Cafferty stepped away from the railing, leaving the imprint of his hand on the gray stanchion. He wiped his hands and then brushed his khaki shin near the belt line where desert sand from the railing had stained it.
“Damn.” The captain stepped inside.
BMOW shouted the usual, “Captain on the bridge.”
“Boats,” the captain said to the BMOW.
“Call the executive officer and the combat systems officer to the bridge on the double!”
“Yes, sir.” The BMOW grabbed the 1MC microphone and lifted the boatswain whistle to his lips to pipe the summons, but the intercom interrupted.
“Bridge, Combat; is the captain still there?”
“Combat, Bridge here; that’s an affirmative.” The officer of the deck glanced at the captain to ensure he heard.
Cafferty nodded and motioned to the boatswain mate of the watch to belay the announcement.
“Go ahead. Combat, the captain’s listening.”
“Captain, Combat Information Center watch officer here, sir. We have a helicopter off the port bow about sixteen miles.”
The captain eased past the ODD, who moved quietly to one side. Cafferty pushed the reply button and said to the CICWO, “That’ll put him over land. What’s he doing?”
“Sir, we’ve been tracking him about three minutes. He came from the east and is flying due west. Not sure if he is conducting a reconnaissance, doing routine zone flying, or just transiting.”
“Electronic Warfare got anything?”
“Just a sporadic radar reading that may have come from him, but it wasn’t up long enough to identify. The direction he’s flying his radar isn’t pointed our way so doubt if we can get a valid identification.”
“Combat, I would say it’s Libyan since it’s over the coast. Any other air activity out there?”
“Only the Harriers flying a combat air patrol about eighty miles northwest of us, sir.”
“Do we have contact with the USS NassauT “Yes, sir, we do, but we are experiencing some sporadic communication difficulties caused by the sun, but that’s to be expected. So far, nothing serious enough to keep us from exchanging operational information. The Harriers are operating under the control of the Nassau’s ATE.”
“How about Sixth Fleet?”
“Sir?”
“Comms! We got comms with Sixth Fleet?”
“Sorry, sir, yes, sir; when we conducted morning communication checks, everything was flyers with Sixth Fleet and Commander Fleet Air Mediterranean. The Nassau is one hundred fifty miles northwest of our current position and the op order calls for them to steam eastward to maintain a closing position so that her air arm can support our operation.”
“Is the executive officer down there?”
“Yes, sir. He just came in.”
“XO, this is the captain. Come up to the bridge, please.
CICWO, keep tracking that helicopter and inform the Nassau and Sixth Fleet that our presence is probably known by the Libyans. We’ll assume worst-case scenario that the helicopter is flying a coastal recce.”
CICWO acknowledged the order as the hatch opened and the executive officer walked onto the bridge. “BMOW, go ahead and call the combat systems officer.”
The BMOW keyed the mike and the boatswain whistle echoed over the 1MC loudspeakers throughout the ship.
“Now hear this. Combat Systems Officer, lay to the bridge on the double!”
“On the double” meant a situation existed that required the immediate attention of the person to whom it was directed.
To be summoned “on the double” meant dropping whatever was being done and running to wherever the summons ordered.
Less than a minute later the hatch burst open and the combat systems officer rushed breathlessly onto the bridge, bumping the quartermaster, who had just walked out of the chart room, carrying the wooden box containing the sextant.
The quartermaster lost her grip, dropping the box, but with a quick grab caught the sensitive instrument before it hit the deck. She felt the sextant move against the inside cradle that held the sensitive instrument tight to protect its calibration.
“Damn, sir,” the quartermaster said.
“Sorry,” the combat systems officer replied as he walked around the petty officer.
“Captain,” he announced his presence.
“Lieutenant, glad you could make it.”
The navigator interrupted with an announcement that the ship had reached the fifteen-mile limit with a recommendation to come to course one one zero to commence track.
“Very well. Officer of the Deck, bring us to course one one zero and maintain twelve knots.”
“This is the officer of the deck. I have the conn. Helmsman, left fifteen-degree rudder.”
With a smooth motion the electric drive, generated by four turbine engines, brought the ship to starboard with a minimum list. When the ship neared the track the OOD began easing the rudder, bit by bit, until the ship steadied on course one one zero.
“Steady on course one one zero. Keep us at twelve knots,” Cafferty added. The Admiral Zumwalt DD-21-class land-attack destroyer was one smooth class of ships: different engineering technology; integrated power systems driven by the electric drive; and fully designed from the keel up with the concepts of Network Centric Warfare and offensive distributed firepower in mind. Of course. Network Centric Warfare assumed the ship was acting in concert with other units. For the Freedom of Navigation operation, the USS Gearing sailed alone. The sounds of the four turbine engines that generated the power for the electric drive vibrated the ship when increased power was required.
“Aye, sir. Course one one zero. Steering one one zero.
Twelve knots.”
“Steering one one zero, twelve knots,” repeated the helmsman.
“Very well,” replied the OOD.
At the navigation table the navigator made appropriate log entries to include the distance from the Libyan land mass, unaware that the GPS position was erroneous. The USS Gearing was three nautical miles inside Libyan territorial waters.
Cafferty briefed the two officers on how he wanted the guns and sensitive antennas and weapon systems covered.
“Those that can be plugged, plug ‘em. Those that can be tarped, tarp ‘em. For those that need to be exposed to the weather, pack grease around them to keep the sand off the sensitive elements and gears.” The combat systems officer took notes. The XO nodded. On the port bridge wing, the quartermaster turned the sextant back and forth, checking the settings. The clumsy combat systems officer had knocked it out of calibration.
Even so, the navigator wanted a sun fix and that was that.
The quartermaster smiled. When she finished her sun fix, they would be spot-on GPS. She left the navigator sweating at the plotting table and went to take the reading topside, above the bridge. The signalmen always had better coffee up there than this shit they kept bringing up from the mess decks for the bridge. Plus, there was always the chance Sinclair may be there. Maybe she couldn’t drink on board, or smoke belowdecks, but when the sun went down … well, that was a different kettle of fish altogether.
The overhead speaker blared to life in the Operations room.
“Command Post, this is Flight Twelve. Intruder has arrived.”
Colonel Alqahiray nodded once as he twisted the end of his mustache.
The operator picked up the microphone and in colloquial Bedouin Arabic acknowledged the transmission and asked the pilot to put the data system on-line. Sharp, crisp voice comments passed as the two exchanged equipment settings. When satisfied that the two systems were aligned properly the operator turned to the colonel.