Critics of Johnson (and the war) accused the president of stretching the incident out of proportion and (essentially) fabricating an excuse to go to war with the North Vietnamese. The arguments over the war and President Johnson’s role in escalating it continue to this day, but two facts remain undisputed: America was at war again, and it had begun (again) with torpedoes.
CHAPTER 29
Chief McPherson adjusted the four-point harness that held her in the flight seat and leaned forward far enough to see over the shoulders of the pilot and copilot. The green flight suit she wore over her khakis tugged uncomfortably at her collarbone as she craned her neck to look through the helicopter’s windshield. The helo was new, less than a year into its service life, but the Plexiglas windshield was already beginning to take on a vaguely frosted look — the inevitable product of a thousand tiny scratches born of countless collisions with the desert sand that always seemed to ride the back of the hot Middle Eastern wind.
The chief scanned the wave tops as they slid by a thousand feet below.
Their destination, USS
She stole a glance to her right, where Captain Bowie sat belted into his own flight seat. He seemed lost in thought, but — from the way the muscles in his neck were bunching up — they weren’t pleasant thoughts.
Up in the cockpit, the pilot keyed his mike. “
The reply came back a second later. “
My SPY radar is silent aft. All HF antennas within thirty degrees of your approach vector are silent, over.”
The pilot nodded and looked over his shoulder. “Captain, everything is looking good. We’re going to head for the barn.”
Captain Bowie nodded. “Understood.”
The pilot keyed the mike again. “
“We’re going the wrong way,” Captain Bowie said. He spoke softly, and it was difficult to hear him over the wail of the twin turbine engines and the syncopated thump of the helo’s rotors.
Chief McPherson leaned closer to him. “Sir?”
The captain looked up. “Just thinking aloud,” he said. He jerked a thumb over his left shoulder toward the tail of the helo — toward the southern end of the Arabian Gulf. “My ship is back
The chief thought for a few seconds and said, “We don’t know that, sir. Captain Whiley may be planning to leave you in command of the SAU. That’s certainly the smart thing to do.”
“He’s going to take command,” Captain Bowie said. “That’s why we’re being summoned to
That, Chief McPherson knew, was likely to be true. According to naval custom, there could only be one captain aboard any warship, and that was the commanding officer. The instant Captain Bowie’s foot touched the deck of
Captain Bowie cocked one eyebrow. “Of course, if I were in a position to do the same thing to
Chief McPherson nodded once and turned back to look through the windshield again. After a few seconds, she spotted the
Approaching from the cruiser’s bow, the pilot flew down the ship’s starboard side and made a tight buttonhook turn to the right, lining up with the flight deck and shedding unneeded altitude with the same neat maneuver. The toy-sized ship began to grow rapidly in the helicopter’s windshield.
The voice of
“
The pilot keyed his mike. “
Less than a minute later, the helo touched down on the ship’s gently rolling deck with a thump that was barely audible over the din of the rotors. It was as smooth a landing as the chief had ever seen. Of course, it should have been; the seas were calm, and the relative winds across the deck were nearly ideal. But not all shipboard landings were so easy. Navy pilots and flight deck crews were trained to make landings under unbelievable conditions, on heavy seas, in low visibility, with the ship bucking and rolling, the winds shifting freakishly, and maybe an engine failure thrown in for good measure.
A few seconds after they were down, a young enlisted man wearing a purple flight deck jersey and a cranial- style flight deck helmet opened the door from the outside. The roar of the helo’s rotors grew instantly louder.
The Sailor threw Commander Bowie a quick salute and shouted, “Welcome aboard, Commander. Can you please follow me, sir?”
Commander Bowie gave the man a thumbs-up and reached to unbuckle his safety harness. Being senior, the commander was first out, followed a few seconds later by the chief. They followed the purple-jerseyed Sailor across the flight deck at a quick trot, heads ducked to avoid the helicopter’s thundering rotor blades.
The Sailor led them to a watertight door, which he opened for them.
They stepped through, and the Sailor stepped in after them and dogged it closed. The noise level dropped dramatically.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the Sailor said again — at a more reasonable volume this time. “The captain is waiting for you in the wardroom. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Commander Bowie nodded. “Thank you, son.”
The Sailor led them through a series of passageways and up several ladders to officers’ country. When he came to the door of the wardroom, he knocked, opened the door, and held it for them, but he didn’t enter.
They stepped past him into the wardroom. It was even fancier than the wardroom aboard
Captain Stuart Whiley stood when they entered the room and beckoned them further into his inner sanctum. He was a short, wiry man in his late forties. His crisply starched khakis were impeccably tailored, and his brush-cut hair was a shade of black so improbably deep that it was almost certainly colored. His movements were quick and adroit. He smiled, showing a mouth full of very white teeth, and extended a hand. “Welcome aboard, Commander.”
