Kevin Miller - Raven One

Recoilless rifle fire tore into Richard Best’s superstructure and against her bridge windows, causing the watch team to duck down and scramble for cover in order to avoid the shattered glass and flying debris. The .50 cal mount opened up on their swarming attackers, contributing to the confusing racket. The scene became a kaleidoscope of flashing light, screaming and shouting, heat, concussion… and blood. Just as Albright grabbed the sound-powered phone, a tremendous explosion blew through the bridge overhead, knocking everyone down. Once Albright regained his senses, the first thing he saw was an arc of sparks from a severed electrical cable. Then light from a battle lantern allowed him to see that several men were down on the starboard side of the bridge. His OOD Reynolds looked at him from under his helmet in wide-eyed shock. “Are you okay?” Albright shouted.

“Yes, sir!” Reynolds answered, touching his ears to indicate he could not hear Albright well.

“Let’s get out of here!” Albright shouted as he picked himself up.

The OOD worked the helm on a course to get them back into open water. The port side of the frigate delivered a broadside of withering fire into the nimble Iranians, even as additional RPGs arced over the ship. Some hit the rigging and sprayed shrapnel on exposed personnel. Three members of the bridge watch team were down, and one wasn’t moving. Cries of “Corpsman!” and “Get the Doc!” pierced the air.

The running gun battle lasted 10 minutes before Richard Best could speed away from her attackers, re-enter the outbound lane, and turn south. A line of impact marks marred her port side, and some rounds penetrated into the ship, killing one man in a damage control station. One “lucky” RPG found its way into the open helo hangar. Topside personnel took severe casualties, with one lookout and one gunner dead.

The Iranians took heavy losses: Eleven of nineteen boghammars were put out of action; few survived the well-aimed 20mm and 76mm fire. The .50 caliber gunners claimed two, and Talon 42 was a key force multiplier with their 7.62mm gun. Once the Iranian boats had turned around in retreat, Talon had also seen mortar positions on the sandbar and silenced them.

Albright walked across the bridge and knelt over the conning officer where she had fallen. He held her cool hand, fighting the urge to recoil at the ghastly scene. She struggled to breathe, her breaths coming in gurgling fits that wracked her small body. Her lower jaw was gone, and her neck and khaki shirt were covered in blood. What is she? Twenty-two years old? he thought. A sailor with a battle lantern shined it near her face. Her eyes reacted, following the light, and then settled on her CO. Skin the color of porcelain surrounded her pretty blue eyes, all that was left of her face. Albright held back sobs.

“Molly,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the whine of the engine and the wind whipping through the bridge. She studied him for a moment as her body heaved and struggled. Then she looked ahead… and stopped struggling.

The corpsman began CPR immediately; “One, two, three… C’mon, Ensign O’Hara! C’mon!… six, seven… C’mon ma’am! Please don’t! Please! ” With each compression, blood oozed out of an opening in her neck, and Albright placed his hand on the sailor’s arm, a signal for him to stop. Tears streaked down the young man’s face and his shoulders heaved. He opened his mouth and cried out to anyone who was listening. “She was e-mailing my little sister with tips on baton twirling. She did that for me .” Albright put his arm around the young sailor and knew that he, too, would miss the energy Ensign Molly O’Hara had brought to his wardroom.

Looking up to the dark sky, the corpsman wiped away a tear and streaked his face with the blood of an officer, now dead, who had cared about him as a person.

Wilson stepped into his stateroom and flicked on the overhead light. “Wake up, sunshine, we’ve got tasking,” he said.

His roommate was still under the covers in the top bunk. Groaning, Weed rolled over and said, “What now?”

“The Iranians hit a frigate in Hormuz last night, swarmed ‘em with boghammars . USS Richard Best was transiting alone. Five dead, a bunch wounded.”

Pulling himself up on his elbows, Weed looked at his roommate in shock. “ Holy shit! ” and sensing the increased vibration of the ship, asked, “Where are we going?”

“Southwest at 30 knots. Heard something about Masirah. Should be in the vicinity by sundown.”

Weed climbed down from his bunk, went to the sink, and drew some water. “Are we meeting in CVIC?” he asked as he opened the medicine cabinet to retrieve his razor.

“Yep, zero-seven-thirty for all strike leads. CAG’s kicking it off and Intel’s going to give us the run down.” Wilson answered as he ripped the Velcro patches off his flight suit and tossed them on his desk.

“And to think I was just getting used to seven-hour hops over Afghanistan with an oh-ridiculous-thirty recovery,” Weed deadpanned, applying shaving cream to his cheek. “Oh, well. Care to grab a bowl of fruit loops with me before we join CAG?”

“No thanks, my brother. What time did you get in last night?”

“Zero-three.”

For a few moments they were silent, Weed at the sink shaving and Wilson at his desk busy with some routine paperwork. They both thought about the Iranian targets they could be hitting, very soon. Wilson’s mind wandered. It was incredible. The Iranians had taken on an American warship with no provocation. Did they want to start World War Three? Surely this was the big news in every capital across the globe. Wilson imagined world leaders calling Washington and imploring the Americans not to send waves of nuclear bombers to obliterate Iran… which Washington could do. Why do world leaders defend Iran every time Iran kills or acts out some way? He further imagined there were some politicians in Washington calling for that. Tehran, a city of millions — wiped out. Or would they nuke Bandar Abbas? Five sailors dead and we are spinning up. Rightfully so! But the frickin’ Iranians kill that many soldiers each week in Diyala with IEDs and booby traps, and we look the other way. Wilson wanted revenge, wanted to pop off a nuke and end the nearly 30 years of Iranian-sponsored terror and instability they exported around the world. We’d be doing the whole world a favor. He then remembered the Bible verse: “For the sake of even ten good people, I will not destroy the city.”

Wilson broke the silence. “Gonna be a long day in CVIC.”

“Yea, verily.”

Thirty minutes later in the Carrier Intel Center, Wilson and Weed sat together in the third row. They waited, with other department heads from the Buccaneers and Spartans , for CAG Swoboda to address them with the tasking from above. Sitting in front of them were the air wing COs and XOs, and behind were assorted JOs, as well as officers from the flag and air wing staffs. Cajun sat in the front row next to the E-2 skipper, while Saint was at the opposite end of the row chatting up the Big Unit. Before them on the bulkhead were charts depicting Iran, with smaller charts and satellite imagery of the areas around Bandar Abbas, Jask, and Chah Bahar. Across the room the aircrew studied the charts, murmured about threat concentrations, and imprinted the surface-to-air threat rings on their brains. In the corner, Wilson noticed the SINS readout that confirmed the steady vibration of the deck below his feet. Valley Forge was on a southwest heading at 30 knots.