“You okay?”
The XO nodded.
“I think I’m alright,” he mumbled.
Water washed over where the bow of the ship used to be. The ship was slipping beneath the sea. The forward tilt had already increased a couple of degrees since the captain had left Combat.
The XO moved to the front of the bridge and leaned against the remnants of the bulkhead.
“Captain, we are going to have to abandon ship. She’s sinking.” He walked over to where the navigation table used to be. He touched the two bodies there on the neck to see if by some miracle they were alive. Both were dead.
Nash shoved a few items around on the floor until he found the logbook. He tucked it under his arm, leaving a bloody hand imprint on the cover.
“I’d give her ten minutes at the most. Captain,” the XO said with a tremble in his voice.
“You fought the good battle, sir. No one else could have done it as well.” He looked at the sinking bow area.
“We have to leave before she goes down. If we go now, we can probably save those still alive before she does a belly-up.”
Cafferty surveyed the damage for a few seconds. Then reluctantly he said, “You’re right, XO.” He looked at his watch.
“Time is zero eight nineteen. Hard to believe. Nineteen minutes of battle. Nineteen minutes from a normal, routine operation to the loss of the ship.”
The XO opened the logbook and with a pen from his pocket made a quick notation. His hands shook and he managed to write the time before shutting the book. He’d fill in the details later.
A moan drew the captain’s attention. The boatswain mate of the watch was trying to stand. His left hand held a stump where his right arm used to be. The captain rushed over, pulled his belt out, and made a tourniquet out of it.
“XO, help Boats to the life raft.”
Cafferty reached over and moved the annunciator again to the stop position. The whine of the engines decreased, bringing after it an eerie silence to a devastating scene.
Cafferty lifted the 1MC and checked the switches to ensure the sound-powered system carried his voice topside.
The XO, with the wounded boatswain mate leaning on his shoulder, departed the bridge through the port hatch.
Cafferty clicked on the 1MC.
“This is the captain. Abandon ship. Now hear this. Abandon ship.” He paused and then clicked the microphone on again.
“Listen to me, sailors.
We have about ten minutes, I figure. No more than that.
Plenty of time to search around the immediate area for shipmates and make sure they make it with you. That’s not enough time to go to your quarters for any personal gear.
I am proud of each and every one of you. The USS Gearing fought the good battle as we were trained to do. We don’t go down without taking the enemy with us. Good luck and may God be with you.”
As he hung up, the power went out. The electric engines wound down internally as the engineers secured them prior to rushing to their own abandon ship stations. Cafferty moved in a daze across the bridge, checking each body for signs of life. He picked up the sextant lying against the forward bulkhead deck and tucked it under his arm.
They would need this.
Finding no one alive, he worked his way down to Combat.
The USS Gearing had given a good account of herself.
Cafferty was right. The first American warship sunk in a sea battle since World War II, but she took a Libyan surface ship, a submarine, and at least one fighter aircraft with her. Had the cost of ensuring international freedom of the seas been worth it? Cafferty didn’t know and now was not the time to think about it.
On board the Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two EP-3E Orion aircraft, flying the central Mediterranean track, one hundred fifty miles north of the action, the mission commander turned to the crypto logic officer.
“Are we sure?” he asked, disbelieving.
“Lord, you’ve got to be wrong. Maybe it’s a Libyan exercise?”
“No, it’s not an exercise and yes, I am sure. Your front end crew verified the presence of Harpoon emitters. The Gearing is the only ship in this vicinity that has Harpoons.
The lab op detected missile seekers of the old Soviet Styx missile. The Libyans still have Osa and Nanuchka warships that carry those antiques,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from her flight suit, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
“The Gearing was called off station last night by Sixth Fleet and, according to this morning’s pr emission brief, she should have been about a hundred and fifty miles from where you’re saying this took place. Because of that, we weren’t briefed to keep track of her,” Lieutenant Commander Andrews argued.
Without replying Lieutenant Gamer handed the mission commander a message with four short lines on it and knew, even as she handed it, that the message was going to stir the United States as nothing had since Pearl Harbor. Even men cried in battle, so she felt no timidity that a few tears dotted her cheeks.
“We only have ELINT, but a quick triangulation against the Gearing Aegis radar shows her over thirty miles off the Libyan coast. I would say that’s a great difference from the hundred fifty she is supposed to be.”
“Why?” he asked, trying to comprehend the enormity of what Gamer was saying.
“I don’t understand the why of it,” Lieutenant Sue Garner, the crypto logic officer, replied.
“Neither do I,” Lieutenant Commander Andrews, the mission commander, answered.
“Neither do I.”
Andrews folded the message and walked toward the cockpit. Every eye in the aircraft watched his progress as he hurried through. Every member of the crew had a piece of the puzzle, knowing the whole picture rested on the piece of paper in Lieutenant Commander Andrews’s hand.
The last reflection was the Mig-23 pilot declaring an in-flight emergency and reporting the American warship sinking. Onboard electronic warfare suites had pinpointed the location of the action.
At the cockpit the mission commander handed the message to the pilot.
“So, we’re sure this is true?” the senior pilot. Commander Stillwell, asked.
“Yes, sir. We can’t be completely sure without actually seeing it. But our sensors show, and every one of the analysts believes, it is a valid event. That at approximately zero seven twenty Zulu, zero eight twenty hours our time, forces of Libya attacked and sank the USS Gearing while she was operating in international waters.”
The pilot initialed the message, adding his own line.
“Go ahead and send it. I wrote that we are remaining on station, awaiting further instructions.” He looked at the gauges.
“We’ve only been airborne a couple of hours; we can stay up another eight if we have to. I hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope so, too. This is one time it wouldn’t bother me to be told how I screwed up.”
“We’ll wait here,” said the pilot. He put the EP-3E into a racetrack orbit. Here, they’d wait for further instructions, which he knew would come.
Within four minutes of the time that Lieutenant Gamer recognized what was happening, the message landed on the desks of Commander Sixth Fleet, Commander in Chief U. S. Naval Forces Europe, Commander in Chief Europe, and other battle force commanders throughout the world.
Six minutes after the message left the aircraft the duty watch officer in the basement of the White House ran up the stairs to wake the president. Within three hours, CNN would interrupt normal broadcasting to spread the news that would send angry Americans into the streets, demanding revenge.
The curtains to the cockpit opened.
“Message, sir,” said the radioman who handed the slip of paper to the pilot.
“What’s it say?” the copilot asked impatiently.
“Descend to sea level, approach the action area, and verify.”