Seeing white smoke coming from the starboard side passageway, Wilson bounded aft to inspect the damage. The 1MC was alive with calls of inbound missiles, the need for the medical response team, and firefighting commands from Damage Control Central. Wilson passed Ready 6 for Ready 7, which had its door open and white smoke coming from the overhead. Olive!
He entered and saw Olive helping two other aviators drag one of her pilots to the door. One end of the room’s pull-down screen had been jarred from its overhead mount and had fallen on a pilot who was unconscious and bleeding from the head. Several of Olive’s sailors were helping drag other wounded from the maintenance control desk as smoke ran along the overhead.
“You okay?” Wilson asked her.
“Yes, sir. Worried about my people though. I’ve got a berthing compartment aft.”
During their careers neither aviator had ever been through such an experience, helping wounded shipmates and dealing with real damage inflicted by a real enemy — especially one who had just proven to the Americans they could find and hit them from well over the horizon. The Sniper ready room was in complete disarray, and Wilson could only imagine the extent of the damage to Hancock. Could the Chinese repeat this? If yes, when? Tonight? This afternoon?
He ducked into Ready Eight and saw medical personnel administering to several Marines, three in chairs and one stretched out on deck. Mother was helping one of his men evacuate the smoky space, currently not fit for operations. He walked around the medical personnel to Mother.
“Mother, what’s the story?”
“We got hit hard, sir. My maintenance control personnel were hit hardest. Looks like I have one dead.”
Wilson exhaled. “I’m sorry.”
“One of my lance corporals. Good man.”
Wilson nodded his sympathy. “You okay?”
“Yes, sir, but my guys are hurting.”
“How many of your pilots are injured?”
Mother motioned to one being attended to in a chair. “Maggot here is hurt bad. They already took the XO to medical; he was knocked out. Most are walking wounded, but they are pretty shaken up. Lacerations… bruises….”
“How many pilots do you think are down for the next 48 hours?” Wilson asked.
Mother looked around, trying to form an answer. “Five or six, CAG.”
That was a third of the Panther ready room. VMFA-335 needed FA-18C pilots.
“Roger that,” Wilson said as he turned to leave. He then stopped and motioned to Mother to duck into the small admin cubicle with him, away from the others and the chaos around them. “Can you fly?” Wilson asked.
“Yes, sir,” Mother answered.
“Daytime then. That’s it. You fly day and work nights.”
“Can do, CAG,” Mother said, nodding his willingness.
“You want Guadalcanal, you got it. The Navy is fighting hurt just like we did then, and we need every jet and every pilot. You guys are going to defend this strike group on CAPs and alerts, and we can’t have another hit. Not one, Mother. Not one gets through.”
“We’ll knock ‘em down, CAG. Fly us till we drop.”
“We will. You are now back in the cockpit—day only. Take care of your people, and tell me what you need.”
Wilson said nothing more and departed through the mist and activity of damage control parties in the passageway. Both he and Mother had swallowed their pride. The reality was Hancock needed Hornet pilots.
As they tended to their duties, Hancock continued to run south. The black pall over Earl Gallaher rose thousands of feet until it was carried west by high-altitude winds. Forty minutes after it was almost cut in two, her keel gave way and the last hull plates were ripped apart. The bow section bobbed in the sea with the nose and sonar dome pointing to the sky. A group of her survivors, now gathered on the weather decks of Cape St. George, watched as the cruiser took the hulks under fire from her two five-inch mounts. Each thundering gun pumped a dozen rounds into the floating halves while the “tin can sailors” watched in silence as the concussive reports of the guns washed over them them. The stern section went first, and, after falling back on its foc’sle, the forward half of the gallant DDG slipped below the waves.
As water rushed over the pointed bow of USS Earl Gallaher, she carried with her the bodies of 47 sons, daughters, mothers and fathers.
CHAPTER 56
Qin considered the report received from Blood Moon. Of the three fighter regiments on his outposts, Qin had lost a large portion of one. In one strike! His bombers with stand-off weapons escaped destruction, and, with crews all over the Spratlys, Hainan, and Guangzhou, he had sporadic and unreliable battle damage reports. All the excitable flyboys reported their missiles had sunk a carrier, but he had no proof, no video. Eyewitnesses from multiple bases reported a black pall on the far horizon… but what was the source? Reports from his reconnaissance and surveillance aircraft were little better. He needed more.
The actions off Luzon were not going well. Qin knew that. Another destroyer sunk, and who knew how many submarines the Americans had sent to the bottom. It was a battle of attrition the PLA(N) was losing, and Qin’s commander counseled a pullback to positions under the shore-based air umbrella, which Qin approved. Fighters were flying around the clock, and aircraft continued to stream in from the western provinces to replace losses.
The outposts were almost on their own, and it seemed to Qin the Americans in the Celebes were, too. He sensed Hancock was still out there and a threat. Mindful of the heartburn it would cause in Beijing, he sent a forceful message to move a squadron of Su-30s to Blood Moon. Even if they took off now, he surmised, they would not be ready to fight for another 24 hours.
A Yeoman snapped to attention and handed him a report. The American media was broadcasting unconfirmed reports that a ship named Earl Gallaher was possibly sunk.
“What type of ship is this?” he demanded.
A lieutenant answered. “An Aegis guided-missile destroyer, Comrade Admiral!”
Qin smiled. The carrier prize may or may not be out there, but this media report was probably true and the Americans had to be reeling as they dealt with their own press — who had just given him more than his own forces. His air forces had reached far and bloodied a capable and alerted enemy—the Americans! And sunk one of their vaunted Aegis ships! He needed to repeat this attack, and soon, before the Americans whittled his forces down to feeble ineffectiveness. Nightfall was approaching on the Celebes and the outposts. His exhausted air forces were not well trained at night operations, but he knew the Americans were and preferred to attack at night. If they came tonight, he would know Hancock was still alive.
A shaken Admiral Clark contemplated the lights of Pearl City as he sat listening to John McGill on the speaker phone. As usual, Ritchie Casher was also listening and taking notes.