The last-ditch defense systems blew two of three cruise missiles to smithereens. Another missile, flying so low that it made radar acquisition nearly impossible, escaped the blazing fire of the Vulcan Phalanx cannons. Two seconds before impact, the sea-skimming missile arbitrarily pitched up a few degrees and penetrated the hull of the carrier at the main deck level.
In an instant the aft end of the hangar bay and the jet-engine repair shop erupted in explosions and fire. Fed by volatile jet fuel, a series of thunderous explosions destroyed a Marine EA-6B Prowler and blew three sailors off the fan-tail and into the Gulf. Debris and shrapnel ricocheted off the bulkheads and adjacent planes while frightened crewmen rushed into the inferno to rescue their shipmates and help fight the spreading fire. Flames and dense smoke billowed out of the hangar bay as the blaze spread to nearby berthing compartments.
While the CIWS cannons continued to spew a stream of shells at the incoming C-802 missiles, Admiral Coleman remained uncharacteristically quiet. Fires were raging and lives were in danger when he looked to the commanding officer. In keeping with an honored Navy tradition, only one person was in charge of a ship. It was time to save lives and the carrier. Nancy Jensen responded to the challenge as three of the four Chinese cruise missiles were quickly destroyed in a hail of cannon fire. The surviving missile blew a large hole in an office space adjacent to the intelligence center.
Acting firmly and professionally, she had the repair lockers mobilized, the helicopters airborne, a man-overboard search under way, and reports coming in from damage control.
Satisfied that Jensen was handling the crisis in a satisfactory manner, Coleman returned to the flag bridge as the SH-60F Seahawk landed near the bow of the flight deck. Suffering from minor injuries, Kaywood and Hoffman were quickly placed on stretchers and carried to sick bay.
High above the carrier, Major Buck Martin and his fellow Hornet pilots were being vectored toward the fleeing gunboat Neyzeh. Likewise, Ridder Cromwell and Marauder One and Two were setting up for an attack on the other boat. Once the pilots were low and close to the gunboats, it wasn’t difficult to spot the frothy wakes of the speeding vessels. When Martin and company rolled in for their first strafing run, the crew of Neyzeh abandoned ship while it was running at full speed.
While the stricken carrier’s escorts approached to help fight the devastating fire, the Iranian gunboats were sunk by heavy cannon fire from the Tomcat and Hornets. Once the gunboats were destroyed, the fighters tanked from two Air Force KC-10s, then joined the fighters from USS Roosevelt to provid protection for the GW battle group while other planes diverted to airfields in Bahrain and Kuwait. Two S-3B Vikings remained on station to sniff for subs while the Hawkeye kept a close eye on potential threats from all quadrants.
From the reports she was receiving, Jensen was beginning to feel a sense of relief. The smaller fires were under control and the conflagration in the aft section of the hangar bay was almost extinguished.
When Jim Lomas entered the bridge, Jensen could see the grief written on his face.
“How many?” she quietly asked.
“Nineteen dead, and forty-eight injured — including two of the three men who were blown overboard. They’re still searching for the other guy, but I don’t hold out much hope for him.”
Anger screamed through her nerves, but Jensen gritted her teeth and shifted her gaze to the frantic activity on the flight deck. “Roosevelt is launching more aircraft as we speak. They should be overhead before too long.”
“The sooner, the better.”
Struggling to control her emotions, she turned to her XO. “What a fiasco,” she said as her mouth twisted in a rueful grimace.
“Yeah, we sailed straight into a trap.”
After receiving a brief message about the condition of the American carrier, Ali Nasrallah, the captain of Nuh, raised his periscope and smiled when he saw the faint glow of fire in the distance. On Washington’s hangar bay and flight deck, exhausted crewmen continued to fight the last of the fires. Surrounded by her escorts, the big flattop was slowly proceeding toward the United Arab Emirates deep-water port of Jebel Ali, the only Gulf naval support facility where U.S. supercarriers can pull pierside.
Familiar with his operating environment, the brash skipper of the Kilo-class attack sub was confident he could sink the carrier and outwit any U.S. submarine or ASW effort. Operating in his own littoral waters, Nasrallah had the advantage of knowing the layers, the ambient sea noise in the strait, and the shallow areas where he could “sleep” on the bottom.
“The Americans made a big mistake,” the captain said derisively. “Now they’re going to pay with their lives.”
One of the Russian advisers, a former Kilo skipper, gave Nasrallah a few suggestions and stepped out of the way. The captain fired six torpedoes at the crippled warship, then turned seventy degrees to starboard and executed a series of speed, depth, and course changes as he quietly moved away. After reaching a crowded, noisy shipping lane, Captain Nasrallah allowed Nuh to settle to the bottom and go into “sleep” mode. Proud of his performance, he nervously waited for the torpedoes to smash into the giant carrier. Nasrallah was supremely confident that he would be hailed as a hero when Nuh returned to her base at Bandar-e Abbas.
Nancy Jensen was conferring with her department heads and damage-control experts when the torpedoes were detected. Midway through an evasive maneuver, a torpedo exploded 120 feet forward of the propellers. A second powerful explosion damaged both portside prop shafts and both screws. A third torpedo twisted and jammed Washington’s rudder at an awkward angle. The rest of the weapons, with the exception of one that blew a gaping hole in a Mobile Oil supertanker, missed the carrier and a dozen other commercial and military vessels. The double-hulled supertanker, ripped apart by the initial blast, exploded several more times and sank in less than twenty minutes. One crewmember survived for twelve days, then succumbed to his injuries.
27
“Son of a bitch,” President Macklin said to no one in particular, then thumped his fist on the edge of his chair. “Son of a bitch!”
The Situation Room remained deathly quiet until Hartwell Prost cleared his throat. “Mr. President, there’s no way around it.”
“Around what?” Macklin snapped, and took a quick sip of coffee.
“Tehran had to know about our plans.”
Outrage bubbled as the president gently shook his head. As the leader of the most powerful nation on the planet, Macklin was dismayed and deeply angered to think that he might have a traitor in his midst.
“We have to find the leak,” Prost continued in a quiet, calm voice. “And we need to do it as quickly as possible.”
“What do you think?” the president asked Prost. “Has someone, a foreign intelligence service, a computer hacker, or a terrorist group, tapped into the Defense Department Internet?”
“It’s possible.” He shrugged. “Any breach of security could help level the playing field, but the only Pentagon systems the hackers have been able to compromise are the unclassified ones. They were able to peer into payroll files and personnel records, but no classified information appeared to have been compromised, or so the experts claim.”
“Mr. President,” Pete Adair interrupted, “we didn’t have—”