Seawolf tsf-2 Page 10

  This morning the P-3C mission was to airdrop additional water and food to the survivors of the USS Gearing. Along with the supplies would be a note telling them that the attack submarine USS Miami was enroute and expected to pick them up sometime today.

  “Wizard One, this is Hunter Six Zero. Do you have me?”

  A digital beep alerted the radar operator on the RC-135. He clicked on his internal communications system to alert the tactical officer to the video return appearing on the radarscope from the northeast. The tactical officer gave the young airman a thumbs-up.

  “That’s an affirmative,” the tactical officer on board the modified Boeing 707 answered. “Stand by, Hunter Six Zero, we have a four-aircraft formation of Foxtrot One Sixes under my belly to keep you company. Expect rendezvous in five minutes.”

  “Roger, request they form up behind me, one-thousand foot separation overhead. My intentions are to continue to last contact point and commence a circular search until we locate them. Expect to be in VHP range of their survival radio within fifteen minutes.”

  Two clicks acknowledged the P-3C Orion aircraft.

  “Let’s go, Noble,” The Bird said.

  Noble Formation broke off the Rivet Joint aircraft as the RC-135 air-traffic controller vectored the F-16 formation to the P-3C.

  The Bird knew from the pr emission briefing that during the P-3C insertion, Wizard One would orbit at 36,000 feet. The sensitive RC-135 Rivet Joint reconnaissance systems would monitor the P-3C’s and four F-16s’ approach toward Libya, while simultaneously watching for any reaction to the five aircraft. If its sensors detected anything resembling a hostile reaction, Wizard One would take control of the aircraft and vector them out of harm’s way.

  Ten minutes later the F-16 formation zoomed by the P-3C; The Bird and his wingman, Noble Two Two, passed down each side, while Noble Four Eight rolled by overhead. Noble Three One flew beneath the Orion, and pulled up a half mile ahead in front of the turboprop aircraft. The turbulence in their wake shook the P-3C.

  “Okay, hotshots,” said the P-3C pilot. “You want to blow us out of the air before you get a shot at the Libyans?”

  “Hey, Noble One Six,” called Noble Two Two. “Can we paint a P-3 on the side of our aircraft and put a red cross through it?”

  “Noble Two Two, cut the chatter,” Noble One Six replied. Getting chewed out by a swabbie pissed him off.

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is Noble One Six. Sorry about that, we’ll watch our flight pattern. We’re coming right, and will set up a racetrack orbit overhead at six thousand feet. We will maintain this frequency. In the event of encounter, hit the deck and head north; we’ll provide the surprise.”

  “Roger, Noble One Six. Welcome aboard,” the P-3C pilot said in a more mellow tone. “Watch your passes by our aircraft. We’re not as sturdy as your other companion, and that last pass caused several of our crewmen to drop their breakfast trays. Lucky for us, the candles were unlit and the champagne still corked.”

  “Roger, Hunter Six Zero. Last thing we want is to disrupt breakfast.”

  A chuckle followed over the radio.

  On board the P-3C, the radio operator continued to call the survivors of the USS Gearing, trying to raise them on the emergency radio dropped by the EP-3E, Ranger Two Niner, three days ago. Five minutes later a weak, barely audible transmission came across the circuit. The radioman pushed his headset tighter against his ears.

  “Hunter, this is Gearing. We read you fivers, how me, over?”

  “Gearing, you are weak, but readable. We are heading your way.

  Activate your emergency beacon at this time.”

  A few seconds later a steady beeping sound from the speaker drew the radio operator’s attention. On the small scope in front of him a pulsing green line, synchronized with the beeps, indicated the relative bearing to the signal.

  “Pilot, Radio; I have the Gearing, sir,” the radio operator reported over the internal communications system to the cockpit. “The emergency beacon bears zero one zero relative.”

  The strobe drifted to the left as the plane changed direction slightly to align its nose to the beacon.

  “Mark!” the radio operator said on the ICS.

  The plane leveled off. The green strobe pointed straight up. “Beacon zero zero zero relative, one seven five true,” he reported.

  “Roger, that.”

  “Noble Formation, Hunter Six Zero; on course one seven five direct to Gearing. Am descending to five hundred feet.”

  “Noble Three One and Noble Four Eight, take air defensive position three miles west of Hunter. Noble One Six and Noble Two Two will take eastern sector.”

  The four-fighter formation broke apart into two pairs. The clear skies over the Gulf of Sidra enabled the four F-16 Fighting Falcons to maintain visual contact even at six miles separation.

  “There they are, sir,” the P-3C flight engineer said, tapping the pilot on the shoulder and pointing to the sea slightly to the right of the nose of the aircraft.

  “Yeah, I see them.” The pilot nosed the Orion lower, dropping to one hundred feet before he leveled off.

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is Noble Three One. We see the life rafts to our left about one five zero relative.”

  “Roger, Noble Formation, we have contact.”

  Two clicks answered in the headset.

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is Wizard One. What do you see?”

  “Wizard One, I count eight life rafts tethered to the larger number-three raft dropped by Ranger Two Nine.”

  “Gearing, this is Hunter Six Zero. That’s me overhead. We are going to commence a food-and-water run. How are conditions?”

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is the Charlie Oscar. We lost six last night.

  We are sixty-two souls on board with four in critical condition — fuel inhalation, internal injuries. Water is low and no food. The whole world, which is right now nine life rafts, wants to know when in the hell are we getting out of here?”

  “Skipper, attached to the first drop is a sealed watertight envelope with the details. Be prepared to execute its directions. Hopefully you won’t be spending another night out here.”

  “Roger, you guys don’t know what this means to see you. But we would prefer to be able to shake your hands. I think three days and four nights are enough! I’ve got sailors dying out here and I want to know what the Navy is doing to rescue us.”

  “I understand, Skipper. We are doing everything we can with what’s available. Read the enclosed message. Meanwhile, you’re going to continue to see us until you’re rescued. We are maintaining a continuous watch north of here over your position. When you leave those rafts, it will be back into the arms of Mother Navy. Rest assured that help is on the way and we have no intention of leaving you out here any longer than necessary.”

  “We have already been out here longer than necessary. Rescue would be appreciated. If you have pencil and paper, I will turn this over to Warrant Officer Robertson to update the names of the survivors. I think we have everyone who survived the sinking, but I can’t be sure.

  There are many unaccounted for. Here’s the warrant, she’ll provide the names.”

  “Roger, am prepared to copy and we’ll make a wide circle of your position after the drop and commence an expanding search pattern to see if we can locate any other survivors.”

  “Thanks. Let us know if you find anyone,” Captain Heath Cafferty replied. He handed the radio to Warrant Officer Robertson sitting beside him. This was ridiculous. The United States Navy was the most powerful Navy in the world, bar none, and here they had been drifting at sea for nearly four days. Something was wrong when your own Navy couldn’t rescue you.

  “Hunter, the following officers, chiefs, and sailors are accounted for.” And the warrant officer began a monotonous reading of names followed by Social Security numbers. The list also identified the six who’d died during the night.

  The P-3C radioman scribbled the names on yellow lined legal paper, while
a nearby voice recorder backed up his effort.

  The P-3C pilot brought the aircraft out of its bank and aligned the Orion with the rafts four hundred yards ahead. The plane descended to fifty feet as it began its approach. One hundred yards from the rafts, the pilot ordered the backdoor crew to push the containers out. Bright orange and buoyant, the waterproof containers of water and food fell from the sky, landing within fifty feet of the rafts and the occupants.

  The survivors paddled the rafts to the orange floats, and as the Orion turned, four hundred yards later, the pilot observed them hoisting the supplies aboard.

  “Warrant, can you repeat that last name? I missed it when we turned.”

  “Roger, Hunter. Williams, Josephine A. CTRL Did you get her Social Security number?”

  “Affirmative, Warrant. I got the number, it was the name that was garbled.”

  A different voice came over the USS Gearing survival radio. “Hunter, this is the Charlie Oscar again. Have reviewed the package. Finally, great news. We’ll be ready. Do you have a more exact time for this to happen?”

  “Regrettably, I don’t,” the pilot replied. “I wish I did. I wish it was right now, and I further wish that there was more we could do for you than just orbit overhead and drop supplies.”

  “Not to worry, Hunter. Kind of make you wish the Navy had kept seaplanes in its inventory. A night under the stars in a life raft, out of sight of land, is not something sailors want to go through,” said Cafferty, his voice sad and soft. “Much less a fifth one, but knowing our shipmates are nearby boosts our morale and strengthens our courage and resolve.”

  “Roger, Captain. Your plight is known throughout America. The hopes and prayers of the nation and the Navy are with you even as we speak.”

  “Roger, Hunter. Sigonella will even seem good after this. The sooner we get there, the better. Even those who with no injuries need medical attention from the sun and sea exposure they’re suffering.”

  “Sigonella?”

  “Roger, I am assuming that will be our initial destination. It has the hospital facilities my crew needs, and is one day closer than Naples.”

  The pilot and copilot looked at each other. “That’s right,” the copilot whispered. “They don’t know about Sigonella and Souda Bay.”

  The pilot switched off the radio. “Should we tell them?” The copilot thought a moment, and then shook her head. “No, sir. I wouldn’t recommend it. Libya may be listening, and they don’t need to know the full extent of the damage we suffered.”

  “You’re right. And the Gearing doesn’t need to know that the hospital was destroyed in the raid. They’ll find out the details soon enough when the sub arrives.” He flipped the radio back on.

  “Wait a minute!” the copilot said. She unzipped the pocket on the left leg of her flight suit and pulled two newspapers out. “We can slip these in the next drop.”

  The pilot smiled. “Go to it! And throw in any paperbacks or other magazines we have on board. They’re sailors; they’ll want something to read. They deserve more for the heroes they are: sinking a Nanuchka missile patrol boat, possibly a Foxtrot submarine, and two aircraft before they were sunk. They fought a battle that will go down in Naval history.”

  She touched him on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Commander.” She shook her head as she walked back to where the aircrew were stacking the next drop. Naval history usually had the ship surviving, she thought.

  The pilot nodded and clicked the transmit button. “Gearing, sorry about the delay. We were checking on something. Don’t know where your destination will be, but it will be American-controlled.”

  “The sooner the better,” Cafferty responded.

  Five minutes later, the P-3C made its fourth bank for another pass. The copilot slid back into her seat and strapped her seat harness around her.

  “TCO’d,” she said, giving the pilot the “okay” sign.

  The pilot winked and nodded.

  “Gearing, here we come again. Mainly food this time, but you’ll find a Stars and Stripes along with the International Herald-Tribune newspaper and several magazines and books. You can figure from the stories some of the things going on now.”

  The Stars and Stripes was the military newspaper published out of Germany. Distributed daily throughout the world to the military, it focused on news of specific interest to the United States military overseas. Both it and the International Herald-Tribune had headline stories on the plight of the Gearing survivors as well as the air attacks against Sigonella and Souda Bay. The photograph of the stern of the USS Gearing sticking out of the water, surrounded by tiny life rafts and the survivors in the water, filled the first page of the Stars and Stripes under a bold-lettered banner headline reading, “America Suffers Second Pearl Harbor.” It was a terrible way for the survivors to relive the sinking, but the support from home would raise their morale.

  More orange containers fell from the Orion, landing a little further from the life rafts than the last drop, but still within reach.

  “That’s all of it, Captain,” the pilot apologized. “Another aircraft will return later this afternoon for another drop. Recommend rationing your supplies in the event circumstances delay the drop.”

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is Wizard One! We have slow-flying bogeys breaking feet-wet northwest out of Benghazi, heading your way. Break left to course zero double zero.”

  “Gearing, this is Hunter Six Zero. We are departing the area. Our prayers are with you. Captain, as hard as it may be, keep your spirits up. The whole world watches. You’ve replaced the Alamo.”

  “The Alamo?”

  “Yeah, it’s now

  “Remember the Gearing.””

  “Hunter Six Zero, break off now!” interrupted the tactical controller on board the RC-135.

  The Orion turned north, wiggled its wings as a salute to the Gearing survivors, and departed. It maintained fifty-feet altitude to avoid radar detection from the inbound aircraft.

  “Hunter Six Zero, Noble Formation, this is Wizard One. Bandits’ course is direct toward Gearing survivors. Hunter Six Zero, continue on course zero double zero. Noble One Six, you are free to execute defensive attack. Weapons free.”

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is Noble Formation. You should be safe. We’re breaking off now. See you at the club tonight. First round’s on you.

  Noble Formation, we have company. Let’s show them some Air Force hospitality.”

  “Roger,” replied Hunter Six Zero. “Good hunting. Kick ass for us and we’ll buy the second and third round, too!”

  “You Navy guys aren’t as dumb as the Air Force manual says. You just read our minds.”

  “Hunter Six Zero, this is Wizard One. Stay low! Change to channel one eight for vectoring home. Maintain radio discipline. In other words, cut the chatter.”

  Two clicks acknowledged the command.

  “Noble Formation, reform line abreast,” ordered Howard

  “The Bird”

  Webster. He felt the sweat on his hands inside his flight gloves. This was his first air combat, but it was also the first for the rest of the formation. He took a deep, slow breath.

  The four aircraft merged ten miles northwest of the USS Gearing survivors. A minute later they blasted over the life rafts at three thousand feet, descending as the Rivet Joint vectored them toward the bogeys. On the life rafts the sailors covered their ears even as they cheered when they recognized the American insignia on the bottom of the wings.

  “Noble One Six,” the ATE on the Rivet Joint said. “I confirm six bandits still on course directly toward the Gearing. Speed and altitude indicates they’re probably helicopters. No ELINT picture available.”

  “Roger, we copy.”

  “Noble Formation, turn to course one one zero. Bandits are twenty miles at five hundred feet on course two niner zero, speed one zero zero.”

  “Why the hell would helicopters be heading out this way?” The Bird asked.

  “Noble One Six, we specu
late that they intend to take the Gearing survivors as prisoners.”

  “Roger, Wizard.” Noble Formation,” said The Bird, a hint of anger in his voice. “Weapon systems on.” He leaned forward and activated the fire-control system of the fighterbomber aircraft. “We will blaze a path through them with cannon if they’re helicopters. Save the missiles, unless they turn out to be fighters. If they want to take prisoners, then try to take us.”

  The three other F-16 fighters roger’d the order.

  The Bird’s eyes flashed across the heads-up display, checking the aircraft’s instruments.

  “Noble Formation,” said the ATE. “You are ten miles and closing fast.

  Should be able to see them. Be careful or you’ll overshoot.”

  The Bird looked at where his radar reflected the bogeys. The sunlight reflected off the fuselage and revolving blades of the aged helicopters. “Roger, we have them in sight. I count six transport helicopters.”

  “What type are they, Noble One Six?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied testily. “They look like old Russian helicopters. We don’t train on recognizing them anymore.”

  The Libyan MI-14 helicopters sent from Benghazi Airfield with instructions to pick up the survivors of the USS Gearing flew on a steady course and altitude, unaware of the four American F-16 fighters bearing down, bringing death to them. And even if they were aware, their only defense over an open sea, other than low altitude, was slow speed and a lot of luck.

  “Noble Formation, weapons free,” The Bird repeated. “Two miles to target. Tallyho, boys!”

  “How about me!” yelled Noble Three One.

  “Tallyho, boys and girl!”

  Twenty-millimeter cannon fire shook the F-16s as the pilots fired into the MI-14 formation, creating a two-hundred-yard wide swathe of death for the Libyan helicopters. Four of the behemoth clunkers exploded, their blades still turning as the helicopters fell. A trail of black smoke stretched from their positions in the sky to their crashes into the sea. The other two MI-14s hit the deck, splitting apart as they turned back toward the coast. The F-16s pulled up as they passed the burning inferno behind them.