Sea spray rose fifty feet into the air along the length of the Miami. Admiral Cameron wanted witnesses and he wanted the Libyans to know he was coming after them.
Well, he got it, the skipper said to himself. No one knew how impressive a submarine looked when it surfaced like this except those who had actually seen one do it.
The sterns of the two merchant vessels were crowded with crew members who pointed with awe at the submarine that had fired the missiles and leaped from beneath the sea.
Several cameras with telephoto lenses were busy snapping photographs. Two on the nearest merchant vessel managed to take photographs of the last missile fired. That photograph and the ones being taken now would earn them a nice chunk of change when they pulled into Marseilles in two days.
The hatch opened and sailors spilled out of the black hull. From beneath the conning tower, they hastily unfolded the collapsible flagpole reserved for special occasions such as the Fourth of July. Within minutes, a huge American flag fluttered in the wind. The skipper ordered a slight course change to increase the wind across the bow. The flag rose as the wind increased. A couple of minutes later the Stars and Stripes was plainly visible to those merchant sailors.
He stood on the deck of the conning tower and watched the spectators through his binoculars. Satisfied he had accomplished both parts of this mission, he ordered increased speed. The USS Miami stayed on the surface until the merchant ships disappeared over the horizon. Then he submerged and increased speed as much as possible without creating cavitation that would alert any antisubmarine forces they might encounter. His next mission was to rescue the sailors of the USS Gearing. It would take three days for him to reach the area at this speed.
* * *
Clive poked his head through the curtain that separated the cramped quarters of the small stateroom from the USS Albany’s single passageway that ran the length of the attack submarine. Admiral Cameron lay on the bed, his eyes open. Dr. Jacobs sat in the lone metal desk chair beside him, his head bobbing slightly as he dozed.
“Come on in, Clive,” Admiral Cameron said. His voice woke Dr. Jacobs.
Clive nodded.
“Birds away, sir. USS Miami reports six missiles fired and plenty of witnesses. He observed several with cameras.”
“Good,” Cameron responded, then sighed.
“How long until impact?”
“The five headed toward Benghazi Naval Base should hit at twenty-three seventeen hours, sir. If they are true to target, four will take out the remaining submarines and missile boats. The fifth one will pop up and penetrate the main headquarters building. Intelligence believes the command posts inside the building will be fully manned. They will be updating their situation reports from today’s events when your gift arrives over the horizon, penetrates the building, and explodes inside.”
The sound of footsteps passing along the passageway caused dive to stop momentarily to allow the sailor to get out of hearing range.
“The remaining one will hit the general staff headquarters in Tripoli five minutes later. It, too, will pop up and penetrate through the top of the old building to explode inside.”
Clive thought he saw moisture in the Iron Leader’s eyes.
His eyes locked for a few seconds with Dr. Jacobs until the medical officer reached down and began to straighten the crease on his trousers.
“That’s it for now, Clive,” Admiral Cameron said, leaning his head back on the pillow.
“Nothing more we can do until we get a carrier into the Med.”
“Sir,” Clive said, “since we have launched a retaliatory attack as European Command authorized, maybe you could reconsider and let us helo you into Naples or Sardinia so you can fly back with your …”
Cameron shut his eyes and nodded.
“I know, Clive. I should. My kids are not going to accept that I put duty above accompanying Susan’s body back—” He stopped, his voice catching. After a few deep breaths he continued, “You are probably right, Clive. The only thing left to do is bring out the Americans at the embassy and that will be the usual noncombatant evacuation. The Algerian rebels are going to want them out of there as much as we want to bring them out. Commodore Ellison can handle it and Pete Devlin is arranging transportation out to the Nassau in a few days to meet me. He can handle the NEO until I return.”
“Yes, sir. I will make the necessary arrangements. Admiral.”
* * *
Duncan called Beau and H. J. off to one side.
The other members of the two SEAL teams were either sitting on the deck or crouched over, packing their kits.
Everyone was in camouflage utilities with the trouser legs wrapped around the ankles and laced inside the combat boots. They’d be ready soon in the event the NEO timetable was moved up.
“Yes, boss,” Beau said.
“Just talked with Commodore Ellison. Seems he is not as convinced now as he was earlier today that this evacuation is going to be an opposed one. It would not surprise me if we were held in reserve rather than sent in with the Marines. Either way, the commodore has agreed that as soon as the evacuation is over he will off load us at either Gibraltar or Sigonella — if it is capable of handling air traffic by then. He will be done with us after the evacuation, so by this time next week we should be back sweating in the gridlock of Washington. Meanwhile, we have this mission to do. Intelligence is arguing that there is a possibility the Algerian president escaped from Algiers. If they are right, then this evacuation operation could turn nasty. But, on the other hand, our fine friends at CNN and MSNBC are reporting the capture of President Aineuf. They listened to a broadcast by Aineuf ordering the remaining Algerian forces to return to their barracks. Looks to me as if this will turn into a nonevent.”
“Alisha?” Beau said wistfully.
“Who?” H. J. asked.
“Yeah, Alisha,” Duncan said.
“And I can hardly wait to meet her once we get back to your place.”
“My place?”
“Well, Beau, you are my best friend, and my wife has taken possession of our house. You wouldn’t want your boss homeless and sleeping on the streets.”
H. J. grinned.
“Of course he does, Captain.”
“Well, no, I don’t, but … you are going to have to make yourself scarce when she does fly back in.”
“Now I understand,” H. J. said.
“She’s an angel.”
“Can’t be,” Duncan said, “she sees something in Beau.”
“Maybe she wants to convert him,” H. J. offered.
“And I intend to let her convert me as many times as she wants and I am capable.”
H. J. playfully tossed her cap at the laughing lieutenant commander.
* * *
Colonel Walid saluted Alqahiray.
“Colonel, we have just received word that American missiles have hit Benghazi and the headquarters of the general staff. There have been massive deaths at both locations, sir, including members of the general staff who were weighing today’s events at the headquarters building.”
Alqahiray’s eyebrows rose for a second, and then he smiled.
“What a shame,” he said, his face brightening.
“All those senior officers, who doubted Jihad Wahid, dying by the hand of the great Satan.” He shook his head several times and began to laugh.
“What a shame. It is so unfortunate that I must be the one to tell the junta about this. Don’t you think they were smart to ride out Jihad Wahid here”—he pointed to the floor—“with us in this isolated area of the desert? Otherwise, Walid, they, too, could have been casualties — and I have bigger plans for them.”
Walid looked confused, but said nothing. He knew the mercurial nature of this man and he, too, had his plans.
And to ensure those plans would reach fruition, he had to remain alive. This was once a great country and he was a member of a great people. It was important that true believers guide their return to greatness.
<
br /> * * *
The commo saw Captain Clive Bowen talking quietly to the skipper, Commander Pete Jewell, near the wardroom coffeepot. He approached and waited quietly a few feet away from the two men, not wanting to disturb their quiet conversation. After a few minutes, when it appeared they were going to continue even when they knew he was there, he coughed, drawing their attention.
“Yes, John?” Jewell asked.
“Sir, I have a special category message that just arrived for Admiral Cameron. I saw Captain Bowen and thought …”
“Here, I’ll take it,” Clive said, reaching forward and taking the folder marked with bright orange stripes and the words top secret printed at the top and bottom.
He opened the folder, scanned the contents, and shut it.
“Anything I can do?” Jewell asked.
“Yes,” Clive said as he sat down on the edge of a nearby seat. Fatigue washed across him.
“Forget everything I said about the admiral’s departure. When he reads this, he won’t go. I know him too well. He’ll want to continue to the USS Nassau” Pete Jewell had been in the Navy long enough to know you didn’t ask why. If the senior officer wanted you to know or if you had the need to know, then you would.
Otherwise, you kept quiet and followed orders.
“Aye, aye, sir. That’s easily done. We have only been heading north toward Sardinia for an hour.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Just to be sure. Captain. We are returning to our original destination of the USS Nassau battle group?”
“Yes, but it is no longer to be considered a battle group.
It has now been re-formed as an amphibious task force and”—he waved the folder—“judging from this, they will get to use it.”
Clive stood up and left the skipper and the COMMO alone in the wardroom. Jewell looked at his communications officer, who shrugged and mouthed the word sorry, for they both knew he couldn’t tell the captain of the USS Albany what the message said.
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The Sixth Fleet tsf-1 Page 30
