The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  The commanding officer of the La Sane, as senior officer present, had established a joint damage control cell on the pier to direct the combined teams. Muster of personnel was being hampered because of liberty hours so the true number of missing and dead would not be known until everyone was accounted for.

  “Lieutenant, cancel all liberty and recall everyone. Relay to the skipper of the La Sane to do the same for the three ships. I’ll call back as soon as I’ve briefed the admiral.

  Unless you hear otherwise expect us back within the next thirty minutes.” They were on the other side of the hills from Gaeta and the long, winding drive would take at least ten minutes.

  Baldston folded the cellular phone and slipped it back into his coat pocket. Conversation ceased as everyone stared at him.

  “What’s going on. Jerry?” asked the admiral in a voice that carried the length of the table.

  Admiral Cameron shivered as he looked at the face of his executive assistant.

  Susan put her hand on his arm.

  “You alright, honey?”

  “I just felt someone walk across my grave,” he said so quietly that she nearly missed it.

  She squeezed his arm and left her hand there.

  Baldston stood and began to ease himself down the tight space between the back row of people where the admiral was sitting and the wall of windows behind them that looked out over the mountains and the valley to the east.

  “What’s happening, Walt?” asked Diana, leaning over to her husband.

  Walt heard a lot of whispering around the table.

  “I don’t know, honey. Just wait,” he replied. He took a bottle of house wine and refilled his glass, knowing Jerry was delivering bad news. From the look of the big man’s face it was very bad news indeed.

  Walt’s mind instinctively recognized the clicking sound behind him. Chills raced up his spine. The Hizballah terrorists burst through the front door, their guns firing as they entered. Two Italian waiters near the door fell victim as bullets knocked them against the wall. Streaks of blood marked the wall as the elderly men slid to the floor.

  The large man moving along the wall attracted the terrorists’ fire; a line of red holes exploded up the center of Baldston like new buttons tacked on a white shirt. The executive aide catapulted backward, shattering the window behind him to land halfway out, his left arm and lower body draped inside.

  Walt grabbed his wife’s chair and pushed away from the table. As the chairs fell backward, Walt slung the wine bottle over his head in the direction of the terrorists. It was the only weapon he had.

  Taradin ran down the steps from the mezzanine toward the tables directly into the lucky trajectory of the bottle.

  The bottle caught him in the temple, knocking him out.

  Taradin collapsed on the floor. The momentum sent the small submachine gun the terrorist carried sliding across the floor toward Ashworth.

  Walt rolled to the left, grabbed the gun as it slid toward him, and jerked it up. He fired a sweeping burst at three terrorists who were gallery-shooting at the trapped Americans from along the railing that separated them from the raised floor above.

  His first shots went wild, but it was enough to cause the three terrorists to rush toward the door. Walt pushed himself up onto one knee to steady the weapon, corrected his aim slightly, and shot a close sharpshooter pattern to kill the nearest terrorist, who was bent over and firing at people under the table.

  The terrorist flew backward like a jerking doll as three bullets collected in his midsection. The dead man’s gun clattered off the mezzanine and landed near the table. A hand reached out and grabbed the automatic pistol. Ashworth recognized the second armed American as the staff’s meteorologist.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Anwar.

  Anwar joined the four remaining terrorists as they ran toward the door.

  Ashworth stood and charged the fleeing terrorists, screaming at the top of his voice. He was no longer at the bistro. He was back in Desert Storm, leading an attack against an entrenched Iraqi position. With two controlled bursts he shot two more terrorists in the back, grabbing one as he fell to shove him down the steps. The other flung his arms outward as the bullets ripped through him, both terrorists dead before they hit the floor.

  The meteorologist fired at the two remaining Hizballah terrorists as they ran out the door. His bullets missed Said Abu Said, who disappeared into the darkness outside. The gun jerked to the right, causing the last bullet to hit Ashworth in the calf just as the colonel charged up the steps.

  Ashworth tumbled onto the mezzanine.

  A spread of bullets ripped through the air where a split second ago Ashworth had been. The terrorist leader, Anwar, fired a couple of bursts at the prone Marine, missing, before he, too, disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.

  Ashworth jerked the weapon from under him and fired a couple of random bursts into the darkness. From outside a short cry was heard, followed a couple of seconds later by a car spinning gravel as it raced away.

  The meteorologist ran to the colonel.

  “I’m sorry. Colonel.

  God, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s a nick. I’ve had worse. Grab those two guns and give them to someone. I’ll cover you.”

  The meteorologist grabbed the two guns and handed one to the staff intelligence officer. Captain Kurt Lederman, and the other to a junior officer who had been sitting at the opposite end from Baldston.

  Colonel Ashworth grabbed a nearby column with one hand and pulled himself up, keeping his eyes and the weapon on the entrance. He turned to the table, ignoring the pain from the bullet wound. Blood soaked his trouser leg.

  Diana lay on the floor. A pool of blood was spread around her head; the wineglass was broken in her hand.

  Across from her the admiral was facedown across his wife.

  Ashworth saw the telltale signs of bullet wounds across the admiral’s back.

  His eyes dropped to Diana as realization crashed.

  “No, no,” he cried and limped to her. He threw himself beside her, lifted her gently, and eased her off the chair, pulling her head onto his lap. Diana’s blood mixed with his to soak his pants. The gun remained pointed at the door, his finger still on the trigger. Nestling her in his lap, tears fell on top of her head. A wail, like a solitary wolf on a moonlit night, joined other cries around the table.

  The few who escaped the carnage moved to help the wounded. The dead remained as they were. In the background sirens penetrated the shock of the room.

  “This one is still alive,” the meteorologist said.

  Ashworth gently moved his wife’s body off of him.

  Limping over to the moaning terrorist, the colonel fired one bullet into each knee. The terrorist begged in Arabic as he waved his hands at Ashworth, who looked impassively at the enemy in front of him. In his mind he knew what he was doing. What he didn’t know yet was if he would kill him. The Marine part of him said no, but the emotional part of him cried yes.

  Ashworth moved the barrel of the gun to the terrorist’s elbow, keeping his eyes locked on the frightened eyes of the enemy. Just as Walt began to squeeze the trigger, a hand grabbed his shoulder. Another hand grasped the hot barrel, swinging it up and away from the terrorist.

  “Don’t, Walt. Give me the gun.”

  Ashworth turned. It was the chief of staff. Captain Clive Bowen.

  Walt took a couple of deep breaths and reluctantly broke eye contact with the terrorist.

  “No, I’m okay. I’m not going to kill him, but he’s not going to get away!” He wrenched the gun away from Bowen and hobbled back to Diana.

  Clive Bowen motioned to the meteorologist and pointed at the terrorist.

  “Guard him, Jim. I want to find Baldston’s telephone.”

  A minute later Clive found it, still clutched in the dead aide’s hand. He pried it loose and punched the redial, knowing that the number would be the cellular telephone of the Sixth Fleet SDO.
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  “SDO, this is Captain Bowen. Now listen carefully.

  We’ve had a terrorist attack against Admiral Cameron at the bistro. I want a Marine security force dispatched ASAP.

  The fleet surgeon is here, but we need medical assistance, also. You got that?”

  Unaware of what had happened at the port. Captain Bowen listened as the lieutenant briefed him on the situation at the harbor.

  “My God, my God,” Captain Bowen mumbled as he listened.

  Through the front door rushed two Italian policemen, their guns drawn. Clicks of four weapons coming to bear stopped the policemen.

  “Don’t come in!” yelled Ashworth. The policemen backed away, their hands up, but pistols still in them. Their eyes shifted rapidly around the bistro, quickly taking in the magnitude of the situation.

  The Americans lowered their weapons slightly when they recognized the intruders as Italian policemen.

  One of the policemen shoved his pistol away and ran back outside to the car radio. Shouting, the policeman told headquarters to send every ambulance possible to the bistro and that they needed several squads of attack policemen to seal off the area.

  The meteorologist motioned the junior officer to guard the terrorist. He hurried out the door with the other policeman.

  In Italian the meteorologist described the two terrorists who had escaped. An Italian woman from across the street stumbled down the rough bank in front of the bistro and ran to the policeman, waving a sheet of paper. Screaming, she shoved the paper at them. She had seen the car speeding off and written down its registration number.

  Still on the radio, the Italian policeman relayed the information to Italian police headquarters, where it was put on the net. On the autostrada, Italian security forces moved rapidly to establish roadblocks in vain hopes of catching the fleeing murderers.

  A white Navy van roared up the gravel road, screeching to a halt outside the bistro. Fully armed United States Marines boiled out of the van, M-16s at the ready — armed and wanting someone to fight.

  The gunnery sergeant raced inside the bistro, his nine millimeter Navy Colt drawn. Seeing Colonel Ashworth sitting on the floor cradling his wife, the gunny ran down the several steps to the Marine Corps officer.

  “Colonel. I—” the gunnery sergeant started, then stopped.

  Ashworth looked up.

  “Gunny Cohen, secure the site.

  Don’t let any son of a bitch in until told to do so.” “Yes, sir!”

  The gunnery sergeant saluted. At his command, five of the eight Marines took outside strategic positions around the bistro while the gunnery sergeant and two others established a security post at the entrance to the bistro.

  Captain Bowen moved from person to wounded person, trying to memorize the number of dead and their names, and the same for the wounded. Dr. Jacobs leaned over the admiral to apply a pressure bandage, made of cloth napkins, to the wounds on the admiral’s back.

  “How’s the admiral?” Captain Bowen asked the doctor.

  “He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. Minor wounds, I think. Won’t know how dangerous until we open them up.

  Hopefully, nowhere near the spine. Clive, we need to take him back to the ship where I can operate.”

  “Can’t do it. Doc. A suicide bomber has hit the ship.

  Both it and the Simon Lake are stern down in Gaeta Harbor.”

  “Oh, my god! What is going on?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know that someone is going to pay for this and they’re going to pay dearly,” he said, his teeth clenched. Then he asked, “The admiral’s wife?”

  The doctor shook his head. Beneath his hand a moan escaped from the admiral.

  “Didn’t make it, Clive.” He shook his head.

  “Didn’t make it.”

  Clive looked at Susan, who minutes before had clasped her husband’s hand beneath the table. A neat hole drilled the side of her head. He did not want to lift it to see where it exited. The pool of blood on the table told the story.

  “Colonel!” shouted Gunny Cohen.

  “Ambulances and police are arriving.”

  “We need to carry the admiral to the hospital, Clive,” Dr. Jacobs said. The chief of staff nodded. He crawled across the top of the table to Colonel Ashworth, who was nestling Diana’s head in his lap.

  “Walt, we have to start moving the wounded to the hospital.

  Starting with the admiral,” Clive said, deferring to the senior marine at the scene even though, technically, Clive was the senior officer present… or, at least, the senior officer conscious.

  “How is Admiral Cameron?”

  “He’s alive, but unconscious. Wounded, but won’t know how serious until Doc Jacobs can get him to the hospital.”

  Walt nodded and looked around the room until he spotted Gunny Sergeant Cohen coming in the door.

  “Gunny Sergeant, let the Italian medical personnel inside!”

  barked Ashworth. Walt’s eyes trailed off to the terrorist being guarded by the junior officer.

  Clive saw the Marine’s trigger finger tighten.

  “Don’t, Walt. He’s our only lead on who did this.”

  The gunny saluted, drawing Walt’s attention away from the wounded terrorist.

  The Marines moved aside as Italian medical personnel and ambulance attendants scrambled inside. The Italian medical teams administered first aid, even as they marked priorities for the ambulance trips. The admiral was first out the door, accompanied by two armed Marines.

  “Gunny!” shouted Colonel Ashworth.

  “Go with them.

  I’ll handle the situation here. You protect the admiral!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” The gunny raced through the door and leaped toward the back of the ambulance as it gunned away from the bistro.

  Bowen watched the commander of the United States Sixth Fleet disappear down the road in the ambulance with the gunnery sergeant being pulled inside by the other two Marines. He turned back to the bistro. The police came out with the terrorist Taradin strapped to a stretcher. They tossed him roughly into the back of a police van and drove off.

  Clive noticed that no medical personnel accompanied the wounded terrorist.

  He took a deep breath, thanking God that his wife and family had chosen this month to visit her parents in Frederick, Maryland.

  A Marine sergeant ran over to Captain Bowen.

  “Captain, there’s been an attack against Admiral Phrang near Naples.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Don’t know, sir. The watch just reported that his car was bombed. There have been some deaths.”

  “Try to get more information. I need to know whether he was injured or not. He’s the senior Navy officer in Europe, Sergeant. If he’s dead, then… I don’t need to tell you.”

  “Aye, aye. Captain,” the Marine responded, wondering briefly what it was the Navy captain didn’t need to tell him. He snapped a salute and ran outside to where a radio had been set up. Damn swabbies. Where would they be if it weren’t for the Marines taking care of them?

  Clive looked back through the doorway at the carnage inside. Tonight marked the beginning of a long time. He moved around the table, talking to the survivors, assuring the wounded as they waited their turn for the ambulance.

  Tears trickled down his cheeks. He wept unabashedly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

  The twelve men and two women seated at the long mahogany conference table in the White House briefing room stood as President Garrett Crawford entered. His long strides took him quickly to the head of the table. President Crawford was aware of his fast pace. Everywhere he went, he walked too fast. Only his wife ever asked him to slow down. When he consciously thought of his pace, a mental image of a scared rabbit looking for a hole to hide in came to mind.

  “Sit down, please,” he said, the familiar friendly smile embracing everyone. He tapped the side of his nose, satisfied t
he Band-Aid was not flapping loose. Next week, it was back to Bethesda again to look at the spots on his back.

  The president’s national security advisor. Franco Donelli, marched behind, in Crawford’s shadow, out of breath from having run up three flights of stairs with the president, who was able to talk and breathe at the same time! Donelli checked the pocket notebook clutched in his right hand.

  Still there. The notorious black book, the Bible of the administration, was tucked tightly under his left arm. The president would want it later.

  President Crawford sat down between the secretary of state and the secretary of defense, shaking hands and mumbling greetings to both. Franco pulled up a chair beside the secretary of state, slightly back, but between the secretary and the president. In position so he could cue the president.

  He arranged the pocket notebook and the black book on the table in front of him.

  Bob Gilfort, the aging secretary of state, looked at Donelli and, smiling, whispered, “Franco, when you going to give up and start taking the elevator like the rest of us?”

  Franco nodded and continued breathing deeply.

  “Morning, Bob, morning, Roger,” Crawford said to the two secretaries.

  “Hasn’t been a good night for either of you, I bet.”

  “No, Mr. President,” they responded.

  “Where’s the DCI?” asked President Crawford, craning his head slightly, searching the table.

  “The director of Central Intelligence phoned this time, Mr. President. He is stuck in traffic on the beltway. Traffic accident on Sixty-six. He should be here anytime, sir,” said Roger Maddock, the secretary of defense, looking at his watch.

  “Well, I see you made it from Fort Meade on time. General Stanhope,” the president said to the director of the National Security Agency.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. Sometimes it’s easier to make fifty miles from Fort Meade than ten from Falls Church.”