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I was heartened when
Marlborough'
s Executive Officer Lieutenant Commander Andrew Webb—emerging onto the refueling pier from a small zodiac-style (inflatable) boat flying the Royal Navy's white ensign—walked up the brow, requested permission to come aboard, and asked if there was anything we needed. With some pride, I told him that while the offer was greatly appreciated, the only thing that might be in need of replacement was aqueous fire-fighting foam; otherwise, the ship was in relatively stable condition. After exchanging a few more details about the attack and its aftermath, Lieutenant Commander Webb offered the immediate aid of
Marlborough
at any point we needed it, and left the pier.

By about 0825, a Yemeni boat carried Ambassador Barbara Bodine, Captain Hanna, and Lieutenant Colonel Newman across the harbor towards the
Cole
. Their boat approached the ship, slowing as it neared a point about 100 feet from the port side as Captain Hanna pointed out the huge blast hole, and then pulled up to the refueling pier. Ambassador
Bodine was the first to walk up the brow. Saluting, I greeted her aboard and then walked them up the starboard side and across the middle of the ship to stand on the warped deck directly above the center of the explosion. Debris littered the area and the snapped lifelines still lay on deck—not the usual protocol for a VIP visit, but these visitors needed to be aware of the vast amount of damage that had befallen us. I also wanted them to be proud of what the crew had accomplished in the time since the attack.

We continued forward to the bow, where the ambassador could look back and broadly view the damage to the exterior, including the superstructure, electronic warfare system and radio antennas, the AN/SPY-1D phased-array radar, and the forward 20 mm CIWS cannon. Proceeding to the darkened interior, with the only visibility provided by a string of bulbs from the ship's in-port decorative lights, I took the ambassador over to the port side of the ship, near the entrances to main engine room 1 and the chiefs' mess, where the twisted deck bent upward into the overhead. I told her how the deck of the galley had been ripped into four sections and what each piece had done to material and people in the area. Ambassador Bodine, after hearing these gruesome details, became increasingly subdued, asking very few questions as we started the walk through the ship.

We walked forward up the port side passageway and crossed in front of the repair locker, now restored and ready for action, before walking down the starboard side to the medical treatment area where we entered the mess decks. Nothing had been touched since the day before and we crunched our way across the broken glass and food to the port side passageway and the end of the mess line.

Squeezing to make room, the ambassador looked at the deck bent upwards against the aft wall of the mess line. After a slight pause to give her time to take in the devastation around her, I pointed out the sailors still crushed and trapped in the wreckage. Her face slightly contorted in pain and we gingerly withdrew back to the mess decks.

As the tour concluded, we stood in the area between the stacks, near the blast center. Ambassador Bodine asked, “Gentlemen, may I have a moment alone with the captain?”

Unknown to anyone else on board, Barbara Bodine and I had been acquaintances for years. Introduced by mutual friends, Rick and Ann Dorman, at Thanksgiving dinner about five years earlier, Barbara and I had maintained contact, seeing each other at various parties and dinners. In 1997, I had enjoyed a Christmas dinner she cooked at her home, a few days after she took the oath of office as President Bill Clinton's ambassador to the Republic of Yemen. Prior to this post she had clocked years of experience in the Arabian Peninsula, among them as Deputy Chief of Mission in Kuwait when Iraq invaded in 1990.

“Kirk,” she asked me when the others had moved out of earshot, “how are you doing?”

“Barbara, I'm fine,” I answered, choking up, “but you cannot ask me that question again. Please, I need to focus on my ship and crew.”

I let the morning air dry my eyes before motioning to Captain Hanna. As a group, we walked back to the brow, where I bade them good-bye and saluted the ambassador as she left the ship.

I was not the only one struggling to maintain control of my emotions. Members of the crew were showing signs of strain. Whispers had already started about bodies being visible in the wreckage of the galley and mess line, which had been put generally off-limits. But in reality, there was no practical way to stop the crew from walking through that area. During morning quarters with the crew before the ambassador's visit, I addressed the issue and told everyone about their shipmates' remains trapped in the wreckage, saying that they would be extricated with dignity and respect as soon as that became possible. There were some in the crew who did not shave or shower for several days—I think because they were reluctant to go back inside and wanted nothing to do with being in there under the circumstances.

By early afternoon, USS
Hawes
and USS
Donald Cook
had arrived off the mouth of the harbor, and each provided us with additional assistance in the form of extra damage control experts. Shortly afterward, Fifth Fleet Commander Vice Admiral Moore, with Captain Hanna in tow, came out to the ship in a Yemeni harbor boat. Our security teams tracked them
closely, in spite of the passengers' rank—for anyone not in an identifiable Navy craft, the crew was not exactly in a trusting mood. As earlier with the ambassador, Hanna had the boat slow and circle off the port side to check out the massive blast hole and the topside damage to the ship.

The admiral crossed the refueling pier, walked up the brow, and was welcomed aboard with only a salute and a greeting from me—there was no way to pipe him aboard as “Fifth Fleet, arriving,” what with our 1MC and onboard communications system still down. We walked directly up the starboard side to the port amidships area directly above the blast, and then I followed the same path through the devastation as I had with every other visitor, showing the damage and explaining what we were doing to keep the ship afloat. Admiral Moore was especially moved by the sight of the sailors crushed in the wreckage of the mess line.

He and Captain Hanna told me that a Department of State Foreign Emergency Support Team (FEST) that included an FBI criminal investigation team would arrive in Aden later in the day, and an FBI Hostage Rescue Team had been sent to Germany in case it was needed. A Marine Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team (FAST) platoon would join us to help provide security, and a Joint Task Force would be set up to coordinate the broad interagency government effort that would be necessary to investigate and take care of
Cole
and the crew. Admiral Moore pulled me aside for a few minutes as we were walking back to the brow, and asked for my honest assessment of how the crew was doing and what we really needed for support and morale. I reiterated my strong feeling that keeping the crew together and on board their ship was the best thing for them.

Unknown to me at the time, Admiral Moore was experiencing a startling absence of clear direction from Washington. A ship of the U.S. Navy had been attacked. This was clearly an act of war. But what was the response to be? It was the day after the bombing, and there was no indication of any next steps, yet.

As commander of the
Cole
, my perspective was much more focused. My crew's chain of command had been severely disrupted. For that reason, I planned to run quarters for the next few days. Each day I would present
a basic synopsis for the crew: here's the vision for the day; here is what we are going to do and how we are going to do it; here is what has happened overnight to support us; and here is what we have accomplished to date in restoration efforts. It would be important to keep the crew updated on our progress, so they had some measure of our accomplishments.

Even so, I knew that the process of how we were going to survive this ordeal still had many unanswered questions. What systems did we still need to restore to maintain our ability to stay on the ship as a cohesive crew? How were we going to recover our shipmates from the wreckage? Even though the Fifth Fleet staff's initial cadre had arrived in Aden and provided us with meals, what was going to be the long-term plan for food? How was I going to get the ship out of port, should it appear that we were going to be under threat of another attack? How was I going to be able to defend the ship? Were the terrorists going to attempt another attack and board the ship using small boats? Every one of these issues could drive our fate. I had hours not only to contemplate where we were right then, but also what the future might bring.

Once again on our own for several hours, we continued to make ourselves busy and keep restoring systems on the ship. The engineers continued to assess the damaged and flooded spaces to determine what equipment could be repaired, which spaces might be able to be emptied of floodwaters. A critical requirement to keep the ship afloat was to thoroughly evaluate the areas surrounding the damaged and flooded areas and slow, if not stop, the steady leak of waters into adjoining critical compartments. These leaks were now down to a few steady but manageable streams of water with fuel mixed in.

As part of the habits everyone was establishing for themselves and the ship following the bombing, I had developed my own routine—and my own headquarters. In an area near the aft vertical guided-missile launchers, and strapped to the ship's superstructure, we had two large eight-by-four foot rubber fenders we had purchased to keep between the ship and the pier during the deployment. Now, these fenders became my office. Thanks to the overhanging ledge just above them, they were in the shade most of
the day and offered a protected area out of the sun. From here, I was right near the quarterdeck where I could observe the watch and know who was coming on and off the ship, and most importantly, I could be available for the crew.

As evening came, though I considered getting some sleep, I was still operating on adrenaline and the drive to protect the ship and crew. A little after sunset, Chris approached me and said he had just taken a call from the White House on our borrowed cell phone, telling him that I should expect to hear from the President in about twenty minutes. Chris found the situation almost surreal, but also understood that it was a serious moment. “Well, give me the phone and let's go have a seat on the fantail and wait for the President to call,” I said.

As we walked back to sit down on a couple of big bitts—two stubby vertical posts welded to the deck and used to secure the thick mooring lines tying the ship to the pier—I checked to make sure the phone's battery was well charged as we continued to catch up on the events of the day and agree on arrangements for the expected Marine security platoon. About twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

“USS
Cole
, Commanding Officer speaking, may I help you?” I asked. On the line was an officer from the White House situation room, calling to verify that he was, in fact, speaking with me. After being put on hold for a few minutes, another person came on the phone, again verifying that I was still there and the commanding officer of USS
Cole
. Chris and I were quietly chuckling at this point. Finally, minutes later, President Bill Clinton came on the line.

“Commander Lippold?”

“Yes sir, this is Commander Kirk Lippold, sir.”

“How are you and your crew doing?”

“Mr. President, the crew and I are doing OK. They have done a great job saving the ship and we're working hard to get systems restored.”

“On behalf of the American people, I want you to know that our prayers are with you. Each of us is thinking of you. We're working very hard to get this situation back in the box in the Middle East to prevent
people from doing things like this to you. Again, I want to thank you for the great job you're doing and let you know that you and your crew are in our prayers. God bless!” said the President.

“Mr. President, thank you,” was all I could say back to him. What he had told me may have conveyed his concern, but there was no offer of support or discussion of future action, let alone retaliation.

At that point the phone was handed back to someone else in the White House, and I was told that was the end of the conversation and thanked for taking time from what I was doing to speak with the President.

Looking at Chris, all I could do was take a deep breath and rub my temples. “Grab your pen and copy this down before I forget what he said,” I told him, then slowly recounted the words exactly as I remembered the President speaking them to me. “XO, I want to read this to the crew tomorrow morning at quarters,” I said. “It will be important for them to understand that this is becoming bigger than any of us can imagine.”

Chris nodded in agreement, and we returned to my fender perch for the rest of the evening.

The Marine security team arrived a little after 2230. You could almost hear the crew breathe a sigh of relief—the Marines had landed and were here to help us save the ship. Captain Wesley A. Philbeck, the platoon commander, strode up the brow, crisply saluted the national ensign and requested permission to come aboard the ship. A model image of a Marine, he stood well over six feet tall and cast an imposing figure in his camouflage uniform, flak vest, and helmet, with a weapon strapped across his chest. His self-confidence in his abilities was reflected in his demeanor. “Captain, my team is ready to assume responsibility for your ship's security,” he announced.

While not doubting their ability to do a great job, I calmly looked back at him and responded, “Captain, I don't want any of your folks to take responsibility for any security stations until they each stand at least two watch rotations with our security teams. It is going to be critical for them to have clear situational awareness and an understanding of how we are operating in this port.”
Cole
's security teams had become guardedly familiar
with how the port operated. The teams also knew how internal communications worked with the bridge watch teams, as well as how and when small boats approached the ship and the pier area. To prevent any misinterpretation of their movements, I knew the Marines had to gain this valuable insight and experience.