart. When the men were abeam, he shouted, “Lay on the whistle, Sweeney.”

  Meyers held his aim steady, then in the split second both men were visible, pulled the trigger.

  §

  Hayes had to get to Morrison quick. He was shivering and he sensed he was losing muscle control. Hypothermia was setting in. How do I do this? Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the Farnley, but he hadn’t been able to locate Morrison. He heard a deep-throated sound barely audible over the wind to his right and turned to see what it was. In an instant, the Farnley appeared, there was a white puff of smoke from the bridge wing, and a thin red line streaked through the air toward him. He watched the wind curve the line and drive the large white throwing ball into the sea. He realized they weren’t shooting at him; they were pointing. He kicked with his legs and began swimming as hard as he could toward the line.

  After swimming what he thought was twenty feet, Hayes came up for air. On the peak of one of the swells, he saw a head and started swimming uphill toward it. When he came up for air again, he was on top of the swell and Morrison was in the valley. In a frantic effort, Hayes plunged his head back into the sea and swam downhill as fast as he could. He tuned his senses to the motion of the sea. When the sea was lifting him, rather than swim uphill, he rested. At the crest, he spotted Morrison and plunged ahead, tearing at the sea with his arms.

  Each time he tried to swim faster, but his strength was diminishing and his arms were growing heavy. Spray lashed at his face when he came up for air. Water filled his mouth and caught in his lungs. He fought the urge to cough and kept forcing his arms through the sea.

  He hit something. It was Morrison’s shoulder. Hayes lifted his head and spun the fighting man toward him. Morrison had a large gash across his forehead and was still bleeding. Arms thrashing, Morrison kept fighting the sea and Hayes.

  Hayes screamed at him, “Hey, the food isn’t that bad.” Hayes felt foolish for saying that, but it had the desired effect. He saw a faint glimmer of recognition in Morrison’s unfocused eyes.

  Morrison coughed weakly and said something that Hayes couldn’t hear, then Morrison reached for him like a baby and passively submitted to Hayes’ care.

  Hayes clamped the limp body to him with one arm and rolled over onto his back, sending both men under the surface. With the other hand, he snapped the eye hook over Morrison’s belt. Satisfied the sea couldn’t separate them, he twisted their bodies upright. Hayes pulled the outer life jacket over his head and placed it over Morrison. After snapping the loose straps around Morrison’s chest, he yanked the lanyards that automatically inflated both their vests.

  There was a tug on the safety line pulling him through the sea, but he ignored it. With the two remaining lines, he lashed their bodies together. With the last knot secure, he looked back at Morrison’s flaccid face. “We got you now,” Hayes said, wondering if Morrison heard him.

  Hayes wrapped his arms around Morrison, hugging him tightly in a wrestler’s grip. He had no idea where the Farnley was, but the reassuring steady tug, tug, tug of the safety line told him they were safe. The sea couldn’t have him. He was one of them. They had him now.

  §

  RTEEKYT RUEKLEJCXY 158254-EIEIEI-RAMNDESB.

  SNEERER

  R 05 0942Z DEC 71

  FM: USS FARNLEY

  TO: COMDESRON12

  INFO: COMSIXTHFLT

  REF: A) MY 05 0832Z DEC 71

  SUBJ: SIT REP MAN OVERBOARD

  BT

  CLASS: UNCLASS

  MAN OVERBOARD REF A. IDENTIFIED AS F.A. MORRISON, MICHAEL M. USN (689 24 5862), RESCUED 0925Z.

  SAME NAMED MAN CONDITION CRITICAL, HYPOTHERMIA, SEVERE LACERATIONS HEAD, LEFT SHOULDER, LEFT LEG. SKULL FRACTURE PROBABLE. EMERGENCY SURGERY UNDER WAY BY SHIP’S CORPSMAN.

  INJURIES: MCMM ROSS, JAMES, A. USN (291 48 2398) BROKEN ANKLE. MM3 STUCKY, ROBERT, C. USN (868 37 9677) CONCUSSION, SEVERE HEAD LACERATION. NUMEROUS OTHER MINOR INJURIES. FULL EXTENT UNKNOWN. WILL ADVISE.

  PROCEEDING CAGLIARI. REQUEST MEDICAL EVAC AND ASSISTANCE NEUROSURGEON.

  WILL ADVISE ETA.

  LAT 40 01 15 NORTH

  LON 12 32 45 EAST

  COURSE 272

  SPEED 7

  BT

  N4586

  §

&nbs
p; The America’s captain was on the radio with O’Toole for less than two minutes, and now he had two hours of work to do in addition to making preparations for receiving a helicopter on a damnable day like today. It wasn’t until after he notified flight operations that he made the connection.

  He’d briefly met O’Toole years ago, and the stories he had heard painted O’Toole as a man with a blunt bow and a deep draft who cut a wide, straight wake. The conversation with O’Toole gave no clue where he was headed, but it was clear he was coming aboard the America at flank speed.

  He was waiting for O’Toole on the rain-swept flight deck. As soon as O’Toole stepped from the helicopter, it was a chase to keep up with him.

  Upon reaching flag quarters, O’Toole blew past the first marine guard. The second almost got run over as he tried to intervene. O’Toole stopped and said, “Better get a security detail up here on the double. You’re going to need reinforcements,” before bolting through the door and charging Admiral Eickhoff’s desk.

  Admiral Eickhoff’s face went blank at the sight of O’Toole. “What—” he blurted.

  “Three things,” O’Toole began, leaning over Eickhoff’s desk so they were at equal eye level. “First, I just pulled the Farnley out of Operation Marathon.”

  Eickhoff jumped to his feet. “You can’t do that. She’s assigned to Sixth Fleet. You don’t have the authority.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, and don’t make me repeat myself. Second, Admiral Durham wants you back in Washington within forty-eight hours. I think he wants to talk to you over a long green table with no coffee cups or ashtrays at your end.”

  Eickhoff didn’t seem to hear O’Toole’s last words due to the commotion caused by five marines dressed in battle fatigues storming through the door, M-16s at the ready.

  “What is the meaning of this outrage?” Eickhoff screamed.

  “Tell your men to stand at ease,” O’Toole said to the lieutenant leading the squad.

  O’Toole continued without interruption. “Three, there’s a chopper leaving in fifteen minutes. I want your ass off my flagship. Start packing. Be on it.”

  Eickhoff took several deep breaths that seemed to deepen the redness in his face. He started to speak, then stopped. After a second, he looked quizzically at O’Toole. “Your flagship?”

  O’Toole nodded.

  “You can’t do that. You’re only a captain. You’re overstepping your bounds, O’Toole. You’ll pay.”

  “Yes he can, and no he isn’t,” came a voice near the door. The Sixth Fleet chief of staff pushed his way through the line of marines.

  Turning to his former chief of staff, Eickhoff asked, “What in the hell’s going on here?”

  The officer, while trying to contain a smile, casually tossed the messages onto the desk and said, “We just got the orders from the CNO. O’Toole has been appointed to the temporary rank of rear admiral, and he’s to relieve you immediately.”

  Eickhoff rocked back on his heels and stepped back from the desk a bit. “You… you and Durham plotted this to get me. It won’t work because I have friends on Capitol Hill who will make mincemeat out of you two.”

  “You’re wasting time, Admiral,” O’Toole began. “If you don’t get packing, so help me, I’ll stuff you into a duffel, label it third class M-A-L-E, and ship your butt home. Or maybe I should make you swim back like you wanted that boy on the Farnley to do.”

  “You may have been promoted to rear admiral, but I still have seniority. You can’t order me around.”

  “Excuse me, Admiral Eickhoff,” the chief of staff said while pointing to messages on the desk, “but there are three messages sent one minute apart. The first appoints O’Toole to rear admiral, the second relieves you of command, and the third promotes Rear Admiral O’Toole to vice admiral. He outranks you, sir.” The chief-of-staff was smiling.

  “What?” O’Toole bellowed, snatching the message forms. “I could’ve handled this.”

  The chief of staff addressed O’Toole. “Welcome to Sixth Fleet, Admiral. Congratulations, congratulations, and congratulations.”

  O’Toole looked at the chief-of-staff for a long second, then turned a complete three-sixty to take in the entire quarters complex. With a look of dismay, O’Toole turned toward his chief-of-staff and said, “Please don’t call me admiral. It’s only temporary.” Then to the marine officer he said, “Are you familiar with the regulations regarding the handling of senior officers as prisoners?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then ignore them. I want him,” O’Toole said, pointing at Eickhoff, “on the chopper when it leaves. I don’t care how. Stuff him into a fart sack, carry him, put him in irons, whatever it takes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Toole motioned toward the door and ushered everyone out except Eickhoff and the marines. Just as O’Toole was about to shut the door behind him, Eickhoff screamed at the marines to leave. O’Toole paused and watched the marines snap to attention.

  The officer stepped forward and addressed Eickhoff. “It will take us two minutes to get to the flight deck, Admiral. You have twelve minutes left. Do you need assistance packing?”

  O’Toole clicked the door shut and said, “Damned adequate lot, those marines.”

  §

  RTEJJYT RKJKKEWOTY 0458567-IEIEI-RKJJCESB.

  ZYYEEEEE

  R 05 1015Z DEC 71

  FM: COMSIXTHFLT

  TO: USS FARNLEY

  REF: A) YOUR 05 0932Z DEC 71

  SUBJ: WELL DONE

  BT

  CLASS: UNCLASS

  CAN DO MEDICAL ASSISTANCE REQUESTED REF A. MOVEMENT CAGLIARI APPROVED.

  ADVISE MEN OF FARNLEY MY DEEPEST ADMIRATION THEIR MOST ADEQUATE PERFORMANCE.

  MY PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU. WISH I WAS ABOARD. GOD’S SPEED. O’TOOLE.

  BT

  N4761

  NNNN

  EAGLE OF THE SEA

  December 1971, Tyrrhenian Sea, 132 miles East-northeast of Cagliari, Sardinia

  Operation Marathon: Day 522

  With the ship still at general quarters, Biron had brought the bow back into the sea, and she was proceeding toward Sardinia at seven knots. It was the smoothest ride they could give the corpsman who was trying to stitch up Morrison’s wounds. Morrison had lost a lot of blood, and thirty blood donors were lined up outside the wardroom.

  On the bridge, everything was soaked, and men were wet and cold, but pride had pushed broad smiles out through the shivers. Replacements would be up shortly to give the bridge crew a chance to warm up and change into dry clothes. Biron knew the crew thought the battle was won, but it was only half over.

  He’d looked at the charts. Their situation was hopeless. They were dead center between Naples, Rome, Cagliari, Obia, and Palermo. With the heavy seas, there was no way they could make any port by nightfall, and entering any port at night, or attempting a helicopter rescue, would be suicide in these seas. He couldn’t figure out why Meyers chose Cagliari as their port. The harbor entrance was treacherous even in good weather. Perhaps the storm would blow over by dawn. He hoped Morrison could hold on that long.

  Dry, fresh replacements for the bridge crew were straggling onto the bridge when Meyers stormed back through the door and yelled at Biron, “Bring us to twenty-five knots, course two-six-zero.”

  Biron looked at the fierce storm and in disbelief said, “Captain, she can’t take it at that speed. These seas will break her apart.”

  Meyers, looking at Biron, said in a calm voice, “The corpsman says we have to get Morrison into surgery in no less than twelve hours. We only have six hours of daylight left, and we have to be in Cagliari by then. The storm is coming from the west. If we hug the shore, we should be able to stay in the lee of the land; then we can make some time. Besides they built our lady at Bath Iron Works. Back then they built ships that were more like floating tanks. Your speed is twenty-five knots, Mister Biron.”

  §

  Like it or not, O’Toole r
esigned himself to being an admiral temporarily and turned his efforts to fulfilling the responsibilities he’d been given. He returned to the Naples air base and set up a temporary office. His desk was cluttered with intelligence reports, political evaluations, ship schedules, and background information. As he scanned the material, he listened to Pew babble on about all the problems he was having lining up aircraft and finding a neurosurgeon. Pew was now his problem; not a totally unpleasant thought.

  In the stack of paper, O’Toole had run across a routine administrative message from CINCLANTFLT advising ships returning to Norfolk of the scheduled sewer repair. Major sections of the base would be inaccessible. Pee-yoo. There was no time like the present.

  “Pew,” O’Toole began in a friendly voice, “I believe the navy should use the talents of its men to full advantage, and I think you’re being underutilized. You seem like a man who is good at making connections, a man who would be good at cleaning up little stinks. I also think you’re a man of ultimate discretion who would work well underground to help clean up little messes that admirals might make. Is that a fair assessment?”

  “Well, that depends on what you have in mind.”

  “Can’t tell you much, don’t really know much about it, but the position is on the staff of CINCLANTFLT. It’s an underground operation, and if you do a good job, every senior officer in Norfolk will be beholden to you.”

  “A fixer? Clean thing ups, make the right connections, and make sure everything is smoothed over? Reporting to CINCLANTFLEET?” Pew asked.

  “Exactly,” O’Toole smiled, then continued, “If you want the job, I’ll make a few calls, and I’m sure it’s yours.”

  Pew nodded, obviously not believing his luck.

  “Good. I’ll make the arrangements,” O’Toole said, widening his grin. “You’ll have orders within the week.”

  The next order of business was Lee. “Speaking of orders, find Mr. Lee and get him in here. I’m cutting him new orders and transferring him back to the Farnley.

  §

  Biron had thought it would be headlong suicide, like the charge of the Light Brigade. With unimaginable ferocity, the sea threw volley upon volley of waves at them, but with bone-crunching determination, the Farnley kept charging through the seas. It seemed the bow was airborne most of the time. Each wave she hit exploded with a teeth-jarring thud, then she would charge forward into the next one. It was impossible to see what was going on. The windows were constantly covered with a wave or spray. His only guide was the radar that showed the Sardinia coast twenty miles ahead.