Short Season

by DJ Scott

  Castelli only nodded. After a moment, he asked, “Threats to the west?”

  “About fifty kilometers by road there’s a small unit, more than a platoon but less than a company, at Sayhut. Looks like they’re moving from prepared positions and getting ready for a road march. They have two vehicles scouting the road to their east, so presumably they’re heading that way. It will be hours before they’re a threat, though. The only immediate threat is a group of three vehicles, two old P4’s and a truck mounting a ZU-23. That thing could be devastating against unarmored vehicles.”

  “How far?”

  The officer brought up the live satellite feed. “Quick estimate, maybe forty minutes unless something slows them down.”

  “So our people can’t go east, can’t go west, and that doesn’t really matter because in less than an hour they will be shredded by that ZU-23. Is that about right?”

  “Sorry sir, but yes, that’s right.”

  “Good work.”

  Without another word, Castelli left the intel space and headed back to the flag bridge. When he arrived he told the young radioman to get him back in touch with the 584.

  Chapter 63

  September 14, 2017 0512Z (0812 AST)

  On the Beach

  Mike McGregor surveyed the remnants of his command. Almost everyone was wounded or tending the wounded. In most cases wounded were caring for each other. Kelli Moore was now conscious and lying in the back of an ambulance with a chest tube connected to a Rube Goldberg contraption Russell had patched together out of tubes and bottles to help keep her lung expanded. Moore, and everyone else, was looking at him.

  “Spoke with someone in a position to help us. Waiting to see if he will.” McGregor knew very well this was a longshot. Castelli was under the same orders as Admiral Tucker. Sure Castelli owed him for Syria, but how much? This would be a career breaker. Still, he knew there were men who had done more—and with less at stake.

  The SINGHARS squawked and McGregor hopped back into the Humvee and put on the headphones.

  “McGregor, you are still an insubordinate son of a bitch.”

  It was Castelli. “So does that mean you’re coming for us?”

  “I’m working on that, but there’s something you need to deal with right now. I have a real time satellite feed showing a couple of small vehicles plus a truck with a ZU-23 heading your way from the west. My intel people tell me they will be at your position in just over thirty minutes unless you can slow them down. Got any ideas?”

  McGregor sighed loudly. That weapon could tear them apart from a mile away, and he had nothing that could hit back at that range. “I’ll put my best people on it, Captain. Does this mean that you can get us if we buy a little time?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Like I said, I’m working on it. Baatan out.”

  Mike McGregor stepped out of his vehicle. “Captain Singh! Sergeant Major Campbell!”

  The Royal Marines appeared in a matter of seconds and both saluted as crisply as they would have on the parade ground. “Problem, sir?” asked Singh.

  McGregor described the problem and the two men nodded. Singh pulled a folded map from his pocket and studied it for about thirty seconds. “On the way, Commander,” said Singh, who had a clean new dressing on his wounded hand. He and Campbell pulled a few small boxes from the back of their truck, jumped into one of the surviving Humvees and sped off to the west.

  McGregor walked over to Kelli Moore. “Breathing better?”

  “Much. But I can . . . hardly believe how much . . . this damn knife wound hurts.”

  “I know what you mean. This thing on my leg is throbbing like the world’s worst toothache.” He looked down and saw blood was again oozing through the dressing. “I hope they have enough pain meds on the ship. We’re down to our last few doses, and those are going to the worst cases like the First Sergeant. He’s going to need some serious surgery. And soon.”

  Moore turned her head to face McGregor more directly. “Doc, how’d you . . . pull this off?”

  “Well,” he said, “nothing all that dramatic. Earlier this year I saw an article in the Navy Times about the new LANTFLEET commanding officers. Someone I knew from way back was listed as CO of Bataan. Then, a few months ago, he showed up again in message traffic as being selected for Rear Admiral.”

  “I’m guessing this guy was involved . . . with your Navy Cross?”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Don’t look so surprised . . . your Lieutenant Ellis told me.”

  “Let’s just say we were in a similar situation quite a few years ago. When I looked at the satellite photos yesterday, I saw a small group of ships south of Oman heading west. One was obviously an LHD, and the angle was such I could make out a ‘five’ on the island. Bataan is LHD 5, so I thought he might be inclined to help. Assuming we could get this far.”

  “How did you make contact? . . . Our satellite uplink . . . is shut down.”

  “We can thank the late Major Griggs for providing an alternative. He really has that Humvee of his tricked out with everything, including ground to air communication.”

  “We call it the Batmobile.”

  “I thought a ship that operates aircraft and has SAR capability would monitor all the emergency frequencies. I made contact on the NATO aircraft emergency frequency, but just barely. Then we were able to get a better HF connection on the SINCGARS. That’s about it.”

  “And he just agreed . . . to violate a direct order . . . from the White House?”

  “Not yet. He’s talking about pulling us out through Oman.”

  Don’t know . . . if we can manage that. But then . . . I never really thought . . . we’d make it this far.”

  “Yeah, I figured that. But you were right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You are a lot tougher than I thought.”

  Chapter 64

  September 12, 2017 0530Z (0830 AST)

  On the beach

  It had been about fifteen minutes since McGregor dispatched the Royal Marines to deal with the ZU-23 and he was curious. He climbed on top of one of the ambulances—not a simple task with his leg wound—and took a look through his binoculars. He saw a rapidly-moving spot on the road which he hoped was the Humvee.

  In a few minutes, Singh and Campbell reported in. “Progress Commander. We used the last two kilos of C-4 on a small bridge across a wadi about five kilometers west of here. They can go north around it, but if they want that bloody ZU-23 with them, it will take at least an hour, probably longer. Does your friend have any air support or naval gunfire?”

  “I’ll ask.”

  In a few minutes he was back on the HF link to Castelli. He explained their situation.

  Castelli was silent for a full minute then told McGregor, “Wait one.”

  Chapter 65

  September 12, 2017 0535Z (0835 AST)

  USS Bataan (LHD 5), Gulf of Aden

  Captain Joe Castelli reflected for a moment on the fact that he had never been forced to make a genuinely difficult decision. He’d climbed through the ranks by being cautious, competent, and diligent while aggressively following orders. Until today. The safe option, Oman, was off the table. He would either violate a direct order, or obey it and proceed with his mission.

  Son of a bitch.

  He walked over to CDR Charlie Anderson and, while looking north through the big bridge window, said, “You’re right Charlie, we can’t save everyone. But we can save them.”

  Castelli looked around the flag bridge to be sure everyone he needed was present. “Ladies and Gentlemen, there are wounded American sailors and Marines on the beach about eighty kilometers north of here. I intend to violate a direct order from NMCC and go get them, there’s no time for any other option. Anyone who feels they cannot participate in this action may leave the bridge right
now, and the ship’s log will reflect your non-participation.”

  CDR Charlie Anderson and one Lieutenant (junior grade), walked briskly from the bridge. Everyone else remained at their stations.

  “Thank you,” Castelli said. “Officer of the Deck, you are now the operations officer. Have two LCACs ready to go in half an hour. We’ll need at least a platoon of Marines to provide security on the beach.”

  At this, Isiah Burke smiled and nodded, then rushed off the bridge.

  “Air Boss, get our Predator armed, fueled, and launched. Head for these coordinates.” He handed him McGregor’s location. “Time is critical. XO, task Nitze to remain with our auxiliaries, who should reduce speed to ten knots. Spruance will stay with us.” He picked up a handset and called the bridge one level down. “New course three five five. Flank speed as soon as we have steam. Officer of the Deck, I don’t know exactly what we’re getting into, so sound general quarters, and signal Spruance to do the same. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”

  He picked up the radio handset and made contact on the SINCGARS. “McGregor, expect an LCAC pickup in about an hour and a half, maybe sooner. Have your people in vehicles and ready to go. I’ll see what I can do about that ZU-23.”

  “Thanks, Captain,” McGregor said.

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  The Predator, being much easier to fuel and arm than a traditional aircraft, was in the air in less than fifteen minutes. Flying at top speed, it reached McGregor’s position in just under half an hour.

  In the air operations center of Bataan, Lt Jeremy Franko, the senior UAV operator, was in direct communication with his skipper. “Captain, I just overflew the position you gave me and can confirm there are five vehicles—two Humvees, two ambulances, and a truck. I could see some wounded on stretchers. Now heading west.”

  A minute later, Franko signaled again. “Captain, I now see three vehicles heading east. Two small vehicles I can’t identify and a truck carrying a multibarrel antiaircraft gun, probably a ZU-23. They’re less than three kilometers from our people.”

  “Is that thing a threat to the drone?”

  “Doubtful skipper. I’m high enough and between them and the sun, so they can’t see me.”

  “Good. Take it out.”

  “Ah, Captain, the Air Force still technically controls all weapons launches from our UAVs. We normally have to check with Nellis before going weapons free.”

  “Franko, we’re already violating a direct order from NMCC, and you’re worried about protocol? Pull the damned trigger. Now.”

  “Aye Captain. Wait one . . . Weapon away.”

  Sixty kilometers to the north, a Hellfire missile dropped from beneath one of the Predator’s wings and accelerated. In a matter of seconds, the ZU-23, as well as the truck, was reduced to smoldering scrap metal. The two P4s, fifty meters in front and behind the truck, made wide 180-degree turns, and headed west at maximum speed.

  “Target destroyed. Looks like the other two vehicles are bugging out. Orders, Captain?”

  “Good work Franko, head back east and cover the landing of our LCACs. Once they’re underway, bring it home.”

  McGregor and the Royal Marines heard the explosion and saw the distant column of smoke. Sergeant Leach, now back on the radio, walked over and reported what had happened.

  Relaxed for the first time in more than twenty-four hours, McGregor looked in on each of his people. He gave instructions to begin loading the seriously wounded into the ambulances and to stage their vehicles on the beach. Feeling he had done all he could do, McGregor began scanning the ocean. Soon he spotted two enormous LCACs approaching on the horizon. In a few minutes, the roar of their big turbine-driven fans was audible even from several kilometers out.

  McGregor turned and was surprised to see Sgt. Leach looking into the mirror of a Humvee, combing her mop of short blond hair. Jim Russell was shaving, and one of the corpsmen was using a gauze pad to wash dried blood from Kelli Moore’s face. Inspired by his people, Mike McGregor looked at himself and decided the least he could do was make some effort to look more presentable. He removed his blood stained desert camouflage shirt and donned a clean one from his old ALICE pack, which was still stowed in the ambulance. As he transferred his rank insignia, the LCACs approached the beach, slowed, and pushed far enough up onto the sand to unload two LAV 25s, which then headed out from their position to provide security, one east and one west. Two Humvees landed, and a Lieutenant Colonel walked over to McGregor. He surveyed the battered remnants of the 584 and shook his head.

  McGregor saluted. “Mike McGregor, commanding the 584. Or what’s left of it.”

  The lieutenant colonel returned the salute, then shook McGregor’s hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Isiah Burke. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My people will help get your wounded loaded and ready to go.” He scanned the carefully prepared defensive positions along the 584’s tiny perimeter. “We’ll take care of securing those automatic weapons as well. Would you mind telling me what the hell happened here?”

  McGregor gave him a sanitized version of Operation Ocean Reach, and how they came to be where they were, and in the condition they were in. “Colonel, I don’t really know what happened that led the White House to leave us behind, but I know you’re taking a big chance by coming here to get us. All I can say is that everyone here -–” He swept his hand towards his small command — “is very grateful you did.”

  “Doc, years ago I had a CO who gave me the best advice I ever received. He told me that so-called hard decisions are rarely hard, that the right answer is usually obvious. The hard part is being willing to accept the consequences. Once you get past that, life as a Marine gets a lot easier.”

  “Who was that officer?” asked McGregor, who had a feeling he might know the answer.

  “Major Henry Ahrens. Unfortunately, I lost touch with him.”

  “Recently retired,” said McGregor.

  “You knew him then?”

  “We crossed paths in Iraq. I’m happy to say he took his own advice.”

  Wary of the fast approaching Yemeni column, which the Predator detected only about thirty minutes away, Burke’s Marines quickly loaded the 584 then embarked their own LAV’s. Ten minutes later, both LCACs were roaring across the smooth green waters and were recovered by Bataan a half hour after that.

  As the LCACs were unloaded, Castelli watched from the upper level of the well deck. As his medical department triaged one bloody casualty after another, he knew he’d made the right decision. When McGregor, his leg still oozing blood, began to supervise loading the KIA—all stacked in the back of the truck—into body bags, Castelli could no longer bear to watch.

  After speaking with his XO about coordinating evacuation of the most serious cases, Joe Castelli went to his cabin to write his report. And probably end his career.

  Chapter 66

  September 14, 2017 1130Z (0730 EDT)

  White House Situation Room

  Karen Hiller and Sonny Baker sat silently with a few senior staff. Everyone was glad the President was out of the White House on his way to a prayer breakfast. He had been informed of the rescue in Yemen, but for the moment, he was leaving the fallout to his staff.

  Baker read and re-read the brief message:

  FROM: USS BATAAN (LHD 5)

  TO:CENTCOM

  VIA:NAVCENT

  INFO:MARCENT

  SUBJ:EVACUATION OF 584 COMPOSITE UNIT

  ENCL:(1) List of Personnel Recovered

  At 0945 local time (0645Z) USS Bataan recovered by LCAC the 584 Composite Unit, LCDR Michael McGregor commanding, Location approximately twenty-five kilometers east of Qishn, Yemen.

  Thirty-five personnel recovered include twenty-three wounded and nine KIA. One member is currently reported MIA. Encl. (1) lists personnel by name, rank, and SSN.

 
Bataan’s medical department and embarked fleet surgical team assisted by Battalion Surgeons from the embarked Marine detachment are treating casualties as expeditiously as possible. Medical evacuation of at least twelve of the wounded will be required. Request CENTCOM medical regulating team arrange for same.

  Bataan is holding current position pending orders.

  J CASTELLI

  Hiller crumpled the paper and hurled it at the screens. “Is there no one left who can follow a God damned order? And how the hell did they even contact the Bataan—I thought we cut off their satellite link?”

  “We did,” Baker said. “I understand they used the NATO air emergency frequency. I guess they were smarter than we gave them credit for.”

  “Smart? He was ordered to surrender. Wait until the President has him court martialed, then we’ll see how smart he is.”

  “So we leave a bunch of our wounded behind, and they decide not to surrender to a psychopath and manage to get out despite us? Then we court martial their CO? Yeah, that’s going to play well in Congress.”

  Sonny Baker knew that Karen Hiller was a mirthless political animal who probably would want to court martial this Lieutenant Commander. But he also knew Brendan Wallace would never even consider it. Yes, he would order people to be placed at risk if the national interest was at stake, but he would not punish them for finding a way to survive.

  Or if he did, Sonny’s resignation would be on his desk ten minutes later.

  But now wasn’t the time to fight this out. “Karen, have you thought that maybe we can get some information from this 584 unit that will help us find the missing warhead? They were the last of our people in Yemen. Let’s have the intel officers on Bataan debrief them and find out if they saw anything unusual.”

  “I thought we agreed to keep a lid on that missing warhead. And besides, what the hell could they know?”

  “It’s not like they’re in a position to tell anyone. Besides, by time they get back, this will have probably gone public. Everybody on Ashland must know by now, and so does the command staff on Essex. A leak is inevitable. Unless we find the missing nuke, and soon, that’s going to get out too. Who knows, maybe one of these people saw a truck or a helicopter. Nothing to lose.”