Chapter 4- War Comes Home
Illiuliuk Harbor
Dutch Harbor, Alaska, USA
February 18, 1984
1:30 PM Alaska Standard Time
The United States Coast Guard Cutter Mellon was riding high at anchor in Illiuliuk Harbor on a windy and stormy February afternoon. The previous two weeks had been trying for the crew of the USCGC Mellon as they carried out their orders from the Coast Guard’s Alaska headquarters in Juneau, which was to work in conjunction with several other cutters and smaller support vessels posted to the Alaska coast to corral the large Alaska fishing fleet at its fishing grounds near the Pribilof Islands and escort them back to home port. For most of the fleet, that meant a four day trip south to Dutch Harbor. It had taken the Mellon and her companions several trips to gather up the fleet and escort them south, all while attempting to enforce the Navy’s exclusion order and keep the other ships of the crab fishing fleet from attempting to fish in the middle of a national emergency. Common sentiment among the ship’s officers and crew was that they had earned a few days’ rest and relaxation in Dutch before returning out once more to the waters of the Bering Sea.
With the President’s speech the night before, the crew of the Mellon was working to prepare the ship for war and the return voyage to its home port of Seattle, Washington. Most of the other Coast Guard Cutters had received similar orders. While some were still tasked to patrol the fishing grounds off the Pribilof Islands for straggler fishing boats, the rest were either attached to the US Navy squadron patrolling the Bering Sea or making their way to their home ports at Kodiak, Anchorage, Juneau, or further south in Seattle and Port Angeles. The Mellon’s captain was less than happy about the return order, knowing full well that his ship would likely be sent on wartime patrols off the Washington or Alaska coasts. He was not one to question orders. Being career military meant that he had accepted the duties and obligations that went along with the uniform long before. But taking men into harm’s way was a burden that he had hoped to never experience again. Having served once before on the Mellon during her tour off the South Vietnamese coast in 1970 as a young Lieutenant fresh out of the Coast Guard Academy, it had been his responsibility to train the men under his command to put themselves in the line of fire. He had not lost any men on that tour, but the knowledge and experience of sitting in an active warzone had imprinted on his mind the large weight of responsibility that would fall onto his shoulders should they find themselves in a shooting war. Now that the shooting war had arrived, he knew that things would get worse for the men and women of the Mellon for the foreseeable future.
He sat on the bridge overlooking Illiuliuk Harbor, watching the various crab boats resting at anchor or tied up along the breakwater and the docks, as well as the Handymax oil tanker resting just inside the breakwater at anchor. The ship and its crew had spent many long and arduous months in the Bering Sea, fighting the elements to rescue the crew of fishing vessels that were washed overboard, or running at high speed to aid a stricken boat. Most of the crew had volunteered for the Coast Guard for that kind of duty. Pulling fishermen out of the Bering Sea was always preferable to pulling corpses out of the ocean or escorting convoys and risking torpedo attack. Overhead, a single twin-engine aircraft was making its descent into the airport.
“Lieutenant, did we get any communiques regarding flights into Dutch Harbor today?” The captain asked a baby-faced officer who was standing at the communications station.
“Yes sir, about twenty minutes ago we received word that an official from the Alaska state government was flying into Dutch from a fact finding trip out to the Casco Cove Station on Attu Island,” replied the Lieutenant.
“What was a state official doing out there? That’s an active warzone!” The Captain exclaimed.
“I think Governor Sheffield sent him out there to find out how the Coast Guard was dealing with the crisis. The visit had been on the books for several months, if I remember correctly,” replied the Lieutenant.
“Oh yeah, I remember that announcement from December. I’m surprised that the Defense Department gave him permission to carry it out. Good memory Lieutenant,” said the Captain.
The Lieutenant smiled, nodded, and returned to his work.
The captain looked up from his musings to watch the twin-engine aircraft on its final approach to Dutch Harbor airport.
Mayor’s Office
Dutch Harbor, Alaska
Same Time
“What the hell do you mean we’ve got a state official flying in? The FAA grounded all flights two weeks ago! We’ve got enough problems without dealing with some damned state official cluttering up our already cluttered landing strip!” Exclaimed Mayor Kelty.
“I’m sorry Bob, but this guy has permission from the state of Alaska and special FAA permission to land and make use of our aircraft facilities,” said the city manager, Don Johannsen.
“So do we know who this guy is? It isn’t some asshole state representative from Anchorage or Fairbanks, is it?” Asked Mayor Kelty.
“If my information is correct, it’s the former governor, Jay Hammond,” replied Johannsen.
“Hold on, you’re telling me that Governor Sheffield, ‘Impeach-Me Sheffie,’ mister ‘I work with Democrats and don’t trust the Alaska Republican Party as far as I can throw their oil moneyed-asses’ called on Jay Hammond, the Republican former governor of Alaska whose anointed party successor he thrashed in the polls because the guy ran on a platform of moving the state capital to Willow and further enriching his buddies in the Anchorage area, that same Bill Sheffield sent Jay Hammond on a fact finding mission?” Asked Mayor Kelty in a surprised tone.
“He probably felt that it would send a strong bi-partisan message to the people of the state. This thing with the Soviets has everyone more than a little worried Bob, you and I included. Maybe Sheffield felt that sending Hammond out would show a united front for the voters, let them know that politics end at the coastline,” replied Johannsen.
“I understand the reasoning why, it’s just more than a little surprising that he would have selected Hammond for the trip. I would have thought that he would have sent Wally Hickel or even William Egan if he wanted to send a former governor out there. Both of them are Democrats who fall more into his camp,” Kelty stated.
“He wouldn’t send Egan, he’s been retired from public life for ten years and rumor has it that he’s got stage two lung cancer. Sheffield wouldn’t send Egan if he’s in the hospital like that, and Hickel’s unglamorous exit from the Nixon Administration after those statements regarding the Vietnam War back in 1970 when he was Secretary of the Interior means that he’s tainted goods. Hammond makes sense in that regard,” said Johannsen.
“I’m just more than a little ticked off that no one bothered to tell us until just this moment. We’ve got the former governor flying in and the only place we can put him up is at the Flying Dutchman Inn out on Captain’s Bay where he’ll have a very glamorous view of the Westward Seafood plant under construction.”
“You can always put him up at your place Bob.”
“Oh that’d be loads of fun. ‘Please, former Governor Hammond, take my bed. The wife and I will sleep on the couch and cook you breakfast and listen to you complain about how we aren’t managing our natural resources in an appropriate fashion over coffee and toast.’ Oh yeah, Don, that’s a great idea,” joked Kelty.
“Well, do you have any better ideas?” Asked Johannsen.
“We can see about moving some of the less…reputable fishermen out of the North Pacific Fisheries hotel. Shift some rooms around, try to give the governor a room more befitting his stature as official representative of the Governor of Alaska,” replied Kelty.
“I’m not so sure we want to stick him there. That’s where we’ve got the two Interior Department guys and our guest from the Soviet Oil and Gas Ministry,” said Johannsen.
“Speaking of, how is our Russian comrade doing out there?” Asked Kelty.
“He’s sticking to himself mainly. The announcement from President Reagan has him pretty shaken up. He called this morning to ask about getting a flight back to the Soviet Union, as all Soviet government officials and representatives are being evacuated from US territory, if they haven’t already left.”
“Let him know that until we get the flight regulations lifted by the FAA, he’s stuck out here. The city will continue to reimburse North Pacific Fisheries for the hotel room until we get a response from Juneau. Keep the police presence posted for the time being, we don’t want to go starting an international incident because a few drunken morons decided to rough up an official of the Soviet government in the middle of a war. That could be all the excuse the Soviets need to do something drastic.”
“Like what?” Asked Johannsen.
“You’re a smart man, Don, take a guess,” replied Kelty.
“Okay, I get it. I’ll tell the police to keep a few guys posted there on a rotation until further notice. In the meantime, I’ll call the North Pacific Fisheries hotel and let them know to expect former Governor Hammond’s arrival and to begin shifting people around to accommodate Hammond.”
“Any idea how long he’ll be staying?”
“No clue. At least a few days, he’ll probably be leaving on the twenty-first or twenty-second. I would assume that he wants to rest for two or three days before continuing onto Anchorage. That’s a hell of a long flight from Attu, and I’m sure that he wasn’t very comfortable out there. Attu isn’t exactly known for its hospitable environment or fist class accommodations. Fifty Coast Guard officers and enlisted stationed out there at the end of the world, and Jay Hammond is sent out there to inspect them. I don’t know who to feel sorry for: Hammond for having to go out there, or the Coast Guard personnel for putting up with him,” replied Johannsen jokingly.
“It could be worse I suppose. The war is still pretty far away. If this is the worst thing that we have to deal with, then we might get out of this without a scratch,” said Kelty.
“I hope you’re right Bob, I really do,” said Johannsen.
Johannsen lingered in the office for a few moments before heading out of the door to make his phone calls.
F/V Polar Victory
Leaving Captain’s Bay, Dutch Harbor, Alaska
Four Days Prior
The Captain had heard enough from the city council to last a lifetime. His questions deflected, his concerns ignored. His wife and children in Seattle needed to be fed, his boat mortgage needed to be paid, and he wasn’t about to sit by and let a few city councilors and a Fish and Wildlife order stand between him and putting food on the table. A few of the other men felt the same way. They had come to Dutch Harbor in order to pay the bills and provide a better life for their families than what they could give them working in a factory.
“To hell with them,” the captain had told the others while sitting at the Unisea Bar. They were all drunk on cheap beer and whiskey.
“If they think a few Coast Guard ships and a bullshit Fish and Wildlife order is going to keep me from the fishing grounds, they’ve got another thing coming!” One of the men had said in a particularly impulsive moment.
“I say that we get a few guys together, ten or fifteen at most, take the Polar Victory, and head for the fishing grounds. What are they going to do, impound the ship? They’ve got other things to worry about. If it comes to war with the Russians, we can get back into port with a full hold and pay our bills. Let feds deal with the Soviet Union and keep their noses out of our business!” The man stated to them.
The barkeep was having none of it.
“If you all want to keep talking like that then you can get the hell out of my bar. This isn’t the Elbow Room; I’ve got no patience for loud mouths or idiots. You all want to yell about how unfair the Fish and Wildlife order is then you go right ahead. But, if you want to use this bar to organize a bunch of idiots with half-assed ideas about fishing against the orders of the Coast Guard and Fish and Wildlife, you can get the hell out!” Said the barkeep who was pointing to the door.
The men got the picture and left the bar.
“I’ve got a few friends who will come along for the ride. Captain, get down to the harbor and get the Polar Victory ready. I’ll make a few calls and we’ll get out tonight. Are you still friends with the harbormaster?” The man asked to the captain.
“Yeah, I’m still friends with Charlie O’Reilly, why?” The captain asked.
“Get down to his office and slip him a few hundred to look the other way. We’re on the other side of the harbor from the Coasties so they won’t see us leaving. If we can pay off O’Reilly, then we can get out without drawing attention. We’ll leave in four hours at around two a.m. and leave without the big running lights. Right up the channel and out into the open sea without anyone the wiser. You’ve got enough fuel to get there and back and if we run into any trouble, we can always get into port in the Pribilofs. If anyone asks, we were up fishing near the Diomede Islands for snow crab and got the order too late to respond. If they press, tell them that the radio has been malfunctioning. That should cover our asses. If it comes to it, one of us will bust the radio with a baseball bat.” The man explained.
“This had better be worth it,” the captain replied.
“It will be, you’ll see. We’ll come into harbor around March first with a hold full of crab and a pile of money waiting for us on the docks. One month without a shipment, the plants will be lining up to pay us whatever we want. We can set the price.” The man said.
“What about the foreign freighters? None of them can leave harbor, which means they can’t get the crab to market,” another man said.
“You worry about getting the men down here, the rest will take care of itself,” the man replied.
“And what about the Russians,” the Captain asked.
“What about e’m? They’re going to be so focused on the Navy and Coast Guard that they won’t bother to go after a lone fishing boat. This is the only way to do it, you in or are you out captain?” The man asked.
“Alright, alright, I’m in. I’ll meet you down at the docks at two a.m.” The captain replied.
“Good, tell everyone else to just bring the bare essentials. Shove it in a duffel and be on the way quickly and silently. Remember guys, fifteen at most. Anymore and we attract attention,” the man said.
The captain walked away and got into his truck, thinking all the way down the docks that this was a bad idea. But, he had a family to take care of and a boat to pay off. It was this or standing on shore and letting the bank repossess his boat and his family go without while he was trapped without any way to leave. Even in a war, the bank would still find a way to screw you over.
That evening, the Polar Victory made her way out of Captain’s Bay and out into the Bering Sea and open waters. It would take the ship and its crew four days to make the long journey to the fishing grounds north of the Pribilof Islands.
Cockpit, Pilot’s Controls
Myasishchev M-4 Maritime Patrol Aircraft
Attached to Aviatsiya Voenno-Morskogo Flota (Soviet Naval Aviation)
10,000 Feet Above Unalaska Island
February 19, 1984
4:00PM Alaska Standard Time
The eight men of the M-4 maritime patrol aircraft had endured a long flight from their base at Petropavlovsk. In the early hours of the war with the Yankee military, Soviet Naval Aviation had directed their M-4, TU-16, and TU-22 “Backfire” bombers to begin reconnaissance flights over the Bering Sea and the Aleutian Islands. Special significance was placed on the American military bases at Shemya Island and the naval air support facility at Adak Island. However, the crew of this M-4 in particular had been given another task by their commanding officer: They were to investigate the myriad American settlements throughout the Aleutian Islands and see whether or not the United States was basing naval assets in their harbors and coves to support their war effort against the Soviet Union. As naval engagements in the Bering Sea were ongoing at that time, it was believed that the imperialists would use any and all means at their disposal to hide their military strength to fool Soviet naval war planners. Special significance was placed on the two settlements of Cold Bay on the Alaska Peninsula, and Dutch Harbor in the eastern Aleutians.
The commander of the M-4 had read the briefing reports and knew the history of the two areas. Cold Bay had been used by the Americans during the early Cold War as a staging area to construct early warning radar stations up and down the Alaskan coastline and still housed a small Coast Guard contingent to support operations during the fishing season. Dutch Harbor, however, was believed to be the most logical place where the Americans might stage naval vessels to support their naval campaign against the Soviet Union. It had been a base during the war against the Japanese imperialists and had been the location of a severe bombing raid by the Japanese in 1942. The base there had housed nearly twenty-thousand men in 1945, a large military presence in this corner of the world. While the base had been closed a few years after the war, the Soviets suspected that in the event of war, the Americans might re-open the base and use it to support their operations.
This had led to heated debates among the general staff of the Soviet Far East as to whether or not to include the island on their list of possible targets for nuclear warheads in case of war. The debate boiled down to theoretical possibilities: Theoretically, the Americans could re-open the harbor to military vessels, but the support facilities were too limited for resupply or refitting vessels. If the Soviets were to target it with a nuclear warhead, some generals argued that it would be a waste of valuable military resources that would be better served elsewhere, such as the other existing US military targets in Alaska and the Far East. Thus, they decided to use the assets of naval aviation and conventional weapons to stem any imperialist attempts to use the harbor as a staging ground.
The M-4 that was flying above Dutch Harbor that day was outfitted with a handful of air-to-ground missiles. Normally, it would carry anti-ship radar guided missiles, but due to the myriad of ground based targets that it could encounter a tactical decision was made to outfit it instead with normal air-to-ground missiles to maximize its hitting power against dock facilities and dry docks if it encountered them.
As the aircraft began its pass over the town of Dutch Harbor, one of the mission specialists peered down at the town through the telescope at the harbors below.
“No unusual activity down there comrade Captain, I see nothing but Yankee fishing boats and trawlers. It reminds me of my family home outside Vilnius, fishing boats and small cottages,” one of the mission specialists said into his microphone.
“Keep searching, we have reason to believe that the Americans might use this as a staging ground for their naval activities,” the captain said.
“Wait, I see a small oil tanker in the western section of the harbor and what appears to be a Coast Guard vessel. There are too few guns on deck to be a normal US naval military vessel,” said the mission specialist.
“Be sure comrade, the last thing that we want is to let the Yankee imperialists get away with using this as a staging ground without fearing our response,” said the captain.
The mission specialist continued to peer through the telescope as he reached over to a small row of books next to the telescope and grabbed a naval silhouette guide. He moved his face from the eye piece long enough to flip to the section marked “U.S. Coast Guard Cutters and Support Vessels.” He looked back down through the eye piece and once more moved his eyes to the book.
“Captain, the silhouette matches that of a Hamilton-Class Coast Guard Cutter. The colors match as well. It is painted white with what would appear to be a red diagonal streak down the bow of the vessel,” said the mission specialist.
The captain pondered for a moment his orders: If any military targets or possible wartime support vessels are sighted, use any and all appropriate means to neutralize the threat to Soviet naval activity in the Bering Sea. In his mind, the Coast Guard Cutter and the small oil tanker would be considered wartime support vessels.
“Comrade specialists, prepare for weapons launch. We are swinging the aircraft around for another pass, and will descend to twelve hundred meters. Weapons specialists, prepare to launch two missiles, one at the oil tanker and one at the Hamilton-Class vessel. We will eliminate these two threats to the Soviet Navy and continue on our way to Cold Bay,” said the captain.
“Da, comrade Captain,” replied the weapons specialists.
The large aircraft made a lazy U-turn after it passed over the harbor.
Bridge of the USCGC Mellon
Illiuliuk Harbor, Dutch Harbor, Alaska
Same Time
The Captain was reading over status reports all afternoon, and he was getting sick of reading them. The Mellon was almost ready to make her long voyage south to Seattle, she would leave harbor the morning of the Twenty-First and take two weeks to reach her home port in Seattle. In the meantime, the Captain was reading over provisioning reports and fuel consumption statistics when his first mate rushed into the room.
“Captain, I think you need to take a look at this,” said the first mate.
“What’s going on?” Asked the Captain.
“We’ve got a large target that just popped up on radar that we were not notified of,” said the first mate.
“Is it possible that it’s another civilian flight? Maybe some federal officials flying into Dutch to inspect the town,” asked the Captain.
“No sir, radar blip is too big to match any flights that would terminate out here, and we’ve received no information regarding additional flights of government officials,” said the first mate.
“Alright, I’ll come down and take a look,” said the captain who dropped his status reports, grabbed his cup of coffee and sprinted down the hallway with the first officer. Coffee sloshed haphazard over the lip of the mug as they ran down the small corridors of the vessel towards the radar room.
They reached the darkened radar room just as the radar officer was reaching over to the shipboard telephone.
“Thank god, Captain I’ve got a large unidentified bogey descending rapidly from ten-thousand feet. No notification from FAA or other civilian agencies of flight terminating out here and radar profile does not match any civilian airliners. Closest match I could find in the books is a Soviet M-4 maritime patrol bomber,” said the radar officer.
“Shit,” the captain exclaimed loudly as he reached over to the shipboard telephone and toggled the telephone to “General Announcement.”
“Alert, alert, possible Soviet maritime patrol bomber detected by radar. Weapons officer, sound general quarters and prepare for possible engagement with Soviet aircraft,” said the captain.
The crew sprang to life immediately. Within seconds, the alert siren began blaring throughout the ship, which mixed with the sounds of yelling sailors who were running to their action stations.
“What’s it doing,” asked the captain.
“The aircraft has made a U-turn and is coming around for a second pass over the harbor, still descending rapidly,” said the radar officer.
“Is it possible that they are just trying to get a good look at our assets in the harbor, check and see if we’re staging anything out of here?” Asked the first mate.
“They wouldn’t waste the time unless they were armed and prepared to do something about it,” responded the captain.
“Then we’ve got a big problem,” replied the first mate.
The captain reached back over the phone.
“Comm officer, send a radio signal to the Coast Guard headquarters at Juneau, let them know that we’ve got a Soviet maritime bomber overflying Dutch Harbor and we request immediate assistance from any available navy assets in the area,” the captain ordered.
“Aye, aye sir,” came the comm officer’s reply over the phone.
M-4 Maritime Patrol Bomber
4,000 feet over Illiuliuk Harbor
“Weapons officer, we’ve descended to 1200 meters. Aircraft is lined up for weapons launch, prepare to release missiles,” said the aircraft captain.
Down below in the weapons bay of the bomber, doors swung open and two missiles on a rotary firing mechanism descended from the bomb bay. The air-to-surface missiles were reliable and would do their job.
The mission specialist toggled his throat microphone and began giving targets.
“Weapons officer, target one is American Coast Guard Cutter, target two is oil tanker/fuel ship at anchor to the left of the cutter, prepare for launch,” said the mission specialist.
The Soviet crew worked like a well-oiled machine. The crewmen manning the defensive guns of the bomber were scanning the skies for any signs of aircraft.
“Comrade Captain, should we prepare a third missile for the landing strip? They have many aircraft on the field,” said the mission specialist.
“Nyet comrade, the field is too short to accommodate any modern aircraft and we need our weapons for other targets, mark it as secondary target for return flight on the twenty-third,” said the captain.
The weapons officer nodded as he typed the target profiles into the guidance computer. What he and the other crew of the M-4 did not know was that on the day both of their air-to-surface missiles was under construction, a worker in the factory outside Omsk had received word that his mother had passed away. Distracted on the job, he had failed to secure several wires within the guidance systems. They had gotten by quality control at the weapons plant in the rush to send weapons to the front in preparation for possible conflict with the west. Among all of the weapons of the Soviet arsenal, they had received what would be called in the west a pair of “duds,” weapons that would not function correctly. The orders for the missiles could not be read properly by the internal guidance system. They would fly a straight course, not bending or shifting to hit its intended target and detonate wherever it impacted.
“Weapons release in t-minus five…four…three…two…one…RELEASE!”
The two missiles leapt out of the rotary mechanism in rapid succession and streaked towards their targets at hundreds of miles an hour.
Radar Room
USCGC Mellon
Illiuliuk Harbor
Same Time
“Captain! We’ve got two air-to-surface missiles incoming from the Soviet bomber!” Said the radar officer.
“Oh good Christ,” exclaimed the captain as he reached for the telephone.
“Alert, alert, two air-to-surface missiles incoming, all crew prepare for impact. Say again, two air-to-surface missiles incoming, prepare for possible impact,” the captain screamed into the telephone receiver. He toggled a small switch labeled “Bridge.”
“Bridge, can we move the ship out of the target area of the missiles?” Asked the captain.
“Sorry captain, the turbines aren’t online right now. All we have are diesel engines and those are not fast enough to move the ship out of the path of the missile,” said the duty officer on the bridge.
“Shit, shit, shit,” muttered the captain as he slammed the phone down.
“How long until impact?”
“Fifteen seconds,” said the radar officer.
“Target of second missile?” Asked the captain.
“Target appears to be the fuel ship sitting at anchor just off our stern,” said the radar officer in a detached tone of voice.
“God dammit,” the captain exclaimed. “Can we get word to them to evacuate in time?”
“No can do captain, its coming in too fast for us to get word to them, the Soviets were too close when they released the weapons, we can’t warn them,” said the radar officer.
The captain turned to the first mate with a look of sorrow on his face.
“Looks like we have to ride this one out Tom,” said the captain.
The radar officer was counting off the seconds to the Soviet missile impact.
“Ten seconds…nine…eight…seven…six…five…”
The captain reached over and grabbed the telephone, toggled to general announcement.
“All sailors, brace for impact!”
“Three…two…one…IMPACT!”
The Mellon rocked hard and the sound of straining metal and a large explosion filled the air onboard the ship. The captain was thrown from a standing position to the ground, his coffee mug thrown in the air as well. He staggered to his feet. His first officer was on the ground, knocked unconscious by the blast as he hit his head on the ground.
“Radar officer, check him and make sure he’s alright. I’ve got to get to the bridge,” said the captain as he ran from the room.
The halls were filled with sailors rushing back and forth. Damage crews were running as well towards the bow of the ship.
The captain reached the bridge and looked out at his ship. The stern and midsection of the ship looked fine, no apparent damage to the vessel. But, the bow was a smoking, smoldering mess. From first glance, it would appear that the bow had taken significant damage, the extreme of the bow was missing all together. Alert klaxons blared throughout the ship. He looked to the stern of the Mellon. The fuel ship was still there. No fires raged on her decks, nor were there any initial signs of damage to the vessel. He could see, just to her stern however, that there was another story to be told at the North Pacific Fisheries dock. A fire was raging out of control on the dock. In front of the dock was a smoking pile of metal, fires burning on the surface of the water.
“Good god, they hit one of the crab boats,” said the captain.
The captain of the F/V Pacific Providence had been sitting in the wheelhouse going over some suggestions from his chief engineer to improve fuel efficiency when the missile hit. Luckily, only he and his deck chief were on the boat when the Soviet air-to-surface missile impacted the vessel. The missile instantly disintegrated the one hundred and ten foot vessel, blasting it into hundreds of small pieces and leaving the keel of the vessel to settle to the bottom of the harbor. The bodies of the captain and the deck chief were never found, blown into pieces too small to be identified. On shore, a ten year old boy was walking along the road when the missile impacted. He was killed by a piece of flying debris from the crab boat.
The captain of the Mellon shook his head at the carnage on shore and grabbed the telephone.
“Damage control teams, report to the bow of the ship. We’ve got possible flooding in the first and second frames. Seal all hatches and corridors. Fire control teams, get topside and put those fires out in front of the main gun mount,” the captain ordered and slammed the phone down.
The telephone rang once more, he picked it up quickly.
“Captain this is the radar room. The Soviet bomber has left the harbor and appears to be heading westerly towards the mainland,” said the radar officer.
“Affirmative,” said the captain as he toggled the communications officer switch.
“Comm, this is the bridge. Alert Cold Bay to expect incoming Soviet bomber, have them get in contact with Elmendorf and see if they can scramble anything to intercept,” said the captain.
“Aye sir,” replied the communications officer.
It was going to be a long time before the Mellon was seaworthy again.
F/V Polar Victory
100 miles north-west of the Pribilof Islands
11:00PM, February 19, 1984
The Polar Victory reached the fishing grounds off the Pribilof Islands that morning. The crew had gone to work setting crab pots in the areas they knew that the elusive snow crabs migrated through. They had expected to see a few ships here and there, navy vessels on their way to coastal patrols. What they had not expected to see was one of the largest air battles of the Third World War taking place over their heads. American and Canadian interceptors dueled with Soviet fighters and bombers, flashes of light overhead indicating missile hits and launches. Every few minutes, the men of the Polar Victory could see bits of debris falling into the ocean in the distance. The weather down in Dutch Harbor was stormy and rainy, but northwest of the Pribilofs, it was clear weather. The storm fronts had yet to roll in from the Arctic Ocean, giving them a few days’ time to lay pots and recover their bounty before heading south, hopefully ahead of the storm fronts and the navy.
At about six o’clock as the sun started to set, the captain and crew began seeing flashes of light at the horizon. No one was quite sure what was going on, whether it was continued aerial battles or some sort of naval engagement. It was not until eight o’clock that they began seeing the running lights of US Navy vessels in the distance. The captain pulled out his telescope and saw the silhouettes of destroyers and frigates, flashes of light from gun mounts and streaks of light from missile launchers. The moon rode high that night, a full moon that illuminated the battlefield in the distance.
For two hours, the battle crept closer to them, the flashes getting closer and closer to the ship. Some of the crew argued and bickered among themselves, demanding that the captain take the Polar Victory south and away from the battle. The man who had convinced them to come out here argued otherwise.
“If we leave now, we’ll be leaving those crabs in the pots to die and rot. The reason we came out here in the first place was to get some crab and return to port. If we leave, the captain can’t pay his boat mortgage and my wife doesn’t get my paycheck to feed the kids. Screw the war,” said the man.
“What about our lives, man? If one of those Soviet or, god forbid one of our ships opens fire on us, what the hell can we do about it? We’ll be torn to shreds!”
“No one is going to open fire on us, just calm down!” The man replied.
By eleven o’clock, the battle had begun to expand further south and north. The salvos became louder, they could hear the booming of guns and explosions of munitions and magazines only a few miles away. It was by then that the captain realized he could not get out of the warzone without going through a field of fire. He had brought them into the middle of a war and now could not bring them out.
He sat on the bridge chain smoking filter-less Camel cigarettes going over the nautical maps, trying desperately to find a way out. As a precaution, he had sent the crew down to the bunkhouse, hoping that they would get some shelter. Usually, by this time they would normally be on deck to recover the crab pots. A twenty-four hour turnaround was normal for this kind of fishing, drop the pots in the morning in your field, turn around and pick them up, return to port, instant profit. But, rather than recovering their pots, they were huddled in their bunks, praying to whatever gods they believed in to deliver them from the madness that was just beyond their sight.
At eleven o’clock, the captain could make out the shape of a large destroyer, running at full speed. He turned off the running lights, hoping that they wouldn’t see their presence. The destroyer’s rear-mount suddenly barked fire, deafening the captain momentarily and sending his ears ringing. The man who had brought them to this hell was making his way downstairs from the wheelhouse to the bunkhouse when the boat rocked hard and the sound of an explosion filled the halls of the crab boat. He was knocked to the ground and immediately stood up and began running towards the bunkhouse. What he saw when he got there was enough to turn the stomach of even a seasoned soldier.
A small shell had impacted and torn through the room. Twelve men had been huddled in their bunks, some of had been holding one another when the shell tore them to shreds. Bits of flesh and bone dripped off the ceiling in odd globs, body parts were tossed around. Most were dead or dying, only a few were still audibly breathing. One man was still gasping for air, though his legs were missing and most of his stomach was torn apart. The man ran to him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here. You’ll be just fine,” the man said in a panicked tone of voice.
He grabbed the man’s arms and began dragging him when a second explosion rocked the ship and tossed him like a rag doll. He landed on his side with a hard thump. He managed to stagger to his feet, but the man who he had been dragging had hit his head against the steel door frame, his head was cracked open and his gasping had ceased. Blood was seeping out of the room and into the hallway. The man stood up and ran back towards the wheelhouse when the ship gave a violent shudder and began settling. The feeling that every sailor has dreaded since the first crude rafts, the feeling of a boat sinking, filled the man’s nerve endings and sent him running for the bridge at a fast clip.
By the time that he reached the bridge, the boat was already listing at a noticeable angle.
“What happened?” The man asked.
“We’ve been hit somewhere amid ship. I’ve got the monitor cameras turned on, a shell impacted just below the waterline in the engine room. I can’t control the flooding from here. Where are the others?” The captain asked in a worried tone.
“They didn’t make it. Shell hit the bunkhouse,” the man replied.
“We don’t have long until she sinks. Maybe five minutes. Get a survival suit on and a life preserver. I’ll try to radio a mayday call; if we’re lucky someone will hear.” The captain stated.
“What about you? Shouldn’t you be getting a survival suit?” Asked the man.
“This is my ship. If she goes down, I go down with her. Captain goes down with the ship brother,” the captain said.
The man weakly nodded his head and grabbed a survival suit from the closet. He tossed it on, secured all the zippers, and threw on a life preserver. He opened the hatch out onto the deck and saw the waves beginning to come over the rail of the Polar Victory. She was sinking fast. He took one last look at the captain, who was working the knobs and dials of the radio sending out a distress call. The last words he heard the captain call out were, “Mayday, mayday, this is Fishing Vessel Polar Victory. We are sinking, say again, mayday, mayday this is the F/V Polar Victory sending a general distress call. We are sinking fast and need assistance. Our coordinates are the following…”
The man stood against the rail as the waves began coming over the lower rail of the Polar Victory, cold Bering Sea washing the empty deck with saltwater. The ship gave another hard lurch to the starboard, she was beginning to roll. He did the only thing that he could think of, he jumped over the side. In the wheelhouse, as the ship began its death roll, the captain did the only thing left to do. He stood up from his chair, leaned against the wall, and as the ship began its roll, lit a cigarette. It was the last action he would take before the freezing waters of the Bering Sea would claim him.
The man bobbed up and down in the water and watched the Polar Victory’s death-roll from fifteen feet away. The wind was picking up around him, the waves were beginning to crash over his head, driving saltwater into his mouth and down his esophagus into his stomach. He retched, trying to vomit the freezing water out of his body. Looking off to the south, the man saw another flash of light, a destroyer burst into flames that arched above the small shape of the vessel and far into the Arctic night. The crew, or at least whoever survived the hit, would have little time to evacuate. The form of the destroyer appeared to distort, splitting amid-ship down to the keel. Its bow shuddered and rolled to one side, taking on water quickly. What was left of the stern rose from the water and bobbed like a cork, rising vertically out of the water. The entire stern was ablaze from the impact of the shell or missile. Munitions storage lockers were exploding outwards, sending shrapnel flying hundreds of feet away from the ship. At the stern of the ship, he could make out the tattered remains of the flag which was itself burning as well, waving limply in the breeze as the cloth burned to embers.
Finally, the stern began its plunge into the frozen waters as well. He could see a few crewmembers falling off the sinking hulk. If they survived, he would never know. Within five minutes of the sinking of the destroyer, his limbs had gone numb and he was having trouble breathing. Hypothermia was setting in. He could distantly hear the cries for help from the survivors of the destroyer, but could not summon the strength to swim towards them. Currents carried him further away from the scene of death. As he lost consciousness, all he could think about was his wife and children, thousands of miles to the south in Seattle. He prayed that they would survive the madness that had settled over the planet. After that, he knew nothing else.
