The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  “EW,” he said, “what are you showing out there?”

  “Sir, we’re getting sporadic hits from that ship approaching us. Looks like a Russian merchant. Captain. The computer identifies the contact’s navigational radar as a Don Kay. That radar has been around since the 1960s, but a lot of ships still use them.”

  Cafferty took a sip of coffee.

  “Let me know when it pops up again.” The radar has been around longer than that, young lady, thought Cafferty.

  “Captain, he’s popped up again! Either he’s increased his power or we are sailing into a ducting zone.”

  Cafferty spun around to the surface search radar operator.

  “What do you show on the contact?” he asked, half listening to the reply as he seethed over the comms snafu.

  God! With the exception of him, did imbeciles man this ship?

  “Captain, he’s about thirty miles from us. Still constant bearing, decreasing range — CBDR. When we altered course slightly about an hour ago seems he did too.”

  “Why would he do that, I wonder?” the captain asked aloud. This was the second time he’d had problems with the COMMO. He may have to relieve him.

  “Don’t know, sir, but we have a solid ping on him.” The operator stopped.

  “Damn!”

  “What?” the captain asked. Lieutenant Howard moved to the console and leaned over the operator’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” the CICWO asked.

  “There must be two of them. I don’t know why … No!

  It’s not two. I have video separation,” he said, his voice trembling. He shook his head.

  “Captain, I don’t know if I’m right. I’ve only seen this during exercises, but it looks like a possible missile separation from the contact!”

  Cafferty’s attention was contracting to Combat as he shoved the comms issue to the back burner.

  “Inbound missile!” shouted the EW from her console.

  “Styx, surface-to-surface missile class two Charlie!”

  “Can’t be. Check your systems!” ordered Lieutenant Howard.

  “Stay calm, everyone,” Cafferty said.

  “Check your data again.”

  The captain set his cup in the holder on the arm of the chair. A cold chill flew up Cafferty’s back and down his arms. He tried to swallow and found his mouth dry. He took a deep gulp of hot coffee, burning his lips as the scalding liquid brought tears to his eyes. He cleared his throat.

  “Combat, this is the captain. I have command.” He surprised himself with how calm his voice sounded. Cafferty licked his lips, soothing the burn.

  “Lieutenant, sound General Quarters! EW, activate automatic electronic countermeasures system. Surface search, time to impact?” A bogus call, most likely. God! He hoped so. No comms and him with a lax ship. Damn good thing he knew what he was doing! If it was bogus, at least today’s GQ drill would be done and out of the way. He reached up and stroked the back of his neck. But what if it wasn’t?

  Unconsciously, Cafferty crossed his fingers.

  “Sir, missile inbound thirteen miles separation from contact.

  Two point seven minutes to Gearing, sir.” Bogus radar video was common at sea. Cafferty ran his hand through his shaggy red hair. The Gulf of Sidra was notorious for ducting and radar ghosts. That’s probably all this was. Cafferty leaned toward the surface search operator, waiting for him to report the video fading … disappearing.

  Tears ran down the young man’s pale cheeks.

  “Stop that.”

  The hot, windless weather of the past two days, and the early morning changes daybreak brought, lent itself to electromagnetic phenomena.

  “Lock-on! Captain! The missile has locked on us!” yelled the EW.

  A fresh wave of chill bumps raced up his body.

  “Radar!” Cafferty yelled.

  “Video remains inbound. Captain. Speed four hundred knots.”

  The radar return wasn’t fading. A deep sigh escaped Cafferty, like the last breath of a dying man, as he realized this was no drill and no bogus signal. The bongs sounding General Quarters brought home the solitude of command.

  This was not a war game in Newport, Rhode Island.

  It wasn’t the Reet Trainer at Dam Neck, Virginia. It was not even an exercise — the few the Navy could afford — off the Virginia Capes area near Norfolk. It was the real thing.

  He wanted to disbelieve what the information in Combat showed. Years of training rose easily from the recesses of his mind, surprising Cafferty that he was able to recall it so easily, considering the fear that threatened to break out and disrupt his countenance. He took a couple of deep breaths and felt a strange calm descend over him. No second chances. Only a few hundred miles from where America had fought the Barbary wars. His decisions would determine whether the ship lived or died. He uncrossed his fingers. “Fire Control, I want a solution on the ship. Lieutenant Howard, man your weapons systems.”

  Sailors piled into Combat, some half dressed, others carrying their shoes in their hands. All bitching about being roused from their beds for a drill.

  “It’s not a drill!” Lieutenant Howard shouted.

  Sailors momentarily stopped. Then, with a burst of adrenaline-fed energy, dove for their General Quarters stations.

  Two minutes since GQ sounded and the USS Gearing was manned and bristling for war.

  Cafferty pressed the intercom.

  “Bridge, Captain; we have an inbound missile; I want flank speed, hard to port, steady on three one zero. Keep us heading north, away from the Libyan coast and further into international waters.”

  “Captain, this is the XO, I have the conn. Hard to port, we are coming to flank speed, course three one zero,” the XO repeated.

  “XO, get us out of here. We want to close the Harriers.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The USS Gearing shook, vibrating as the noise of an explosion shook the ship. Cafferty grabbed the arm of the chair to keep from being thrown onto the deck. Others picked themselves up. Frightened glances were exchanged among those in Combat. The lack of comms meant they were no longer in the Network Centric Warfare grid. The DD-21 was designed to fight with multiple ships, not alone.

  “I thought you said three minutes!” he shouted at the surface search operator.

  “That’s one more minute!” But it could fight alone if it had to.

  “Captain, it’s still inbound! That wasn’t the missile.”

  “Combat, Damage Control; torpedo hit starboard side!”

  A speaker overhead interrupted. “Combat, this is ASW, we have a second highspeed prop, probably torpedo, bearing one niner zero.”

  “Combat, Damage Control; we have taken a torpedo hit aft, starboard side. Main engine room number one flooding.

  Securing engines in MER number one! Fire in compartment two dash two six one dash two. Damage control teams responding.”

  “Do we have a firing solution on that ship?” Cafferty felt the ship slowing as MER number one wound down.

  “Yes, sir, coming through … now! Got it. Captain! I have two Harpoons targeted on the attacking vessel.”

  “Fire, goddamn it, fire!”

  The USS Gearing shook again as the antiship cruise missiles blasted upward from the vertical launch systems on the bow. The noise vibrated the forward half-inch aluminum bulkhead as the Harpoon missiles on the other side of it sped off toward the attacking surface vessel.

  “Combat, this is ASW; we have another pair of fast props in the water, bearing one niner two degrees — probable torpedoes. Signal-to-noise ratio increasing in intensity.

  Total torpedoes in the water three. I repeat, three torpedoes in the water!” The voice cracked slightly.

  “Torpedo noise fading into our baffles, sir!”

  “Launch decoys, ASW!” Cafferty ordered. Then, he turned quickly to the CICWO.

  “Lieutenant, fire two over the-side torpedoes down the line of bearing of those inbound torpedoes!”

  �
��Sir, I don’t have a target!”

  “I don’t give a shit! Enable the torpedoes as they’re fired. Let them search in auto. I want two away ASAP! If they don’t do anything else but scare the shit out of that submarine, at least they’ll be doing something!”

  The ship lurched to port as the two remaining turbine engines in MER number two fought to give the DD-21 electric drive the extra power needed to bring Gearing around in time to free the starboard CIWS — the last-ditch weapon to stop the inbound missile.

  “This is the starboard bridge watch, I see it! I see it!

  It’s coming over the horizon now! Gawldamn! Ain’t never seen a black contrail! That missile is coming right at us!”

  The sound of Super RBOC, launching its canisters of chaff clouds, echoed through the ship as millions of pieces of small aluminum strips seeded the air to cloud the targeting electronics of the inbound missile.

  The loud automatic rapid fire of the CIWS echoed through the ship.

  “CIWS is hitting the missile!” the lookout shouted through her sound-powered phone.

  “It ain’t working!”

  “I have another video separation. Second missile launched. Time to impact estimated at three minutes forty-five seconds. Threat has increased speed to twenty-five knots!”

  The loud roar of a rocket engine penetrated the darkened compartment. The impact knocked everyone to the deck as the missile tore into the USS Gearing.

  “Combat, Bridge; missile hit starboard side aft at the waterline. Directly under the five-inch sixty-two gun mount.

  Heavy smoke coming from … from where it hit.”

  A flashing red light on the naval gunfire system console confirmed the report from the bridge. The aft five inch gun was out of action.

  “Aft gun out!”

  “Combat, ASW; torpedo impact in thirty seconds! Decoys in the water.”

  “LAMPs, this is Combat. Are you ready to launch?”

  Cafferty shouted into the intercom.

  No answer came.

  “Combat, this is ASW. First torpedo decoyed. Prop noise fading. Decoy two in the water, NIXIE streamed.” NIXIE was a small noise-making device, towed behind the destroyer, that emitted sounds into the water designed to confuse and decoy a torpedo.

  “Captain!” Lieutenant Howard shouted.

  “Two torpedoes away. We’re reloading torps for another shot!”

  “Give me another firing solution on that ship.”

  “Captain, two Harriers heading our way! Goddamn, get your asses down here. Marines!” shouted the air search operator.

  A flurry of activity followed, with the operator flipping switches and turning knobs. The air search operator leaned back, looked at the radar console, and shook his head as he pulled himself forward before shouting, “Captain, something’s not right about those Harriers! They’re at Mach one point two according to the computer! Harriers can’t go that fast!”

  The ship shook as the port engine went full astern. The USS Gearing twisted to port. The sea behind the ship churned like boiling water, creating a hard knuckle to decoy the torpedoes. Cafferty mentally congratulated the XO-smart thinking. He felt the port engine switching back to all ahead flank. Without engines number one and three from main engine room number one, the USS Gearing had only its port turbines to provide the power to fight the ship.

  “Passing course zero two zero!” announced the bridge.

  Cafferty glanced at the surface radar. They were twenty five miles north of the Libyan coast and still headed north.

  “I show High Lark radar bearing three three zero!”

  shouted the EW operator.

  “High Lark?”

  “Mig-23 Hoggers, sir.”

  “Can’t be!” Cafferty yelled in disbelief.

  “They’re Harriers!”

  “Combat, Bridge; coming to course zero double zero.”

  “System may be lying. Captain, but it’s been right so far!” the EW operator shouted, her voice sounding almost apologetic.

  “Combat, this is Damage Control. Fire from the torpedo hit contained. Flooding continues. Missile penetrated frames two three zero at the waterline.” A momentary pause occurred.

  “Captain, the missile hit women’s berthing. There are casualties.”

  Every berthing area had a damage control watch assigned during General Quarters, plus there would always be one or two who were slower than the rest to respond to General Quarters. He looked at the clock: three minutes since GQ was sounded.

  “Combat, Bridge; Captain, recommend base course zero zero zero!”

  “Lieutenant, I want firing solution on those inbound aircraft.

  Automate CIWS.” Cafferty hit the button on the speaker.

  “XO, Captain; base course zero zero zero.”

  “Steadying course zero zero zero. Commencing evasive maneuvers.”

  “CIWS is automated, sir. Been automated since we turned on track.”

  “EW, are you sure they’re Migs?”

  “Captain, I’m as positive as the tits on my chest!”

  “You’re flat-chested. Murphy!” someone shouted from the shadows.

  “Shut up!” the CICWO yelled.

  “They are definitely not ours,” Murphy said. She reached up and patted the AN/SLQ-32 console.

  “We are definitely right!”

  “XO, commence zigzag maneuvers. Make those fucking pilots earn their flight pay!”

  “Commencing zigzag; base course zero zero zero.” The USS Gearing lurched to port, causing the surface plotter to lose his balance and fall, as the ship zigzagged at nineteen knots.

  “Radio, Combat! Have you got the Navy Blue out yet?”

  “No, sir. Captain. We still don’t have comms He flipped off Radio.

  “Aircraft inbound three minutes. Captain.”

  “Missile impact in one minute!”

  “Bridge, Combat; we have another inbound missile starboard side. I want max speed. Bring her up to twenty-nine knots and hold her there.”

  “Bridge, Chief Engineer; Captain, we have lost main engines one and three to torpedo damage! I only have two and four. I can’t give you more than the twenty knots you’ve got without damaging the shaft or seizing the engines.”

  “Chief Engineer, if we don’t get out of this, your engines will be the least of our worries! Now give me all you got. Put her in the red if you have to, but give me speed until she seizes or blows up, and if she does, get your crew out there with paddles. But give me speed!”

  “Bridge, this is the aft lookout; I have two aircraft approaching relative two niner zero. Large contrails. Looks like afterburners on. They’re leaving a gray trail behind them! Look like Mig-23s.”

  The ship shuddered as it heeled full left to uncover the CIWS and bring both it and the forward five-inch sixty two gun to bear against the attacking aircraft.

  “Lieutenant, fire the five-inch. I want proximity rounds, seeding the flight path at hundred-feet intervals. Cloud that area with shrapnel!”

  * * *

  The Styx missile penetrated the one-inch-thin aluminum frame before exploding inside women’s berthing.

  The unused liquid fuel splattered, flooding the compartment. Two milliseconds later, the exhaust ignited the remainder of the liquid fuel, turning it into a napalm like inferno, sticking to the skin, baking two sailors scrambling from the compartment for their General Quarters stations and who were a minute slower than their shipmates. The explosion, ten milliseconds later, killed them before nerves could register the pain of their skin burning away. Oxygen was sucked from both compartments to feed the furnace.

  The ocean rushed in, right behind the missile; then, blown back by the explosion, it pored in with a vengeance through a larger hole, pushing burning fuel against the bulkhead and deeper into the ship.

  Women’s berthing was divided into port and starboard compartments. The two slow ones died in the starboard compartment from the impact and explosion. Three seconds later, burning fuel rolled on top o
f the water through the connecting hatch into the port compartment, catching the GQ berthing watch as she ran, turning her dungarees into a funeral pyre, her sound-powered phones ripped from her ears. Her screams were cut short as burning fuel filled her lungs, evaporating them. She fell, eyes wide with terror and still alive, unable to scream, as the sea rushed over her, extinguishing the fire. Two seconds later she mercifully died.

  Twenty seconds later, diminished oxygen and rushing waters smothered the fire. The flames sputtered out, leaving hot black smoke rolling within the compartment like an angry Tennessee storm, blinding two survivors who were in the head when the missile struck. The blast slammed the door shut, sealing the bathroom from the inferno outside and saving their lives.

  On the level above, a third class petty officer pulled himself to his feet and rushed to close the watertight door. The wire trailing from his sound-powered phone jerked him up short as he reached the door, nearly knocking him off his feet. He jerked them off and tossed them aside before throwing himself to the deck and sticking his head inside the compartment. Smoke poured out, sending him into a spasm of choking and coughing as he pulled back. Rubbing his eyes, he shouted for anyone in there to come out.

  A quick flash of flame erupted through the hatch, singeing off hair on his head and hands. His long dungaree shirtsleeves protected his arms and the top button-buttoned — kept the heat away from his chest. His face and hands looked as if he had suffered bad sunburn. He’d live.

  The smoke began to taper off as the fire burned itself out.

  He continued calling and refused to shut the watertight door.

  The warrant officer slid down the ladder, saw the damage below, and shouted, “Shut this damn hatch! You want to sink the ship? And put that fucking phone back on and tell Damage Control what’s happened.” Then the warrant jumped through the smoke-filled hatch, feet first, into the water below. Shaking the water from her head, the warrant looked up, smoke obscuring her face; the water was waist high and rising.

  “I said shut the hatch, sailor!”

  “But, Warrant!” he protested, as he fumbled with the headset.

  “Dammit, sailor. I’ll be all right if you’ll just shut the hatch! Now, tell Damage Control what’s going on. You can do it.” Without waiting for a reply the Gearing’s only warrant officer grabbed a nearby bunk and pulled herself forward into the smoke and waded out of sight.