Tomcat tsf-3

by David E. Meadows

  They laughed. Even Pete Devlin managed a smile.

  “Kurt, come join us,” Cameron said to the intelligence officer, who stood talking to the chief petty officer in charge of the operations, while he reviewed the logs the chief had handed him. “How’s that leg?”

  “Better, Admiral. They took the cast off. Next time I want to scramble down a ladder at night, I will do it slow and careful,” Kurt answered, limping to the table. “I was lucky it wasn’t a break of the bone. More like a serious fracture.” After shaking hands, Kurt said, “Admiral, welcome back. A lot has been going on since you’ve been away.”

  “And I am sure you are going to tell me all about it, Kurt,” Cameron answered. “It’s good to see you. Your counterpart on Commodore Ellison’s staff did a good job for you, but I am glad to have you back with us. Here, sit down,” Cameron said, pointing to a chair that, moments ago, Dick Holman had occupied. He preferred to have those providing him a laptop brief to sit across from him.

  Kept him from turning to the side to look at them, plus he enjoyed trying to read body language. He wasn’t much good at it, he thought, though the rest of the staff would disagree with him.

  “Okay, boys, time to get down to work. Clive, you told me something when I landed about late-breaking news on our hostages in Algiers?”

  “Yes, sir,” Clive answered. “Kurt may have more information, so jump in if you do.”

  As if on cue, Captain Paul Brooks opened the watertight door and entered. A hand reached inside and kept the door from shutting. Two hull technicians from engineering, wearing oil-stained dungarees and sweat-patched shirts, began noisily working on the squeaking bolts.

  “Paul, good to see you,” Admiral Cameron said.

  “Welcome back, Admiral,” Brooks said as he pulled a chair out, nodded at Kurt, and sat down.

  “Kurt has been putting together a quick synopsis of the hostage situation in Algiers, plus a new development since last night has left a platoon of Marines stranded in southern Algeria,” Clive continued.

  “Stranded? How did that happen?”

  “Sir, I can cover that in the briefing.”

  “Okay, Kurt. Rather than a formal briefing, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, what my options are so we can discuss them, and what I can expect the enemy to do if I do any of them.”

  Lederman slid three copies of his briefing notes across the table to the three men. “Admiral, the quick and dirty about the Marines is that they flew in from a temporary base we had the USS Kearsarge establish at an abandoned airfield in southern Morocco. The base was only going to be there long enough for the Marines to fly into this one oil rigging spot where we had a bunch of Americans.

  Once we had them back at Homeplate, one of the Kearsarge’s ships in the relieving Amphibious Task Force would return and pick them up.”

  Paul Brooks grabbed a napkin and put a hot cinnamon bun on it. The thin officer earned the envious looks of Clive Bowen and Kurt Lederman. He was forever eating and always looked as if he was starving.

  Lederman reached forward and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Unfortunately,” he continued as he poured, “the two CH-53s with the Marines landed in the middle of an attack on the site. The two helicopters were destroyed and an unknown number Marines killed. The problem we have is that these were the only two CH-53s left behind to do the evacuation. The others are still on Kearsarge.” He nodded toward Pete Devlin. “Admiral Devlin detached the USS Oak Hill early this morning toward the Moroccan coast to pull out those who are still at Homeplate and recover the four Cobra gunships we have there.”

  “So how are we going to get those Marines out of southern Algeria? What are the rescue plans?”

  The officers exchanged looks, secretly hoping one of the others would answer the admiral’s question. After several seconds of silence, Clive sighed and answered, “Admiral, we don’t have a plan. We have no helicopters available to go and bring them out. What we do have is an Army Special Operations base in Mauritania, which raises other questions. We don’t know why the Army is putting it there, sir. The Air Force have committed to fly in the Army’s CH-47 Chinooks this week.”

  “But the Army Chinooks lack the legs to fly from Base Butler — that’s their name for the base — to where our Marines are located,” Pete Devlin added.

  “The Marines departed the rig site this morning and are convoying southeasterly across the Sahara toward a group of oases. Intentions are for them to close the border area with Mauritania so the Army can effect a rescue,” Kurt continued.

  Cameron took a sip of coffee. “So I take it the attacks have broken off?”

  “No, sir. Last night they were attacked again, and it was only because the Marines made a bayonet charge that the attackers turned and fled.”

  “Bayonet charge? In the twenty-first century? That sounds a lot like a World War II action.”

  “Yes, sir. That is what the report said, but I have to tell you, Admiral, that we are not completely sure of the accuracy.

  What we are sure about is that the convoy may have to fight its way out. Reports are being relayed from Base Butler to Homeplate in Morocco and then on to the USS Kearsarge. They are all verbal reports.”

  “Is there any way we can use airpower to provide some protection for them? How about using the Rivet Joint to guide some fighters to them? At the minimum, we need to be able to air-drop supplies to them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Devlin answered. “We are looking at launching a four-plane operation with two tankers. This should give us the legs to overfly them and, if need be, provide some air protection.”

  Cameron nodded. Seemed awful tenuous to him. Even if they flew the planes a thousand miles into the desert and found this convoy of Americans, the gas consumption of the aircraft would be so great they would be unable to loiter long. That meant sending tankers along with them, and tankers were awful vulnerable and awful scarce. The USS Stennis only had four.

  “Let’s look at sending in one of the longer-range aircraft.

  Pete,” Cameron said. “Either a P3 or the Air Force’s RC-135 or one of VQ’sEP-3s. I can’t see fighters being much use that far away, and at least we can ferry supplies to them as they work their way across the desert to safety.” He leaned forward. “I presume we have air superiority over Algeria?”

  “Yeah, that’s what we got,” mumbled Pete Delvin, shaking his head. “We got air superiority, and we got information superiority.”

  Clive nodded in reply to Admiral Cameron’s question.

  “Yes, sir. We destroyed most of their air force while it was on the ground soon after they attacked the evacuation convoy two weeks ago. Of course, some escaped to Libya and Tunisia, and we still have a few scattered at some of the desert airfields. But I don’t think they will come out to play.”

  “Clive, I always worry about air. That’s why we wear the wings,” he said, touching the aviator wings pinned over his left pocket above his top three medals. “I don’t want us to get complacent. Even with the recent successes in Korea, we don’t know for sure when more forces are going to show up in this theater. All it would take is one well-planned attack that catches us with our pants down, and we’ll have more ships on the bottom of the sea than the two we have already lost.”

  “No, sir, we aren’t being complacent,” Admiral Devlin added. “We have an E-2C flying constantly during the day, and it is usually positioned east of us to watch the Libyan air activity. At night, we have the EP-3E and sometimes an Air Force Rivet Joint, RC-135, doing high fives north of us. We are keeping one of them in the area constantly. The British have detached two Nimrod reconnaissance planes to the area, and we have established a data sharing and early warning arrangement with them.”

  “Good. Are the French playing?” “No, sir. We have asked the French if they would like to join a rotating reconnaissance arrangement, but they declined.”

  “Too bad, it’s their loss,” Admiral Cameron replied.

  “Pete, Clive, I wa
nt a plan to get those Marines out of there. See if the Air Force can give us one of their Puff the Magic Dragon C-130s. It should have the legs to support those Marines until we can rescue them.”

  Clive pulled his notebook forward. “Yes, sir. We have asked the Air Force for any assets they may have that can help in this situation and are waiting for their reply. European Command is working the issue.”

  “Let me know the outcome as soon as possible. If necessary, I will call General Sutherland. Kurt. tell me about the hostages.”

  “Yes, sir,” the intelligence officer replied. He flipped over one of the sheets of paper on the handout. “Admiral, the first paper brings you to date on the hostages taken, the number of Marines ashore, and the number of tanks, APCs and humvees landed in the two weeks since we occupied Algiers. Page two provides a list of incidents, including the rioting in the southeastern part of the city that resulted in our Marines firing on a crowd that was trying to overrun them. CNN made a big deal about it; I am sure you saw it on television back in the States. The Algerian rebels have been broadcasting the film clips with their own anti-American spin on them. European television hasn’t been too complimentary, either.”

  Cameron nodded. “Yes, I know, and yes, I did see the CNN report. They made it seem as if we intentionally confronted the rioters with the purpose of killing them.”

  “Yes, sir. The press is a little upset with the restrictions we put on them within the city. We did it to protect them.

  Of course, they think we are trying to keep them from discovering some great secret we are hiding. Algiers is not a friendly place for us right now, but the rebels know once they release the hostages, we will leave. The rebels say the hostages will be returned after we leave. It’s a Catch-22 situation. Three days ago, they threatened to start killing the hostages if we failed to leave Algiers two days from now. As you know from the news, yesterday they killed and mutilated one of the male hostages and hung him from a streetlight. Our forces ashore received a phone call late yesterday afternoon with the location. Along with the telephone call was the threat that one hostage would be killed every two days, if we haven’t left by the end of the week. Admiral.” Kurt looked up. “We now have forty nine hostages and four days until the next one is tortured and killed.”

  “What are they doing ashore to find them?”

  “Colonel Bulldog Stewart is the commander of the landing force, the CLF, Admiral. He has been conducting house-to-house searches in the hopes of finding something.

  Until the Bedouin appeared early this morning, they had nothing to go on.”

  Admiral Cameron stood and, with cup in hand, walked to the map of Algeria that someone had taped to the bulkhead.

  The others at the table stood.

  “And what happened today? They find the place?”

  “No, sir, Admiral, they still have failed to locate the place, but an Arab who calls himself—” Lederman ran his finger down his notes. “Bashir, has come forward and told Colonel Stewart he knows where the hostages are being kept.”

  “So let’s get in there and free them,” Cameron said, turning abruptly to face the three men.

  “Well, Admiral, it seems Bashir won’t tell him where they are.”

  “Won’t tell him? Why not? Does he want money or something?”

  “No, sir. Basically, he doesn’t trust us. He wants to talk only with Duncan James.”

  “Duncan James, the SEAL captain! Isn’t he back in the States recovering from wounds?” Cameron crossed to the table and sat down. The others followed suit.

  Behind them, the HTs finished oiling the hinges of the bolts and closed the watertight doors. The chief supervising the two operators at the Intelligence console walked over and double-checked the lever to make sure the door was shut tightly. Keeping a ship watertight meant keeping doors shut whenever possible.

  “No, sir,” Clive interjected. “Duncan and the two officers who came with him from Washington are somewhere in Italy. The other members of the SEAL teams that went into Algeria to rescue the Algerian President Hawaii Al neuf have returned to their assigned unit on board the Nassau. The most seriously wounded of the bunch was the female SEAL, Lieutenant H.J. Mcdaniels. She was released from the Navy’s Naples Hospital two days ago.

  The three of them are scheduled for a flight back to Washington in three days. That’s the soonest we could get them out because of the paucity of flights out of Naples heading to the States.”

  “Then tell them to stand by. How soon, Pete, can you have an aircraft pick them up and bring them out here?”

  “Almost immediately. Admiral. We have a daily COD flight between Sigonella and the carrier. We just divert it north after it takes off from Sigonella, and an hour later, it lands in Naples, picks them up and, without feathering more than one engine, turns around, and bingo to the carrier.” Feathering was the navy term for turning off an engine while the others remained on.

  “Clive, make it happen. Anything else, Kurt?” “Admiral.” Clive said, raising his hand slightly. “There is a problem with that. We have been trying to locate the three of them, hut it looks as if they arc exploring Italy.

  We have left messages at every bachelor officers’ quarters in Italy as well as contacting the American embassy in Rome to check and see if the three are touring there. If we don’t locate them sooner, it will be when they check into the Naples military airport for the flight home before we can contact them.”

  “Keep searching for them. I want them out here as soon as possible, Clive.”

  “Yes, sir. Admiral.”

  “Kurt, you have anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. The Algerian Kilo submarine for one. It is in dry dock at the Oran Naval Base, receiving repairs to its propellers and shafts. A report from the EP-3E indicates the submarine will most likely remain there for the foreseeable future, but cloud cover for the past two days has kept us from obtaining imagery to confirm the report from the reconnaissance aircraft.

  “Second is The missing Algerian fighter aircraft. We know they are somewhere south of Algiers, hidden in the desert. We have sent tactical aircraft scurrying over the area, widening their search area and crossing back to search other areas that look promising. To date, we have discovered only two of the thirty-odd Algerian fighters still unaccounted for. We have had a couple of bogies that seemed to spring out of nowhere, and as soon as we direct interceptors toward them, they disappear. I am more concerned with them than with the dry-docked submarine AI Nasser Those are the two highlights right now, Admiral.

  The rest are minor and can be covered at the staff meeting scheduled for ten o’clock.”

  “Good, Kurt, you and Paul Brooks keep an eye on that Kilo. We still don’t know what submarine attacked the Nassau Amphibious Task Force three weeks ago. Is there any way to tell if the damage to the At Nasser is battle damage?”

  “No, sir, not without putting someone ashore.”

  “We have too many ashore now in my book.”

  “We could send a photo recon aircraft over the area,” Pete Devlin volunteered.

  Cameron shook his head. “Too many surface-to-air missiles still out there. As long as the Kilo remains up on blocks, it can’t hurt us, but if they try to move her from the dry dock, Pete, I want Dick Holman to have his aircraft take it out.”

  Pete Devlin nodded. He started to suggest they go on and take it out now, but he would wait until later when he and the admiral had some moments alone and then propose the air action.

  “Thanks, everyone,” Cameron said, sliding his chair back. They all stood. “Clive, why don’t you come to my stateroom. Pete, you did an excellent job while I was gone. Kurt, I want an assessment on those stranded Marines, and I want to know what we can expect the rebels to throw at them. I do not want them to disappear into the Sahara as so many others have in the past.” He looked at his watch. “General Lewis arrives at sixteen hundred hours. Clive, Kurt, I want a general overview briefing ready for him at seventeen hundred hours. Clive, ma
ke sure that Dick Holman is there as our new acting commander of Task Force Sixty-seven.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The admiral picked up a napkin and wrapped two of the pastries in it before reaching into the tray again to lay a croissant on top of the package. He looked up at the men standing around him and grinned. “If I don’t take these, you gentlemen will make pigs of yourselves, and I’ll have to order all of you 10 the gym. Not to mention, there won’t be any left for me.”

  “Gym? I think we have forgotten what a gym looks like,” dive added.

  They grinned as Admiral Cameron and dive made their way out of the compartment.

  “Anything else. Admiral?” Kurt asked Rear Admiral Devlin.

  Devlin shook his head. “No. you and Paul go on, Kurt.”

  “Admiral, Admiral Cameron made reference to Captain Holman as the new CTF Sixty-seven?”

  “Yeah. I’m fleeting up as the admiral’s deputy — Don’t ask me why — and Dick Holman is shifting his colors from commanding officer of Stennis to be commander of Task Force Sixty-seven, in charge of the Naval Air Forces in the Mediterranean.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ready, Paul?” Kurt asked his Cryptologic counterpart.

  “Sure,” Paul mumbled through a mouthful of pastries.

  As the Intelligence officer and his Cryptologic counterpart reached the door, Devlin said, “Oh, there is one thing, Kurt. Find out what you can about General Lewis.

  A bio or something.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll send it down to you as soon as I get something together, Admiral.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Even as Kurt Lederman was passing the information about the Algerian submarine to Admiral Cameron, Captain Ibn Al Jamal, commanding officer of the Algerian Kilo submarine Al Nasser, was standing on the edge of the dry dock, watching water fill the void. The Algerian Kilo diesel-powered attack submarine sat upon four huge blocks lifting the warship so the yard workers could finish repairing the damaged shaft. He had been surprised how fast the new rebel government had been able to find enough yard workers to do the job. When the American torpedoes had exploded meters behind the submerged Al Nasser three weeks ago, the explosion warped the shaft, causing it to stop turning. The Al Nasser had remained motionless at two hundred feet until their passive sonar had shown the Nassau Amphibious Task Force departing the area.