New Moon Rising

By John S. Kistler

New Moon Rising is a work of historical fiction, based upon many events in the Persian Gulf during the months prior to and following the fall of Reza Shah Pahlav in 1979. The names of the characters in the story are fictitious, but represent many of the Navy men I sailed with aboard USS LaSalle (AGF-3) from 1978 to 1980.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493163366

John S. Kistler

John S. Kistler is a native of Miami, Florida, and served thirty years on active duty in the US Navy as a naval aviator. He served on six aircraft carriers and twice aboard the flagship of the Middle East Force, USS LaSalle (AGF-3). John is a retired navy captain, and with his wife, Karen, makes their home in Breckenridge, Colorado.

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Copyright © 2014 by John S. Kistler.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014900851

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4931-6335-9

                Softcover        978-1-4931-6334-2

                eBook             978-1-4931-6336-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 05/02/2014

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Edited by Kris Thomas

Proofreaders:

Bob Kistler

Laurel New

Chuck Long

Courtney Brown

This book is dedicated to all the Navy men who served aboard USS LaSalle from HS-1 Det-1, who were known as the Desert Ducks.

People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

—attributed to George Orwell

For my wife

Karen Andersen Kistler

INTRODUCTION

New Moon Rising is a work of historical fiction, based upon many events in the Persian Gulf during the months prior to and following the fall of Reza Shah Pahlav in 1979. The names of the characters in the story are fictitious, but represent many of the Navy men I sailed with aboard USS LaSalle (AGF-3) from 1978 to 1980.

CHAPTER 1

1830 Friday 19 May 1978

The great steel ship steamed slowly upon the tepid waters of the Persian Gulf. Evening reduced the unbearable heat of day to a mere discomfort. For the 580 United States Navy men aboard the ship, the sinking sun below the horizon allowed them to move onto the weather deck spaces—slowly, at first, as stiff and tired campers would emerge from their tents at dawn. A few at a time, through every hatch, sailors swung the heavy steel doors on their hinges and freed themselves from the confines of the ship for a breath of humid air.

It was May off the coast of Bahrain in the Persian Gulf. The merciless heat had begun in earnest even though the summer solstice was still 30 days away. Because LaSalle was permanently assigned to the Gulf, she was painted white, reflecting about 20 percent more heat than other ships in the fleet. Still, the days were long and sweltering.

USS LaSalle (AGF-3) had been deployed for six years to one of the Navy’s most remote spots in the world. The officers and men aboard counted down their one-year tour of duty just as their shipmates had counted down their year in Vietnam. A year aboard LaSalle wasn’t considered bad duty, all things considered, because the year in the Gulf counted as two years of sea duty in any other location.

Navy Lieutenant Jack Donovan of medium height and solid build emerged from the hatch aft of the galley. When he squinted in the bright light, his dark eyebrows furrowed deeply. He glanced to the disappearing sun over his left shoulder and observed that the ship, that had been his home for nearly two months, was heading almost due south. His movements were fluid and sure, like an athlete, and he closed the hatch quickly after glancing behind him to ensure he was the last man through. Coming from the evening meal in the wardroom, he was working a toothpick around in his mouth; the taste was gone, and the wood had become soft, so he slid the toothpick into his khaki trouser pocket, reminding himself to throw it away when he passed the first butt kit.

Jack was one of four pilots aboard LaSalle. The other three pilots, all of whom reported to him, were experienced but young pilots like himself, attached to a unit simply called the Helo Det, or Helicopter Detachment. These four officers and the twenty enlisted men who maintained the SH-3G Sea King helicopter aboard LaSalle enjoyed their special status of relative independence from the mundane goings-on of those who kept the ship operating. USS LaSalle was the flagship of the Middle East Force, and Jack’s job was to keep the helo flying whenever Rear Admiral Barry Avadutti and his staff scheduled it. The men of the det were fiercely proud of their work, and while duty aboard LaSalle was rigorous, it was exhilarating just the same.

Jack walked slowly aft toward the small flight deck immediately behind the stacks and superstructure of the ship. At one time there had been space for two helicopters to land simultaneously, but when LaSalle was dispatched to the Persian Gulf for permanent duty, significant modifications were made—including increasing the air conditioning capacity, installing a helo hangar on the flight deck, and erecting an awning arrangement attached securely to a 3-inch tubular steel frame from the top of the hangar at a steep pitch to the starboard, or right, side of the ship. It was on a plane of about 30 degrees to the horizon, and was stretched with white canvas and white line, that formed a large shaded open area where men could work during the day. It gave LaSalle an appearance like no other ship in the LPD Raleigh class, because of the large awning mounted rakishly off the hangar.

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Jack continued aft, down the length of the hangar to the flight deck and the painted yellow X where the H-3 would land within the hour. The helicopter had been dispatched to USS Ainsworth, a frigate, to pick up a medical case and return the patient to LaSalle. Small ships such as Ainsworth did not carry a medical doctor, but relied upon the larger ships in the force for serious cases. An Ainsworth crewman was experiencing severe pain in the area of the appendix, explaining his transport to LaSalle for care.

The winds were very light, and Jack remembered that Lieutenant (junior grade) Paul Bishop was the aircraft commander of the mission. Flying in the right seat, Paul would want to return with the winds from the left hand side of the ship, or port side, for landing. Jack looked up at the wind sock atop the hangar and noticed it slightly to starboard at about five knots. He walked around the aft end of the hangar into the open barn door. Except during flight operations, the roll-up steel door was normally open, and always reminded him of the roll-up doors that merchants had in the front of their shops in France and Spain. Except this door was huge, and when rolled up allowed the helicopter, with blades folded, to be drawn through into the shelter of the hangar. Jack couldn’t recall when the 19,000 pound aircraft had last been in the hangar.

Since the hangar was almost always free of the helicopter, it was the gathering place of the men of the helo detachment. A dart board was hung precariously on one bulkhead, or wall, and a battered piece of adhesive tape marked the point on the deck at which to stand when throwing darts. Large steel brackets were mounted on the bulkheads of the massive hangar, from which large items such as drop tanks, spare parts and helicopter repair equipment hung. Tools, work benches and all types of aviation apparatus were stashed throughout, providing everything necessary to maintain the helicopter for daily operations.

Jerry Campy Compton was engaged in a game of darts with the other Aviation Electronics Technician, Moon Welshman. Moon’s parents, some 23 years ago, had named him Harold but in the Navy he had been known as Moon because of his propensity to drop his trousers at passing aircraft.

Jack enjoyed the company of these men because of their active sense of humor and straightforward attitude. They worked hard and without pretension, and Jack, totally without airs himself was at home with the men of the detachment.

Hello, Lieutenant.

Hello Campy… Moon. Who’s got the drop?

Well, sir, ol’ Moon feels mighty lucky after his last shot, but I must say that I will be obliged to kick his ass yet again, Campy said, grinning.

Mighty proud talk, shorty, Moon snorted. And then, to Jack, Hi, Lieutenant. His dart flew and hit the wire defining the scoring zones, dropping harmlessly to the deck. Mother of pearl."

See what I said, Lieutenant? I got his ass now. Campy flung a greasy dart and it struck the cork soundly, but Jack didn’t see the score as he had already turned away and was walking toward the maintenance desk. The dart games, the smoking and swearing—all were routine aboard the ship, and the pattern never changed appreciably.

Moe, that’s a Salem butt on the deck. That means it’s yours. Tidy up your habit, Jack said quietly to jet mechanic Ralph Fine, so none of the other crewmembers would hear. Moe earned his nickname in honor of one of the Three Stooges, Moe Fine.

Got it, lieutenant. Sorry.

The odor of the jet fuel (JP-5) and hydraulic fluid were always present here, and the aroma reminded him of no other. It was immediately recognized by all Navy men when they first walk aboard any Navy ship. Jack unconsciously scanned the bulkheads of the hangar and felt in his element—he knew all the tools and all the spare parts stowed around him. As he always did in a hangar, he felt part of a machine and part of a team at the same time. He had the same feeling when he was a midshipman at the Naval Academy eight years earlier—part of a football machine and part of a football team. At sea with a helicopter he knew well, and men he trusted and respected, Jack had an overwhelming sense of belonging. The fact that he was being well paid made him even more sure that, whatever happened in his life, these Navy years would be the highlight. At least he was going to treat them that way.

Hunched over a spiral binder on the only desk in the hangar was the senior enlisted man in the det, the master chief petty officer. A 26-year seasoned veteran, Wade Armory was on his last cruise. Tall, and still thin when other middle-aged men were getting sloppy, Wade was a constant reminder to Jack of how to wear the uniform and how to manage men. His long arms and legs gave him a gangly appearance at the desk, as if it were a toy.

Evenin’, master chief. What’d they serve in your mess for chow tonight?

Don’t know, really, lieutenant, Wade said in his fluid, South Carolina accent, Some kind of sissy Oriental dish with lots of uncooked beans and such. Gunna’ get some ice cream later or I’m sure to pass out.

We had meat loaf, Jack volunteered. Wade didn’t feel the statement required an answer, so he didn’t respond, but instead drew a deep breath and wrinkled his brow, with a look of concern.

Lieutenant, when you flew today, did you check out the Doppler?

The Doppler system permits the H-3 helicopter to safely hover over the water in bad visibility.

Sure did, master. Still broke dick. Can’t explain it. She’ll set in a hover for 15, 20 seconds then just fall off. Probably the amplifier, since we already checked the antennas.

Reckon so, lieutenant. Should be a new one for us on the airlift Thursday. In the meantime, the bird is still legally ‘down’ for nights.

I suppose it is, on paper. But with the sky so bright in this phase of the moon, I’d like to report us ‘up’ for nights, if you don’t mind. We can still do rescue work with that Doppler the way it is. If somebody goes in the drink, we can be on him in seven minutes. You know it takes the ship 30 minutes to launch the lifeboat. Let’s keep it up nights, if you don’t object.

Wade didn’t object, but he wanted the officer in charge to make the decision. As an operator from the same Navy that fought in Korea, Wade wasn’t completely comfortable with all of the changes initiated during the tenure of the most recent Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Zumwalt. His feeling was that Zumwalt’s permissiveness coupled with discipline by written instruction ran counter to the Navy’s tried and true method of discipline being enforced at the division level—in the shop or working space. Wade believed in being safe, but felt that the pilot and the maintenance chief could make better decisions than the publishers of the rule books.

Jack was confident with the ability of Wade, and Wade saw in Jack the makings of a future quality senior officer. The master chief had plenty of experience upon which to base his opinion—he had served on 7 different aircraft carriers in his career, and two tours in Vietnam as a door gunner in a Huey with Helicopter Attack (Light) Squadron 3, (HAL-3). He had two Purple Hearts and had seen how many different men performed under pressure, and what he saw in Jack he liked. He had witnessed his lieutenant stand up to the executive officer of the ship in defending the men of the helo det. He had seen his young lieutenant choose his battles wisely. The result was that Jack won most of his battles.

Jack was the man most responsible for the well being of the 20 men and three officers who reported to him in the detachment. He also balanced the responsibilities of being the officer in charge of the helo det with the taskings of the commanding officer of LaSalle, and Admiral Avadutti’s staff as well. And now, as he watched Wade close the maintenance binder and slide it into its pigeon-hole, Jack stretched his calves by bouncing on the balls of his feet, placing the palms of his hands on his lower back, between his belt and his trousers, anticipating correctly that Armory would stand, his work finished.

Did you see ‘Sand Pebbles’ yet, Master Chief? The men saw it on the mess decks last night, and I think we have it in the wardroom tonight.

Naw, I haven’t, Lieutenant. Tell you the truth; I don’t take too much stock in Navy flicks. They’re not real; they’re not true to us. They always try to make our lives into something they ain’t. For instance, do you remember in ‘Bridges of Toko-Ri’, poor old Brubaker ditched once, pranged in on the deck another time, and got his self kilt in the end? That’s more bad luck than anyone deserves to have. Hollywood always tries to jazz everything up, when our job’s mostly routine and boring. The real Navy doesn’t make for a very interesting movie. I’ve found that when things get exciting in the Navy, someone usually gets hurt, one way or t’other.

I suppose you’re right. I’ve never thought of it as boring, but we do spend a great deal of time waiting for the next major event. But out here, I don’t get bored. It’s fun for me every day.

"That’s ’cause you and me are Airedales, Lieutenant. We’re flyers. Yes, sir, it’s fun for us. I’ve been a crewman for 20 some years myself. Proud to be an Airedale. We get to leave this ship and fly around all by ourselves out here, but those poor sons-of-bitches below decks never get to see the clouds and blue sky up close like we do. They’re trapped down here, Lieutenant, with no chance of gettin’ off ’cept on liberty. You see ’em coming out on the weather decks at night, their faces all pasty and white from being below. That’s why they love their carousing around on liberty so much; it’s the only break they get. We’re so used to flying we sometimes forget that it’s not just actual flying, its knowing you can go flying."

Jack thought about what Wade had said, and his mind wandered back to his first flight in a T-34 in basic training, eight years earlier. It was summer then, too, and seemed much hotter than today because Jack had lived in Ohio all his life and June in Pensacola, Florida was a weather shock.

I was so hot in the summer in 1970, jammed into classrooms, barracks and gymnasiums with 43 other guys—so much heat, and such humidity. Each afternoon, when the sun seemed to stop in its arc for about three hours, the day would suddenly be shattered by a thunderstorm, and the temperature would drop by 10-15 degrees for a time. The baking streets turned the cool rain into clouds of steam when the giant drops first hit the pavement. It was a scene repeated each afternoon of that long summer.

Since then, I’ve never really been away from searing heat: Pensacola, Key West, Norfolk, Jacksonville, and now Bahrain. Home in Ohio seems so far away now, but I can still smell the summer air and fresh cut grass. Not St. Augustine grass, but real Bermuda grass we have up north. Akron, Ohio: Home of the All-American Soap Box Derby and Rubber Capital of the World, the billboard says, proudly.

Must be 7,000 miles away, he said to himself. Jack had strolled, deep in thought, to the edge of the starboard side of the ship, and was leaning casually on the chain life-line. He gazed to where the sun had set some time ago, and the sky was orange, like a faded plastic pumpkin. Barely visible against the sky was the British Airways Concorde streaking homeward, on its way to London from Bahrain. Jack looked at his watch and noted that the SST jet had left right on time.

On%20the%20Stern%20of%20USS%20Ricketts.jpg

Flight quarters, flight quarters, man all flight quarters stations. Helmets on, goggles down, sleeves rolled down. All unnecessary personnel keep clear of the flight deck. Now flight quarters, came the command over the ship’s public address system, called the 1MC. Jack moved towards a small structure not much bigger than a phone booth, at the edge of the hangar. It was made of steel and had bullet proof glass on three sides. The booth was called Primary Flight, or PriFly, and was manned whenever flight operations were called away. A pilot from the detachment was assigned that duty, and Jack had designated himself in that position this evening. It was equipped with a microphone, preset to the helicopter’s launch and recovery frequency, to enable the pilot in the booth to talk to the airborne crew. Two minutes later, the speaker came to life:

Rainbow tower, Angel seven four zero. See you ahead four miles.

Roger Angel 740, standby for winds and altimeter, Jack replied.

Angel 740, this is the bridge. Your winds are 45 degrees port at seven knots, altimeter two niner eight six. You are signal charlie on arrival. This report came from the bridge of LaSalle. No aircraft had permission to land without the authorization from the commanding officer. ‘Signal charlie’ meant that the pilot may land on arrival, under control of PriFly and the yellow-shirted LSE, or landing signalman enlisted, who positioned himself in front of the helicopter to ensure the aircraft would land in the prescribed area of the flight deck.

Roger, understand charlie on arrival. Five souls on board. We’ll need a stretcher when the blades have shut down. Angel 740, out.

Jack had remembered that Ainsworth was near Kuwait, north in the Gulf, so he looked dead astern for the helicopter. The first sign of it approaching was the smoke from its twin turbine engines being blown behind the aircraft. Then he could make out the fuselage and seconds later, the helicopter was turning slightly to commence its approach to the stern of LaSalle. Jack noticed that one main landing gear was up, and one was down.

Angel 740, recycle your gear. You’ve got a hung port main mount, Jack said. He immediately spoke to the LSE in the other microphone. Moon, we’ve got a hung gear. Don’t wave him off… he knows. Put him in a hover and I’ll send a metalsmith under.

Moon Welshman gave an exaggerated nod and began giving hand signals to bring the aircraft over a painted spot on the deck. At this juncture, Jack knew that the pilot was now looking at Moon, and using his peripheral vision to gauge the speed of his approach. He was making it perfectly. When he hovered over the landing spot, the wind and noise were extreme. Everyone near the flight deck braced against the wind generated by the rotors, and Moon placed his right leg behind his left, so he could lean into the wind that the helicopter generated. He then gave a hand signal for the metalsmith to move beneath the hovering helicopter to attempt to free the landing gear.

Aviation Metalsmith First Class Freddy Fredericks, in full flight deck attire of life preserver, hard hat with ear protection (called Mickey Mouse), goggles and gloves, placed himself properly behind the stuck gear and tugged on the wheels over his head. The gear remained in the up-locked position. He then moved in front of the gear and placed a large crow bar in the landing mechanism, and with a small tug, the gear moved briskly down. Anticipating this, Freddy moved swiftly out of the way. He turned, saw an amber light on the gear, and gave Jack a thumbs up sign. He then inserted a locking pin into the gear and moved swiftly back to the hangar.

Angel 740, we’ve got a light and the gear is pinned. Clear to land, Jack said. Then he said over the other radio, Set him down, Moon.

Lieutenant Bones Rasco, the ship’s doctor and his corpsman, hospital corpsman second class (HM2) Whitehead, moved to the helicopter cargo door as soon as the rotor blades were shut down, while two members the ship’s flight deck personnel lifted the stretcher out of the aircraft. The doctor walked quickly with the stretcher-bearers into the ship to the clinic. Wade and three metalsmiths were already there to inspect the helicopter. Jack stood back patiently. He knew that the Master Chief would report to him as soon as he was sure what the problem had been.

Freddy pointed out something to Wade and the two immediately approached Jack.

It’s this little piss-ant Teflon bushing, Lieutenant. It just broke in two, and the over-center side brace didn’t make good contact, and the gear wouldn’t go down when the pilot put the handle down. We can fix it in 10 minutes if we got one of these in supply. Otherwise, we can just fly it with the gear down, Freddy explained.

I’m glad it’s an easy fix; and thanks, Freddy. You did a great job just now, Jack said.

Shit, Lieutenant, it wasn’t nothin’, Freddy said.

But it was. It was fast and safe. We have a man with appendicitis who could go at any time. You did well, Jack insisted.

Freddy was a little embarrassed by the attention. He mumbled something and walked back to the hangar with the bushing in his hand. He was blond, small in stature but quite strong. As a first class petty officer, he had great responsibilities on the detachment as the second senior enlisted man behind the Master Chief.

The sky was darkening now, but still demanded a squint. Jack read the maintenance discrepancies that the pilots had just written, and walked to his stateroom.

CHAPTER 2

0830 Saturday 20 May 1978

The airport from which the British Airways Concorde SST had taken off is located on the Northeastern tip of Bahrain on the island of Al Muharraq, joined to the mainland by a causeway. Itself an island in the Persian Gulf (called the Arabian Gulf by the Arabian nations), Bahrain is devoid of significant geographical landmarks save those normally associated with the desert. It rises stubbornly, but reluctantly out of the shallow sea, a flat mound of sand and rock, surrounded by insignificant smaller islands and shoal water. It is a faceless landscape that could not have appeared more forlorn had it been a sand bar. In fact, Bahrain had reclaimed a significant amount of the sea for its own use, especially near the main port city of Manama. The airport is northeast of Manama—a half a dozen hot, dusty miles over recently paved roads.

The tiny nation is covered with a limitless supply of sand. There is no escape from it—even with the most sophisticated air conditioner filters and the most air-tight windows. Sand permeates everything on the island, and for the nine months when there is no rain, the sand is as much a part of living in the desert as the fog in San Francisco. At a small party held recently at Admiral Avadutti’s quarters in Manama, the hostess, Janet Tyler Avadutti, the admiral’s wife, sat for most of the evening with the back of her hands resting on the arms of a wide wicker chair. Her palms were perpetually turned up, so uncomfortable did she find the touching of the sand.

Janet was what the sailors of LaSalle would call a proper lady. She was taller than average, and her stunning facial features revealed that she probably had been beautiful all her life. It was clear that she must have been irresistible to Ensign Barry Avadutti when he met her in a Rhode Island church 28 years earlier. Barry at the time was attached to an Adams class destroyer in Newport, and had found that the closest Methodist church was in the village of Middletown about two miles from the naval base. Janet Anne was a member of the well-known Tyler family in Newport, and was in Middletown quite by chance since her family attended the Episcopal Church in Newport proper. She was sitting in church in Middletown with her roommate from Brown University who was a Methodist. Samantha Townley had visited Janet’s church the previous week, and this Sunday was a payback.

Both women were beautiful, but the ensign was immediately struck by the loveliness of the girl who later introduced herself as Janet. Her hazel eyes were deep and penetrating, and Barry found them to be the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. He knew then that he wanted to see the world through those eyes as well as his own. They saw each other regularly throughout the short Newport summer until Barry’s ship departed for Korea and Janet began her senior year at Brown. They were married in the spring of 1951 in an ancient little church in Little Compton, R.I.

Living now in Bahrain, without her grown children, and rarely with her husband because of his deployments, Janet despised all there was about living in a desert climate. Her husband was the only member of either ship’s company or his staff who was on an accompanied tour—that is, his wife was the only spouse given quarters and living in Bahrain. A child of one of the best families of Newport, Janet found this tour of duty in Bahrain to be a nightmare: isolation from her friends and family, oppressive heat and, not least, the dirty sand. With the consistency of flour, the sand collected on window sills in four hours, food in six and throughout the house in eight. In Newport, the servants would have been tasked with the removal of it, but in Bahrain the admiral’s wife did not even rate a steward to clean. The sand particularly irritated her because it made using contact lenses painful, and forced her to wear glasses.

But the most distressing point of suffering in Bahrain was that the suffering was without reward. This position for her husband would not improve his chances for promotion from rear admiral to vice admiral. It was the end of the line for her husband as far as promotions were concerned because he was detailed to a billet that was not normally looked at for consideration to upward ascent. Barry knew this, as did Janet, for the two of them had spent many evening meals talking across the dinner table about their friends and shipmates who had been assigned to the plum jobs. Barry was allowed to continue on active duty, but was out of the limelight.

He was an exceptional officer, of keen intellect and a genius in command. His last three tours of sea duty had been in command of a destroyer, cruiser, and the battleship New Jersey in Vietnam. Two tours in Washington, D.C. had ensured promotion to rear admiral, but Barry was a scholar as much as a warrior, and had little time for some of the falsity of the Washington scene. His role model (and he would say his hero) was Admiral Ray Spruance, a brilliant and thoroughly professional naval officer of World War II. Spruance, too, was unwilling to glad-hand his superiors, and was almost lost in the war until Admiral Bill Halsey became ill before the pivotal battle of Midway and Spruance had to take his place.

So it was with Barry. His peers, recently moved into those positions warranting another star, had lost a bit of their warmth but none of their respect for Barry. They lost their warmth because there was a part of their consciousness that grudgingly knew that Barry was probably a better choice for the third star rather than themselves, and this fact embarrassed these proud men some. Because of his modesty it didn’t embarrass Barry one bit. His demeanor was such that, not only did he admire the success of his peers, he had a fierce loyalty to the system that selected them, consequently, Barry thought he had been passed over for promotion for a very good reason.

This fatalism was not shared by Janet Tyler Avadutti. It was one of the great failures of the Navy that her husband was destined to retire without the third star, she felt, and correctly so. Janet loved her husband deeply, and was keenly aware of his intelligence, strength and leadership ability. At cocktail parties, years ago, she would watch the junior officers glance at their commanding officer from across a room with a reverence in their eyes reserved only for those who had won the respect and admiration of their subordinates. In conversation, he would glide around the room, oblivious to his own stature, merely savoring the richest of naval traditions—a commanding officer at complete ease among his wardroom. Janet knew that those young officers had learned so much from her husband, and now that they were in command of their own ships, they would be without the wisdom of Barry as a task force commander or, in time, a fleet commander in chief. He would have one more tour of duty after this one—not at sea that he loved so much, but at a senior staff such as CINCUSNAVEUR, known in London as Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Forces Europe, his present boss. He was quietly being shelved, not to a job without prestige, but one without a future. Janet Tyler hoped Barry would receive orders before the next summer. She wasn’t sure if she could make it through another summer in Bahrain.

Jack would always try to spot the admiral’s house when he flew his helicopter to the airport in Al Muharraq. In the daytime, the house was not as easy to pick out as it was at night, when a distinctive row of sidewalk lamps were lit. They were 18 of them—nine on each side of the admiral’s walk, and spaced evenly, as a military man would space them. But today Jack could see the house clearly even in morning light, because he had finally figured out where to look, instead of looking everywhere. Minutes later, Jack commenced his approach to the runway, and landed the helicopter off of the broad concrete and on the asphalt taxiway near the structure permanently reserved for the helicopter detachment. The landing gear operated perfectly after a quick repair the night before.

When USS LaSalle was in port Bahrain, the helicopter was staged at the international airport. This allowed more flexibility for both the ship and the detachment. It allowed the ship to do upkeep while in port without having to dispatch men to flight quarters to launch and recover the helicopter. It also allowed the detachment personnel to fly a schedule of their choosing as the airport was operational 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Since LaSalle’s H-3 helicopter was the only search-and-rescue helicopter in the Gulf, it made good sense to keep it available to fly if required.

The airport authority had donated a ramshackle steel structure, about 40 feet by 50 feet for the detachment to use as shop spaces to maintain the helicopter. The shack was on the remote north end of the airport, where air freight was periodically handled. The rusting building contained a small lounge area with some pathetic upholstered chairs, plus some Navy cast-off steel desks and office chairs. From the ship, the men had requisitioned a refrigerator. It had suffered some significant cosmetic damage through the years, but still kept beer and soda cold.

Beer was consumed in moderation at the helo shack at the airport. It was an unbroken rule that the men could drink beer only after the whole helo det had finished the day’s work. A violation of this rule would risk losing the privilege for all. For all the casual behavior that the detachment enjoyed while ashore—the barbecues, the wearing of shorts and T-shirts, the use of the Navy truck—they genuinely appreciated their good fortune of being off the ship by not violating the beer rule.

Jack and his co-pilot, Paul Bishop, shut down the helicopter by the checklist, and walked slowly from the aircraft while Campy dragged the chocks out of the cargo door and kicked them expertly against the tires. There was little wind yet today, but Campy slipped two blade boots on the end of a couple of forward rotor blades and tied the line from the boot to the left and right main gear struts. Then he joined the officers in trying to open the door to the helo shack. Paul was working helplessly with an oversized ring of keys, one of which opened the padlocked door. All the keys looked alike, because they all opened Navy brass padlocks on doors to spaces on the ship, steel cruise boxes, and several keys in the helo shack. Finally, in desperation, Campy reached for the keys.

Lem’me try, lieutenant. It’s the one with the tit on it.

Campy, if there’d have been a tit, I’d have seen it.

For future reference, sir, here ’tis. He held the key in front of his own grinning face, framing the key between ears, forehead and whiskered chin. The key had a drop of solder on it. See the little bump?

Paul shook his head slowly, with the bill of the ball cap facing the ground. You’re a sick man, Campy. Now open it up.

No sooner had he finished speaking than Campy had yanked the padlock down and removed it from the hasp. The knob to the door was, by now, merely a handle to push and pull the door, as the door frame had been jimmied so many times that the latch had no home when the door was closed. Immediately upon opening the door, the odor of stale, hot air greeted the air crew, and all three men paused one second before entering. Campy brushed from his hand the sand that had covered the knob.

On the wall to the right of the open door was a chalk board with an artist’s rendition of a very naked Farrah Fawcett. The pose she was in was a familiar one from the movie magazines, so the artist merely drew it at a larger scale on the blackboard, but neglected to draw the bathing suit, that had, of course, been on every poster and photo of the actress. The artist had taken special care with those parts of Farrah previously quite private, and the results were inspiring to the men of the helo det; so much so that it was ordained that the board was to be used for nothing else. Farrah Fawcett’s figure had been there for at least three years, untouched, according to one member of the det who was on his fourth tour aboard LaSalle.

The rest of the space was decrepit, dirty and barely usable. The walls, being steel, had fallen victim to numerous holes drilled through them for mounting items both inside and outside. When the usefulness of the items had disappeared, and they were removed, the holes remained, allowing light to shine through in random points through the south wall. The sunbeams were parallel and bright; the room was so charged with dust that each beam of light had a trail like a comet to the floor. The men entering the shack only stirred more dust in the air.

Campy brought the window air conditioner to life by plugging it into a wall socket. The plastic knobs had long since been lost, and the plastic grill was broken in several places, but almost immediately, with a groaning sound, cool air began to circulate in the shack. The ring of keys was back in Paul’s possession, and he began testing keys to the padlock on the refrigerator. Inside, there were many different flavors of sodas, and a coffee can for making change. Paul put a dollar into the can and took back a quarter. He tossed Jack a Dr. Pepper, asked Campy what he wanted, took one for himself and the three aircrewmen all sat down to wait for the rest of the men from the ship.

CHAPTER 3

1015 Saturday 20 May 1978

The flagship of the Middle East Force, USS LaSalle, edged toward the pier with an ebb tide. She was a rather tall ship, for her length, which caused the process of approaching the dock to be a bit precarious during high or gusty winds. Today the winds were dead calm, and the tugs had no difficulty nudging the bow toward the pier, ever so slowly, to prevent the ship from crushing the camels. The camels were small, floating platforms with padded edges, placed between LaSalle and the concrete pier, to keep the ship at a comfortable stand-off distance. A testimony to the ease of the approach was that the captain was relaxed on the wing bridge watching the evolution quietly.

The crew was not required to wear their whites and man the rails for entry into Bahrain, for this was the beginning of summer and the temperature was already approaching 100° F. The Pakistani stevedores wrestled with the heavy lines and draped them as quickly as possible over the massive cleats mounted on the concrete pier. In less than 20 minutes, the boatswain’s mates aboard LaSalle were shoving and wrestling the brow, or walkway between the ship and the pier, into position. In keeping with the captain’s policy, the enlisted men would go on liberty before the officers.

The officers weren’t ready for liberty at that time of day anyway, and neither were the chief petty officers and the warrant officer. Ship’s work would continue until 1600, and most of the officers would take the evening meal aboard LaSalle simply because it was easier, quicker, and the food was better. There would be time enough to go on liberty.

The captain had scheduled a department head meeting for 1330. Like a small city, a naval vessel has other requirements to meet besides war fighting. These duties are clearly assigned to the several departments. Most of the departments aboard a naval ship are steeped in tradition, and have been the same for generations of U.S. sailors. The departments are separated into divisions, and the division is the heart of a well run ship. because it is the division where young sailors do the work that makes the ship operate.

Department Heads are seasoned officers or warrant officers, and division officers are normally young ensigns or lieutenants junior grade (LTJG) on their first tour at sea. Among the department heads, the chief engineer is tasked with, primarily, keeping the propulsion system working, but is also responsible for fresh water, electricity and other utilities. The supply officer not only keeps food on the tables but orders all spare parts and materiel, and performs as paymaster. The administrative officer is in charge of the captain’s correspondence and, by definition, the ship’s correspondence as well. Reports, instructions, fitness appraisals, notices and the mail fall under his watchful eye. The radio transmissions and teletype messages are monitored by the communications officer. There are four different speeds of messages, and four different levels of security. The fastest messages are Flash followed by Op Immediate, Priority and Routine. The security levels are Top Secret, whose disclosure could affect national security, followed by Secret, Confidential and Unclassified.

Other departments represented this Saturday would be the ship’s command master chief, Mike Sturgis; the ship’s doctor, Dr. Bones Rasco; and the officer in charge, or OinC of the helo det, LT Jack Donovan.

By 1130, 12 enlisted members of the helo det were ready at the brow to make the drive to the airport in their duty truck. The truck was a white 1972 Ford F-150. Like most government vehicles, the truck had few miles on the odometer, but those it bore had been tough ones. Because of water shortages, it was rarely washed, and belonging in a pool of trucks, was never given the attention of a private vehicle. Since the pier was about a mile from the motor pool at the Administrative Support Unit, Moon had gotten a ride a half-hour earlier to the Unit, and was returning with the truck to the pier to pick up the others. He wheeled to a stop at the end of the pier, and the detachment men stepped out of the shade of the ship and walked down the brow single file to the pier. The sun was even more intense than at sea, and coupled with the blowing sand and dust, it caused the sailors to squint. It gave the appearance that they were all smiling they were squinting so hard as they left the ship in their civilian clothes.

The political situation in Bahrain, and indeed in the entire Persian Gulf region, prompted the Navy to change a few of its procedures when in civilian territory, or on the beach. One rule was that American servicemen were not to wear their uniform on the beach at any time. The Arab nationalists were expressing extreme patriotism in the late 1970’s due to their newfound wealth in high oil prices, and the withdrawal of the Royal Navy from many of its bases in the Middle East. Although it was easy to identify a service man among the Bahrainis, the act of wearing civilian clothes was a political courtesy. It was a sensitive time for the U.S. Military in Bahrain, as the Navy had assumed custody of the Administrative Support Unit from the British, and it was being operated as a base even though it was called a support unit. This, too, was in deference to the nationalists. The politicos could now state proudly that there were no longer any foreign bases in Bahrain, and allowed them to see the ASU as nothing more than an American field office, at least publicly.

Jack took the last sip from his Dr. Pepper and lobbed the empty can into a large cardboard barrel against the wall. He looked at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes and wondered if he would have time for lunch and a shower before the department head meeting aboard LaSalle. He knew that one of the other two pilots still aboard could fill in for him if necessary, but he also knew that his presence at the meeting was expected. The truck was scheduled to arrive at the airport with time enough for him to return to the ship after the detachment men arrived.

The detachment pickup truck moved along with the traffic on the now-familiar route through Manama and across the causeway to Al Muharraq and the Bahrain International Airport. The roads were mostly paved, and where they were not yet paved they were oiled to keep the dust under control. The oil made the roads extremely slick during the rainy season, but now it only made the tires of the truck whine due to the amount of black tar pressed between the tire treads. The truck chassis was effectively undercoated by repeated transits on oiled roads, and only the body of the F-150 had succumbed to rust.

The traffic was, as usual, heavy to the airport. The truck was filled with four men in the cab and eight in the long bed, that Moon never noticed the gray Fiat following him from the pier to the airport. It kept traveling past the gate as the detachment truck rumbled into the airport entrance.

Navy Captain A. R. Garner was waiting at the head of the table in his in-port cabin for the department heads well before 1330. While underway, the commanding officer of a naval ship rarely, if ever, uses the more spacious in-port cabin, but rather spends his days and nights on the bridge or his at-sea cabin, immediately aft of the bridge. The commanding officer is responsible for the ship 24 hours a day, seven days a week for as long as he is in command. This responsibility is absolute, and if an incident occurs while the captain is asleep, ashore on liberty, or on temporary duty it is not only possible but probable that a board of inquiry will find him culpable and he will be relieved of command. While this absolute responsibility may seem unfair to the uninitiated, it forces every new commanding officer to remain completely focused on his duty for the duration of his command. Command at sea is the pinnacle of an officer’s career, and anything short of absolute responsibility would corrupt the system of authority that has served the United States Navy and the Royal Navy for hundreds of years.

For this reason, a ship’s captain denies himself the comfort of a large and well appointed cabin while at sea in exchange for 18-20 hours every day on the bridge and a few hours of sleep in a cramped at-sea cabin literally two steps away from the bridge. While asleep, he will have left strict night orders with the officer of the deck, his personally designated line officer qualified to guide the ship through the night. Standing orders and special orders are left with the OOD underway whenever the captain is off the bridge—the navigation, speed, surface contacts, and dozens of other orders (most of them are recurring orders) carried out by the young officer taking the control of the ship, or taking the con from the captain.

Captain Alan Garner had been up most of the night directing the course and speed of LaSalle in order to enter the channel to Manama at the appointed time. Of course, bringing the ship to the pier was under his direct guidance as well, even though the port’s pilot had come aboard from Bahrain to direct the ship up the channel. So after little sleep, the captain looked tired as the department heads quietly filed in and took their seats at the long table—the executive officer at the captain’s right and the master chief at the left. Jack took his seat near the end of the table, feeling refreshed after a quick lunch and shower. The captain