“Hey, Duncan! Ask them if we can go to a British ship. I feel like something stronger than Navy coffee.”
Duncan grinned at Beau. “We won’t be on the ship long enough to have a cup of coffee before they have us out and headed toward some recovery site ashore.”
Beau reached in his back pocket and handed Duncan his handkerchief.
“What’s this for?”
“Your cheek.”
“My cheek?” He touched the right side of his face, bringing away a hand bathed in blood. “How did that happen?”
“I have no idea, Captain. It’s not like we’ve been doing anything dangerous.” Duncan the gray handkerchief against the wound. Just what he needed, another scar on his face. He looked down at Beau’s legs and pointed.
Beau didn’t look. “Flesh wound, Captain. Just a damn flesh wound.”
“If it’s a flesh wound, then why the tourniquet?”
“Latest fashion.”
“What happened?”
“I think I stopped some shrapnel from that first Mig run. We were lucky. My leg stopped it before it could damage the boat. I’ve looked. It sliced the pants and the leg, but I’d say the pants look worse than the leg.”
“Sit down here with H.J. and Bud until the helicopters arrive.”
“Sure thing, Captain. Where do you want to sit?”
“I can’t.”
“Then don’t ask me to. Besides, if everyone wounded sat down, there wouldn’t be room for anyone to stand.”
Duncan shaded his eyes as he looked to the north. A silhouette of an EP-3E grew against the clear sky. The black bulbous radar dome beneath its fuselage made it easy to identify. “I think I have a visual on you, Friendly Ranger,” Dun can said into the microphone.
“Roger, Big Apple, stand by for your drop. You can rest a little. Those F/A-18 fighter jocks are your personal combat air patrol until the helicopters arrive. They are taking requests-barrel rolls, combat turns, and formation aerobatics — whatever you need and there are more on their way. One moment, Big Apple.”
A minute passed before the EP-3E aircraft returned to the emergency frequency. “Big Apple, Sixth Fleet wants to know if you have the package you. were sent to retrieve.”
Duncan looked at President Alneuf, who stood with the remainder of the Palace Guards. “Yeah, we have it,” he said slowly. “And it’s in good condition and ready for pickup.”
“Roger, stand by, here we come, but no barrel rolls with this bird.”
The EP-3E roared overhead, its four turboprops vibrating the water carrier. A single Harpoon missile remained under the port wing.
Friendly Ranger had sunk the patrol craft from over the horizon without ever seeing the target. Sneaky bastards — thank God.
Duncan pushed the transmitter. “Friendly Ranger, how did you know which one was the target when you fired?”
“Didn’t, Big Apple, but figured we had a fifty-percent chance of hitting the right one and you said they had the higher profile. Plus, with you sinking, we knew your cross section would be even smaller.”
“Yeah, but what if you had missed and hit us?”
“Well, Big Apple, as you probably noticed, we had a second Harpoon if we had missed.”
The bright orange number-three life raft tumbled from the rear door of the aircraft, inflating as it fell. It hit the sea fifty feet from the water carrier.
“Big Apple, be careful with the life raft. That’s the second one the squadron’s given up in a week and Airlant is looking for someone to pay for them.”
“Tell them to send the bill to me.”
“Don’t say that too loud, Big Apple. One of their budget weenies will hear you and do just that.”
Mcdonald handed his MG to the recovering Gibbons and dove into the water. A half minute later he pulled himself into the orange life raft.
Mcdonald pulled an oar from beneath a panel and paddled the large life raft to the boat. The stern of the water carrier was awash now.
Duncan decided the water carrier would go down quickly when it went and it could go any second. Not the minutes he’d thought they had.
As the life raft bumped the water carrier amidships, Dun can yelled, “Come on, everyone! We’re going home.”
He hung up the microphone and worked his way to where Beau was helping H.J. and Helliwell pull themselves up.
“I guess the Fort Myers officer club will breathe easier now.”
CHAPTER 13
One hour after Duncan and his team were rescued, the evacuation of Algiers began.
“Afternoon, Clive. How’s Captain James and his team?” Admiral Cameron asked his chief of staff as he walked up to the plotting table. Captain Jacobs, the fleet surgeon, had quit shadowing the admiral sometime during the past two days as the Iron Leader rapidly recovered from his wounds.
The low murmur of the officers and sailors manning the blue-lighted staff combat information center filled the background. The intelligence officer, Commander Mulligan, moved around the table to give the two superior officers room to stand beside each other.
“Afternoon, Admiral,” Clive Bowen replied. “Captain James and his team are safely on board USS Stennis confined to medical. The surgeon says everyone has a wound of some sort. Lieutenant Mcdaniels, the woman SEAL, is the most serious, but none of them are critical. That being said, they’ll be in sick bay for a while for their wounds and exhaustion. The N2 on board Stennis is going to start debriefing the team members as soon as the doctors finish their work. It’ll take a couple of hours for the initial story, so I have asked Intell to focus on what happened to Chief Judiah and events surrounding President Alneuf. What we know is that Chief Judiah was killed when he and an Algerian officer blew up a pier to keep attacking rebels from overrunning them.”
“Clive, I want to read the report when it’s done and before it’s transmitted out of theater. Are they going to remain on board the aircraft carrier for the time being?”
“Stennis intends to medevac them to Naples sometime tomorrow.”
“What’s the arrangements?”
“Helo to Sigonella and ASCOMED to Naples. Ambulance will meet them.”
“Good. They’re lucky to be alive. On the subject of President Alneuf, I talked with Admiral Sir Leddermanthompson about twenty minutes ago and asked that the Algerian president and party be transferred to the Stennis. He refused. I still fail to see how they could have done what they did. It’s not like the British. As far back as I can remember, it’s the first time we kept secrets from each other.” He paused. “Well, maybe not the first time, but this is our Navies we’re talking about!”
Captain Bowen agreed. “Admiral, I’m as perplexed as you are. The British split the group apart — SEALs in one helicopter and Algerians in the other. The helicopter with our SEALs airlifted Captain James and team to Stennis; the British flew President Alneuf and his party direct to the HMS Invincible. I followed up your conversation with Admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson with his chief of staff, a Captain Bat tleton, a few minutes ago. He told me, in a syrupy posh accent that made me think he was looking down his nose at me, that they were honoring a request from President Alneuf for asylum. I told him we also promised Alneuf asylum at his request and we were the ones who sent a rescue team in country.”
Clive ran his hand through his short, wiry gray hair. “Bottom line, Admiral Cameron, is we’re not going to solve this. It’s way above our heads. Our governments will have to iron it out. Captain Battleton concurs. Their hands are tied without further guidance from Cincfleet.”
“That’s bullshit! President Alneuf contacted us for rescue. That weasel played us and the British against each other. Now that Alneuf is safely out of his gone-to-shit country, he’s telling us he wants to go to Britain?” Admiral Cameron asked incredulously. “Who the hell does Alneuf think he is?”
“Yes, sir, I feel the same way, but the CIA agreement was that he could go anywhere he wanted after we got him out. I guess he either took us at our word or wa
nted to test if we would honor it. Captain Battleton says that MI-5 contacted them and that their instructions came from the highest levels of government. He assures me that the Royal Navy is only acting on orders from their ministry of defense. I believe him.”
“But how do we know for sure that the British didn’t take him against his wishes? Has anyone talked with Alneuf?”
Clive Bowen shook his head. “No, sir. I haven’t, but this is the Royal Navy, not the British government, and if they tell us Alneuf asked them for asylum, I would say they’re telling the truth. Or the truth as they know it.” Clive shook his head. “Christ, sir, it’s the Royal Navy.” Admiral Cameron sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, Clive. These last ten days have made me more than a little paranoid. Regardless, we need to hear it from President Alneuf’s own lips. Ask the British for permission to send someone over to interview President Alneuf. Let me know if you need me to talk personally with Admiral Sir Leddermanthompson.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral. I don’t foresee any problems if we do it before Washington and Whitehall get involved. I’ve already asked Captain Battleton, and he is discussing the issue with Admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson. He thinks there should be no problem with us interviewing President Alneuf.”
“Good. At least when Washington starts raining on our parade, we’ll be in a position to report exactly what the president of Algeria wants, or at least says. Take one of those voice-actuated recorders I’ve seen in the ship’s store. That way we can truthfully tell them, verbatim, why he prefers London to Washington. We may trust the Royal Navy, but our government won’t. Clive, tell me how can he prefer London over Washington,” Admiral Cameron said earnestly. Then, realizing what he’d said, he grinned.
“You’re right. We have to phrase that question a little differently.
Once we’ve talked directly with Alneuf, it’ll help keep Washington off our backs.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of that ASAP. Meanwhile, Admiral, the two LCACs arrived in Algiers harbor about thirty minutes ago. They are prepared to load the evacuees upon arrival. Colonel Stewart, commander of the amphibious landing force, has four Cobra gunships orbiting just outside the harbor, but in visual sight of the armed Algerians who have surrounded the pier.”
“What’s the situation in the harbor?”
“According to Bulldog …”
“Bulldog?”
“Sorry, Admiral. They call Colonel Stewart
“Bulldog.””
“Why doesn’t that surprise me — a Marine Corps colonel called Bulldog.”
“According to Colonel Stewart the Algerians refuse to discuss the evacuation. What we have is a standoff where everyone knows why we are there, but refuses to admit it. On the positive side, the Algerians aren’t firing at us, nor have they tried to obstruct Colonel Stewart securing the harbor. I think they want the same thing we do — for us to load our people and leave Algiers as soon as possible.”
“Then we both have the same objective. When are the evacuees leaving the embassy?”
“The Algerian transport trucks arrived a few minutes ago and the evacuees are climbing into them now. Should be heading toward the harbor within the next few minutes. Ambassador Becroft will ride in her armored sedan at the front of the convoy. There is a Marine radioman with her and he has a direct link with Colonel Stewart. The Marine security force and the added fire teams are dispersed throughout the twenty five military trucks, carrying the six-hundred-plus evacuees. That’s about two Marines per truck. Not really enough. If anything happens, then we’re—”
The speaker in Combat rattled to life. “Sixth Fleet, this is LCAC One with relay from commander, amphibious landing force. The Algerians have informed us that the convoy has departed the embassy enroute to the harbor. Colonel Stewart has informed them that we will be sending helicopters to assist as LCACs alone will be unable to complete the evacuation by nightfall. The Algerians told him to wait until they get permission. Colonel Stewart has informed them that this was not a request and that permission was not required.”
The red telephone near Admiral Cameron and Captain Bowen rang.
Commander Mulligan leaned over and picked it up. “Commander Mulligan here.”
He listened, acknowledged the voice on the other end, and hung up.
“Admiral,” Mulligan said. “Ambassador Becroft has notified Colonel Stewart that the convoy is enroute. That confirms what the Algerians told him.”
“Thanks,” the admiral replied, almost absentmindedly. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked up, biting his lower lip.
Clive recognized the pensiveness. He had seen it too many times in too many exercises and operations. Something was bothering the three-star admiral. Clive believed that he and Admiral Cameron made a good team.
He knew he handled the immediate tasks at hand and handled them well.
Unlike a lot of chiefs of staff, he tried not to wear his master’s rank to an extreme.
Admiral Cameron was like a master chess player whose thoughts were always several events ahead of the action. He continuously rolled things around in his mind, looking for those crucial moves to ensure victory, or moves that toss a monkey wrench into an operation.
Clive would be surprised if they hadn’t overlooked something.
Navy-Marine Corps operations were complex, convoluted, and evolved at a rapid pace. Most revolved around a “get in quick, get out fast” type of strategy. But no matter how well they planned or how many times they exercised, Murphy’s Law still lived. Beanballs were waiting to be thrown. Rakes were waiting to be stepped on. Monkey wrenches were waiting to trip. All hurt when they hit. It was what, Clive thought, made Navy and Marine Corps officers a cut above the rest; being able to handle the unexpected.
Clive leaned over and put both hands on the plotting table as he surveyed the order of deployed forces. He kept quiet. The admiral would tell him when he thought of anything. And he would tell the admiral if he did.
He looked around Combat. His mind filtered the myriad of operational orders and information flowing through the battle staff.
Clive soaked in the data, allowing it to create a mental image of ongoing events ashore. The air tactical net had four Harriers in a low-level combat air patrol just over the horizon out of view of the Algerians. All were armed with air-to surface missiles and free-fall bombs. The Cobra attack helicopters orbited at varied altitudes, their weapons trained on the Algerians. Marines surrounding the LCACs had their safeties on, but ready to engage at a moment’s notice, and wandering, ramrod straight, in the immediate vicinity of the LCACs, was Bulldog Stewart.
The Marine Corps colonel was probably more intimidating to the Algerians than all the firepower directed against them.
Twenty nautical miles northwest of the evacuation zone, F/A-18 Hornets wove an angry pattern, waiting impatiently for when they were needed.
There was little the ships could do at this juncture. Everything rested with the Marines and air power Ground forces won wars. All military leaders knew that. All the air power could do was influence the outcome.
Clive recognized the voice of Admiral Pete Devlin, Commander Fleet Air Mediterranean, on the tactical surface net. Admiral Devlin had arrived on USS Stennis yesterday to assume command of the carrier battle group.
The admiral’s prominent Alabama accent informed Sixth Fleet that eight F/A-18 Hornets were joining the Tacair picture of Sixth Fleet. That put twelve of them in the air. The operation called for the Hornets to take out the Algerian Air Force by destroying the bases around Algiers if anything happened during the evacuation. Pete Devlin had been a close friend and Academy classmate of Admiral Prang. It had been Admiral Devlin who had identified the bodies and handled the car bombing in Naples days ago when the senior U.S. Navy admiral in Europe was killed. It was the same day terrorists attacked Admiral Cameron and his staff during a social gathering at a local bistro in Gaeta, Italy, killing the admiral’s wife.
The Algerians could expect no mercy from A
dmiral Devlin if Cameron gave him permission to unleash his Naval air. There would be no Algerian Air Force within two hours from the time “execute” was given.
The United States Air Force RC-135 Rivet Joint fed an other sitrep to Sixth Fleet. Clive leaned forward and ran his finger over the chart taped down to the plotting table. Orbiting near the RC-135 were six United States Air Force F-16 Fighting Falcons and a KC-135 tanker. If air power had to be employed, it would be a joint Navy-Air Force action. The Falcons had chopped to Sixth Fleet twenty minutes ago after topping off from the tanker, and were on their way to a combat action station east of Algiers. He now had the Algerian capital bracketed by United States fighter aircraft.
The near-empty CH-46s and CH-53s from the amphibious task force were enroute to the harbor area. The helicopters would be within visual range of the Marines any second.
So far, everything had been tense, but textbook-perfect. Even so, like the contemplating admiral, something nagged at the back of dive’s mind.
Something they should be considering. The fog of battle, which Clausewitz had so eloquently defined, always grew thicker with every passing minute of an operation. Time increased the confusion factor.
It definitely increased anxiety.
“Clive,” the admiral said, interrupting his chief of staff’s thoughts.
“Do the Algerians know about our fight a couple of hours ago with their Navy and Migs?”
That was it — the monkey wrench. A cold shiver ran up his spine. “I don’t see how they couldn’t, Admiral. We shot down two Migs and sunk a Kebir patrol craft. Someone ashore has to know.”
“I know that, Clive. But what I’m saying is, has this information reached Algiers? We know their command, control, and communications C3 system is in disarray. If this information hasn’t reached Algiers, what will happen when the Algerian military commanders are informed?
Especially if they find out before those evacuees reach the staging area where we can protect them? Will the Algerians react negatively?
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