Engage at Dawn: First Contact

by Edward Hochsmann

  “Yes, sir,” Bondurant replied. He picked up the microphone for Kauai’s public-address system and announced, “Now, General Quarters, General Quarters, set Condition 1 for gunnery exercise.” He then pulled the handle on the GQ alarm, starting a 20-second repeating gong sound. Crew members began moving briskly to their GQ stations, putting on helmets and survival gear and, with the topside personnel, light body armor. Ben quickly appeared and relieved Bondurant as OOD, allowing him to leave for his GQ station on the boat deck.

  Sam watched the quick transition of his cutter from peacetime cruising to combat-ready with satisfaction. He hid a smile while he saw Hopkins patiently helping Deffler to get into his battle gear. Simmons had brought his own body armor but wore a loaner helmet and survival vest. Typically, Sam would not have had “visitors” on the already crowded Bridge during GQ. However, he wanted Simmons to have a good understanding of Kauai’s combat capability, and Deffler was piloting the airborne Puma.

  “OOD,” Sam called over as Ben settled in and completed a radar check and circle round with the binoculars. “When the fantail station reports manned and ready, have them launch targets at two-minute intervals.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The targets Sam referred to were small wooden boxes containing an inflated beach ball and rigged with a stone weight on one side and a plastic flag on the other. The ball would hold the box afloat even with leaks, and the weight would keep the flag upright, improving the visibility of the target. Drake supervised the construction of a dozen targets this morning to prepare for the shoot.

  “Captain, the first target is away,” Ben announced after the deck crew dropped the first target buoy off the stern of the boat.

  “Thank you. Hold this course until the last one goes over, then give me a wide turn course reversal to starboard. Put us about 500 yards off parallel to the target line at five knots. We’ll take the first six with the 25. Then close to 100 yards to finish the others with the 50s and small arms.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Sam glanced across to see Hopkins huddled with Deffler at the UAV control station while the latter tracked the targets with the Puma. “XO, a word please,” Sam called as he stepped out on to the bridge wing.

  “Yes, sir?” Ben said when he caught up.

  “XO, I’d like you to get in some shooting with an M4 and pistol, at least two mags each.”

  “Very good, sir. May I ask why?”

  “Our guest implied that we would need to go ashore, despite our newfound air capability. When that happens, I’ll need you to go to keep an eye on him, but this time you’ll be properly equipped. I think it’s been about six months since you’ve been to the range?”

  “More like eight.”

  “Ever shoot the M4 in automatic?”

  “No, sir, the range monkeys wouldn’t have it.”

  “Do it today.” Sam nodded. “I want you comfortable with that weapon in all modes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben grinned. “This secret agent gig has perks.”

  “Before you get too giddy, think beyond the sale a bit.”

  “Sir?”

  Sam fixed on Ben’s eyes. “I’m making sure you’re ready to use them because your life may depend on it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ◆◆◆

  “Surface action starboard,” Sam declared. “Target is the floating buoy bearing 085 relative.”

  Kauai's armament included the latest model 25mm chain gun—a testbed installation of the new versions fitted to the latest ships. Williams controlled Kauai’s gun from a compact control station on the Bridge. Its electro-optical and infrared gun sights and its gyro-stabilization made it deadly even in rough weather.

  “Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking,” Williams announced, with 25mm’s electro-optical gun sight centered on the target buoy. Although challenging to see with the naked eye from 500 yards, Williams had no problem tracking the target with the gun sight.

  “OOD, is the range clear?” Sam called over to Ben.

  “Affirmative Captain, no surface or air contacts.”

  “Deffler, is the UAV clear?”

  “Affirmative Captain, the UAV is overhead.” Deffler locked the aircraft’s camera on the target buoy.

  “Very well. Batteries release, commence fire.”

  “Firing,” Williams toggled off the safety and tapped the trigger. The gun responded with a sharp BANG, followed by the clank of the chain loader and the rattle of the spent cartridge ejecting on the deck. Williams pitched the first shot short, as he used a “walking up” technique with three single shots, then a “fire for effect” quick burst of three rounds of high-explosive incendiary shells, all of which detonated on impact.

  “Damn!” Deffler exclaimed when the target on his screen exploded in a bright flash. The others on the Bridge turned to look at him, and he said, “Sorry, sir!”

  Williams shook his head and turned back to his screen. “Airedales!” He declared under his breath before, more loudly, “Target destroyed.”

  “Check fire,” Sam declared. “OK, let’s make sure it’s not a fluke. Shift target to next target float bearing 080 relative.”

  Williams slewed the gun sight to the left to acquire the new target and then activated the target lock. On the foredeck, the gun barrel traversed a few degrees to the left and then crept up and down as its gyro stabilizers compensated for Kauai’s gentle pitching and rolling. “Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking.”

  “Commence fire,” Sam repeated, and six rounds later, another target disintegrated. “Check fire. OK, I’m a believer. Williams, let’s try infrared targeting only on the next two.”

  “Yes, sir.” Williams brought up the infrared targeting system, but struggled at once. The infrared sight keyed on differences in temperature and the overcast skies and time since launch had rendered the target almost indistinguishable from the surrounding water, temperature-wise. Finally, Williams settled and locked the sight on a barely discernable smudge, announcing, “Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking.”

  Sam had noted his fire control expert’s difficulty with a little concern. “Commence fire.”

  Williams tried the same technique as before, pitching the first round into the water about 50 feet short. Unfortunately, the hot incendiary tail and explosion from the round distracted the infrared gun sight and broke its lock on the target. “Crap! Oh, sorry, sir, target track lost, reacquiring.” After a few seconds of jiggling, he brought the smudge representing the target buoy into lock again. “Target reacquired.” This time he aimed for a direct hit. “Firing.” Another bang and another target lock break. “Target track lost, shot unobserved,” Williams reported with discouragement.

  “Shot fall five meters right and 20 long,” Deffler reported from the chart table. Again, all heads turned to him. “Captain, recommend illuminating the target with the UAV—it’s tuned to the Mark 38’s infrared gun sight.”

  Sam looked from Williams to Deffler and then replied, “Why not, permission granted. Let’s see if it works.”

  Deffler worked his console, announcing, “Unmasking, target illuminated.”

  Williams noted a bright dot on the infrared screen and locked on it. “Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking.”

  “Commence fire.”

  Williams selected a three-round burst on this try. “Firing.” The three shots within 1.5 seconds were followed almost at once by the detonation of the target.

  “Target destroyed,” Williams and Deffler announced simultaneously.

  “Check fire,” Sam ordered. “Very nice. Let’s use the designator on the next two. Shift target to the next buoy bearing 085 relative. UAV, illuminate the target.”

  Deffler slewed the Puma’s camera to the next target, locked on, and activated the illuminator. “Target illuminated.”

  Williams noted and locked on to the bright spot, selecting another three-round burst. �
�Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking.”

  Sam noted the briskness of the acquisition and ordered, “Commence fire.” Three more quick shots were followed by another “target destroyed” announcement from the two technicians. After they repeated the process on the next target, Sam ordered, “Ceasefire.” He glanced at his technicians. “OK, now we know we can use the infrared sight against a relatively cool target if we can illuminate it. We’ll need a standard procedure for that. Hopkins, will you coordinate that in the follow-up, please?”

  “Will do, Captain,” Hopkins replied.

  “OK, secure the 25,” Sam ordered. “Let’s close to 25 yards for the rest of the shoot, please.”

  “Very good, sir,” Ben replied, then issued the orders to the helmsman.

  The boarding team members blazed away at the targets with carbines and pistols for about an hour. Hopkins relieved Ben as OOD to allow him to join in for the last 20 minutes. The targets still afloat were dispatched with the .50 caliber machine guns to give Seaman Lopez and Hebert some experience. Although not as impressive as the 25 mm, the “fifties” still made quick work of the target buoys.

  Sam secured the shoot at 1715 to give the shooters a chance to gather the spent cartridges from the decks and help the gunner’s mate in cleaning the weapons. In the meantime, Sam directed the RHIB launched to recover the Puma. The RHIB sat idling off Kauai’s starboard quarter, as Deffler brought the aircraft down, cut the engine, and flared it for a gentle splashdown between the two vessels. The RHIB motored to the Puma within a few seconds, and Morgan carefully lifted and secured the aircraft in the boat.

  As the RHIB returned for recovery aboard Kauai, Ben turned and picked up his weapons and “sack o-brass” and headed out toward the main deck. When he passed Simmons, the latter asked, “Got a minute? We need to review tomorrow’s plans.”

  Ben held up the weapons. “I got clean-ups. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.”

  Simmons frowned. “You don’t have people for that?”

  Ben stared coldly in return. “I suppose I can order one these guys to clean my weapons—if I was a complete dick, that is. Excuse me.” Ben continued down the ladder as Simmons turned to see Sam had watched the exchange.

  “Your officer is quite the egalitarian,” Simmons remarked.

  “That’s what makes him effective. Field-stripping and cleaning your weapon after a shoot, tedious as it may be, is an important part of maintaining familiarity and qualifications. Ben knows that officers shirking their duty has a bad effect on the crew and wouldn’t do so unless he had a damn good reason. I’ve seen plenty of JOs who believe their shit doesn’t stink and wouldn’t think twice about dumping this work on the junior crew. None of them made a difference to the unit or the mission like Ben has.”

  “Yes, I see.” Simmons smirked. “Well, I hope he can find time for other ‘duties’ soon.”

  “Don’t worry, Doctor,” Sam turned to leave. “He handles all pains-in-the-ass with equal diligence.”

  9

  Skeletons

  U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, Gulf of Mexico, 15 nautical miles northeast of Key West, Florida

  2017 EST, 15 January

  “XO, got a minute?” Sam called out as Ben walked by the cabin.

  “Yes, sir.” Ben stepped aside as Hopkins moved out.

  “Thanks, Hoppy,” Sam said. “I appreciate you getting that turned out so quick.”

  “Not a problem, Captain, goodnight,” the petty officer replied, nodding to each man as she walked off.

  Sam looked at Ben. “She came up with standard language for the UAV launch and gunfire spotting. We won’t stumble around next time.”

  Ben glanced out the door sadly. “Figures she’d nail that. It will suck to lose her.”

  “Tell me about it.” Sam shook his head equally sadly. “I won’t have her turning down chief, though.”

  “Damn straight.” Ben nodded. “You wanted something, sir?”

  “Yes, yes. I wanted to ask what our guest is cooking up for us.”

  “Oh, he just wanted to go over the visit sequence.”

  “Right. And how’s it going with you two?”

  Ben sat back. “Skipper, I’m trying my best. But every time I start warming up to him, he pitches another ‘Asshat, Esq.’ card, and I end up wanting to kick his ass. Or step aside and let you kick his ass.” He finished with a slight smile.

  Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not my finest moment. Sorry to drop you in the middle of that.”

  “It’s OK, sir. Although the last thing I expected after our adventure this morning was to be compared to a little girl.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t doing that. He aimed that shot squarely at me. I owe you an explanation. Please close the door.”

  Ben complied and then sat down. “Captain, you don’t owe me any explanations.”

  “Maybe, but you will get one anyway. You’ve been curious about my background and patient enough not to ask questions. This morning’s lunatic episode provides an excuse to come clean with you. So, sit back, relax, and let me sate your curiosity.”

  In the close quiet of the cabin, Sam began with a description of his early adolescence as the elder child of a Wall Street financial “Master of the Universe.” His home was a mansion 20 miles from Manhattan in the town of Essex Fells, New Jersey. Private schools, tutors, and lavish parties dominated his memories of the time he and his sister Gabrielle, three years his junior, grew up with their devoted mother, Danielle. His father, James, typical of the financial class, spent his weeknights at an apartment close to work downtown and returned to his family on the weekends. Although not close to his father, he was aligned with him in terms of affection for his mother. Her death in a car accident when he was 12 blew both their worlds to pieces. His father coped by throwing himself into his work with increasing devotion, while Sam turned to his sister and a family friend, a retired Navy SEAL named Robert “Bobby” Moore.

  James hired Moore to protect the family when Russian organized crime elements put the squeeze on some of his colleagues. Moore did not come cheap, but he brought a retinue of supremely skilled and dedicated former special forces acquaintances who quickly “negated” the threat. When Sam asked him much later how he managed it, Moore responded he had explained the situation to them in a “language a Russian could understand,” and left it at that. Sam’s father discovered Moore possessed many useful skills beyond physical security and kept him on to help manage his personal life. Moore stepped readily into the void created by the death of Sam’s mother. He became a multi-hatted head of security, household majordomo, and general “fixer,” keeping things running while the family coped with and eventually overcame the grief of their loss.

  With time and nearness, Sam and Moore forged a strong personal attachment. Moore admired Sam’s quick mind, innate sense of duty, and the fundamental goodness of character fostered by his mother. Sam was in awe of the older man’s experience and talents. Both shared an exasperated affection for Sam’s sister Gabby, who’s charm and blossoming beauty matched the independent streak often found in a family’s younger child. Under the distant oversight of his father and close mentoring by Moore, Sam matured into an outstanding student, both academically and athletically.

  After high school graduation, Sam entered Wharton’s Financial Engineering program. Sam thrived there from the intellectual challenge, despite the conflict between the intensely competitive culture and his natural tendency for teaming up with people. He finished at the top of his class and was accepted into the MBA program. He was moving inexorably toward following his father into the family firm when he confronted the event that changed his outlook and purpose in life.

  As Sam progressed through undergraduate studies at Wharton, Gabby matured into a beautiful, social young woman. Intelligent in her own right, she had no intention of following her brother into the family business and opted for a fine arts track at Princeton. She met and fell in with Paul Griffith,
scion of the family of one of her father’s business competitors and classmate of Sam at Wharton. Paul was popular, handsome, and rich, and Sam had run into him periodically since they were young children. Growing up, Sam grew aware something was “off” about Paul, gradually distancing himself despite their shared background. By the time they completed their undergraduate work together at Wharton, Sam had seen enough inside and outside the classroom to conclude Paul was an undiagnosed sociopath.

  Sam was appalled by Gabby keeping company with someone he regarded as being a toxic, if not dangerous personality, and made no secret of it to her. Gabby, tired of living in her big brother’s shadow, was having none of it. Paul sensed the conflict and played on it. He lacked any genuine interest in Gabby, but she was socially useful, and the knowledge he twisted up “Straight-arrow” Sam by staying with her made it a win-win. Even Moore couldn’t shake the hold Paul had on the young woman—he had to settle for suggesting he would not take it lightly if anything happened to her. The implied menace had no effect on the privileged young man.

  The event Sam and Moore dreaded came to pass on a late fall weekend as Paul and Gabby were driving home from a party. He had indulged heavily in both alcohol and party drugs, and even Gabby was terrified as they sped through the night. Unsurprisingly, he missed a turn and rolled his Porsche down an embankment and into a tributary of the Raritan River. As the car filled with water, Paul took one glance at his unconscious companion and then bailed.

  By an incredible stroke of luck, the accident happened in front of two off-duty Coast Guard petty officers on their way home from a unit gathering, who pulled off and immediately sprang into action. Passing Paul as he climbed the embankment, the two men paused briefly to ask if anyone remained in the car. Not getting a response when the young man fled, one plunged into the freezing water to get to the vehicle, while the other called 911 then waded in to help extract the stricken young woman. Both performed CPR until relieved by paramedics, who transported the unconscious, but living, victim to the local emergency room.