The Bin Laden Plot

Wortman’s gaze shifted from the masthead lights in the distance to the bluish-green trail behind the destroyer, created by bioluminescent algae disturbed by the ship’s passage. It was times like this that reaffirmed his decision to join the Navy. He replayed an old recruiting slogan in his mind — It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure. He reflected on the challenge of learning how to operate and maintain complex weapon systems, the excitement of foreign port visits, and the tranquility of cruising the Gulf aboard a warship as the sun set over the Middle East. Things your average corn-fed midwestern kid would never experience.

Neal pointed to starboard. “Hey, that’s pretty cool. What is it?”

Wortman spotted a second bioluminescent trail in the distance, narrow and moving swiftly through the water, curving toward Stethem. It took a few seconds to realize what it was.

“Torpedo in the water!”

No one besides Neal could hear him from the helicopter deck, but he reacted instinctively, calling out the warning. He grabbed Neal by the arm and pulled him toward the nearest watertight door on the starboard side of the ship.

The bridge lookout or sonar technicians on watch must have detected the torpedo at about the same time, because Wortman heard the roar of the ship’s four gas turbine engines spring to life, followed by a surge as the ship’s twin shafts accelerated, churning the water behind them. An announcement came over the ship’s intercom, ordering Stethem’s crew to General Quarters and battle stations.

It was all happening too fast — and too late.

The luminescent trail closed on Stethem while Wortman and Neal were still topside, culminating in a muffled explosion that bucked the destroyer’s deck upward, launching both men several feet in the air. When Wortman landed on the deck, sharp pain sliced through his right leg.

After the upward buckling, the destroyer’s midships sagged into the bubble void created by the explosion, putting additional stress on the ship’s keel. The most devastating effect of the torpedo explosion followed: the water-jet plume, traveling upward as the bubble collapsed, shearing through the already weakened keel, tearing through steel bulkheads and decks.

Seawater from the plume fell onto Wortman like rain. As he pushed himself to his feet, pain shot through his right leg again. He looked down, spotting a six-inch-long gash in his thigh, bleeding profusely. He had landed against a metal stanchion plate, slicing into his thigh. He looked for Neal, but he was nowhere to be found. He must have been launched overboard when the ship lurched upward.

Wortman ripped his shirt off and tied it around his thigh to stem the bleeding. With a hand on the railing, he pulled himself up and resumed his trek toward the watertight door and his battle station. But he stopped after his first step. Not far ahead, a crack had opened in the destroyer, splitting the ship in half, and the deck began slanting down toward the opening. The keel had been broken and water was flooding into the ship. It took only a moment for Wortman to realize what was about to happen.

Stethem was going to the bottom.

He held on to the topside railing as the deck angle steepened. The ship’s engines went dead, then the lighting in the forward half of the ship flickered and extinguished, followed by darkness aft. The ship then sheared completely in half. Both halves remained afloat for the moment, their tilt steadily increasing as the bow and stern rose in the air.

Crew members began streaming topside. In the darkness, with their ship and surrounding water lit only by a half-moon, he could barely see them. But he heard their frantic shouts, followed by splashes as they jumped into the water.

Wortman’s feet started slipping on the deck as the stern pitched upward. He realized he must have stood frozen where he was, a hand on the railing, as he took in the scene and what it portended for his future. He searched for a life preserver or other flotation device nearby, but none could be located in the weak moonlight. The deck angle steepened, forcing Wortman to grab onto the railing with both hands, and the stern began descending into the water. He was running out of time.

He’d have to jump overboard — a twenty-foot drop. He glanced over the side to ensure he wouldn’t land on any flotsam, then lifted his right leg over the railing. Holding his breath, he flipped himself over the side and plunged into the dark water.

After orienting himself, spotting the shimmering moon on the ocean’s surface, he swam toward the light. He finally broke the surface and gasped for air, treading water as he assessed his predicament. The stern continued its descent, accompanied by loud metallic groans as air trapped within its compartments compressed and bulkheads deformed. He knew it was a sound he would never forget; Stethem’s death throes as it descended into the ocean depth.