“… aircraft shooting up a fishing boat that subsequently beached itself. The search is centered on that area. Over.”
Commander Mulligan motioned for the microphone from the CICWO.
“Romeo Charlie One Three Five, Sixtyone here. We copy your last. Hold one, I have our India Oscar here who has some questions.”
The CICWO handed the microphone to Commander Mulligan.
“This is the intelligence officer for Sixtyone. Do you have any indications as to why forces are moving toward the border areas? And what is the situation around Oran?”
“Sixtyone, don’t know, they may be sealing their borders.
We are showing sporadic fighting around Oran. It looks as if government forces are being pushed back. At this time, Oran remains in government hands, but I wouldn’t give it much longer. Our pr emission briefer said she heard before our briefing that national intelligence has linked the antigovernment riots in Morocco and the Algerian revolution to the anti-West government in Egypt and whoever is running Libya now. Seems Tunisia is the only remaining stable country on the North African coast.”
“What is the situation at the Algerian Mers El Kebir Naval Base east of Oran?”
“Wait one.” Several seconds passed before the Rivet Joint responded.
“Negative indications on Mers El Kebir, India Oscar. We don’t know who controls it right now, but give us ten hours on station and we should be able to downlink a complete profile to your C4I console.”
“Roger your last. One Three Five, Sixtyone standing by on this circuit. Out.”
Commander Mulligan looked at the C4I console operator.
“Do you have a link with the Rivet Joint?”
“That’s an affirmative, sir. We have a good connection at this time and they have already begun downloading their intelligence picture.”
“Good, I want to be kept up to date on their reports.”
“Yes, sir. You should be receiving them in the Intell spaces, since this console’s data is being piped from there.”
Commander Mulligan nodded and glanced at the commodore, who was bent over the plotting table trying to locate Mers El Kebir.
The intelligence officer handed the microphone back to the CICWO.
“Well, Lieutenant,” the commodore said, looking up and peering over his bifocals at the young officer.
The lieutenant looked puzzled.
“The INMARSAT phone call to Gearing, If you please!”
The CICWO grabbed the INMARSAT phone, punched in the number for the Gearing, and waited for an answer.
It continued to ring. The commodore watched the CICWO shrug his shoulders. The lieutenant put his hand over the mouthpiece to tell the commodore there was no answer, when he heard the familiar click of someone picking up the other end.
“Gearing,” the voice answered. “Gearing, this is Lieutenant Stumple on board Nassau.”
“Go ahead, Nassau, this is the CIC watch officer. Lieutenant Smith, on Gearing.”
“Wait one. Gearing.” He lowered the phone.
“Commodore, we have Gearing on the line.”
“Give me the phone.” He jerked the handset out of the lieutenant’s hand.
“This is the commodore, CTF Sixtyone. Let me speak to your Charlie Oscar.”
“Sorry, sir, the commanding officer is in Radio. We had a small fire earlier and he is assessing the damage. Do you wish to wait while I send for him, sir?”
“No, that’s okay. Who am I talking to?”
“Sir, this is Lieutenant Smith. I am the duty watch officer here in Combat Information Center.”
“Okay, Lieutenant Smith, relay to your skipper that the FONOP is curtailed. You’ve been on track long enough to log this as a completed mission. Use this time”—he looked at the twenty-four-hour clock—“zero five thirty hours as the time for completion. You are to immediately break off and at flank speed rejoin the battle group. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Present mission curtailed. We are to rejoin Nashville battle group.”
“Nassau battle group,” the commodore corrected testily.
“Nashville is in company with us. I’m on Nassau The commodore cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.
“What is this? Am I surrounded by imbeciles this morning?”
he asked Duncan, Bulldog, and the skipper of the Nassau, Captain Farnfield.
“Sorry, sir. Nassau battle group,” the voice of Lieutenant Smith responded. “Now, repeat what I just told you.” He looked at the others and with a finger made a circling motion around his left temple.
Looking at the commodore, the words pompous ass sprang to Duncan’s mind.
“Commodore, we are to break off, break off.”
“FONOPs, Lieutenant. FONOPs is what you’re to break off. Are you sure you understand my directions?” He held the phone out and looked at it in disbelief before placing it back to his ear.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It is just that we are still at General Quarters because of the fire. We are to stop present operations and at fastest speed rejoin the battle group.”
“That’s right, son. Now, I want your Charlie Oscar to give me a call when you are off track and heading our way. I want to hear from him ASAP. That’s A-S-A-P! Got it?”
“Yes, sir. Ass AP.”
“Don’t get smart, Lieutenant. You tell him I expect to hear from him within the next ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Son, how bad was the fire?”
“Not too bad, sir, but Radio is inoperable for the time being.”
“Okay, you tell Captain Cafferty I’m waiting for his call.”
The commodore hung up the phone.
“Trying to joke on the circuit. Never would have done stuff like that when I was a junior officer. The caliber of JOs keeps going down as the years go by,” he said to no one in particular.
“Different Navy, gentlemen. Most of the good ones leave after their obligated four years are up or when …” He noticed nearby junior officers and sailors listening and smoothly changed the subject. “Fire must have been worse than Lieutenant Smith said. I mean, why else would they still be at General Quarters?
“Duncan,” the commodore said as he remembered something.
“This message came for you from Washington.” He handed Duncan a sealed envelope. “
“Personal for’ delivered from Radio. They didn’t know where you were hanging your hat so they sent it to me.”
Duncan took the envelope and ripped the top to extract the single-page message. He read it, folded it, and put it into his top pocket.
“Nothing important, I hope?” the commodore asked.
“No, sir,” Duncan replied sharply.
“A personal matter that Admiral Hodges offered to sort.”
“Lieutenant,” the commodore said to the CICWO, his interest in the message gone when Duncan failed to elaborate.
“Recall the Harriers. Clear the deck for their landing.
Time to change this group of warships from a blue-water battle group to what it was designed to be: a brown-water amphibious task force. Ain’t versatility great?
Reminds me of the seventies, when Jane’s Fighting Ships revealed that the Soviets had more cruisers than us. Did we build more cruisers? You bet your sweet ass we didn’t.
We just went and re designated all of our destroyer leaders, like the USS Bainbridge, from DLGs to cruisers. Bainbridge went from DLGN-25 to CGN-25.”
The lieutenant rushed to recall the Marine Corps Harriers.
“Overnight, the United States Navy had more cruisers than the Soviets. Same thing now. Congress says we only need eight aircraft carriers while the Navy says we need twelve, so they went and re designated these amphibious ships to light carriers. Lots of difference between the eight Harriers I can carry and the one hundred fighter aircraft that a real carrier can launch.” The commodore turned to Captain Farnfield.
“Skipper, as soon as Gearing is off station, I want those Harriers on d
eck. Until then, put them in the pattern. Once recovered, I want Nassau turned toward our MODLOC. You have the message I drafted earlier with the sailing directions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Release it as soon as those two events are completed.
I want max speed and I want us through the Strait of Sicily by this afternoon.”
“We can do that, sir, but the USS Nashville is an older ship and her max speed is twelve knots. They are still running with a warped port shaft. It’ll take divers to correct it and with the damage to the USS Simon Lake we may have to send her to a civilian port for repairs.”
“Okay, detach Hayler to stay with Nashville once we increase speed. Give me an estimate by noon how long we’ll be on station before Nashville shows up. I knew when Surflant canceled her overhaul last year that we’d have trouble with that ship,” Ellison confided.
“Why did Naval Surface Forces Atlantic cancel it?” Duncan asked, more as a courtesy than a curiosity. His mind churned over the message in his pocket.
“Funding was cut — again.”
The INMARSAT phone rang. Lieutenant Stumple answered it. Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he said, “Commodore, it’s the Gearing’s skipper on the phone.”
The commodore took the phone.
“Heath, this is Frank Ellison here. I take it you got my orders.”
“Yes, sir. Commodore. We are twenty-five miles off track on a course of three three zero at twenty-five knots.
What is your position? We are experiencing heavy electromagnetic interference in the area.”
“I heard you had a fire in Radio?”
“Yes, sir. No one injured, but we have a lot of electronics to repair and parts to replace.”
“Heath, you alright? You sound like you’ve got a cold or something.” He held the phone away momentarily and looked at the handset.
“Yes, Commodore. It is this blasted sand off the desert, covering my ship. We breathe it in and it seems to stay in our chests.”
Commander Mulligan leaned toward the commodore and whispered, “Sir, you may want to go secure and engage the STU-III.” He pointed to the enciphered voice button on the INMARSAT set.
The commodore waved him away, his eyes narrowing over the interruption. He pushed his bifocals back up on his nose.
“Blasted? Heath, you’re mellowing in your old age,” the commodore chuckled.
“Look, when we finish I will put the lieutenant on who will pass our coordinates. We are recovering the fighters and will be heading to an operating area off Algiers. Anything we can do about your equipment casualty?”
“No, sir. My technicians are working very hard to repair the blasted malfunctioning things.”
“Okay, Heath, I’ll let you return to your repair work.
Don’t lollygag about down there. I need your ship with us as soon as possible. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. We are hurrying to join you now.”
“Heath, if you have not repaired Radio by sunset, I want you to initiate periodic checks via INMARSAT so we can plot your position until you come into our radar picture.
Okay?”
“Yes, sir. I understand. Commodore. This is Gearing signing out.” The commodore handed the phone to the CICWO, who moved to one side to pass the battle group coordinates before hanging up.
“Strange,” Ellison said, “I’ve known Heath Cafferty since he was a spry lieutenant. He sounded almost formal on the phone. Not himself.” He shook his head.
“Didn’t hear one curse word.”
“Must have been the enlisted and junior officers manning Combat, sir. Probably wanted to show proper respect,” Commander Mulligan offered.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You may be right. First time I’ve known Heath to temper his speech when things weren’t going right. Said blasted instead of using the F word like he normally does. He’s one of the few ring knockers I’ve known who can outcurse a boatswain mate.”
Duncan patted the folded message in his pocket. He needed some time to himself to digest the news from Admiral Hodges.
“Captain Farnfield, I’m going down for a late breakfast, and then I’ll be in my stateroom,” the commodore said.
“Let me know once the Harriers are on board and we are heading north.”
Captain Farnfield acknowledged the order as the commodore departed CIC.
“That’s the lecture for the morning, gentlemen. See you later,” Captain Farnfield said good-naturedly. He patted Lieutenant Stumple on the shoulder.
“Lieutenant, let me know when the Harriers are on board. If anything comes up, give me a call”—he nodded his head emphatically.
“After breakfast I’ll be on the bridge, watching the rest of sunrise.”
“Good CON OP Colonel. Think everything will go according to plan?” Duncan asked after Captain Farnfield and Commander Mulligan departed.
“No, I don’t,” Bulldog replied. “Nothing ever goes according to plan, but it makes Ellison happy to have something in writing. Between you and me, I have a bad feeling about this so-called noncombatant evacuation. I think we’re going to have to fight our way into and out of Algiers and it’s going to be bloody, Duncan. I just hope we don’t get sucked into their little rebellion.”
“I hope you’re wrong. Bulldog, but plan for the best, expect the worse. You won’t be disappointed.” Duncan shook hands with the Marine Corps colonel as the two made their way toward the exit. It was going to be a long day. He patted his pocket.
* * *
The Commodore’s eyes flew open as he dozed at the desk in his stateroom. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, and had been ever since the short INMARSAT conversation with Heath Cafferty. He leaned back in the chair, his hand over his mouth, and picked up the Baby Ben clock from his desk. It showed eight o’clock.
Realization slammed into him like a freight train. His head shot up as chill bumps raced up his spine and adrenaline surged through his body. He was still tucking in his shirttail as he rushed out of the stateroom, his bifocals nearly falling off.
The person on the other end of the INMARSAT conversation had not been Heath Cafferty. How he knew, he couldn’t say, but he knew.
Something was wrong.
“Damn wrong,” he mumbled as he shoved a sailor aside to hurry up the ladder toward Combat.
CHAPTER TEN
Captain Ibn Al Jamal bent slightly to avoid the steel overhead of the small hatch as he entered the control room of the Al Nasser. Revolutions were never pleasant.
It seemed he had been fighting his entire life for some cause or other. The war-fighting camaraderie of the crew had dissipated with the executions necessary to gain control of the submarine. Unlike on board Al Solomon, he refused to establish a revolutionary Islamic court to conduct “thumbs-up, thumbs-down” kangaroo trials. Islam was a great religion, not a vindictive one.
“Allah Alakbar,” he whispered softly. Truly, God was great. He had no intention of doing anything further to exacerbate the distrust and fear among the crew.
The Al Solomon’s former XO, now its skipper, had bragged to him less than an hour ago during a short underwater communication exchange, that his Islamic court had already executed six heretics. Boasted! Six heretics!
Captain Ibn Al Jamal had tried tactfully to suggest that it would be better to temper the revolutionary fever until back in port. He had pointed out that it was better to sail with a crew trusting each other, than have it torn apart by paranoid witch-hunts. His younger, zealous counterpart vehemently argued that the revolutionary courts enhanced solidarity. Ibn Al Jamal knew that zealotry enhanced solidarity only when one individual remained.
Even without asking, the younger man enthusiastically volunteered how effective the garrote had proved in executing those who opposed the revolution. It had been all that Ibn Al Jamal could do to keep his recent lunch down.
He recalled how his lips had curled in revulsion over his counterpart’s pleasure in the trials and the ex
ecutions. The only thing those executed were guilty of was an inability to express their faith in such a way as to convince the zealots of their religious beliefs. Individualism in revolutions and religions is never tolerated. It is mistrusted. One can never be a pacifist during a revolution or a benign agnostic when religion leads it.
The initial executions that had been necessary in order to seize control of the Al Nasser had damaged crew confidence and sown huge seeds of fear and distrust. The past two days had witnessed some easing of tension, but he knew only time would restore confidence and camaraderie and he had doubts that he had time to do it. The Americans would be coming. They never missed a conflict or a war.
He returned to the problem of the Al Solomon. He imagined how the trials on the other Algerian Kilo submarine sowed fear, rising in each officer and sailor as they anxiously waited to see if they were next.
He shook his head. No. Revolutionary courts were not an instrument of Islam. They were vindictive instruments that allowed the dormant sadism in man’s heart to burst forth and run unchecked — much like the French Revolution over two hundred years ago. Ibn Al Jamal’s disappointment in the revolution was beginning to fester and the revolution was only two days old. He prayed he had not made a mistake. A mistake that was un correctable he knew.
What he was witnessing in the other submarine and had heard before they submerged and started on these missions had nothing to do with the benevolence that Islam preached — his Islam. The Islam he practiced daily and Allah who he worshipped without reservation. Such zealotry as on the Al Solomon tore apart the very fabric of the Koran subscribed to by him and the majority of devout Moslems.
Tolerance and understanding paved the true path for a proper Moslem. He leaned his head against the bulkhead and uttered a short prayer, starting it with the familiar “Allah Alakbar wa Allah Alzim. ” A few seconds later Ibn Al Jamal raised his head, blinked his eyes, and moved to the sonar console to watch the soothing pattern as the sounds in the water wove its magic on the screen.
Al Nasser had its challenges — like the attempted mutiny yesterday by the engineers. Revolutions were never without their “challenges.” In the freezer two bodies lay stacked on top of each other. It had been a nasty affair, with bullets flying inside the submarine. The submerged boat had been lucky — the shots fired hit the bodies of the mutineers.
The Sixth Fleet Page 20
