SS Wolfhound

By Olin Thompson

The History Channel ran a program on July 16, 2007 and again on July 25, 2007 with many facts about how pirates are rampant in the South Pacific, murdering, pillaging, and plundering no less than happened in the 19th Century by such as Blackbeard and his crews and others who had no regard for human life. Driven by only greed, these pirates take for profit and have no concern for human life.
Pirates still roam the seas. The South Pacific is almost a haven for these vandals. They intercept shipping, steal the cargo they can, leave the ship in shambles, and run off to sell the things they steal to buy arms and fund terrorist operations. The navies of the world are almost powerless to do anything about them. This story is about one person, one boat, and the crew who decide to do their own protection. Of course, it's illegal to do what they do, but they would rather be alive to defend themselves than dead and have no say in their defense.
I have reviewed this book pre-publication and am amazed at the intricate detail the author has gone through to give us an idea of how the pirates are willing to murder and maim the innocent crews of the ships they sail. – John Thornton, Cdr USN (ret'd)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Warren
• Release date: Jul 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9780945949459

Book preview

SS Wolfhound

Armed and Dangerous

by Olin Thompson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Copyright © 2007 by Olin Thompson

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ISBN: 978-0-945949-56-5

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PROLOGUE

Headline, San Diego Tribune, December 23, 1991. PIRATES ROAMING SOUTH CHINA SEA RAISE ALARM IN SHIPPING INDUSTRY

More than a century after the fictional pirate Long John Silver committed his dastardly deeds...pirates are still stalking the seas.

Furthermore, there is little to be done. Fifty one attacks average in each year of the 1990s, and more into the 21st Century in the South China Sea has created panic in some quarters.

Most attacks occur in the Strait of Malacca within 60 miles of Singapore....But long coastlines make policing difficult.

However, many of the events are never reported to law enforcement investigative communities. The police are often informed of the piracy when they read reports in the newspapers.

Headline, San Diego Union May, 1995 PIRATES ON THE HIGH SEAS SHOW NO FEAR Piracy was on the rise in Asia and the Pacific...in March and April, of that year, the International Maritime Bureau said this week.

Pirates armed with knives or guns attacked 14 major vessels during the period, brutalizing crews and stealing cash and valuables totaling an estimated $15 million (during March and April alone).

Areas of reported attacks were of geopolitical importance and the governments of the regions were helpless....

They have fired on vessels with automatic weapons, rocket flares, and rocket propelled grenade launchers causing considerable damage to the vessels, an official said.

Since then, Pirate attacks are usually against larger ships. In 1998, 67 crew members were killed. In 1999 there were 285 incidents and the problem is growing. Nearly two thirds of all piracy attacks are in Asia, over one third were in the waters around Indonesia alone. In April 2000 14 divers in Sipidan were held hostage by pirates/mercenaries, some were released 4 months later and the authorities used the army to rescue the others after 5 months. Piracy occurs where law enforcement is weak, shipping is concentrated, and usually at night when at anchor.

The tally has reached epidemic proportions in some areas: Far east and South China sea 5 attacks (Haiphong -Vietnam; Lantau Island Hong Kong; Honiara Solomon Islands).

South East Asia 124 attacks. (South China Sea; the strait of Malacca between Indonesia{113} and Malaysia{18}; Singapore Straits{13}; Gelasa straits; Selat Sunda and around Borneo).

Dog Breath Divers reports specifically in 1999; however, there appears to be no abatement even late into the first decade of the 21st Century.

Le Monde reported in 2000 there is now piracy, alongside separatist claims, conflicts of sovereignty and, of course, economic crisis. This maritime crime is flourishing, sometimes with the active complicity of local authorities.

***

In 2003 Pacific Business News cited: There has been a change of venue, though. Most of today’s pirates are in the South China Sea, and below there at the Malacca Straits. They are Indonesians or Malaysians. And they’ve becoming more active. Pirate attacks on ships have tripled in the last decade, with a reported 103 attacks in the first three months of this year, the International Maritime Bureau reported this week from London. A total of 145 seafarers were reported killed, assaulted, kidnapped or missing in the first quarter of 2003, with bulk carriers nominated as the vessels most likely to face attack." Indonesian/Malaysian waters continue to be the world’s most dangerous: 28 pirate attacks in the first quarter. So much piracy is based in this region that the IMB, the maritime crime prevention division of the International Chamber of Commerce, bases its Piracy Reporting Center in Kuala Lumpur.

And, it continues to today. This story is about the SS Wolfhound which went to the South China Sea to deliver merchandise to a tiny country: Simanea.

Chapter 1

Shit! It’s really gonna be a ’dark and stormy night, Rick hissed nearly silently. His jacket tag read, RICHARD N. WOLF CDR USN and his position, COMMANDING OFFICER. He stood alone on the flying bridge of the Fast Frigate USS Canning FF-1173 one hundred fifty miles southeast of San Diego, doing twenty two knots, and cruising. He watched the clouds scud over, the wind whipped white caps on the surface while stars disappeared behind water-heavy thunderheads, and the night became blacker by the moment.

The squall will arrive mo’ skosh’, he figured.

Richard snugged up his dark well worn leather weather-jacket, pulled his floppy gold oak-leaf brimmed cap down tighter on his head, and went back on the bridge to sit in his comfortable swiveling Captain’s Chair.

Richard thought of his coming retirement and he didn’t know how to feel about it since he was happy with this command and liked the job he had. He’d done a tour as Exec of a Guided Missile Frigate. He’d worked his way through ships, from bowels to bridge, from river craft as a Second Class Petty Officer to the Commanding Officer of this Fast Frigate. Richard had been in every emergency the Navy asked of him: he very nearly ran a rescue craft onto the sand of Weichu Tao off the Chinese coast in early '80s; but, his men had recovered the downed pilot; he’d been the Junior Engineering Officer on a destroyer when the Marines rescued the passengers on a high-jacked freighter years and years ago; he’d been Executive Officer of a 10 series steam generated frigate during the Granada incursion; he was in Corpus Virgen action; and then he’d been Exec on a new turbine Fast Frigate operating against gun platforms off Iraq during Desert Storm and later, Iraqi Freedom as 0-5 CO.

The Baltic Ocean station was the hairy one, though, with their rockets aimed at his ship and his ship’s fire control on Stand By twenty four hours a day. He wished he knew who they were.

He ached with a sudden twinge from the wound he’d gotten in Corpus Virgen; he hated remembering it; he had always scorned the excuse, friendly fire, until it happened to him.

While he sat in the green tinted darkness, waiting for the wind and the rain, his mind wandered back to the day he was hurt.

* * *

The Marines had needed a shore to ship gunfire liaison. Lieutenant Richard Wolf, USN was the Fire Control officer on the destroyer USS Upson.

Lieutenant Wolf. Lieutenant Wolf, report to the Bridge, the harsh nasally over-casual voice from the ship’s low fidelity-announcing system snapped Wolf alert.

Richard looked at the speaker cone on the wall of the Ward Room where he worked on a map of the coast of Corpus Virgen, located on the western edges of the Caribbean. A cup of Navy coffee at hand he wondered aloud, but softly, What now?

On the bridge the Captain, peering through 12X50 binoculars toward the shore, told Lt. Wolf, Richard, the Marines need ANGLICO fire control help here. The Skipper dropped the binoculars, fingered Richard to follow into the plot room where the Skipper pointed on a chart to an obscure part of Corpus Virgen where a Marine unit had been landed.

They’re to bypass the confusion and people packed into Corpus Christo City, the Skipper explained. The road to Corpus Christo City has to be cut from Pimatubo here, he punched the map, to insure Corpus Virgen army reinforcements don’t come from the north.

Sure, Skipper.

You’ll take the helicopter and join the Marines here at Chato and go inland, find a safe place and lay up. Give us the coordinates of anything they need hammered and we’ll take care of it.

There was more to it than that, codes, map sites, building designations, and what Marine units would be where; but, essentially it was a cake walk.

Right. No problem. I’ll take care of it Skipper, Wolf said. He liked the idea of a little change although he would still be bound to the ship, but not by an umbilical cord.

Thanks, the Captain said, looked at Richard wistfully, and Richard thought the man wanted to go himself. Shove off as soon as they can wind up the rubber band on the bird and get back as soon as they’ve secured the area.

Aye, aye, sir. Richard turned and left the Bridge. He went to his stateroom, changed into jungle fatigues, wrapped his .45 M1A1 Colt and pistol belt around his waist, and clambered back to the upper deck where the helicopter’s whirling blades whipped the air with a whup whup whup.

When he reached the landing ship and de’coptered he met with the Marine Lieutenant Colonel in charge of the Battalion Landing Team. There Richard was given over to a tough looking Sergeant, a boy faced Corporal, and a rumpled Captain Culver Scott Carson who looked as if he would be happier at an Officers’ Club bar. They too were dressed in battle field camo gear without rank or other insignia except for US MARINES over one pocket and their names over the other. Their boots were shined to a mirror polish and Rick wondered how he could hide his own boots which were only dark since the navy never insisted on the mirror shine.

We go ashore with the first boats. We’ve spotted a building here and here, Carson pointed to the little black spots on the map.

Sergeant Matthews will set up the radio, Corporal Clark will cover our asses, and we’ll call in gunfire if we need it. He went over in detail any of the events they might encounter, then he coughed deep from congested lungs.

Good, Richard said with a nod and knew his men on the Upson could handle the job, but reassessed his opinion of Carson. The guy’s a professional, but needs to quit smoking, Richard decided.

Getting ashore the four men scrambled up the beach, found no opposition, and entered the small house they’d designated their headquarters.

Gunfire, this is Shotgun. Gunfire, this is Shotgun. Have a firing mission for you. Oh one two one, three four four four. Do you copy?

We copy Shotgun. Firing mission oh one two one, three four four four.

Fire two for effect. Richard penciled in the numbers and waited for the incoming.

The zing whew-whew-whew-whew of the spinning rounds overhead startled Richard who had never heard his own shots before.

How often you guys do this? Rick asked and lay back against the cool adobe wall of the tumble down building. He looked around and saw all the trash, debris, and clutter of an old abandoned home. Mostly it was broken pottery, but there was paper and glass and what looked to have been chairs and a table.

Probably no one here for a hundred years, he thought. Or yesterday, he added. Green vines from the jungle reclaimed most of the building except for the small corner in which the four men clustered. There was an unfamiliar rancid odor from somewhere.

We have a regular ANGLICO officer, but he’s laid up. Fell on the ship and turned an ankle and his knee. He’s pissed you’re doin’ his job, Sergeant Matthews said, but didn’t look up from the radio. It seemed he added as an afterthought, Sir. Then Matthews said, Captain Carson came on from Battalion. He’s an ole mustang. Viet vet as boot assed private, the Sergeant said and seemed to laugh. Been in plenty of fire fights.

In the dark Rick could just barely see the toothy grin on the Sergeant.

The ship’s Gunnery Chief called to check where the rounds landed.

Just where they were supposed to, Richard replied. He added for the accuracy of the ship’s gun crew, Good shootin’.

Let’s move up, Carson whispered to the team.

Right. Matthews grabbed the radio, hissed at the Corporal they were moving, and then everyone sprinted at a crouch across the part marshy part grassy terrain with Richard in trail.

They dropped behind another building, equally deserted and equally cluttered, but closer to where the first two rounds landed. The team surveyed the damage. Nothing. Just two smoking holes in the road; and, Richard believed no traffic would drive this way anytime soon.

A runner from some unit arrived, handed a note to Captain Carson who handed it to Richard.

Gunfire, Shotgun. Have another mission. Two rounds for effect. Then Richard read the coordinates off to the ship’s Fire Control. He discovered the rancid odor was his own body; and, he decided, more than likely generated by fear, fright, or he was plain scared shitless.

On the way! a tinny voice acknowledged.

The rounds landed right on target and destroyed a bridge over a stream. A continuing horde of Marines landed behind the team. A Sergeant expressed concern the ANGLICO unit would attract fire from the enemy, but nothing happened and everything was under the control of the Marine Battalion.

Airplanes and helicopters circled above them. The airplanes came down at the call of Forward Observer for the ground troops.

Vertical take-off Harriers and Apache gunships banged suspected targets over and over again while Richard merely leaned back, watched, and hoped no one else smelled his fear. The Sergeant looked lackadaisical about this war.

Captain Carson stuck half a cigar in his teeth and held it unsmoked; he offered the other half to Richard who waved it off.

Thanks anyhow.

The Corporal lay watching, on guard, and waiting in case. He winked at Richard. Richard thought he’d been discovered sweating fear.

They didn’t get any more calls from Battalion to assist with gunfire, so the team stayed where they were and sneaked peeks around corners at the movement of the troops.

Marines moved by them on the right and set up a perimeter around the broken bridge while others crossed into the water and waded up the other side and set a defense there, then all the Marines moved forward.

As silently as they came they were gone. What now?

Nothin’. We just sit and wait. We’re right where we’re supposed to be. If anyone wants anything they call us and we get on our horses and move out, Carson said.

Richard thought Carson had also discovered the odor and was trying to relax the ANGLICO.

Friendly helicopters and the chatter of their machine guns into the bushes passed over the Marines. Richard ignored them.

Then it happened.

It had to be a mistake. It had to be! That was the only thing Richard could think. Someone really fucked up. No one would be in this area except friendly folks.

No enemy had been seen and it appeared the place was, in every sense of the word, pacified.

The staccato sound of the M-60 machine gun from the chopper burned into Richard’s brain. He knew it was the wrong place and wrong time. He leaped forward and covered the Sergeant. The Captain rolled over, grabbed the Corporal, and scrambled under the window ledge of the building they hid in. Richard saw a round from the guns of the helicopter enter the bullet resistant vest on the Corporal and erupt in the dirt behind the Marine. As the chopper turned and made another pass Richard knew the Corporal was dead.

How can he survive that? his mind roared in anger.

Someone, Richard recalled, screamed into the radio, Friendly fire! Cease firing! Cease firing! You got Marines here! He didn’t know if he had done it or someone else. He only remembered the screaming.

Get the fuck outta here! The last words Captain Carson said were, Save those men!

Richard grabbed Sergeant Matthews and pulled him away from the building and down into the smoking hole the first rounds the destroyer had made. The pit stunk of cordite, but it seemed somehow safer. The Sergeant groaned and Richard found Matthews’ leg wound.

War’s over for you, son, Richard whispered. But what good will that do? The chopper has us, he thought.

Stay down, sir, Matthews muttered through clinched teeth. Right. Richard burrowed deeper into the black clods of the moist soil and pulled it in after him. He covered the Sergeant as best he could. They would be all right if the chopper just went away.

Matthews, put your leg over here. Richard unwrapped his first aid packet and rolled the bandage out, lashed the soft cushion to the bleeding hole in the Sergeant’s leg, and tied it tightly. Richard put his hand on the man’s forehead and said softly, You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Richard poured a little water from his canteen into Matthews’ mouth.

They lay there for a few more moments, perhaps as long as two minutes while Richard listened for the chopper to return and when he heard the whup whup whup of the huge lifting rotor blades head in another direction he pulled the Sergeant up, lifted him on his shoulder, and then they returned to the building they’d hidden in.

The Captain was wounded in the leg and upper arm. The Corporal was dead.

Shit! Richard hissed harshly. I forgot his name, he said softly.

Richard half carried the Sergeant back toward the beach, four hundred yards away. They were both exhausted when they arrived, but Richard found the Aid Station.

Here. Set him here. Let’s get a good look, the Doc said as Richard lay the Sergeant on the cot in the open next to the station’s tent with the huge red cross on the roof.

You sit over there. The Doc pointed to a bench affair. I’m fine, Richard said. "There’s another man up there.

Shoulder and legger."

Yeah? The Doctor turned. Get a team up there! he yelled at men who looked to be sorting supplies.

A Corpsman punched two others and they took a litter with them and ran up the road toward the combat site.

The Doctor turned back and fingered Rick’s cheek. Fine. You look fine.

Thanks.

How you feel? The Doc stuck a needle in Rick’s cheek and he jumped.

Just a little tired, Richard said as he sat there and watched blood drool on the white bib the Corpsman put around Richard’s neck. And more blood seemed to run into his boot and out onto the wood floor of the tent. He didn’t know where the blood came from.

He thought it might be from the Sergeant’s wound. Rick lay back and then he felt his stomach. He looked down and was alarmed it was as swollen as a six month pregnant woman.

Where the hell did that come from? Richard wondered. Then he passed out. When he reawakened he was told by a Navy Lieutenant(jg) nurse he was aboard a ship heading back to San Diego to the Naval Hospital. He found he had a huge bandage around his waist and another over his head and one covered his face except for his eyes and a hole where his mouth was.

Good work there, Lieutenant. The Doctor smiled as he made his rounds in the hospital ward of the LST. The Marine Captain wanted you to know he sent his thanks too. Carson was it?

What’s goin’ on here? How’s the Sergeant? Richard didn’t have the foggiest idea why he was bound like a mummy.

You don’t know? Know what?

You got a hunk of shrapnel from the radio when it got hit. Then there was a piece of thirty caliber machine gun bullet in your stomach. And a smaller piece cut your leg up. We had a hell of a time gettin’ you lookin’ like something the dog hadn’t dragged in; and the Sergeant will have a little limp from his left leg; but I think he’ll be fine in about six months. The Captain is out of service for the duration. Probably disability discharge.

Didn’t even know I’d been hit. The operation work all right? Been over for days. We’re nearly to San Diego.

Geez. How long I been gone?

Let’s see. We got you last week, patched you up best we could, and you been out for five days.

Holy cow! Richard looked around at the clean white room and lay back. He smelled the betadynes and cleansers and he also discovered he had a tic under his left eye and felt it jerk three, then the fourth time.

When the men were all settled in the Naval Hospital in San Diego, the Admiral came around and visited.

Richard. You did a fine job. I’ve got a little something here for you. The two-star Rear Admiral Lower Grade then read from the citation and handed Richard the Silver Star. Richard’s wife, before she divorced him, cried at his side at the citation of his heroics. She didn’t realize he was a genuine hero. Richard didn’t either.

The Sergeant had told the world Richard deserved the award. Captain Carson verified the story.

Richard hated to think, though, it had been friendly fire. No need for a medal if they’d done their job. Gotta think it was some trigger happy som’bitch. Shit. Friendly fuckin’ fire. Wouldn’t you know it?

The tic worried him three times.

* * *

The helicopter crew in their after-action-report told their infrared had found three or four men hiding in a building in the dark early morning hours. Unidentified, but armed and facing oncoming Marines the men appeared hostile. The crew took no chances.

They looked hinkey, the pilot explained.

When we flew over they looked like they were in defensive positions. We cut loose, the door-gunner said and shrugged.

Richard learned later, when informed they had killed one of their own and wounded three others the helicopter crew had to be restrained from harming themselves.

The door gunner was said to have spent a year in therapy.

The pilot couldn’t believe it. He too spent time in therapy, but when Richard tried to see the man, he found the pilot had resigned his commission and moved to a mountainside in Idaho.

The co-pilot was not involved since he hadn’t see anything; but now spends time doing clay pottery in a program to help those who have been unable to grasp reality.

And he has those bad dreams, his therapist told Rick softly.

* * *

Now, during the last days of his career, Richard felt the tug of the muscle across his stomach; so, he massaged it until the tension went away. Richard also had to take a white liquid as he called it, so his food would digest, ...that damn’ nasty tastin’ stuff. But none of it hampered his command of the ship even though his leg ached on cold mornings when the ligament got stiff.

Damn war wounds, he would mutter, but didn’t smile at the memory.

This was his last cruise and the last ship he’d command. He had sworn it when he turned in his papers.

Aboard the Canning, on his way home, Richard sat in the Captain’s Chair, spun around, and looked at all the gear. He found the homey atmosphere of a tight little office like this a pleasure: radar, helm, Quartermaster’s chart table, and squawk box. Nothing extra to get in the way. Someone told him Frigates were spartan and that was certainly true.

Uncluttered might be a better description, he thought.

This legal cruise took several DEA agents to South America and the ship wandered the waters off the coast of Peru and Colombia searching for the elusive smugglers, but now the Canning’s cruise was over.

Richard Wolf could have stayed in the Navy longer, but he’d have to wait for fifty other Commanders to retire before he’d get a better assignment. And Richard thought he’d probably end up counting beans on a carrier or some other giant ocean going city. And a down sized U.S. Navy had little room left nowadays for other than Yacht Club graduates; he pursed his lips in frustration at the thought the Navy would throw away so many good officers just to protect the Academy types.

To hell with it, Richard sighed and leaned back. He gave a hearty affirmative nod to no one as he reassured himself he’d done the right thing.

Now what? He wondered, Feet up? Yeah. Feet up. And dry. Skipper?

Yes, Ransome? You figure our course and time to San Diego? Richard turned to his Quartermaster.

Right here, the Second Class Petty Officer said and handed the note to Richard.

Good.

’sir, Ransome said and went back to the chart table. Mister Shaver, make liberty turns for San Diego.

Aye, aye, sir. Liberty turns for San Diego, and then the youthful Lieutenant(jg) who was Officer of the Deck rang in Full on the telegraph to the engine room. The return clang clang on the hailer indicated they understood.

Powered by twin turbines like the ones which drive 747 Boeing aircraft at Mach .8 at 43,000 feet, the four hundred seventy six foot frigate nearly jumped out of the water and was cruising at thirty seven knots very quickly.

Mr. Shaver, you have the helm, Richard Wolf said and stepped out of his chair. I’ll be in my cabin.

Aye, aye, sir. ’night Skipper, Lieutenant (jg) Shaver said. ’night, son. Richard touched the young man on the shoulder and added, Beat Army. Richard ducked his six feet two inches one hundred ninety pound frame through the hatch to the inner passageway.

Right, sir. Lieutenant Shaver smiled and gave his easy reply as Richard disappeared behind the latched steel door.

Richard thought how the young man had spent all those years at the Academy just to go to sea and defend his country.

A noble cause, Richard mused as he heard his own footsteps echo on the steel deck to his quarters.

* * *

Two weeks later and after the ship’s Change of Command Ceremony, Richard Wolf stepped off the gang-way for the last time, turned, saluted, and waved to the sailors with whom he’d shared the last couple of years. Those there waved back.

When he found his car parked next to a newly purchased midfive figure luxury barge with payments twice higher than his alimony, Richard shook his head in wonder that someone in the U.S. Navy could afford a thing like that.

Wolf tried three times to start his ten year old paint-fadedworn-out car which had received another dent last week in the parking lot at the supermarket where Rick had only gone in for a package of barbecued chicken from the deli.

The papers in his brief case assigned him to a desk in a nonessential job doing little except showing up while he waited for his retirement