The Gearing Incident

Jessica Decker lay dreaming of something only she knows, something that triggers that knowing smirk which betrays her mischievous nature. Sprawled on the cot in her darkened quarters, she begins to stir, using her feet to play with the coarse wool blanket covering her soft skin. As if startled by something unseen, her pale blue eyes open suddenly and the blanket is kicked away. She unfurls herself from her shelf-like sleeping area like a lioness from her lair, and stretches. Just as she finishes tying her shiny blonde hair back into a bun, an alarm klaxon sounded and a flashing red light went off over her bunk. The intercom chirped to life. “Battle stations, battle stations, all hands to battle stations! Captain Decker, report to the bridge!” Jessica quickly got into her skin tight blue naval uniform, grabbed her gun belt with the copper buckle and holstered M1911 pistol, and clipped that around her hips, and then made her way down the hall past the bulkhead and into the main bridge of the USS Alamo. Several other naval officers in skin tight blue uniforms with gun belts on were busy at their respective stations studying monitors and pushing buttons. At the front of the bridge, the helmsman had the rudder controls ready in the firm grasp of his white-knuckled fists. Jessica looked to her left past the elevator door to the communications station, then to her right at the tactical station before approaching the captain’s chair at the center of the bridge. “Commander Porter, how in the hell do we go to battle stations at mooring?” she barked. The officer in the captain’s chair stood and saluted Captain Decker. “Captain, we received a distress call from a destroyer about twenty miles south of our position, just down the coastline.” “Is it one of ours?” Decker asked as she took her seat in the captain’s chair. “It is, Captain,” Commander Porter replied. “Ensign Dyson,” Captain Decker faced the officer at the helm. “Signal the engine room, power up maneuvering props only at one-quarter power.” “Aye, Captain, maneuvering props at one-quarter power,” Dyson called back. “What is the nature of their distress?” Decker asked. Porter replied, “Evasion of aggressor.” Decker turned to Porter. “Do you have a positive identification of either vessel?” Suddenly she felt the bridge crew look over at them for a moment. Porter replied, “Not confirmed yet, Captain, but the enemy ship has the radar signature of the ISS Severnaya, and our ship is the DD-710, Captain, it is the USS Gearing.” “That’s a pretty old registration code,” Decker said as she stared at him for a moment. “Ensigns Dyson and Barnes, make ready for open sea and once we round Tykens Lagoon, set a course for the source of the distress call all ahead full…Mr. Porter, I take it we are we the closest ship in range?” “Aye, Captain,” Porter said. “Secretary of the Navy patched through direct, they got the distress call at central as well, and ordered us out with authenticated authorization to utilize nuclear ordinance.” “Why does the name of that ship sound familiar?” Decker muttered to herself and then turned her chair toward the Tactical Station. “Thomas, do we have a file on the Gearing?” “Aye, Captain, bringing it up now,” Thomas replied. “USS Gearing, standard turbine propulsion…outdated armaments, and…” “What is it Ensign?” Porter asked. Thomas looked away from his screen to face the Captain and stated matter-of-factly, “Gearing was reported lost at sea with all hands on October 24, 1962.” The bridge fell silent until Captain Decker lifted her chin and turned back toward the forward bridge windows. “Porter, I didn’t realize—I thought you might have misspoke yourself and meant the newer ship designated Gearing…Well, Gentlemen, the Gearing may have been lost but we’re not about to lose her again.” “All moorings clear, Captain,” Ensign Barnes called out. “Very well, Mr. Barnes,” Decker replied. “Take us out.” Twelve minutes later, Captain Decker looked out the forward windows on the bridge at the heavily damaged Gearing which was adrift and visibly on fire at the aft top deck. The smoke billowing up into the sky had been visible almost as soon as they left port and cleared shallow waters. “Hail the Severnaya,” Captain Decker called out. “Channel open.” “ISS Severnaya, this is Captain Jessica Decker of the USS Alamo,” Jessica said sternly as she held up the microphone tethered to the arm of her chair. “Your presence at these coordinates is a direct violation of armistice code. You are ordered to withdraw immediately to international waters. Failure to comply will be regarded as act of war. You have thirty seconds to alter your course to an east by northeast heading or we will open fire.” Decker covered the microphone with her hand and looked back at Thomas. “Ready tactical nuclear torpedoes.” “Captain,” the communications officer piped up. “We’re receiving a short wave radio signal from the Gearing…they report an inoperative helm…their engine compartment has taken on water and they had to seal off that deck…they have no propulsion.” Someone suddenly shouted, “Incoming!” There was a horrendous banging sound and every surface of the bridge vibrated. “Scout amidships reports in,” Thomas stated. “Heavy shell just pierced starboard armor, negative hull breach.” “That wasn’t very nice,” Captain Decker sighed. “Acquire a targeting lock.” “Lock acquired, Captain,” Thomas replied from behind her. “Fire TNT four,” Decker commanded. Two or three seconds went by where nothing happened, but it felt like so much longer of a wait. The heavy silence ended with an underwater explosion in the middle of the soviet vessel’s waterline. The enemy ship erupted with the ocean beneath it, broke in half, and slammed back down onto the ocean’s surface. Captain Decker allowed herself a triumphant smirk as her bridge crew cheered around her. When the men calmed back down, she turned to Porter: “Signal Belle Haven and advise them that the Gearing’s propulsion is down, and we require additional patrols until our engineers get them up and running, then signal the Gearing and invite their bridge crew aboard for dinner. Send out a rescue party for the Severnaya’s crew and take survivors into custody.” Back at the hospital, my cadet-students and I had been herded into a sterile waiting room following the doctor’s questioning. Displayed on the wall was several framed color photographs of what appeared to be medics in action on the front lines. The first framed photograph I saw was of a helicopter much like the ones that were used in Vietnam, but this one had the Red Cross painted on the nose and side door and was being loaded with wounded. The second framed photograph I studied depicted a van converted into an ambulance with a heavy caliber machine gun mounted on the top. The third, and perhaps one of the most shocking photographs I have ever seen, showed a team of medics treating a small boy who was bleeding profusely from the chest while other soldiers fired their M-16 rifles at an unseen enemy in the background. Bucky stood next to me looking at a fourth framed photo on the wall of three men in sailor uniforms, in what appeared to be a burned out lawyers office, firing rifles out through a broken window while a fourth sailor patches up a wounded soldier. Bucky read aloud the inscription at the lower right corner: “Medical Officers of the USS Meridian treat a wounded Marine at the Battle of San Francisco, September 1969.” “There was a Battle of San Francisco in 1969? This is as fascinating as it is terrifying,” I said. “Indeed,” Bucky nodded. “This is an unsettling discovery.”