“Who’s it from?”
“CTF Sixty-seven — Fleet Air Mediterranean. Admiral Devlin says that if we encounter any reaction to our presence we are to depart the area immediately and bingo to Sigonella.”
The mission commander walked into the cockpit.
“Well, here it is,” said the pilot to Andrews as he passed the message to him.
“Uncover those lenses from that video camera we carry and take pictures. I’ll not want to stay all night in debriefing. Take the Intell bubbas some photos and they’ll leave us alone.”
Andrews quickly read the message.
“Okay. Says here we’re directly under Sixth Fleet direction.”
The pilot nodded as he took the intercom.
“Crew, this is Commander Stillwell. You all know what we think has happened. We’ve been ordered to visually verify it. We are descending to sea level, probably around a hundred feet.
Then, we’re going to approach the action location. Once there, we’ll commence a broadening circle search.”
“We are going to be within easy reach of Libyan fighter aircraft, so I want all of you on your toes. If you see even the tiniest indication they know we are there, I want to know about it. Meanwhile, everyone put on your SV-2s and parachutes. Just a precaution in the event we have to run for it.”
Activity erupted as twenty-four crew members jostled and bumped each other as they put on their survival vests, followed by bulky parachutes pulled from overhead storage racks. The SV-2s and parachutes restricted movement somewhat, but if they had to, they could evacuate the EP3E in a minute.
“I am sending the flight engineer back and I want number three life raft and provisions ready to drop. Put our main radio in with number three. Officers, throw your survival radios in the plastic bag. If the worst has happened, they’ll have more need of them than we will.”
The EP-3E continued west as it descended to an altitude of one hundred feet and then, when onboard sensors showed no radar painting the aircraft, it turned south. The noise increased from the four turboprops as Commander Stillwell applied more power. The turbulence caused by the low altitude and max speed bounced the aging aircraft as it hurried south. Aircrew fastened their seat belts and secured their coffee cups without being told. Stillwell bowed his head slightly. He was not a religious man by nature, but he asked God to make their analysis wrong.
Ten minutes later Stillwell announced, “We are five minutes, fifteen miles from the datum. There is dark smoke on the horizon and we’re steering toward it. Lieutenant commander Andrews, have your camera ready. I want an air crewman at each of the windows, searching for anything that looks like surface debris, a ship, life rafts, anything.”
Andrews moved to the large window near the aft exit and set up the video camera. In the cockpit. Commander Stillwell continued relaying information to Commander United States Sixth Fleet.
Three minutes passed.
The plane started down as the pilot spoke.
“We are descending to fifty feet altitude. It’s going to be a rough ride, so stay buckled in your seats if you don’t have a reason to be up. Ahead of us is the stern of what looks like a ship, sticking out of the sea. I see several life rafts near it.”
The EP-3E veered right slightly to broaden its turn as it started a left circle over the protruding stern of the ship.
In large black letters the word Gearing stood out. From the front of the aircraft a short cry of anguish broke the silence.
Below them, waving from life rafts, were the survivors of the USS Gearing. The presence of the United States Navy aircraft gave hope. The survivors knew their battle had not gone unnoticed and a sense of relief, that only mariners can understand, spread through the survivors. The presence of the aircraft told them rescue was on its way.
Little did they know, nor would they have believed, that rescue would take four days.
Lieutenant Sue Gamer shoved two air crewmen aside as she ran up the aisle to where Lieutenant Commander John Andrews filmed the scene. She grabbed his flight suit.
“Gotta go! Gotta go, John! Multiple bogies airborne out of Benghazi and Tripoli. We gotta go! They’ll be feet wet in thirty seconds!” Andrews tossed his camera to the chief beside him and ran to the cockpit.
“Break off. Commander. Fighters on their way!”
“Screw them!” the pilot answered angrily. He then reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“I’ve just finished talking to Sixth Fleet. Admiral Cameron has given me charge to decide what we do.”
“Not supposed to smoke,” the copilot said calmly, handing his lighter to the pilot.
“Screw you, too. I’m not smoking; I’m just holding it in my mouth,” Stillwell replied, flicking the lighter until a flame appeared.
“John, we’re gonna dump the life raft and provisions before we leave. I’m not going to abandon our shipmates yet. We can’t outrun those fighters anyway, so we’ll dump the stuff and then lead them away from here.”
As Gamer and Andrews departed the cockpit, they heard the pilot say, “Mr. Copilot, no smoking is fine for peacetime, but I would submit to you, that now with a state of war existing, we can smoke. May even mean we can have sex again?”
Captain Heath Cafferty waved. He gave a thumbsup to Lieutenant Commander Nash, fifty yards away, in another life raft, helping survivors crawl into it from the water. Every raft had an officer or chief. Like the others, Cafferty and his fellow passengers continued to pull survivors from the water. The EP-3E finished its turn and headed toward them.
The door to the aircraft opened and a bright orange package tumbled out, inflating into a life raft as it hit the water.
Several sailors, still in the water, swam to it. The aircraft wiggled its wings before applying power to the engines.
He watched as it turned north, leaving them to the waters. How long would it be before rescue arrived? They were closer to Libya than to allied forces, and Cafferty was damned if he intended to be a prisoner of war to be paraded through the streets like in scenes from Vietnam.
He was about two hundred yards from the stern of the USS Gearing. The valiant warship was slowly sinking, almost as if fighting to remain afloat. The life rafts, the wave less mirror ocean, the haze along the horizon, the stern of the ship with its rising thick column of smoke gave the scene an eerie Salvador Dali quality.
Near the stern of the Gearing a head popped up. It was the warrant officer. Under each of her arms was a sailor.
“I dogged the warrant into women’s berthing,” a smoke faced young man said to no one in particular.
“The missile hit. I wanted to leave the hatch opened so they could escape, but the warrant ordered it shut after she jumped into the compartment.”
“Paddle over,” Cafferty ordered, ignoring the sailor.
“We’re the closest.”
Using their hands to augment the two paddles, they moved along the smooth surface toward the warrant officer.
Minutes later they reached out and pulled the two women from the warrant’s grip.
Cafferty reached down and held the exhausted warrant officer up as she rested her head against the side of the raft. Her breath came in short, rapid gulps.
“Good work. Warrant,” he said, when she looked up.
She threw up over his hands, too tired to wipe the vomit from her mouth.
Cafferty and another sailor pulled her into the orange vinyl craft.
“Warrant, I’m sorry. I thought you were dead,” the young sailor on the other side said. He lowered his head onto his arms and cried silently. “Don’t worry about it. You did what I told you to. You saved the ship long enough for it to whip ass and take names,” she gasped in short whispered words.