Seawolf tsf-2

by David E. Meadows

  Are we getting any national intelligence help? Is NSA giving us any data on this?”

  “No, sir,” Commander Mulligan replied. “All of their resources are focused in support of the Korean situation. We don’t meet their threshold of concern. But even if we did, they aren’t geared to this type of action. Any tactical support we have to produce ourselves.”

  “What are the cryppies getting up in their spaces?”

  As if hearing his name, the Sixth Fleet crypto logic officer burst into Combat. “Admiral, we’ve got problems.”

  The chill spread across Clive’s shoulders. This was not good. Whenever a crypto logic officer showed up from “behind the green door,” like Joe Rochefort of Midway fame, then something was up and that something was usually bad. Clive shut his eyes momentarily and shook his head. He saw the sweat pouring down the commander’s face and recognized the emotion in the voice. Wonder if Joe Rochefort acted the same way when he told Nimitz about Midway?

  “What is it?” Admiral Cameron asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

  The admiral already knew, Clive realized.

  “Algerian troops have been given orders to stop the convoy. They are already enroute to turn the evacuees back and to force our troops out.”

  “To hell with them,” Admiral Cameron replied. Even in the darkened Combat spaces, Clive saw the red of anger shoot up the admiral’s face.

  “Clive, call Colonel Stewart and the ambassador. Give them a heads-up, but tell them they are to continue forward. Let’s hope it’s a bluff.

  Either way we continue.”

  “Admiral,” the crypto logic officer said. “The Algerians are authorized to use force if we refuse to follow their orders. They have permission to open fire. I don’t think it is a bluff. These are fanatics we are dealing with, sir. Admiral, with all due respect, in about ten minutes you can expect the convoy to come under fire.”

  “Admiral,” Clive added softly. “We have over six hundred unarmed civilians protected by fifty-six Marines. They have another five miles to the harbor. If the Algerians attack the convoy, then it’ll be a massacre. We don’t have the forces ashore to protect them.”

  The admiral looked at his crypto logic officer. “How sure are you of this information?”

  “I’d give it high credibility, Admiral. There’s no reason for the Algerians to spoof us on this. I estimate ten minutes maximum, sir, and then you’re going to have dead Americans on your hands.”

  “I’d say thirty minutes, Admiral,” Commander Mulligan, the intelligence officer, said. “The nearest Algerian garrison is less than five miles from the embassy. If the troops are bivouacked there, they are probably in alert status, which I am sure they are with American Marines at the harbor. Thirty minutes is a more reasonable time for them to hit the convoy.”

  “And the minimum time?”

  “Minimum time is any minute now.”

  The crypto logic officer nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, Admiral, not all of the Algerian troops are bivouacked in their garrisons. Most are already deployed.”

  The intelligence officer gave his crypto logic counterpart a fierce look. Admiral Cameron turned to his chief of staff. “Clive, get more Marines in there. I’m not going to abandon those people. If the Algerians want a fight, then they’ve come to the right place.”

  “Yes, sir. The USS Nassau prepositioned their 46s and 53s as soon as the Harriers launched. Marines are already on board, in hot standby.

  We have another hundred in battle gear for a second wave, if we need them.”

  “Then launch them. Tell Colonel Stewart to expect additional forces.

  How many Marines do we have ashore at the staging area?”

  “About eighty, sir.”

  “Good, tell him to expand the corridor. The Algerians at the harbor may be unaware of the orders about the convoy. If they are, then we had better find out on our terms and not theirs. Tell the Marines to lock and load. Colonel Stewart has permission to use force as he sees fit.”

  He turned to the crypto logic officer. “I hope you’re right, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir,” the crypto logic officer replied. “I hope I’m not,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Commander, what is the situation in the harbor?” the admiral continued.

  “Best we have on the harbor situation, Admiral, is that the Algerians there are regulars and the group heading toward the convoy are rebel fundamentalists. Those at the harbor have been ordered to neither hinder nor cooperate with the Americans. If that is, in fact, their orders and we try to move out, they should stand aside and allow it.” The crypto logic officer crossed his fingers and said a prayer to Joe Rochefort, the saint of cryppies.

  “Good! Let’s find out. Clive, tell Colonel Stewart to inform the Algerians that we are sending a force forward to meet the convoy and escort them through the lines to the LCAC. Keep the Algerian regulars in the dark as long as possible. Jam their radios. Tell Bulldog to do it even if it involves hostile engagement.”

  “Aye, aye, Admiral,” Clive responded.

  The anxiety of imminent hostilities settled over the darkened spaces of Combat like a widow’s cowl. The noise level decreased further as professionalism drove the watch standers to an increased level of concentration.

  “Clive, I want Devlin’s F/A-18s to overfly our forces in the harbor and the convoy. Tell them to expect a hostile reception. Tell the Cobras to close the convoy and take up a defensive protective corridor around the trucks, and if attacked, they are to respond accordingly. Direct the Harriers to the harbor to provide protection there. If necessary, we’ll send them in to support the convoy.”

  “With your permission, Admiral, I would like to return to the crypto logic spaces.”

  “Permission granted, Commander. Keep me up to date. And, Commander, good job. Go ahead and notify Washington of what’s happening.”

  “Already done, sir,” the crypto logic officer replied as he saluted.

  He then hurried out of Combat, leaving Commander Mulligan behind to support the intelligence needs of the admiral. Intelligence needs hindered by national resources targeted half a world away, leaving the European command blind except for its own tactical crypto logic and intelligence resources. Mulligan grimaced at the thought of the crypto logic officer’s teasing comment a month ago that the Naval intelligence triangle was

  “CNN, USA Today, and cryptology.” Why can’t those cryppies stay in their box? Cryptologists’ job was to bring the information to him. He’d decide whether to pass it on or not. But, no, they wanted credit for every damn thing they did.

  * * *

  Paul Mcmillan, the CIA agent, pulled himself aboard the third truck in the convoy as it moved slowly past. He patted the shoulder of a young Marine he recognized from the embassy security force. He couldn’t recall the Marine’s name, though he should know it as many times as they had chatted.

  “Glad to be out of there, Corporal?” he asked, jerking his thumb back toward the abandoned embassy.

  “You know it, Mr. Mcmillan. I can think of many other places to be, and every one of them is better than Algiers.” The Marine’s eyes searched the area as he spoke.

  Paul sat down on the wooden bench that paralleled the side of the green Algerian Army vehicle.

  “Just think, you’ll have one hell of a story to tell your grandkids someday.”

  “Just hope that I’ve reached the end of the tale. I’ve had all the sickness, frustration, anxiety, and fear I care to add to any story I would ever tell.” Paul laughed. “You’re still young, plenty of time to add some colorful sides to the story. Try to relax a little.

  Another thirty minutes and we’ll be at the harbor.” He pushed his graying hair out of his eyes.

  “Aren’t you scared?” the young Marine asked softly.

  “Scared? I’m petrified,” Paul replied, nodding his head. “And I’ll stay that way until I’m on board one of our Navy ships. Funny, isn’t it, how much we forget about you guys
until something like this happens.”

  The truck jerked as its revved-up engine engaged the second gear, and the speed increased to five miles an hour. Only six miles to the rendezvous point.

  “Whoa,” Paul said, grabbing the Marine by the belt to keep the young man from falling off the rear. “Grab hold of the side or sit down, Corporal. Won’t do to have you fall out this close to rescue.” Paul nodded at the Algerian driver in the truck following. “Don’t think he’d stop if you fell out.”

  The Marine corporal eased himself onto the edge of the wooden bench.

  Paul knew the Marine couldn’t be comfortable sitting like that. Made his butt hurt just thinking about it.

  Paul studied the corporal’s face. Marines made you feel safe. The corporal’s eyes never ceased searching the surrounding area. Where would America be without them?

  The convoy moved from the open area in front of the embassy into the city street, where dark, silent buildings on both sides closed like a haunted forest in a fairy tale filled with ghosts and goblins. The corporal’s fingers twitched nervously on the M-16 as he scanned the quiet buildings and gray shrouded streets.

  Paul pinched his nose to stifle a sneeze. So this is how a cornered rabbit feels. He recalled the hunts in North Carolina with his dogs, and the rabbits he brought home time after time. He didn’t think he’d ever hunt again after this. He opened and shut his mouth several times, trying to assuage the dryness. He wished he’d remembered to bring his bottle of water. Thirty more minutes; forty-five at this rate.

  Fifteen minutes later the last truck in the convoy entered the maze of buildings as they inched their way toward the harbor. The grinding of gears, the noise of racing diesel engines, and the smell of bad exhausts filled the air.

  The Marine looked at Paul and smiled. Paul was a station CIA agent who masqueraded as a State Department political analyst; not that it fooled anyone inside or outside the embassy. The corporal knew Paul was armed. Fifty-six Marines to guard six hundred plus people! What were they thinking?

  Along the route, shops and darkened apartments hid behind boarded windows and pulled shades. Little chinks of missing plaster and bricks decorated the walls of the buildings where bullets and shells left evidence of how violent the revolution had been. “Looks like a city with smallpox,” Paul said to the corporal as the noisy trucks continued their trek through the otherwise silent city.

  Paul looked at his watch. Another twenty minutes and they would be at the harbor area. He’d feel a hell of lot better when they arrived.

  Another eighty jarheads waited there. He watched the Marine wipe his sweating palms on his pants leg, and did the same.

  “How you doing, Corporal?”

  “I’m okay. Mr. Mcmillan, when I get to that harbor where the other Marines are, I’m gonna kiss every one of them unless it’s a gunny sergeant. No one kisses gunny sergeants and lives.” He grinned.

  Paul laughed. “Know how you feel. I may join you.”

  The “whump-whump-whump” of helicopters caused the corporal to point his M-16 skyward. The light-green silhouette of two Marine Cobra gunships passed overhead. Paul touched him on the shoulder as they watched.

  “What a beautiful sight!”

  The helmet deflected the bullet, causing it to ricochet downward into the corporal’s temple and out the right eye. Brain and bone parts splattered Paul and several of the other evacuees. Two mothers reflexively threw themselves over their children. The crowded truck hampered movement, causing everyone to knock each other around as they fought for the bed of the truck. Ignoring the screams, Paul instinctively drew his pistol and fired several shots at a window on the third floor where he thought he saw movement. He pushed the young Marine corporal to the floor.

  “Oh, son, so sorry. So sorry,” Paul mumbled, his hand touching the dead Marine, but his eyes remained fixed on the building. He had seen death enough to recognize it. It affected him more as he grew older and recognized his own mortality.

  Firing erupted simultaneously from the buildings, raking the convoy.

  Ahead, a light armored car pulled across the street and blocked the convoy’s route. Snipers fired into the mass of unarmed humanity, scoring hit after hit. The Marines returned fire at the unseen enemy.

  Many jumped from the trucks and took cover near the rear of each.

  Paul holstered his pistol and grabbed the dead corporal’s M-16. Along with two other Marines in the truck, Paul sent a burst at the surrounding buildings that stood like silent sentinels of death hanging over the stalled convoy. New pockets of missing plaster and brick joined the earlier ones.

  A Cobra helicopter whirled around at the top of the buildings; stopping directly over Paul’s truck, the downdraft blew dirt and debris into the air, causing everyone to shut their eyes. A missile blasted forward from the helicopter, its heat felt by the occupants beneath it. Ahead of the convoy the missile hit the armored car. The vehicle exploded, sending a shower of burning metal raining down around it. The Cobra roared up and over the buildings.

  The Algerian drivers jumped from the trucks and ran, leaving the occupants to their fate.

  Paul grabbed a Marine near him. “Get in the truck and drive!”

  A spray of sniper fire hit the center of the truck bed, killing a woman and wounding the two children under her. Cries and screams rose from every truck to join the chaos of combat. Two men in the back of Paul’s truck tried to jump down.

  “Stay!” Paul yelled. “You get out now and you’re dead! Your only chance is to stay put.”

  They looked at Paul and each other. The older man sat back onto the floor of the truck while the other jumped down, dodged around the side of the vehicle, and ran several steps before bullets riddled him. The body hit the side of the truck and rolled into the street.

  The Marine ran to the opened driver’s door. A bullet hit him in the arm as he hoisted himself into the seat. The impact knocked the Marine into the cab.

  “You okay?” Paul shouted.

  The other Marine fired a burst at the window where the sniper hid. A cry came from inside.

  “Sure, I’m okay!” the Marine driver shouted through gritted teeth.

  “It’s only a fucking arm wound. I’ve got two arms. Who the hell needs two!” The truck was idling, the motor left running by the fleeing driver.

  At every truck, Marines fought their way to the driver’s seats. Out of sight of the convoy, Paul heard the sounds of Cobra gunships and Algerian forces exchanging fire. He wasn’t a soldier or a Marine, but he knew if they stayed there they’d die, or worse. He had seen enough atrocities by Algerian rebels to know what waited for those who survived. The choice for Paul was easy — the harbor or death.

  “We can’t move until they move in front of us!” the Marine shouted from the cab as he wrapped a tourniquet around his arm.

  Paul jumped up and ran forward toward the steel-sided car where the ambassador and several of her staff rode.

  The front two wheels were gone, probably shot away by the armored car when it blocked the street. Two vehicles blocked the convoy’s path — the ambassador’s car and the burning hulk of the Algerian armored vehicle. At the first truck, directly behind the ambassador’s car, Paul leaned into the bed.

  “Marines!” he shouted. “I need one of you to help me with the ambassador. You!” He pointed at the one nearest the cab. “Keep us covered!”

  The Marine near the rear jumped out. It was Captain Edgar Banks, the Marine security force officer in charge. “Let’s go, Paul.”

  As they ran by the door of the cab, Paul leaned in. “Driver, when I give the signal, you gun the engine and push the car out of the road and keep going as fast as you can toward the harbor. Don’t stop for anyone until you get there.”

  The driver looked at Captain Banks, who nodded. “Do it, Private.”

  “Yes, sir!” the Marine shouted.

  Captain Banks ran ahead of Paul. He was helping the disheveled ambassador out by the time Paul ran up.


  “Come on, ma’am. We’ve got to get you to the truck,” Captain Banks said.

  She nodded, said thank you, and passed out.

  Paul, breathing heavily, asked, “How is she?”

  “No wounds. I think she’s just stunned.” Captain Banks picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Paul helped the other three members of her staff out of the car. They seemed slightly dazed, but alive.

  Paul hurried them to the truck, where those in back pulled them on board. Someone lightly slapped the ambassador, trying to bring her around.

  The Marine guard in the car pulled himself out. Dazed, he walked shakily back to the truck as bullets tore up the road around him, miraculously missing. He shook his head to clear it.

  “Sergeant!” Captain Banks shouted to the Marine as he jerked him out of the road and behind the truck. “Get in back with the ambassador.

  Keep your head down and stay with her.”

  The career Marine nodded and crawled silently into the truck.

  Captain Banks gave a thumbs-up to Paul, who waved the truck forward. A bullet whizzed by Paul’s ear, so close he felt the breeze and the heat as it passed. He threw himself to the street, rolled to the right, and fired. A fresh pain in his shoulder told him the impact had been harder than he expected. He had no target, but firing made him feel better.

  Thinking Paul was shot, Captain Banks rushed to the prone CIA agent. He touched Paul on the shoulder, saw he was unharmed, and commenced scanning the windows overhead.

  Captain Banks said, “Won’t ever kill anyone that way, Paul. Don’t waste your bullets if you don’t know what you’re shooting at.” He gripped the CIA agent by the sport coat and pulled, more than helped, him up.

  The two rushed to a nearby doorway as the truck eased forward, gears grinding to push the disabled car. The car slid off to one side as the truck eased forward. The metal ground against the surface of the road as the truck pushed it into a nearby alleyway. Twenty feet ahead, the armored car blocked the road.

  The truck moved forward; its bumper made contact with the burning Algerian armored car, and stopped. The Marine driver raised his hand to shield his face from the flames. He gave the truck gas, the engine revved, and the burning hulk began to move ever so slowly. The people in the back shifted to the right side to put as much room as possible between them and the flames of the burning vehicle. Then, suddenly, the armored car was out of the way and the truck was past. Clear of the obstructions, the engine revved up as the truck sped off at nearly seven miles an hour down the road toward the harbor.