Aboard CVN 70, the
USS Carl
Vinson
May 2, 2011, 1224:47 Hours Local
Time
The lieutenant commander who signed his emails EyeSpy because he served as the Carl Vinson’s deputy intelligence officer watched from the captain’s bridge as two CV22B Special Operations tilt rotor Osprey aircraft came in low across the North Arabian Sea. He looked up and saw the MC130J Combat Shadow II tanker from which they refueled during the long flight circling lazily overhead.
The flight deck had already been emptied of all but the few senior deck crew necessary to land and tend the Ospreys. Way before noon the Captain had ordered all the ship’s audio-visual equipment to be turned off. No closed-circuit TV of the deck, the island, the bridge, the bow, or the stern. In fact, for the past twelve hours the ship had been in lockdown. There was no phone, internet, or email service; the crew—except for a few senior personnel—was sequestered below decks. There would be no iPhones, BlackBerrys, or smart phones sending home snaps, videos, or texts of the day’s events. There would be no blogs, no emails, no letters, no phone calls. No Skype. No Facebook or YouTube. No Hushmail. Nothing. Not today, especially between 1200 and 1330 Hours. Hopefully, not ever.
The Admiral himself made the announcement himself just before noon. There would be visitors. What went on during and after their arrival was no one’s business, and would not be talked about, whispered about, written about, blogged about, or gossiped about. Violations would lead to severe—he repeated the word twice for emphasis—disciplinary action. Whether now, or in the future.
Being an intelligence officer, EyeSpy understood something was up for the past twenty four-plus hours. He’d been one of the few to know that VIPs were coming; that something big was in the wind. But nothing more specific than that.
Oh, he had inklings, because he saw just about all of the secure traffic. And he had friends at JSOC. So he had . . . thoughts. Yeah, it could be him. UBL. The Grail. But you couldn’t be sure. Operations like this always used deception—make ’em think you’re going to the Carl Vinson when in fact you’re going to another carrier, or just going to lower the ramp and oops, jetsam Usama from ten thousand feet.
And so he hadn’t nailed it down. Until now.
Because now, in a heartbeat, he realized what was happening. Who—no, what—had been flown to the Vinson.
It was the Grail. Bin Laden. Or, more accurately, Bin Laden’s corpse. They were going to bury it at sea. From his vessel.
Transfixed, he watched as the the two tilt-rotor craft settled onto the gently pitching deck. They shut down quickly. Of course they did: the downward exhaust from their engines might injure the flight deck surface.
Then the ramp of the first Osprey dropped. EyeSpy raised his field glasses. It was a group of operators—Navy SEALs in full battle gear. They spread out and moved toward the second Osprey as that craft’s ramp lowered onto the deck.
Two SEALs debarked the second aircraft. Then another pair. Then another. Then a bearded guy in what looked like Pakistani clothes, wearing a bulletproof vest and a US-issue helmet. Then another bearded man in blue jeans and a blue button down shirt.
EyeSpy squinted, forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. Then: Ahh: they must be the Imams.
EyeSpy watched as the SEALs joined up. Then two of them went back inside the Osprey.
They emerged carrying a dark body bag, which they set down on the aircraft’s ramp.
A master chief approached. He spoke to one of the SEALs, obviously the senior guy. EyeSpy trained his glasses on them but couldn’t read their lips.
The master chief pointed toward EL 4, the aft, port-side elevator. The senior SEAL nodded. He spoke to the man in blue jeans and then to the two SEALs who’d carried the body bag.
They lifted it again. When they did, EyeSpy caught his breath. The bag had left a dark smudge on the aircraft’s ramp. It had probably been lying in a puddle of oil during the flight.
Then he focused on the stain. No—it was dark red.
The entire retinue, led by the master chief, walked onto the elevator, where they set the body bag down again. After about sixty seconds, the elevator slowly dropped out of sight. EyeSpy had his glasses trained on the body bag. And yes, there was a puddle underneath it, too.
EyeSpy watched the elevator disappear to the hangar bay. Then he trained his glasses on the horizon, until he saw the C-130 about five miles out, circling the carrier. Y’know, he thought all of a sudden, that’s strange. Strange that they used EL 4, because that elevator was port side, adjacent to the stern, and customarily, bodies are buried at sea amid-ships.
Garbage goes off the stern.
Not to mention the fact that the big nuclear-powered carrier had four big, nuclear-powered screws and each screw had five big blades. Drop something off close to the stern and there was a chance—remote but still a chance—it would be turned into chum. Fish food. Shark bait.
Just desserts.
Desserts for sharks, that is.
The thought brought a grim smile to EyeSpy’s face. He’d lost friends because of the corpse in that body bag. He was feeling no pity. None at all. He swiveled and looked at the others on the bridge. There were no smiles, no cheers, no high-fiving. Of course there weren’t: they all knew the war wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. But this single battle—a significant battle, too—had just been won. For good.
EyeSpy, USNA 1998 and third generation Navy, sighed, and gave thanks. God bless the Blue and Gold.
It was almost 1300 when EL 4 reappeared on deck with the full complement of SEALs and the Imams. The one wearing the helmet had an unlit cigar in his mouth. EyeSpy focused on the guy. He was smiling as he climbed aboard the aircraft.
EyeSpy turned and swept the elevator with his glasses. Every trace of blood had been completely washed away.