“Besides, you don’t think I’d risk my life if I thought I was going to die, do you? Naw, ain’t gonna happen — too many boy toys I ain’t met for me to die yet.”
Several minutes later, the warrant slid over beside the captain.
“Captain!” a sailor shouted, pointing south.
“It’s a helicopter!”
Cafferty knew it wasn’t American. The helo flew within a mile of their position and hovered for about ten minutes.
Sunlight reflected off the camera lens from the interior of the helicopter.
“Assholes,” said Cafferty. They were filming the disaster.
What he wouldn’t give right now for a handheld surface-to-air missile.
“I guess tonight we’ll be featured on Libyan television.”
“Let’s not disappoint them. Captain. Come on, everyone, give them the Hawaiian good luck sign,” said the warrant, holding up the middle finger of her left hand.
Cafferty joined the others in greeting the Libyan helicopter.
Two sailors in another life raft stood and dropped their trousers, turning their naked cheeks to the Libyans.
He grinned for the first time today.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Admiral, everything ordered has been in accordance with your standing op order. I talked with Commodore Ellison a few minutes ago, directly after the EP3E report. Seems he was trying to contact us at the same time to report that someone, masquerading as the commanding officer of the USS Gearing, spoofed CTF Sixtyone earlier this morning. Captain Ellison has launched four Harriers back along the battle group’s course to see if they can locate the destroyer, but the Marine Corps aircraft do not have the legs to reach the attack area. Ellison originally believed Gearing was heading his way at flank speed, before he realized he was being spoofed. By then, he had already recalled the combat air patrol, turned toward the Strait of Sicily, jacked the speed up, and started focusing the battle group transition from FONOP to a noncombatant evacuation op — a NEO. Sixtyone has now slowed their progress to await your directions.”
“Clive, I don’t like the sound of this. Where are they now?” Admiral Cameron asked his chief of staff. He ran his hand through his brown mane of thick hair. His graying eyebrows bunched as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. The dull ache from the wounds on his back reminded him to be careful in his movements.
“The battle group is in the Strait of Sicily,” Captain Clive Bowen replied.
The admiral bent down to slip on his shoes.
“Clive, I’m sorry to ask this, but can you give me a hand tying these damn things?”
The chief of staff bent down and tied the admiral’s shoes and then grabbed the khaki shirt draped over the back of a nearby chair and helped the admiral pull his shirt over the thick bandages. Two three-star rank devices held the collars down.
“Thanks, Clive.” He stuck his hand out and Clive helped the man to his feet. Admiral Cameron walked to the chest of drawers near the door to his private head.
Looking in the mirror, the admiral commented, “Damn, Clive, I look like a lopsided Hunchback of Noire Dame who’s gotten the shit beaten out of him.”
Changing the subject, he asked, “What is VQ-2 doing?”
referring to the parent squadron of the EP-3E.
“Is CTF Sixty-seven aware?” The sound of urine hitting the metal side of the commode accompanied his voice. The strong smell of ammonia reached Clive a few seconds later through the open door.
“Yes, sir. I talked with Rear Admiral Devlin and, with our concurrence, he has directed the EP-3E into the action area to visually verify the report.”
“Okay, Clive, but a four-engine turboprop Orion is no match for fighter aircraft. I want them out of there at the first sign of any reaction. I mean any. It could be a trap to bag one of our aircraft. Just because Qaddafi’s dead and gone doesn’t mean whoever’s controlling Libya is any less radical and anti-U. S.”
He started toward the door.
“Let’s go to Combat. I want to be there when the aircraft arrives on the scene. Your job, Clive, is to run interference with the doc and that attractive nurse out there.” He opened the door.
The admiral and Captain Clive Bowen walked into the outer room.
“Doc, don’t say a word,” the admiral said, smiling and waving his hand at Captain Jacobs, the Sixth Fleet surgeon snoring on the couch, and, without breaking stride, continued to the stateroom door. The nurse rose from the nearby table.
“I have to go to Combat,” Admiral Cameron muttered.
“Admiral …” Lieutenant Commander Kathleen Gray, of the nurse corps, started to argue. She took two steps toward Admiral Cameron, afraid he was going to fall.
“Stay here with the doc. Nurse. If I need you, I’ll call.”
“What’s going on?” Doctor Jacobs asked, half-asleep.
Clive winked at the nurse as he shut the door behind them. So much for him running interference.
Outside, the two Marine sentries saluted the admiral and fell in step behind the two men. Since the attack the lone Marine orderly had been replaced by two. The two Marines had shifted from their casual uniform into combat cammies, their M-16s a sharp contrast from the usual Colt-45s they wore holstered around their waists.
One ladder, six frames, and two knee knockers later they were inside the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center.
One Marine took position outside of CIC while the other followed the admiral inside.
“Sixth Fleet in Combat,” said a voice as they entered.
The staff duty officer rushed over.
“Admiral, the EP-3E is entering the area now, sir, if you would like to listen.”
“Yes, I would, Commander. Lead the way.” A wave of dizziness swept over Admiral Cameron. He reached out and braced himself as fresh beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Clive Bowen’s hand surreptitiously took the admiral by the arm.
“This way. Admiral,” Captain Bowen said and removed his hand as Cameron straightened.
Initially, the damage to the USS La Sane and USS Simon Lake was thought to be so severe that they would have to abandon the ships, but the quick damage control by the ships’ companies had mitigated the damage. It took divers a whole day to cut away the sharp metal edges protruding around the damaged sterns and another day to rig a temporary seal to restore watertight integrity. By the time the USS La Sane and the USS Simon Lake had been refloated, Admiral Cameron had been released from the Italian hospital and given a quick physical at the U. S. Naval Hospital in Naples. He walked aboard with a little help from Clive and Doc Jacobs the same day the ships were refloated.
There was still a lot of damage to be repaired and neither ship could get under way on its own steam, but for the time being the La Sane had been restored to duty as a command ship and the Simon Lake — a submarine tender-had its repair facilities working round the clock.
Everyone followed the progress of the wounded leader.
Admiral Cameron’s presence restored the shattered confidence that resulted from the terrorist attack. Spontaneous applause started with a couple of claps and then broke throughout the staff Combat Information Center into a cacophony of cheers.
Admiral Cameron had returned to the damaged flagship the previous night from two days in the hospital, recovering from the wounds he’d sustained during the coordinated terrorist attack. He ran his hand through his hair. Memoriesof the attack at the bistro exploded across his mind.
That attack had followed the one on the ships by minutes, leaving eleven dead and eight wounded. One of the dead had been his wife, Susan.
The applause as Cameron walked through the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center did as much for the troops as it did for the admiral. Admiral Cameron waved and smiled as he moved to the center of Combat. He tried to stand as erect as the bandages allowed as he walked. If Cameron was back on the job, things were all right. Rumors of his death — wildly exaggerated — the death of Admiral Phrang, and evolving events in the Mediterranean had created an apprehensive atmosphere of uncertainty among the officers and sailors. Seeing the “Iron Leader” in Combat, alive and moving purposely, was the medicine needed to start morale climbing back up the ladder. Word began immediately to spread through the fleet that the Old Man was back at the helm.