“Colonel Stewart,” the commodore said. He pointed his finger at the lean Marine.
“You, as the commander of the amphibious landing force, are to be ready to conduct the evacuation immediately upon our arrival at the operating area off Algiers. While we hope that the Algerians will give permission to bring our people out, we must be prepared to conduct the evacuation in a hostile environment.
Please ensure everyone understands the “Rules of Engagement’ issued by Sixth Fleet when we in chopped the Med.
I do not want us initiating combat, but if we’re fired upon we will return it. That being said, I would like a quick rundown on where we stand right now.”
“Aye, Commodore. My staff and I worked through yesterday and the night brushing off the contingency plan for an Algerian evacuation. My intentions are to send a full combat-ready company with the first two CH-53s. They’ll augment the embassy security force and the Marine fire teams inserted yesterday. They will reinforce embassy perimeters and engage any element perceived to be a threat to the evacuation. Accompanying the 53s will be four Cobra attack helicopters. Two flying ahead, to sanitize the corridor, and two flanking, to protect from small-arms fire and manpack surface-to-air missiles.
“According to Commander Mulligan”—Bulldog continued, nodding toward the pudgy intelligence officer sitting beside Captain Farnfield—“Algiers has fallen. Complicating this operation is the lack of a proper government to arrange peaceful flight operations.”
“Okay, Colonel. I would like you to get together with Captain Farnfield,” the commodore said, “so the USS Nassau fully understands your requirements.
“Captain Farnfield, the professionalism of your ship and crew in the next few days will determine the success of our mission. Please pass to your officers, chiefs, and sailors that I expect each to do their duty, as the lives of American citizens depend on them as well as us.”
The commodore took another sip of the water. He swished it around his mouth before swallowing.
Then, before independent conversations erupted, Ellison continued, “Captain James, it will be your job to organize the Spec War teams needed to support the Marines and, if necessary, conduct rescue of any hostages. Admiral Hodges told me that you wrote the book on hostage rescues; here’s a chance to add another chapter. Bulldog, I’m adding a third helicopter for the SEALs, so incorporate a third 53 in your CO NOR “Sir,” interrupted a lieutenant commander, straightening from where he had been leaning against the bulkhead, “we only have two CH-53s available. The third is damaged and sitting at the Tunisian base. The one that returned from the embassy run has to go through a maintenance check; two are down hard, awaiting parts, and the other has a chip light that we are still troubleshooting.”
“Is it a valid chip light?”
“Appears to be, Commodore. Most likely shavings from a bent piston rod. If so, then we’ll have to break down the engine to replace it and—”
“Okay, Commander,” Ellison interrupted.
“How long do you estimate until the helo is up?”
“If we have the parts on board we can have it operational in two days. Otherwise, we’ll have to fly them in from Sigonella.”
“Okay, Colonel, substitute the third 53 with a 46 from the USS Nashville. Captain James, welcome to my staff as the senior Navy Special Warfare representative. I want a CON OP on my desk by eighteen hundred hours, showing me two plans. One to support embassy security and a second for hostage rescue. You’ll need to coordinate your communication requirements with the staff’s COMMO.”
Two hours later, the briefing finished, bladders bursting, the commodore departed. Duncan hated conferences, meetings, briefings — anything that rooted him to one place for more than thirty minutes. He wished he hadn’t drunk the coffee. The Navy was probably right in SERBing him and sending him home to his farm in Georgia. He slid his chair under the table. Where is the nearest head? Then, intuitively, he followed the mumbling crowd.
Ten minutes later the three regrouped, said good-bye to Major Alcontira, and then followed Lieutenant Mike Sunney to a small office in the bowels of the ship.
“This is it, Captain. Sorry about the cramped space. XO said it’s where they always put the SEAL officer in charge.”
“They must really like you, Mike,” Beau snorted, reaching up and peeling a small chip of paint off the flaking bulkhead.
“Mike, what resources do we have on board?” Duncan asked.
“Three full combat teams. Captain. All attached to Commander Task Force Sixtyone. With you three we can build four full teams.”
“Okay, here is what I want. I am assuming command of the detachment. Lieutenant Commander Pettigrew will be my second and you will continue with your duties as the OIC of the teams. How many officers are there, other than yourself?”
“We have one more, sir. Ensign John Helliwell — we call him “Bud.” Mr. Helliwell is a limited duty officer, a former senior chief gunner’s mate who was commissioned in January. Has a Purple Heart from action in Liberia when he was a second class and another during that Iraqi episode a couple years ago.”
“Good. A mustang with combat experience is always handy. Lieutenant McDaniels will serve as your assistant officer in charge,” Duncan said.
Mike Sunney’s forehead wrinkled as his eyes narrowed.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The door opened and a stocky ensign, wearing camouflage utilities, entered. Duncan could see where the high and tight haircut would make it easy to mistake the combat veteran as a Marine.
“Captain, this is Ensign Bud Helliwell.”
Following introductions the ensign leaned against the bulkhead, the room being too small for another chair. Duncan noticed flakes of paint falling on the deck from where Bud’s shoulder rubbed the bulkhead. It was not like a United States Navy ship to tolerate a poor paint job.
“Let’s review our tasking. I want to ensure we understand our mission. When we finish. Beau, I want you and Bud to work up the kits for the teams. Mike, you work on a straw man concept of operations with H. J. “H. J.,” he continued, “hand me the chart you nicked from the ops table.” Duncan held his hand out.
“How did you …” she started to ask.
“I’ve been doing this too long to start letting little things escape my attention. In this case, we needed a chart and you procured one for us. If I presume correctly, it is of Algiers and, hopefully, not some MWR holiday map of Italian beaches.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. H. J. unbuttoned the bottom button of her khaki shirt, revealing a glimpse of a pink silk Tshirt.
She pulled out the folded chart. “That’s another thing, Mike. We’ll need desert cammies.
H. J.” ditch that silk and put on cotton. This isn’t a dance we’re going to. Silk will rub when you start running and sweating. Cotton soaks it up.”
Beau winked at H. J. and, seeing no one looking, unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a red silk undershirt.
H. J. rolled her eyes and smiled slightly.
Duncan unfolded the city map of Algiers and spread it on the metal table. The small-scale map covered the table with the top and bottom hanging off the edges.
“Okay, perimeter support is the easier of our tasks. Boring most of the time. Let’s hope it’s boring this time. If a NEO is executed we will go on the third helo, a CH-46.
Marine fire teams will be on the two 53s. I want two teams, eight of us, prepared for insertion. I want a third team on board Nassau on thirty-minute alert. Our primary mission will be to back up the Marines. That means we’ll need at least one communicator and one sniper in each team. Beau, have our guys alternate choice of close-in weapons. Our strategy is to pin down any attacking force sufficiently so that no hand-to-hand combat situation occurs. That’ll be the snipers’ primary duties. The rest of us will maintain and reinforce perimeter security where needed. If necessary, we must be prepared to fight; otherwise, a nice, boring mission is the goal. Understood?”
They agreed.
>
“Beau, you, Mike, and H. J. work out a backup plan for moving the evacuees to the port area. I know it wasn’t a subject during the operations brief, but with anarchy comes chaos and to rely only on a helo-borne evacuation invites catastrophe. So, work out a backup plan. Meanwhile, I’m going to hunt down Colonel Stewart so we can coordinate our actions. He’ll be Commander Amphibious Landing Force, the CALF, if we have to go in force.”
“You mean an amphibious assault?” Beau asked.
“Let’s hope not; just a boring, simple NEO of American citizens.”
“Well, that should be something new and different.”
“Let’s keep our minds on the mission,” Duncan said.
“Beau, get rid of your silk, too.”
“Aye, Captain,” Beau responded with a mock salute.
“Sir, how soon until we’re in position to conduct the NEO?” Bud asked, raising his hand.
Mike Sunney answered.
“We’re waiting word from Sixth Fleet and EUCOM. Meanwhile, the ship is slowly steaming westward, but it is also tasked with air support for the USS Gearing, operating in the Gulf of Sidra. Until they cancel the FONOPs and divert her, the Nassau is limited as to how far west she can sail. We have to keep a continuous combat air patrol of two Harriers while the Gearing skirts the territorial waters of Libya.”
“Libya been giving us any problems since Qaddafi’s death ten months ago?” Duncan asked.
“Not really. No one seems to know who is running the country since he died. Navy Intelligence believes that a junta has taken over the government, but Libya is Libya and it’s still hard to figure out what it’ll do. I think with Qaddafi dead, there’ll be a lot of cowboys loose in that country.”
“I have never trusted the Libyans. Only the North Koreans are more unpredictable,” Duncan added.
Bud stood up.
“Lieutenant Sunney, with your permission, sir, I’ll go break out the weapons and start outfitting the men. Who’s going?”
“The four of us will be,” Duncan answered.
“Bud, I’ll want a weapons outfit list from you as well as a quick skills breakdown on the teams. I want at least one MG-60 in each team.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll have that for you in an hour. As for the teams, you three”—Ensign Helliwell pointed at Duncan, Beau, and Mike Sunney—“and me?”
“No, you and the three of us,” Duncan corrected, pointing at himself. Beau, and H. J. “Lieutenant Sunney will command the reserve team.”
Duncan caught the quick glance between Mike Sunney and Bud Helliwell. Enough to understand their unspoken disagreement with his order.
“No offense, Captain, but it is my understanding that this is Lieutenant McDaniels’s first SEAL operation. Are we sure we want to endanger our teams — or her — on her first time out of the chute?” Bud asked, ignoring H. J.” who visibly straightened.
“News travels fast, I see,” Duncan said, directing the comment to Mike Sunney.
“Ensign, this may be a surprise,” Beau interjected.
“In the Navy are many surprises. Some pleasant. Some not so pleasant. In this case. Lieutenant Heather J. McDaniels is the surprise and we’re still debating if it is a pleasant one or not. But, she is a member of our team—”
“She is a Navy SEAL and will be going as a member of my team,” Duncan said sharply.
“Any problems with that. Ensign?” His head snapped to the right.
“Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” the two answered together. Bud Helliwell’s expression did little to mask his disagreement. Duncan bit his lip to keep from saying more. The two would have to get used to H. J. being a woman just as he and Beau did.
“With your permission, Captain,” Bud Helliwell said and opened the door.
“I’m going to get started on organizing the teams’ kits.”
Duncan nodded. As the compartment door closed behind the mustang, he spoke.
“Okay, at the minimum we have a day and a half before the Nassau battle group becomes the Nassau amphibious group and comes within range of Algiers. Let’s get busy. I want to see a double spaced rough draft plan by fourteen hundred. I’ll work the hostage rescue portion. You two. Beau and Mike, will chop it before we submit it’ to the commodore. I’ll be back as soon as I finish speaking with the colonel. Plus, I have to send a short message to my very dear friend Admiral Hodges.” Duncan slammed the door behind him as he walked out.
“I don’t think I’d want to be Admiral Hodges right now,” Beau said.
“Of course, he is in Washington and I am out here…. H. J.” you have anything to add?”
Yeah, she thought as she shook her head no. Have you ever noticed what Spanish men can do with their eyes?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Colonel Alqahiray's hidden eyes jerked from one screen to another. The detection lights running along the top of the intelligence screens glowed red, revealing four of the enemy’s overhead surveillance systems had moved out of coverage range. He ran his hand through his hair and then wiped it on the pants leg of his uniform. According to the intelligence profiles, provided by their friends, the absence of these four meant Benghazi was uncovered.
Amazing how simple math, geometry, modern technology, and balls allowed a simple Bedouin like himself to twist the tiger’s tail. He chuckled softly. Bedouin!
The only time he spent in the desert was in the army. He turned and paced to the right.
Another light turned red. Timing was everything. He wiped his chin and nearly knocked his cigarette out of his mouth. Something could go wrong. Something usually did.
The Americans were unpredictable. Just when you thought you had them figured out, they up and surprised you. Even old Saddam jerked them one time too many and look at divided Iraq today. He had this one chance. If, as planned, his comrades in Algeria did their job right, the Mediterranean would be sealed off to the American Navy. If he could keep them out for two weeks — that was all he needed.
He sighed. War was not for the fainthearted. He rubbed his stomach.
“Colonel,” Major Walid said, interrupting Alqahiray’s thoughts.
“The American battle group is moving northwest away from the American destroyer that remains in our waters.
It is as you predicted.”
Predicted! Allah’s will and luck, but never let your subordinates know you had any doubts.
“Of course, Walid. Let’s hope everything continues as expected. Americans are like the democracies and empires that have disappeared throughout history — complacent in peace and clouded by prosperity. Too wrapped up in their own over calculated importance to recognize their own decline.”
Alqahiray took a deep drag of the Greek cigarette, smiled, and continued, letting the harsh bluish smoke filter out his nostrils.
“Look at the virtual location display.”
He pointed to an intelligence screen overhead.
“See where the American warship USS Gearing is located, its southwesterly course and twelve-knot speed. Now look at the Nassau and her group. In four hours, even at five or six knots, they will be so far apart that the low-performance aircraft protecting this intruding warship will be useless, unless they are prepared to sacrifice themselves.” His smile broadened and he laughed.
“I don’t think they are! Besides, a Harrier against a MiG-25? Even the modern vertical launched jets are unable to offer a dogfight worthy of a true warplane. Even one of the age of a Foxbat.” He stubbed out the cigarette and tossed the butt at the nearby ashtray. Like most of the others, it missed. The ashtray was the cleanest item around him.
“What does radar show and coastal surveillance report?”
the colonel asked an operator to the right. He nib bed his day-old stubble, reminding himself he needed a shave. A military man must look military, but the past three days had required continuous attention.
“Sir,” the operator replied, “the American warship remains within our territorial waters. It is keeping a consta
nt nine miles off the coast. Army electronic warfare units have identified the radar emitters and communications on the ship. We have downloaded the parameters into the electronic warfare system. The computers are revisiting their electromagnetic calculations for the third time.” He turned in the seat so he could look directly toward the colonel.
“Sir, we are ready whenever you are.”
The colonel nodded at the young soldier. He took a deep draw on a new cigarette, held the breath, and let the smoke slowly ease out. Even as a few whiffs of the strong Greek fag drifted out his nostrils, the colonel lifted the cup of tea beside his chair and sipped. It had gone cold. A few drops of tea fell from his mustache. When the mustache drops tea it’s time for a trim. He smiled at Walid. With the back of his hand he wiped his mustache.
“Have our friends said anything yet?”
“No, sir, not since they acknowledged event zero zero seven. We did receive an algorithm modification for the electronic jamming parameters and have already corrected the program accordingly. The weather forecast shows no expected changes for the next seventy-two hours. This algorithm should be good for that period.”
“What were the corrections?” the colonel asked.
Walid opened his mouth to reply. “No, no, no,” Colonel Alqahiray interrupted, waving his hand and shaking his head.
“Don’t explain, Walid. I wouldn’t understand it anyway.” Sometimes, he thought, Walid was a little too smart.
Colonel Alqahiray looked up at the event log just as it changed to reflect event zero one zero completed. Event zero zero nine remained “in progress.” Well, they had their problems and he had his. The next three events were his, and then he’d worry if event zero zero nine wasn’t complete.
He noticed two other events in the chain were due to commence soon, both crucial to the success of event zero one five. It had taken a lot of work to reach today. If Jihad Wahid continued as it was going, the American navy would be driven from and denied access to the Mediterranean.
History showed that the nation that controlled the Med controlled the world and he was going to lead the new nation that stole control of the gold ring known as the Mediterranean Sea. He looked around, checking to see if anyone was watching, paranoid that someone may suspect his ultimate purpose.
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