to be holding.” He flashed a wry grin. “So far, anyway.”
DuPont nodded. If the list became too great, Hopkins would roll over and
sink beneath the waves. “Communications?”
“Just sound-powered phones and walkie-talkies, sir. Ship intercom is
out.” He nodded toward the distant gray shape of the carrier, visible through
the roiling smoke. “We do have radio contact with the Jefferson.”
DuPont rubbed his face, thinking hard. What to do? The smart move might
be to abandon ship now, before the frigate became so water-heavy she turned
turtle and sank … or before the fires raged out of control and fried them
all.
But Frank DuPont was a stubborn sailor, son, grandson, and great-grandson
of Massachusetts seafaring men. He’d served on Perry-class frigates before.
More than once, he and Captain Strachan had argued the merits of the
misbegotten little vessels. He’d agreed with Strachan on the ship’s
shortcomings, but he’d been convinced of their value as well.
Besides, this situation was familiar, too familiar for him to give up all
hope right away. On May 17, 1987, just ten years and one month before, DuPont
had been a very junior lieutenant on board FFG-3 1, the U.S.S. Stark, on
patrol in the Persian Gulf, when an Iraqi Mirage F-1 locked on and fired two
Exocet missiles. Both had struck the starboard side between the bridge and
the Mark 13 missile launcher forward, though only one of the missiles had
actually detonated. Damage had been severe, especially to the bridge, and
thirty-two men had died. There’d been considerable debate afterward about the
ship’s lack of defensive preparations … but only praise for the efforts of
her damage-control team. Stark had made it out of the Gulf on her own and
ultimately limped back to the States for repair.
A year later, one of DuPont’s friends had been on another Perry FFG, the
Samuel B. Roberts, when she’d hit an Iranian mine in the Gulf. The explosion
had broken the frigate’s back and come within an ace of sinking her … but
she too had been saved by the damage-control training, determination, and
skill of the Navy men on board her.
Strachan’s criticisms of the Perrys might be well-founded, but the fact
remained that the FFGs were damned hard to kill. Hell, they might save the
Hopkins yet.
The thought of Captain Strachan stung. “Okay,” DuPont said, deciding.
He watched as two sailors dragged a third between them out of the
superstructure and laid him on the tilting deck. “We’ll see to taking off the
wounded first. Can a LAMPS set down on our helo pad?”
“Wouldn’t risk it, sir. The fire aft’s still pretty hot, and the deck
may be damaged. But they’ll be able to hover as soon as we get the fire out.”
“Okay. Concentrate on that fire so we can get our wounded aft to the
pad. We’ll start taking them off as soon as you have the fire under control,
as many at a time as a helo can manage. Radio Jefferson and have them get
some helos airborne. And tell them to stand by to take off the DC parties if
we need to abandon ship.”
“If …” The chief looked startled. “We’re not abandoning, sir?”
“No way, Chief. I want to prove something to Captain Strachan. We’re
going to save this bitch!”
“Yes, sir!” The chief snapped a salute, then grinned. “I heard you were
on the Stark. Maybe your luck’ll rub off on us too!”
“Right,Chief. Let’s just hope it’s the right kind of luck!”
1515 hours Zulu (1615 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Viking Station, the Norwegian Sea
“Icewall One, you are clear. Casting off.”
“Roger, Tex,” Coyote replied. His voice grated; his throat was dry. He
eased back on the stick, breaking contact between his F14’s refueling probe
and the basket trailing astern of the KA6D tanker looming above and in front
of his cockpit. “Coming left. Thanks for the drink.”
“Any time, Icewall. Good luck.”
Coyote let out a ragged breath as controls continued to function, as
instruments continued to give acceptable readings. Good luck …
He would need every bit of luck he could muster to get his wounded
aircraft onto the deck in one piece. Looking toward the horizon, he could