Charles Taylor - Show of Force

Out of habit, he keyed the mike a couple of times, then spoke into it. "Spy Two, this is Top Dog One. Do you read me? Over."

"Roger, Top Dog One, loud and clear. Over."

"Spy Two, there are some large surface craft that have moved from the rear of the formation ahead of Lenin, probably midway between the carrier and the forward cruiser. Can you pick them up for me? Over."

The lens was already rapidly moving from the carrier over open water. "Roger, Top Dog One. Wait." The picture on the screen was a blur of ocean. An object appeared for a moment, left the screen, then returned as the camera centered on it. The lens brought the ship closer. "How's that Top Dog… One. Over."

"Perfect, Spy.… Hold it for a second." It appeared to be a type of tender, huge, but it did not move as a heavy ship of that size should. The bow wave was higher and the stern from the rear of the deckhouse was of unusual construction. "Spy Two, can you get a closer look at the stem? Over."

"Roger, how's that?"

"What do you make of it, Bill?"

"Never saw anything like that." He turned to one of his assistants. "Get a photo of that down to my boys in the Rumpus Room." He turned back to David. "We'll see what my experts have to say. It has a hell of a high stern, like an amphib, but there doesn't seem to be any well deck."

"Nope, no sign of doors either. But I sure don't like that." He picked up the radio phone, "Spy Two, this is Top Dog One. Thank you for your effort. We have some photos for analysis… take care of yourself. Out."

"Five Rigas through the intercept." It was a report from another officer. "Looks like they just jammed the stick forward and dropped like a rock." On the screen, Bill Dailey could see that they were also separating, each now independent as they moved into five different sectors.

Dailey punched a series of buttons. The screen in front of them identified the firing ships defending each of those sectors. Even now electronic information was flowing from the acquisition radars into the fire-control system that would shortly be launching missiles at the intruders.

But already, smaller dots were emerging from the attacking planes as they released their own weapons. And on the screen, they could see their own ships firing at the Rigas in return.

"They did it again," a voice replied. "Increased speed after we had a solution." He was referring to the Soviet missiles that seemed to have a two-stage engine. The second stage, faster than the first, was a problem to a fire-control solution.

"Did you get that speed problem into the system the other day, Bill?"

"Right. I just hope it works." He pushed another button on his console. After studying the screen for a moment, he added, "I don't know, Admiral. We caught it but it delayed our firing time. We're shooting at those missiles on a new solution now." As they watched, a couple of the missiles fired from the Rigas winked out, but others got past the antimissile fire.

David looked at the screen. Two missiles seemed headed for the same ship. "Who's that?" He pointed at the apparently bracketed ship on the display board.

"Halsey," Dailey responded instantly.

"Oh, shit, no!"

On board the guided-missile cruiser Halsey, her captain had already put the ship into a tight turn to present as little target as possible, but the missiles were closing at a tremendous speed.

Men on the deck were deafened by the loud chatter of the 20-mm. close-in weapon system (CIWS), Halsey's last-ditch effort to bring down the attackers. Bursts of several hundred rounds were streaking out at the incoming missiles, the radar desperately tracking both the stream of uranium bullets and the targets to correct the aim. But it was too late.

One of the missiles might have been hit just before it came in contact with Halsey, for the explosion blew off both the fire-control radars on the stern, rather than going off inside the hull. The second missile exploded behind the bridge, after it had penetrated the ship's CIC, destroying the nerve center of the vessel and blowing the forward mack over the side. Her captain rushed to the starboard wing of the bridge to assess the damage visually. For a moment, he saw the aft section of the ship in flames, the damage-control party motionless on the deck. Then the smoke from the forward mack covered the ship as the fires in the forward boilers burned out of control. As it toppled from the superstructure, the forward exhaust stack had forced a rush of air down to the fireroom.

Halsey was immediately ineffective, the forward fireroom useless, the after missile system inoperative, and the control center of the ship, the combat information center, destroyed. She could neither receive information nor fire a weapon, and she was already at half speed.

Julius A. Purer was a much smaller ship than Halsey, smaller by 150 feet and over four thousand tons. Her captain briefly saw the missile before it hit, possibly because he was horrified watching the bullet stream from his own CIWS system sweep forward as he unfortunately presented his port beam to the attack. The explosion of the missile coupled with that of the forward magazine were simultaneous as far as the men in the aft section were concerned. Those up forward were unaware of the bow breaking off about where the magazine had been. The captain and his GQ team disappeared in a flash of white, along with most of the crew in the forward section of the ship. Purer veered to starboard, already beginning to settle in the water, along with more than one hundred of her crew.

When GQ sounded on Blandy, Quartermaster Third Class Charles Goddard relieved at the wheel of the old destroyer. It was not as if a junior man were taking such a great responsibility, since Goddard had been in the Navy for more than ten years. He was one of the finest helmsmen in the fleet and a good quartermaster when he was sober. But his liberty hours were always spent finding trouble where others had already looked.

His escapades were legend on the ships he had ridden. Even though he could talk his way out of trouble with the civilian authorities, he too often found himself reduced in rank by an unsympathetic commanding officer.

No matter how many times he appeared at captain's mast, his lovable grin seemed to save him from courts-martial he deserved. Only days before, the captain had threatened to send him to the brig for his latest stunt and again he found himself a third class for the fifth time. Now he was where he belonged, at the helm of Blandy, as she steamed toward the enemy.

One missile was Hearing Blandy when her 20-mm. shells contacted it. It exploded a good fifty yards from the ship, but the explosion and shrapnel showered the forward part of the vessel, killing most of those in the bridge area. Charlie Goddard, the only one left uninjured, was left in command of Blandy as she continued cutting through the ocean at high speed. The flying metal had torn through the pilothouse, cutting down every man but Goddard. The captain lay at his feet, a gaping hole in his chest. Those still alive were moaning or crying for help, but none were left standing. Goddard jammed the wheel in place just for a second and turned to the ship's PA on the bulkhead behind him. His voice boomed out over the ship as he asked the XO to call the bridge. He returned to the helm, a phone tucked under his chin. In a moment, the executive officer called him, learning of the loss on the bridge. Before the man arrived to take over, Goddard had already begun a zigzag course of his own, the headphones to main control lopsided on his head as he called for more speed. As the XO came through the pilothouse door, he found Quartermaster Third Class Goddard in control of the Blandy amidst the carnage of the bridge, grinning like a depraved elf as he often did when describing his exploits ashore.