Seawolf tsf-2

by David E. Meadows

  We don’t want to kill anyone unless we have to. I also want sufficient rations for two days in the bush if we have problems.”

  “Ain’t no bush to survive in,” commented Ensign Helli well. “And ain’t no private heads either,” he added petulantly.

  “I doubt seriously that you have anything I haven’t already seen, except maybe in a smaller package,” H.J. replied.

  Just what I need, thought Duncan. He reached up and squeezed his nose a couple of times. A professional team had to have confidence and trust each other. Their lives depended on it. It was bad enough he, — Beau, and H.J. were newcomers to the SEAL detachment aboard the Nassau, but it was going to be worse if he had to referee a running feud between Helliwell and Mcdaniels during this mission. And he had no intention of leaving Mcdaniels behind. Not only because she was part of the team, but because maybe that was what Admiral Bill Hodges wanted. Helliwell he needed because the man had combat experience.

  Mandatory retirement in August was beginning to look brighter, but further away.

  “Okay, that’s it. If I hear another word out of you two, I’ll put you across my lap and spank you both. Straighten up and act like the SEALs you are and not arrogant teenagers. You two shake and get on with your assignments.”

  “Yes, sir,” H.J. and Bud replied in unison.

  The two reluctantly grinned at each other like two kids forced to make up. H.J. stuck out her hand toward Bud, who nodded and gripped it in return.

  “That’s better. Mike, you’re in charge of organizing the mission.

  Report to Beau when ready. Commander Pettigrew, I want you to inspect the team in two hours. Two hours is when I expect everyone to be ready to embark. Two hours is the time we have to outfit the team, Mike, and to throw the right weapon kits together. Report back to me when you’re ready. I’ll be in Intell trying to find out a little more on events in Algeria and what we may face when we hit the beach. I expect to see everyone in the conference room in the Intell spaces in”—he looked at his watch—“forty-five minutes.”

  Mike Sunney, Heather J. Mcdaniels, and Bud Helliwell left the compartment.

  “Well, Duncan, belay my last,” said Beau. “I don’t think you have to worry about me and H. J.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked as he folded the chart from the table.

  “Because I’ve just had a vision of her in a rocking chair, telling her grandchildren about how she came to have a pair of large balls in a quart jar sitting on her mantelpiece.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said mantel,” Duncan replied. “I’m going to Intell if you need me,” he said as he walked out the door. Less than six weeks until August. Retirement was going to be great. He kept repeating the refrain as he walked down the passageway, hoping that if he kept repeating and repeating it, he’d convince himself it was true.

  Retirement was going to be great. Yeah, great. Just keep telling myself that, he thought.

  CHAPTER 4

  As Duncan, Beau, and H.J. boarded the USS Albany with five other SEALs, events were occurring in Libya that would impact their rescue of President Alneuf.

  “Hand me those photographs,” Colonel Alqahiray said, pointing to a stack of large colored prints on the briefing table.

  Colonel Walid scooped the stack up and handed them to his impatient boss.

  Colonel Alqahiray laid his cigarette in a nearby ashtray as he flipped through the photos. “You know, Walid? The best photos are the ones that show the stern of the American warship sticking out of the ocean surrounded by the petty war criminals, weeping in their puny life rafts. It is moments like this that makes one proud to be a Libyan.”

  “Aiwa, Colonel. I also like the ones recovered from the bomber that was destroyed on Tripoli Airfield. It is sad that it cost the lives of some of our finest pilots.”

  Colonel Alqahiray gave Walid a hard look. “Walid, a commander unprepared to accept deaths never achieves victory. Look at Napoleon.

  He never went into battle without knowing how many casualties were acceptable for victory, and when that number was reached and victory was questionable, he would magnificently retreat to wait for another opportunity. We will have more deaths before Jihad Wahid — our Holy War One — reaches its goal, but those will rock the world on behalf of the faith of Islam, more than any other thing could hope to accomplish. Victory is never achieved without death, and ultimately, it belongs to the leader who is willing to sacrifice his troops.”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Walid replied, looking down to break eye contact with the skull-like apparition that Alqahiray presented.

  Colonel Alqahiray shuffled through the large photographs, humming as he put most of them into a large brown envelope, silently thanking the Americans for killing most of the senior Libyan military leaders with their Tomahawk strike. “That should do it, Walid.” He picked up his cigarette, which had rolled out of the ashtray and burned a small spot on the polished table, flicked the long ash off, and took a deep drag, letting the smoke filter slowly out through his nostrils.

  Walid pinched his nose.

  The two walked out of the operations briefing room into the blue-lighted operations spaces. Walid flipped off the lights as he pulled the door shut behind them. He returned to the supervisor’s console while Alqahiray hoisted himself onto his chair above the operators.

  The three Libyan Intelligence Officers waited stoically for the colonel to acknowledge their presence. He finished his cigarette and ripped open another pack of Greek Old Navy, knocked out a new fag, and lit it.

  He placed the cold cup of tea to one side, deliberately keeping them waiting. Colonel Alqahiray motioned for the steward to bring him another cup.

  Then he turned to the three officers. “Go ahead, Major Samir.”

  The major pulled several file cards from his pockets, glanced at them, and directed the colonel’s attention to the intelligence screen in front of them. On the screen a colored map of the North African coast, stretching from Egypt to Morocco, appeared. Egypt, Libya, and Algeria were highlighted in green, the color of the Libyan flag and the color associated with the Islamic religion. The outlines of Tunisia and Morocco were filled with diagonal lines of alternating red and green, while the Sudan, along with Chad and Somalia, were shaded a light brown.

  “Colonel, the Algerian operation is near completion,” said Samir.

  “Sporadic fighting continues in several isolated pockets centered around Oran, Mers El Kebir, and other portions of western Algeria. We expect those pockets to collapse or surrender by tomorrow evening.

  Search operations east of Algiers continue for the war criminal Hawaii Alneuf.”

  The colonel leaned forward. “When do they expect to capture him? I hope they understand that they need him to consolidate their hold over the country.”

  “Yes, sir,” Major Samir replied. “They realize that the capture, or death, of Alneuf brings solidarity to the government. It removes a figurehead for loyalists to rally around. They continue to broadcast that Alneuf has surrendered, but they have yet to capture him — at least that is the last thing we heard. As the colonel is aware, we lost communications early this morning for six hours with our comrades in Algeria. Those links have been restored, and we have maintained continuous communication since discovering the break was deliberately done at the Tunis microwave relay center. We rerouted communications via landline to southern Algeria and then across our border.”

  The colonel nodded. A steward approached with a tray. A cup full of strong Bedouin tea rattled on its dish. The colonel accepted the cup without comment and leaned back to sip the tea. He motioned for Major Samir to continue.

  “Our friends in the east have kept their promise, Colonel. Earlier today North Korea staged an air attack against Seoul, and they have commenced massing their forces for an attack along the DMZ.”

  “An attack that will never come,” the colonel added softly.

  “Yes, sir, an attack that will never come. The Americans are confused.

&nbs
p; Because of the North Koreans, the Americans are reviewing their options. Forces that could have been threatening our shores are still in America, waiting for a decision. The North Korean deception has worked as we expected.”

  “Don’t forget, Major,” the colonel said, leaning forward to emphasize his statement. “The American warship violated our territorial waters and fired on our peaceful forces when we asked them to leave. Because of the war crimes of the USS Gearing, many wives weep and orphans cry in Libya.”

  “Yes, sir,” the major answered, covering a cough with his hand. “Our agents monitoring the base at Fort Bragg in North Carolina will report if the super transports that have arrived take off.”

  “How are their reports being transmitted, Major?” the colonel asked.

  “How can we maintain communications with someone in America without being caught?”

  “The Internet, Colonel. The Internet transcends all borders. No one watches it. We put a covert web site on the line and then, regardless of where our agents are, all they need is a laptop computer, a place to plug it in, and a search engine to find our home page. Once there, they can download their report, ask questions or receive instructions.

  Granted, there is little security, and we get e-mails and orders from ordinary people who believe they have found a source for inexpensive vitamins. For those, we honor their business. For our agents, they provide the information we need, and once down loaded, we erase it from the web. So, a hacker, venturing into our web site, would have a very hard time discovering the true nature of the home page.”

  “This is confusing, Major. I’ll take your word. Who else do we communicate with in this matter?”

  “Colonel, every agent wherever they may be.”

  “Enough! You’ve given me, once again, more information than I really need, Major.”

  The major coughed slightly as he nervously played with the file cards containing his cues for the brief. He motioned to the computer operator managing the slide show. A second Power Point briefing slide faded onto the screen, replacing the previous map of North Africa with a map of Tunisia” and the surrounding border areas of Algeria and Libya.

  “Colonel, Algeria has moved several battalions of its revolutionary volunteers to the border with Tunisia, including two companies of tanks backed by two mechanized infantry units. The Algerian Liberation Front government has grounded its Air Force for the past twelve hours to prepare for the attack; with the exception of certain helicopters involved in the search for Alneuf. Two hours ago they reported their Air Force ready for event zero two zero.”

  The major took a swallow from a nearby water bottle. “Our side of the border with Tunisia is not accurately represented here, Colonel. We have moved a tank battalion and two mechanized infantry companies to the Tunisian border. They are in place. The map reflects only one mechanized infantry unit. Two SU-20 ground-attack squadrons are fueled and armed. Air protection is to be provided by Mig-25s out of Tripoli.

  Helicopters with Army Special Forces landed inside Tunisia late last night and await our signal.”

  The major cleared his dry throat, but before he could continue the colonel asked, “How is Tripoli Airfield? Is it operational? Tell me again.”

  “Sir, we lost the TU-20 and three Mig-25s to the Italian F 16s, but airfield damage was minuscule and easily repaired. The repair by our engineers took less than two hours.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, sir, SU-20s were approaching the landing pattern when the Italian fighters attacked, but were safely vectored south.”

  The colonel leaned forward and stared directly into the intelligence officer’s eyes. “Tell me, Major. I seem to remember you telling me that it would take the Italians, and the Greeks, a minimum of forty-eight hours to respond to our attacks. Forty-eight hours to prepare for any retaliatory strikes. Instead, we have four Italian fighters attacking our air base immediately after we attacked Sigonella, Sicily, and we have Greek aircraft shooting our aircraft down even as they bombed Souda Bay, Crete! Where was this incompetence that I was promised?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. We did not expect the Italians to pursue our force, nor for the Greeks to be this prepared. It is not in their natures to go on the offensive. Our analysis indicated that if our aircraft encountered any resistance, it would be against the vintage Italian Tornado fighters. We were amazed when the Italians committed their new F-16 fighters to an attack over Libyan soil.”

  “Amazed? You think we were amazed? No, Major, we weren’t amazed; we were surprised! We were caught with our pants down. We looked stupid. Because of intelligence, because of you, we failed to have interceptors up or air-defense units at maximum readiness. Well, scratch another one for the intelligence community, Major.”

  “I apologize, Colonel,” Major Samir replied, his face burning. “We know the aircraft did not have sufficient fuel to return to Italy. The destruction of Sigonella destroyed the air tankers necessary to refuel them. As for the estimate …” Major Samir stopped abruptly. He had nearly slipped and reminded the colonel that it was the colonel’s idea not to have combat air patrols over the airfields or to raise air-defense readiness because of the risk that the actions would be detected and alert the West. An alerted West could have destroyed the surprise of the Libyan offensive. But Colonel Alqahiray was not one to accept blame for failure, especially when it was his own.

  “So, what happened to the F-16s?” the colonel asked.

  “Two made it to Lampedusa and glided in on fumes to the small airfield there. Two pilots ejected twenty-five miles southeast of the airfield, and were immediately picked up by Italian fishing boats.”

  “So, for our three Foxbats and one Tupelov Twenty, we can subtract two F-16s, but not one Italian pilot. That means those four pilots can be given new aircraft and returned to the fight. We, on the other hand, lost not only our aircraft, but more important, we lost pilots we can’t replace.” He snubbed his cigarette out, grinding it fiercely into the side of the chair.

  “Go ahead, Major, and finish this. I have more important things to do.”

  The major motioned to the operator, who projected the next slide.

  “Here is a photograph, down loaded from an agent in Gaeta, showing the damage to the USS La Sane and the USS Simon Lake. The submarine alongside the USS La Sane departed soon after our attacks on Souda Bay and Sigonella. Of note is that the admiral’s flag, three white stars on a field of blue, was hauled down shortly before the submarine cast off and left Gaeta.”

  The colonel leaned forward to scrutinize the computer-enhanced photograph. He bit his lower lip and then, apparently satisfied, he grinned. “If the USS Gearing didn’t show the world, these daily reminders, sitting in Italy, demonstrate that Americans are not invincible.” He leaned back, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “What do we think about the submarine?” he asked. Ashes fell on his shirt.

  “Sir, we believe the American admiral, Gordon Cameron, is on board.”

  “Why didn’t they kill him? They killed nearly everyone else but the one they were sent to kill. They killed his wife, and she was sitting beside him. In fact, they killed a lot of wives, but the one person they needed to kill, they missed.” He shook his head. He was surrounded by incompetence.

  The three officers exchanged nervous looks, but none answered.

  “On board the submarine, is he?”

  The colonel held his hand up to stop the major from answering as he pondered this information. Finally, he asked Major Samir, “And where do we think he is heading?”

  “Colonel, there is only one place for him to go and that is to the American ships heading toward Algiers.”

  “Why would he go there?”

  Major Samir swallowed. He wiped his forehead. “We think, Colonel, that he will take charge of the American battle force and, depending on the situation, rescue either the Americans in Algiers or the American survivors of the USS Gearing.” He deliberately neglected to mention the ot
her alternative: that Admiral Cameron could be moving to avenge the USS Gearing, Sigonella, and Souda Bay.

  “What is the status of those war criminals?”

  “War criminals?”

  “Yes, you fool! Those war criminals floating off our shores — those war criminals that survived the fate of their ship! Those war criminals that we are going to bring back here and execute! Yes, those war criminals, Major Samir. Who the hell did you think I was talking about?”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel. Those war criminals,” Major Samir said. He pressed the projector button. “A helicopter took these photos late yesterday. At that time the survivors were about thirty five miles northwest of our coast, floating in the Gulf of Sidra.

  They have tethered their life rafts together. The helicopter crew counted eight small life rafts and one large one.” Major Samir motioned to the operator.

  The next slide showed photographs of the life rafts with the Americans in it. There was no sign of the USS Gearing.

  “Where’s the ship?”

  “It finally sank, Colonel, sometime yesterday between ten hundred and twenty hundred hours when this helicopter made its reconnaissance run.”