“What does that tell me, Bob?”
“Sir, international convention recognizes twelve nautical miles as the legal limit of territorial waters.”
“And, Mr. President, if I may add,” Roger Maddock said, drawing the president’s attention. “The Gearing was directed to remain outside fifteen nautical miles for the Freedom of Navigation operation. She had GPS and her normal complement of navigational equipment and personnel. There is nothing to suggest she was closer.”
“Mr. President,” General Stanhope said. “My apologies to the secretary of defense, whom I have not had an opportunity to brief on this bit of information, but we may have a problem concerning that.”
“Go ahead, General.”
“Late yesterday, our analysts discovered the geopositional readings coming from four GPS satellites that provide most of the navigational data for the Mediterranean are incorrect.”
“Incorrect?”
“Yes, sir. It seems that anyone using GPS in the Mediterranean will discover they are five nautical miles further south than what their displays show.”
“Are you saying the USS Gearing could have been inside Libyan territorial waters?” Bob Gilfort asked, leaning forward to look around Franco Donelli at General Stanhope.
“Yes, sir. I guess what I am saying is that we could have been as close as ten nautical miles, if the USS Gearing was using GPS for its navigation.”
“Mr. President, I recommend we keep that information within this room.
I submit we remain firm in that the USS Gearing was outside of Libyan territorial waters … that’s our story and that should be our Bible.
Deny, deny, deny,” Roger Maddock added, slamming his hand down on the table. “Screw the Libyans.”
Crawford ignored the Secdef. “General Stanhope, as director of the National Security Agency, you must have some reason or facts to support this. Why do you think the satellite readings were off? Was there a malfunction or something?”
“Mr. President, we are investigating, but we cannot discount tampering, either by a cyber attack against the satellites or technical malfunction in the GPS software. We are passing this information to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They will notify European Command. By this afternoon, our forces will be using conventional navigational techniques until the GPS error is corrected.”
“Thank you, General. Roger, keep me notified.” The president turned to the secretary of state. “Bob, before we start discussions on Algeria, I need State Department to develop a position paper in the event we have to admit that the Gearing was in Libyan waters. But make sure our position reflects that I don’t care if the Gearing was skirting the beaches from a hundred yards out; they attacked our warship without provocation and then launched a dastardly, unforgivable attack against our bases in Italy and Crete.
“Now, quickly to Algeria, do we have any contact with the new government?”
“No, sir. Not at this time. Attempts to contact government offices result in either constant ringing of the phones with no answer, or a continuous busy signal. And for obvious reasons, we can’t send someone around from the embassy. They refuse to allow anyone to leave. We have told the insurgents surrounding our embassy that we want to discuss the situation with their authorities. They promised to relay the message, but no reply has been received.
“We have several rambling press releases from the rebel government.
None of which make much sense. One warns the United States that the Mediterranean is a North African sea, that we are intruders who are not welcome, and that the new Algerian government intends to keep us from ever returning again. A radio broadcast later in the day said basically the same thing: that Satanic American forces had been wiped from the face of the Mediterranean and that our Navy would never enter it again. The Mediterranean is closed to America.”
“No one is going to tell America where its Naval forces can go or not go!” “Mr. President,” Roger Maddock said. “We still have forces in the Med. In fact, the Nassau battle group has recovered its Harriers from Sigonella and is heading toward its station off Algiers. We expect them in range of the Algerian capital within the next twelve hours.
Then, they’ll be in position to commence evacuation of the embassy.
From Norfolk and Little Creek we are preparing another amphibious task force around the amphibious carrier Kearsarge and the Ponce — an older, but quite capable LPD. They will embark a full Marine air-ground task force, called a MAGTF, with tanks, aircraft, and two battalion landing teams, totaling about two thousand troops on the two ships. The Nassau has a smaller MAGTF embarked, centered around a smaller team of approximately one thousand Marines. That being said, the Nassau is capable of bringing out the refugees, if we have to go ahead with the evacuation prior to the arrival of the Kearsarge amphibious task force. The Kearsarge and Ponce will arrive at Morehead City tomorrow to start embarking the Marines. It will take three days to completely embark the Marines and their equipment. We expect them to enter the Med a few days behind the Stennis battle group.” “Roger,” Bob Gilfort said. “I don’t think we can wait for their arrival. The ambassador demands that we pull them out now!”
“Bob, I understand that,” Maddock replied, an edge of impatience in his voice. “The Nassau is capable of doing the job under emergency circumstances. If I remember correctly, the ambassador cried wolf about sending in the Marines last year during the food riots.”
“I think that’s uncalled for, Roger,” Gilfort replied sharply. “She provided an honest assessment from her viewpoint at the time.”
“Let’s hope she’s reasoning more calmly this time,” Mad dock replied.
Gilfort opened his mouth to reply, but Maddock continued, cutting him off. “Sixth Fleet is on board the submarine Albany, enroute to the Nassau to personally take charge of the evacuation, but if we go in and the Algerians heavily oppose the operation, we lack the air power to counter it!”
“But we’ll have the Marines,” President Crawford added.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President. We have the Marines, but even Marines are not invincible. If we send them in, they will be taking on an entire country by themselves. Our problem is we have abandoned the Mediterranean—”
“That’s not exactly accurate!” Bob Gilfort interrupted.
“We have sent the wrong message to an area known for its instability.
Today, we are seeing the results!” Roger Maddock finished, ignoring the secretary of state’s outburst. Then he looked at Gilfort. “It’s just what I told you two years ago, Bob.”
“You’re overreacting, Roger,” Bob Gilfort said, “We are not the world’s policeman! Let them sort out their own mess.”
“If we’re not the world’s policeman, then why in the hell—”
“Roger,” President Crawford interrupted, patting the air in front of the two men to stop the confrontation. “Do we have sufficient forces in the Mediterranean to evacuate the embassy if necessary?”
Maddock took a deep breath. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. But Defense Intelligence Agency estimates, if we put the Marines in the Nassau amphibious task force ashore, they will be outnumbered anywhere from ten to twenty to one.”
“Could the Marines win against such odds?”
“Mr. President, they would fight until either the Algerians retreated or every one of those brave American souls were dead. And there would be a lot of brave American souls dead. We need the Stennis battle group. With the carrier, we can project our power as far inland as we need; without it, we’re limited to coastal operations.”
“The newspapers would murder the administration, Mr. President,” Franco Donelli added.
Silence greeted the secretary of defense’s prognosis, with the exception of Bob Gilfort, who muttered, “Still overreacting, I think.”
President Crawford cleared his throat. “Okay, Roger, I have the picture. The last thing I want are more dead Americans. Here’s what I want you to do,” the President said. “I want the Stennis deploymen
t speeded up.” He waved his hand at Mad dock as Roger opened his mouth to speak. “No, hear me out. I don’t know how you’re going to speed up the deployment, that’s your problem. Just do it. How about our carrier in the Persian Gulf?”
“Mr. President, we have moved the USS Roosevelt from the Persian Gulf into the Gulf of Oman. I am reluctant to move it further because of the lack of counterbalance to the Iranian Navy.”
“Roger, move the carrier. I want it in the Mediterranean along with its escorts ASAP. Okay? Tell the Air Force to provide that counterbalance. They’ve been arguing for years they can be as effective as a carrier; the Persian Gulf is a great place for them to prove it.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” he replied, his eyebrows arching as he considered the consequences. He turned to his military aide and whispered the necessary instructions to redeploy the Roosevelt from Fifth Fleet to Sixth Fleet.
“Roger, how long will it take the Persian Gulf carrier to arrive in the Med?” the president asked.
Roger looked at his military aide, a surface warfare Navy captain, who responded for the secretary. “Mr. President, four days at full speed to the Suez Canal, allow one-day transit time. I estimate five days for the carrier battle group to enter the Med and another two to two and a half days transit to the Algiers area.”
“Thanks, Captain,” the president replied. “It’s not off Algiers I want that carrier. Roger, I want to bomb Libya. I want to eliminate her entire Air Force and Navy. I want to send a message to Libya, and any other nation that contemplates attacking the United States, a very visible lesson. Six Tomahawks cannot balance what the Libyans did to us.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Behind the secretary of defense the military aide took copious notes. “We’ll use the Air Force—”
“I would hope so, Roger,” the president interrupted. “But the Navy took the brunt of the Libyan attack. I want the Navy to lead the action. They have a score to settle and let’s give them the opportunity to settle it.”
Franco nodded. “Navy Avenges Gearing.” He could see the sympathetic headlines now. The polls would swing even further to the right. The administration was going to look good in the eyes of the public. He caught himself as he nearly laughed out loud.
“And,” the president continued, “I want the world to know we are ramping up for retribution. I want the Libyans to sit in their box and watch the American might build up. I want them sweating, worrying, wondering about when we will strike. Emotions are at fever pitch throughout the United States. I was watching CNN earlier. Did any of you see the over ten thousand American demonstrators surrounding the United Nations building? Do you know what that says? It’s a hundred degrees in New York and we actually have New Yorkers-New Yorkers, I’m telling you — leaving their air-conditioned offices, turning off their television sets, and showing their anger over something that has happened to their fellow Americans over half a world away. New Yorkers! Can you believe that?” He paused and took a sip of water. “The average American doesn’t even watch the evening national news, much less understand what is happening on the international scene. Today, we have the entire country more mobilized, more together than since Desert Storm. For that alone, I will move forces into the area to show American resolve.” He paused, then added, “Don’t be shocked. I know I’m viewed as a dove in world politics, but the American people demand action and I want to show them that the Crawford administration is taking steps to protect American lives and interests. That unprovoked attacks on Americans will receive appropriate responses. We are going into the Med and we’re going in force. No one is going to keep us out. Let no nation doubt the willpower of America to use its military force. American maritime might is far from dead.” He suddenly realized that he had found the key to the legacy for his administration. This crisis would carry his name into the history books.
“Let’s move on. Bob, have we located President Alneuf yet? Do we know what happened to him?”
The secretary of state shook his head.
“Mr. President,” General Stanhope, the director of the National Security Agency, said from the other end of the table. “We have a report from the Air Force RC-135 Rivet Joint that flew a West Mediterrean mission yesterday about an Algerian Mig attacking a fishing trawler east of Algiers. The trawler subsequently beached itself. No final analysis on the attack yet, but a large-scale search of the area is being conducted by Islamic forces. Considering the fighting, and the chaotic situation in Algeria, the number of troops involved in the search convinces us that it is out of proportion for a fishing crew. We believe President Hawaii Alneuf may have been aboard the ishing trawler and is somewhere east of Algiers, either fleeing for the border, or gone to ground.”
The door burst open and the bespectacled former bookkeeper who was now the director of Central Intelligence ran into the room amidst a flurry of stammering apologies. Papers fluttered from the binder he carried under his right arm. He snatched for them, knocking his bow tie askew.
“Farbros,” growled the president. “If you’re late again to one of my meetings, just continue home. I think my time is more valuable than yours.”
Farbros bent over behind his chair to pick up the papers. Pens and notes fell out of his shirt pocket. He made a mad grab for them as more tumbled out.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President! Yes, sir. There was something I wanted to make sure was accurate before I came. It’s just that—” Farbros stammered.
“Farbros, next time just come. I’ll decide whether a piece of information is important enough for you to go back for it. Sit down and catch up.”
Farbros Digby-Jones pulled the heavy chair out, unbuttoned his blue business suit coat, and sat down. His small frame had a childlike appearance in the massive leather chair. He licked his thumb and flipped through his papers as he attempted to return them to proper order. His thick coffee colored hair lay jumbled on his head.
“Mr. President, General Eaglefield has additional information on our preparations to respond to the Libyan attack,” Roger Maddock offered.
The president nodded to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who sat reluctantly, quietly to the left of the secretary of defense.
“Mr. President,” General Jeff Eaglefield began. “This is a preliminary status, and as we firm up the timetables, we will have a better picture on response time and the forces we can bring into play.
“The Air Force is pre staging five C-5s to Fort Bragg to transport the 82nd Airborne. We are waiting for Italian permission to move the first elements of the 82nd Airborne to Sicily. We expect to receive that permission today. The Seabees estimate they’ll have Sigonella Airfield operational within the next twenty-four hours. The Army will deploy a Patriot air-defense system to protect themselves and provide base protection against further air attacks.
“The light mechanized infantry at Fort Steward is mobilizing, and the Navy is working out transportation arrangements to move them.
Depending on the scope of response and the concept of operations, we can move an entire division by air in four days.”
“What can we do with them in Italy?”
“Mr. President, they increase your options, ranging from invading Libya to conducting an opposed evacuation of Algiers. Either way, the forces will be forward-deployed and in position to respond. C-141s and additional C-5s will back-fill the five C-5s at Bragg to embark the remainder of the 82nd Airborne. The 101st Airborne is on ninety-hour alert to follow, if so ordered.”
The president rested his left hand on his chin with his index finger tapping his cheek. “Damn,” he said. “This must have been what Roosevelt felt like in ‘42.”
“Yes, sir,” General Eaglefield replied, thinking, ‘“41,” wondering about the president’s grasp of history and worrying over the commander in chief’s lack of military experience.
“Thank you, General. Roger, come see me later.”
President Crawford peered over his bifocals at the DCI. “Farbros, quit wiggling in your se
at. I know you want to tell me what caused you to be late. So go ahead.”
There was a knock on the door before the DCI could respond. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, an Army colonel opened the door. He seemed surprised to see the president sitting at the head of the conference table. “Sorry, Mr. President,” he muttered, and then nearly ran to where General Eaglefield sat. He bent to whisper in the ear of the CJCS.
“Wait a minute, Colonel,” the president said, waving his hand. “If it’s important enough to interrupt my meeting, then it’s important enough to let me hear what you have to say.”
The colonel looked at General Eaglefield, who nodded for him to go ahead.
He stood at attention and looked at the president. “Mr. President, thirty minutes ago forces of North Korea began shelling across the DMZ; followed by large-scale air attacks of the immediate area. Intelligence shows North Korean armored forces moving toward the border. When I left the situation room two minutes ago to come up, North Korea had commenced a call-up of its reserves.”
The president peered over his glasses at the secretary of state.
“What’s going on, Bob? I thought we had North Korea in its box.”
“I don’t know, Mr. President. They’re not suffering the famine of several years ago. We’ve been shipping them food. Of course, they’ve been protesting for two days about a perceived South Korean violation of their territorial waters, but that’s normal. I’m sure it’s just posturing.”
“Sorry, sir,” the colonel said. “But they’ve already attacked across the DMZ.” The colonel stopped and started to lean down to talk with General Eaglefield, but saw President Crawford looking at him. “That’s not normal. Mr. President, two formations of North Korean jets bombed Seoul about thirty minutes ago. No major damage and no additional raids since. They flew low-level, dropped approximately eight iron bombs, and then scurried back across the border. Air defense did pick them up, but thought they were South Korean Air Force jets completing routine flight operations.”
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