This morning the P-3C mission was to airdrop additional water and food to the survivors of the USS Gearing. Along with the supplies would be a note telling them that the attack submarine USS Miami was enroute and expected to pick them up sometime today.
“Wizard One, this is Hunter Six Zero. Do you have me?”
A digital beep alerted the radar operator on the RC-135. He clicked on his internal communications system to alert the tactical officer to the video return appearing on the radarscope from the northeast. The tactical officer gave the young airman a thumbs-up.
“That’s an affirmative,” the tactical officer on board the modified Boeing 707 answered. “Stand by, Hunter Six Zero, we have a four-aircraft formation of Foxtrot One Sixes under my belly to keep you company. Expect rendezvous in five minutes.”
“Roger, request they form up behind me, one-thousand foot separation overhead. My intentions are to continue to last contact point and commence a circular search until we locate them. Expect to be in VHP range of their survival radio within fifteen minutes.”
Two clicks acknowledged the P-3C Orion aircraft.
“Let’s go, Noble,” The Bird said.
Noble Formation broke off the Rivet Joint aircraft as the RC-135 air-traffic controller vectored the F-16 formation to the P-3C.
The Bird knew from the pr emission briefing that during the P-3C insertion, Wizard One would orbit at 36,000 feet. The sensitive RC-135 Rivet Joint reconnaissance systems would monitor the P-3C’s and four F-16s’ approach toward Libya, while simultaneously watching for any reaction to the five aircraft. If its sensors detected anything resembling a hostile reaction, Wizard One would take control of the aircraft and vector them out of harm’s way.
Ten minutes later the F-16 formation zoomed by the P-3C; The Bird and his wingman, Noble Two Two, passed down each side, while Noble Four Eight rolled by overhead. Noble Three One flew beneath the Orion, and pulled up a half mile ahead in front of the turboprop aircraft. The turbulence in their wake shook the P-3C.
“Okay, hotshots,” said the P-3C pilot. “You want to blow us out of the air before you get a shot at the Libyans?”
“Hey, Noble One Six,” called Noble Two Two. “Can we paint a P-3 on the side of our aircraft and put a red cross through it?”
“Noble Two Two, cut the chatter,” Noble One Six replied. Getting chewed out by a swabbie pissed him off.
“Hunter Six Zero, this is Noble One Six. Sorry about that, we’ll watch our flight pattern. We’re coming right, and will set up a racetrack orbit overhead at six thousand feet. We will maintain this frequency. In the event of encounter, hit the deck and head north; we’ll provide the surprise.”
“Roger, Noble One Six. Welcome aboard,” the P-3C pilot said in a more mellow tone. “Watch your passes by our aircraft. We’re not as sturdy as your other companion, and that last pass caused several of our crewmen to drop their breakfast trays. Lucky for us, the candles were unlit and the champagne still corked.”
“Roger, Hunter Six Zero. Last thing we want is to disrupt breakfast.”
A chuckle followed over the radio.
On board the P-3C, the radio operator continued to call the survivors of the USS Gearing, trying to raise them on the emergency radio dropped by the EP-3E, Ranger Two Niner, three days ago. Five minutes later a weak, barely audible transmission came across the circuit. The radioman pushed his headset tighter against his ears.
“Hunter, this is Gearing. We read you fivers, how me, over?”
“Gearing, you are weak, but readable. We are heading your way.
Activate your emergency beacon at this time.”
A few seconds later a steady beeping sound from the speaker drew the radio operator’s attention. On the small scope in front of him a pulsing green line, synchronized with the beeps, indicated the relative bearing to the signal.
“Pilot, Radio; I have the Gearing, sir,” the radio operator reported over the internal communications system to the cockpit. “The emergency beacon bears zero one zero relative.”
The strobe drifted to the left as the plane changed direction slightly to align its nose to the beacon.
“Mark!” the radio operator said on the ICS.
The plane leveled off. The green strobe pointed straight up. “Beacon zero zero zero relative, one seven five true,” he reported.
“Roger, that.”
“Noble Formation, Hunter Six Zero; on course one seven five direct to Gearing. Am descending to five hundred feet.”
“Noble Three One and Noble Four Eight, take air defensive position three miles west of Hunter. Noble One Six and Noble Two Two will take eastern sector.”
The four-fighter formation broke apart into two pairs. The clear skies over the Gulf of Sidra enabled the four F-16 Fighting Falcons to maintain visual contact even at six miles separation.
“There they are, sir,” the P-3C flight engineer said, tapping the pilot on the shoulder and pointing to the sea slightly to the right of the nose of the aircraft.
“Yeah, I see them.” The pilot nosed the Orion lower, dropping to one hundred feet before he leveled off.
“Hunter Six Zero, this is Noble Three One. We see the life rafts to our left about one five zero relative.”
“Roger, Noble Formation, we have contact.”
Two clicks answered in the headset.
“Hunter Six Zero, this is Wizard One. What do you see?”
“Wizard One, I count eight life rafts tethered to the larger number-three raft dropped by Ranger Two Nine.”
“Gearing, this is Hunter Six Zero. That’s me overhead. We are going to commence a food-and-water run. How are conditions?”
“Hunter Six Zero, this is the Charlie Oscar. We lost six last night.
We are sixty-two souls on board with four in critical condition — fuel inhalation, internal injuries. Water is low and no food. The whole world, which is right now nine life rafts, wants to know when in the hell are we getting out of here?”
“Skipper, attached to the first drop is a sealed watertight envelope with the details. Be prepared to execute its directions. Hopefully you won’t be spending another night out here.”
“Roger, you guys don’t know what this means to see you. But we would prefer to be able to shake your hands. I think three days and four nights are enough! I’ve got sailors dying out here and I want to know what the Navy is doing to rescue us.”
“I understand, Skipper. We are doing everything we can with what’s available. Read the enclosed message. Meanwhile, you’re going to continue to see us until you’re rescued. We are maintaining a continuous watch north of here over your position. When you leave those rafts, it will be back into the arms of Mother Navy. Rest assured that help is on the way and we have no intention of leaving you out here any longer than necessary.”
“We have already been out here longer than necessary. Rescue would be appreciated. If you have pencil and paper, I will turn this over to Warrant Officer Robertson to update the names of the survivors. I think we have everyone who survived the sinking, but I can’t be sure.
There are many unaccounted for. Here’s the warrant, she’ll provide the names.”
“Roger, am prepared to copy and we’ll make a wide circle of your position after the drop and commence an expanding search pattern to see if we can locate any other survivors.”
“Thanks. Let us know if you find anyone,” Captain Heath Cafferty replied. He handed the radio to Warrant Officer Robertson sitting beside him. This was ridiculous. The United States Navy was the most powerful Navy in the world, bar none, and here they had been drifting at sea for nearly four days. Something was wrong when your own Navy couldn’t rescue you.