The marathon watch secon.., p.25
The Marathon Watch: Second Edition Ross , page 25
When the Mississinewa’s captain stepped onto the bridge, it took him a second to absorb what he saw. It was DESRON 23 all right, in perfect column formation charging southward through the rolling seas. The sense of speed was sensational. Their hurricane bows exploded into the swells to launch great walls of white water that rose higher than their masts, hung motionless for a heartbeat, dissolved into glistening spray, and fell back into the sea. The lead ship was less than a thousand yards off the starboard bow. “What the hell?” Kornfeld blurted.
The conning officer turned and, seeing his captain, said, “As soon as I had visual on them, I challenged them and asked their intentions via flashing light. In reply, the Wainwright sent us three messages.”
“And?”
“It was a single word in plain English; Tallyho,” the conning officer said, making no effort to hide his bewilderment.
Kornfeld laughed.
The young officer frowned, obviously trying to figure out what was so funny.
Finally, Mississinewa’s captain asked, “The other two messages?”
“They were in standard code. The first ordered us to shut down all radar and radios and go to darkened ship. The second telling us to rendezvous with them tomorrow for refueling. The rendezvous point is . . .” The conning officer paused for effect. “Southwest of Key West, Florida.”
Kornfeld wasn’t surprised a bit. He smiled as he realized the hunter had become the hunted. To his conning officer, he said, “Just don’t stand there; we’re headed in the wrong way. Bring us about.”
Kornfeld walked to the bridge wing and watched the column of destroyers racing for the southern horizon.
“Captain,” the quartermaster called out, “to make the rendezvous, we have to make twenty knots.”
“Very well,” Kornfeld replied. Just before ordering twenty knots, he paused. The thought of his oiler crashing through these seas at flank speed intrigued him. He missed destroyers. Oilers never get to steam at flank speed. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and maybe he could get close enough to be in radio range to hear the play-by-play tomorrow morning. To the conning officer, he said, “Come to flank speed. Make turns for twenty-six knots.”
The conning officer looked at the seas, then back at his captain, silently asking for confirmation. Kornfeld nodded. The conning officer complied, then asked, “Who is O’Toole?”
The Mississinewa’s captain reached into his pocket to retrieve two marble-sized brass bearings. He rolled them in his hand for a second and said softly, “The fox we’re chasing.”
§
When the scratching sound woke Durham, he could still taste the lime Jell-O in his mouth. The sound was coming from a door opposite his bed that connected to the adjoining room. The door opened, and Commander Beetham peeked around the corner.
“It’s clear,” Durham whispered, propping himself up in bed.
Dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck, Beetham entered the room carrying a large, flat box of candy with a pretty little red ribbon on it.
“Did you bring the stuff?”
“Yes, sir, it’s all right here.” Beetham opened the candy box to reveal the files, pens, and message forms he’d asked for.
§
REKJET RCAEKEOKDY 847362-EIEIEI-RKEKLVBB.
ZCKEEEEE
R 26 1301Z NOV 71
FM: CNO
TO: COMSECONDFLT
COMDESRON23 - CAPTAIN PATRICK O’TOOLE
SUBJ: FARNLEY/OPERATION MARATHON
BT
CLASS: CONFIDENTIAL
FOR COMSECONDFLT: DETACH IMMEDIATE CAPTAIN O’TOOLE COMDESRON23. ORDERS TO FOLLOW.
FOR O’TOOLE: PROCEED ATHENS DEBRIEFING COMMODORE STONER RE FARNLEY BEST SPEED. DEPART CONUS ANDREWS AFB. CONTACT DUTY OFFICER ANDREWS FOR FILES AND ADDITIONAL INSTRUCTIONS. ADVISE ASSISTANCE NEEDED SOONEST. OFFICIAL ORDERS TO FOLLOW.
BT
N0821
NNNN
AND DRAGON SLAYERS
November 1971, Fifty miles north of the coast of Libya
Operation Marathon: Day 514
It had been seven days since Javert’s death and two days since Eickhoff had thrown Lee off the ship. Ross was glad to be at sea; it would help him maintain his sanity. At sea, the long hours and monotonous routine would dull the senses and would make past events seem so long ago.
He had found time to think about Lee, something that filled him with sadness, and he wondered what would become of Lee. Besides, in his heart, he hadn’t said good-bye. Lee had set some high standards, the highest of which demanded that Ross live up to his and the standards he’d learned from Chief Barnes. Ross would forever be thankful to Lee for that; he had his pride back. He knew Lee would survive and, if he guessed right, would find some way to come out on top, but still he missed him.
He’d also had time to think about Meyers and the orders Eickhoff left, and that was why Ross was standing at his small makeshift desk, little more than a flat piece of metal welded between two stanchions. Ross’ memory was vivid; Meyers’ words had finally sunk in. “I just told you what the admiral ordered me, not you, to do. You do what you have to do. I’ll do what I have to do.”
Meyers never ordered him to do anything; he was just giving him fair warning for what might happen. Meyers had done with Eickhoff’s orders what he had to do; nothing. Ross was now doing what he had to do and was almost finished.
Ross had known what his crew had done with the engine room. The transformation had almost been miraculous. He now owned one of the finest engine rooms in the fleet, and his men owned the equipment in it. He owed it to Lee, the men, and Meyers never to let anything or anybody destroy the pride they had in their accomplishments.
He’d been writing for over an hour in the green bound engineering logbook, and his fingers were cramping from having to press so hard with the cheap navy ballpoint pen. Ross had lost track, but he’d filled over ten consecutive pages with part numbers, descriptions, and locations. When he’d added the last part to the list, he finished his log entry with a single sentence.
All of the above listed parts have been fully inspected by James A. Ross MMCM USN, Certified Shipyard Inspector C845952 for strict adherence to MILSPEC standards and are hereby certified as Navy Approved Parts.
By authority,
James A. Ross MMCM USN
§
Leaning on the bridge wing pelorus, John Flannery listened to the sounds of the dead, still night. All he could hear was the gentle purr of the ship’s engines and the adrenaline-charged thump, thump, thump of his heart. It was buck fever, and every man aboard had it.
Motionless, silent, and dark, the Wainwright lay abreast a small island. Dead ahead lay an exposed reef, the Forrestal, and her fifteen screening destroyers. Secluded in the five-mile-long ring of islands to the east, the other squadron ships waited. To reduce their radar cross section and complicate visual identification, Flannery had ordered the ships to keep their bows pointed at the formation. They hadn’t been detected, and he wondered if the small detail had helped.
Three hours ago, jubilation had swept the ship when the ELINT operators picked up the battle group’s radars. When the first screening ship appeared off the point of the key, the crew fell as silent as the dead calm night and became as motionless as the satin mirrored sea. Now, only clipped, terse, tense, hissing whispers pierced the silence.
Flannery turned to see if O’Toole was moving. He wasn’t; he was sitting motionless in the port bridge chair. O’Toole’s behavior troubled Flannery. O’Toole hadn’t moved from his chair or said a word for hours. The last conversation had been only a few words. “Flannery, as acting Commodore, let your exec handle the ship. You’re not to interfere with him under any circumstances.”
After that, O’Toole returned to his chair and sat staring stone-faced, straight ahead, trancelike. Flannery didn’t like leaving the Wainwright to his exec. He wanted to be part of the bridge crew, to be part of the action. Not being at the helm was harder than he’d imagined. It was harder than letting a child go, but orders were orders.
O’Toole was a problem, and it was what O’Toole wasn’t doing that was troublesome. Normally, O’Toole exhibited unlimited energy, especially verbal alacrity. O’Toole always occupied himself by sniping at mistakes or dispatching lessons wrapped inside his never-ending sea story homilies. Flannery knew that, despite O’Toole’s inactivity, nothing, not even the smallest detail, had escaped his notice, yet not a word.
Flannery sighted the Forrestal with the pelorus; another two degrees and she would be dead in their sights. A hand fell softly on his shoulder, and Flannery turned.
“Is it time?” O’Toole’s voice was so soft and the tone of his question so unintimidating, it startled Flannery.
“Are you okay, Commodore?” Flannery asked.
“Never better,” O’Toole began in the same soft voice. “It’s time; now watch.”
Flannery, mesmerized by O’Toole’s uncharacteristic tone, lost track of time. After a second, O’Toole glanced down at the pelorus. Flannery took the hint; the Forrestal was in position.
“One minute,” Flannery called out.
Without another word, the Wainwright’s exec reached for the radio microphone and keyed it. The radio speaker gave out an almost imperceptible click. To some, it would have sounded like static; to the other ships, it was a signal. Simultaneously, the quartermaster clicked a stopwatch. The whisper “one minute” echoed and rippled through the ship. The exec handed the microphone to the exercise referee who would score the mock attack and turned toward the captain’s weapons console.
The sound of the engines began to change from a gentle purr to a threatening growl. Softly, the conning officer gave an order. Slowly, without any forward motion, the ship began to pivot so they could use both the forward and aft missile launchers. Atop the bridge, the fire-control radar dish whined, spun, and stopped with a jerk, aimed directly at the Forrestal.
Oddly, Flannery felt like he was witnessing a ballet; a ballet never practiced, a ballet with three hundred dancers in perfect harmony. The feeling had been the same when he watched the crew maneuver the ship through the maze of shoals and reefs around the key, but he’d missed it. It was different, yet the same, as the chaos he’d seen when the emergency sortie order was given in Charleston. There was a steadfast purpose in what he saw, a perfected confidence in themselves and their shipmates. He’d learned a lesson he would never forget, a lesson he would pass on to all who would listen.
He listened to the whispered voices.
“Fire control radar in standby.”
“Fire control computer on.”
“Launch sequencer on auto.”
“Target selection to manual.”
“Launch command to manual override.”
“Forty seconds.”
“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.”
