“Hunter, the following officers, chiefs, and sailors are accounted for.” And the warrant officer began a monotonous reading of names followed by Social Security numbers. The list also identified the six who’d died during the night.
The P-3C radioman scribbled the names on yellow lined legal paper, while a nearby voice recorder backed up his effort.
The P-3C pilot brought the aircraft out of its bank and aligned the Orion with the rafts four hundred yards ahead. The plane descended to fifty feet as it began its approach. One hundred yards from the rafts, the pilot ordered the backdoor crew to push the containers out. Bright orange and buoyant, the waterproof containers of water and food fell from the sky, landing within fifty feet of the rafts and the occupants.
The survivors paddled the rafts to the orange floats, and as the Orion turned, four hundred yards later, the pilot observed them hoisting the supplies aboard.
“Warrant, can you repeat that last name? I missed it when we turned.”
“Roger, Hunter. Williams, Josephine A. CTRL Did you get her Social Security number?”
“Affirmative, Warrant. I got the number, it was the name that was garbled.”
A different voice came over the USS Gearing survival radio. “Hunter, this is the Charlie Oscar again. Have reviewed the package. Finally, great news. We’ll be ready. Do you have a more exact time for this to happen?”
“Regrettably, I don’t,” the pilot replied. “I wish I did. I wish it was right now, and I further wish that there was more we could do for you than just orbit overhead and drop supplies.”
“Not to worry, Hunter. Kind of make you wish the Navy had kept seaplanes in its inventory. A night under the stars in a life raft, out of sight of land, is not something sailors want to go through,” said Cafferty, his voice sad and soft. “Much less a fifth one, but knowing our shipmates are nearby boosts our morale and strengthens our courage and resolve.”
“Roger, Captain. Your plight is known throughout America. The hopes and prayers of the nation and the Navy are with you even as we speak.”
“Roger, Hunter. Sigonella will even seem good after this. The sooner we get there, the better. Even those who with no injuries need medical attention from the sun and sea exposure they’re suffering.”
“Sigonella?”
“Roger, I am assuming that will be our initial destination. It has the hospital facilities my crew needs, and is one day closer than Naples.”
The pilot and copilot looked at each other. “That’s right,” the copilot whispered. “They don’t know about Sigonella and Souda Bay.”
The pilot switched off the radio. “Should we tell them?” The copilot thought a moment, and then shook her head. “No, sir. I wouldn’t recommend it. Libya may be listening, and they don’t need to know the full extent of the damage we suffered.”
“You’re right. And the Gearing doesn’t need to know that the hospital was destroyed in the raid. They’ll find out the details soon enough when the sub arrives.” He flipped the radio back on.
“Wait a minute!” the copilot said. She unzipped the pocket on the left leg of her flight suit and pulled two newspapers out. “We can slip these in the next drop.”
The pilot smiled. “Go to it! And throw in any paperbacks or other magazines we have on board. They’re sailors; they’ll want something to read. They deserve more for the heroes they are: sinking a Nanuchka missile patrol boat, possibly a Foxtrot submarine, and two aircraft before they were sunk. They fought a battle that will go down in Naval history.”
She touched him on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Commander.” She shook her head as she walked back to where the aircrew were stacking the next drop. Naval history usually had the ship surviving, she thought.
The pilot nodded and clicked the transmit button. “Gearing, sorry about the delay. We were checking on something. Don’t know where your destination will be, but it will be American-controlled.”
“The sooner the better,” Cafferty responded.
Five minutes later, the P-3C made its fourth bank for another pass. The copilot slid back into her seat and strapped her seat harness around her.
“TCO’d,” she said, giving the pilot the “okay” sign.
The pilot winked and nodded.
“Gearing, here we come again. Mainly food this time, but you’ll find a Stars and Stripes along with the International Herald-Tribune newspaper and several magazines and books. You can figure from the stories some of the things going on now.”
The Stars and Stripes was the military newspaper published out of Germany. Distributed daily throughout the world to the military, it focused on news of specific interest to the United States military overseas. Both it and the International Herald-Tribune had headline stories on the plight of the Gearing survivors as well as the air attacks against Sigonella and Souda Bay. The photograph of the stern of the USS Gearing sticking out of the water, surrounded by tiny life rafts and the survivors in the water, filled the first page of the Stars and Stripes under a bold-lettered banner headline reading, “America Suffers Second Pearl Harbor.” It was a terrible way for the survivors to relive the sinking, but the support from home would raise their morale.
More orange containers fell from the Orion, landing a little further from the life rafts than the last drop, but still within reach.
“That’s all of it, Captain,” the pilot apologized. “Another aircraft will return later this afternoon for another drop. Recommend rationing your supplies in the event circumstances delay the drop.”
“Hunter Six Zero, this is Wizard One! We have slow-flying bogeys breaking feet-wet northwest out of Benghazi, heading your way. Break left to course zero double zero.”
“Gearing, this is Hunter Six Zero. We are departing the area. Our prayers are with you. Captain, as hard as it may be, keep your spirits up. The whole world watches. You’ve replaced the Alamo.”
“The Alamo?”
“Yeah, it’s now
“Remember the Gearing.””
“Hunter Six Zero, break off now!” interrupted the tactical controller on board the RC-135.
The Orion turned north, wiggled its wings as a salute to the Gearing survivors, and departed. It maintained fifty-feet altitude to avoid radar detection from the inbound aircraft.
“Hunter Six Zero, Noble Formation, this is Wizard One. Bandits’ course is direct toward Gearing survivors. Hunter Six Zero, continue on course zero double zero. Noble One Six, you are free to execute defensive attack. Weapons free.”
“Hunter Six Zero, this is Noble Formation. You should be safe. We’re breaking off now. See you at the club tonight. First round’s on you.
Noble Formation, we have company. Let’s show them some Air Force hospitality.”
“Roger,” replied Hunter Six Zero. “Good hunting. Kick ass for us and we’ll buy the second and third round, too!”
“You Navy guys aren’t as dumb as the Air Force manual says. You just read our minds.”
“Hunter Six Zero, this is Wizard One. Stay low! Change to channel one eight for vectoring home. Maintain radio discipline. In other words, cut the chatter.”
Two clicks acknowledged the command.
“Noble Formation, reform line abreast,” ordered Howard
“The Bird”
Webster. He felt the sweat on his hands inside his flight gloves. This was his first air combat, but it was also the first for the rest of the formation. He took a deep, slow breath.
The four aircraft merged ten miles northwest of the USS Gearing survivors. A minute later they blasted over the life rafts at three thousand feet, descending as the Rivet Joint vectored them toward the bogeys. On the life rafts the sailors covered their ears even as they cheered when they recognized the American insignia on the bottom of the wings.
“Noble One Six,” the ATE on the Rivet Joint said. “I confirm six bandits still on course directly toward the Gearing. Speed and altitude indicates they’re probably helicopters. No ELINT picture available.”