“Duncan,” the commodore said as he remembered something.
“This message came for you from Washington.” He handed Duncan a sealed envelope. “
“Personal for’ delivered from Radio. They didn’t know where you were hanging your hat so they sent it to me.”
Duncan took the envelope and ripped the top to extract the single-page message. He read it, folded it, and put it into his top pocket.
“Nothing important, I hope?” the commodore asked.
“No, sir,” Duncan replied sharply.
“A personal matter that Admiral Hodges offered to sort.”
“Lieutenant,” the commodore said to the CICWO, his interest in the message gone when Duncan failed to elaborate.
“Recall the Harriers. Clear the deck for their landing.
Time to change this group of warships from a blue-water battle group to what it was designed to be: a brown-water amphibious task force. Ain’t versatility great?
Reminds me of the seventies, when Jane’s Fighting Ships revealed that the Soviets had more cruisers than us. Did we build more cruisers? You bet your sweet ass we didn’t.
We just went and re designated all of our destroyer leaders, like the USS Bainbridge, from DLGs to cruisers. Bainbridge went from DLGN-25 to CGN-25.”
The lieutenant rushed to recall the Marine Corps Harriers.
“Overnight, the United States Navy had more cruisers than the Soviets. Same thing now. Congress says we only need eight aircraft carriers while the Navy says we need twelve, so they went and re designated these amphibious ships to light carriers. Lots of difference between the eight Harriers I can carry and the one hundred fighter aircraft that a real carrier can launch.” The commodore turned to Captain Farnfield.
“Skipper, as soon as Gearing is off station, I want those Harriers on deck. Until then, put them in the pattern. Once recovered, I want Nassau turned toward our MODLOC. You have the message I drafted earlier with the sailing directions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Release it as soon as those two events are completed.
I want max speed and I want us through the Strait of Sicily by this afternoon.”
“We can do that, sir, but the USS Nashville is an older ship and her max speed is twelve knots. They are still running with a warped port shaft. It’ll take divers to correct it and with the damage to the USS Simon Lake we may have to send her to a civilian port for repairs.”
“Okay, detach Hayler to stay with Nashville once we increase speed. Give me an estimate by noon how long we’ll be on station before Nashville shows up. I knew when Surflant canceled her overhaul last year that we’d have trouble with that ship,” Ellison confided.
“Why did Naval Surface Forces Atlantic cancel it?” Duncan asked, more as a courtesy than a curiosity. His mind churned over the message in his pocket.
“Funding was cut — again.”
The INMARSAT phone rang. Lieutenant Stumple answered it. Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Commodore, it’s the Gearing’s skipper on the phone.”
The commodore took the phone.
“Heath, this is Frank Ellison here. I take it you got my orders.”
“Yes, sir. Commodore. We are twenty-five miles off track on a course of three three zero at twenty-five knots.
What is your position? We are experiencing heavy electromagnetic interference in the area.”
“I heard you had a fire in Radio?”
“Yes, sir. No one injured, but we have a lot of electronics to repair and parts to replace.”
“Heath, you alright? You sound like you’ve got a cold or something.” He held the phone away momentarily and looked at the handset.
“Yes, Commodore. It is this blasted sand off the desert, covering my ship. We breathe it in and it seems to stay in our chests.”
Commander Mulligan leaned toward the commodore and whispered, “Sir, you may want to go secure and engage the STU-III.” He pointed to the enciphered voice button on the INMARSAT set.
The commodore waved him away, his eyes narrowing over the interruption. He pushed his bifocals back up on his nose.
“Blasted? Heath, you’re mellowing in your old age,” the commodore chuckled.
“Look, when we finish I will put the lieutenant on who will pass our coordinates. We are recovering the fighters and will be heading to an operating area off Algiers. Anything we can do about your equipment casualty?”
“No, sir. My technicians are working very hard to repair the blasted malfunctioning things.”
“Okay, Heath, I’ll let you return to your repair work.
Don’t lollygag about down there. I need your ship with us as soon as possible. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. We are hurrying to join you now.”
“Heath, if you have not repaired Radio by sunset, I want you to initiate periodic checks via INMARSAT so we can plot your position until you come into our radar picture.
Okay?”
“Yes, sir. I understand. Commodore. This is Gearing signing out.” The commodore handed the phone to the CICWO, who moved to one side to pass the battle group coordinates before hanging up.
“Strange,” Ellison said, “I’ve known Heath Cafferty since he was a spry lieutenant. He sounded almost formal on the phone. Not himself.” He shook his head.
“Didn’t hear one curse word.”
“Must have been the enlisted and junior officers manning Combat, sir. Probably wanted to show proper respect,” Commander Mulligan offered.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You may be right. First time I’ve known Heath to temper his speech when things weren’t going right. Said blasted instead of using the F word like he normally does. He’s one of the few ring knockers I’ve known who can outcurse a boatswain mate.”
Duncan patted the folded message in his pocket. He needed some time to himself to digest the news from Admiral Hodges.
“Captain Farnfield, I’m going down for a late breakfast, and then I’ll be in my stateroom,” the commodore said.
“Let me know once the Harriers are on board and we are heading north.”
Captain Farnfield acknowledged the order as the commodore departed CIC.
“That’s the lecture for the morning, gentlemen. See you later,” Captain Farnfield said good-naturedly. He patted Lieutenant Stumple on the shoulder.
“Lieutenant, let me know when the Harriers are on board. If anything comes up, give me a call”—he nodded his head emphatically.
“After breakfast I’ll be on the bridge, watching the rest of sunrise.”
“Good CON OP Colonel. Think everything will go according to plan?” Duncan asked after Captain Farnfield and Commander Mulligan departed.
“No, I don’t,” Bulldog replied. “Nothing ever goes according to plan, but it makes Ellison happy to have something in writing. Between you and me, I have a bad feeling about this so-called noncombatant evacuation. I think we’re going to have to fight our way into and out of Algiers and it’s going to be bloody, Duncan. I just hope we don’t get sucked into their little rebellion.”
“I hope you’re wrong. Bulldog, but plan for the best, expect the worse. You won’t be disappointed.” Duncan shook hands with the Marine Corps colonel as the two made their way toward the exit. It was going to be a long day. He patted his pocket.
The Commodore’s eyes flew open as he dozed at the desk in his stateroom. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, and had been ever since the short INMARSAT conversation with Heath Cafferty. He leaned back in the chair, his hand over his mouth, and picked up the Baby Ben clock from his desk. It showed eight o’clock.
Realization slammed into him like a freight train. His head shot up as chill bumps raced up his spine and adrenaline surged through his body. He was still tucking in his shirttail as he rushed out of the stateroom, his bifocals nearly falling off.