The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

  The Sixth Fleet

  ( The Sixth Fleet - 1 )

  David E. Meadows

  In the near future, the United States is no longer a dominant superpower. Countries that were once allies now race to establish their own influence around the globe. Slowly but surely, America is becoming a shadow of its former glory. But America's old enemies aren't content to see her fade away. They want revenge.

  David E. Meadows

  The Sixth Fleet

  Dedicated to the United States Navy Sixth Fleet

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to Mr. Tom Colgan of Penguin Putnam Berkley Publishing Group who came up with the idea of this military thriller series and provided much needed encouragement and editorial advice during the process. Of course, every writer needs a strong advocate and coach, and that is what I had in my agent, Ms. Nancy Coffey. Her continuum of enthusiasm was a much-appreciated tonic.

  I would like to express my gratitude for the gracious technical advice received from CDR Roger Herbert, U.S. Navy SEAL, and Maj. Andy Gillan, U.S. Marine Corps, while writing The Sixth Fleet. And, a special thanks to Capt. (ret.) Frank Reifsnyder, former commanding officer of the nuclear attack submarine USS Baltimore, who read the manuscripts for the first two books of the Sixth Fleet series. His in-depth technical advice and encouragement were very much appreciated. While these three provided their recommendations, any technical errors in this novel are strictly those of the author, for there were times when technical advice was overridden by literary considerations.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The American destroyer was fifty miles north of the Libyan coast when the signal entered the telecommunications system at the Red Sea harbor city of Port Sudan over a thousand miles away.

  The intense concentration of the portly crewmember caused the Oriental features of his face to scrunch up as if he had taken a bite from a particularly sour lemon. Satisfied, he hit the transmit button. The package was gone, disguised within a facsimile transmission. From outside the hidden compartment directly behind the captain’s stateroom, the sounds of the afternoon, arguing between the Sudanese tradesmen and the visiting merchant sailors, distracted him slightly, but the innate desire for a long life kept him from fouling his directions.

  The signal hit the coaxial line that ran from the loading pier to the main telephone center in this summer hot and dusty African city. At the telephone center the signal was automatically shunted among millions of others to a landline that carried it to Khartoum. There, it joined the main East African trunk and began a near light-speed journey along the busy line to Cairo.

  At Cairo, the signal manipulated the local telecommunications system’s attempts to transmit it via microwave until the “protect” programs successfully queued it to an alternate coaxial landline to Alexandria.

  At the breezy Mediterranean seaport the system automatically amplified the signal to restore attenuation lost during its brief trip. Microseconds later the Egyptian telecommunications complex transmitted the signal along an undersea trans-Mediterranean line that connected the North African coast to Europe, routing it via Athens, Greece.

  The signal hopped from one relay to another in Athens as it avoided multiple attempts by the Greek telephone system to transmit it via satellite. Hundreds of thousands of fire walls connections, and internal loops later, the program tripped the proper series of switches to divert the signal to another trans-Mediterranean cable. The transmission headed to Malta, jumbled amid millions of communications packets, ranging from voice to computer to data to facsimile.

  The Maltese relay redirected the signal to its intended destination, Tripoli, but registered the signal as destined to a telephone number for a florist on Via Veneto in the heart of Rome. When the signal left Malta, evidence of its real destination was electronically erased.

  At Tripoli, the modern telephone system shunted the signal through a series of routers as it moved from relay to relay until the correct sequence occurred.

  An auto switching function sent the program and its host signal through a firewall that restricted access to a military coaxial land cable, running from Tripoli Telephone south, under the desert floor, to a hidden Libyan military command post one hundred miles from the capital. Since the early years of the new twenty-first century, Libya hid much of its military infrastructure underground in a series of bunkers and tunnels that made the London Underground look simple and small.

  The signal arrived and bore straight for the active and waiting IBM PC. The beeper from the internal speakers alerted Major Walid. Over the PC hung a handwritten sign in bright red Arabic script that read, jihad wa hid — Arabic for “Holy War One.”

  The beeping brought the nearby Libyan colonel, a taller man, to the console in long fast strides. Ashes from a cigarette dangling from his lips dropped on Major Walid, who sat quietly in front of the screen. Walid’s attention was so riveted on the computer that he failed to notice the snow of ashes falling on his crisp gray army uniform. The colonel leaned over Walid’s shoulder and pushed the “wait” command, trapping the signal.

  “It’s here, Walid,” Colonel Alqahiray said, his deep bass voice carrying throughout the room.

  “The package is here, on time. They’ve kept the first part of the agreement.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the smoke filter out of his nose like some medieval dragon.

  The entire trip from Port Sudan to the operations room in the command post had taken less than thirty seconds.

  Alqahiray pushed a few strands of hair back that had fallen across his forehead. They had met their responsibility to ensure the package arrived undetected. The responsibility rested with him for the next transmission of the “information attack” program. This last portion would be through the air; through the electromagnetic spectrum where Western satellites waited to detect anything of interest or unusual.

  Colonel Alqahiray looked at the sensors that lined the walls around the operations room. Patience, he thought. He took a couple of deep breaths, each polluted with a deep drag from the strong cigarette. Calm and patient. This was a great moment for Libya! His leadership must instill the necessary confidence for Jihad Wahid to take Libya to its righteous height of power and drive the devil Americans from the Mediterranean Sea.

  Colonel Alqahiray’s dark eyes narrowed. He took the cigarette from his lips, for only a moment, and then quickly brought it up for another deep drag. The yellow stains on the index and second fingers wrapped nearly completely around the two and, even on sun-darkened skin, was eye catching in normal light. He surveyed the operations room, noticing how the blue fluorescent light cast dark shadows around the two rows of active, scrolling computer screens.

  The soft green CRTs reflected off the intense faces of the operators.

  Impatience could ruin this plan. A plan he’d personally developed, written, and orchestrated. Alqahiray thought of himself as a great conductor, bringing together varied and diverse instruments to complement each other. Jihad Wahid was the symphony he would deliver. He smiled at the comparison.

  Something as simple as impatience could, in the blink of an eye, send months of planning spiraling into failure. Patience was a virtue he hated, but recognized. He twisted his bushy mustache, discovering a drop of tea hidden in one end. He twisted the end together until the moisture disappeared and then wiped his fingers on his starched gray uniform.

  He reached over, tapped Walid on the shoulder, and was rewarded with a mousy jump from his nervous underling.

  He enjoyed the fact that people feared him and rule by fear meant his tasks were accomplished quickly. Respect could be earned many ways, Alqahiray rationalized.

  “Major Walid, well done. I know this is your position, but for the
start of Jihad Wahid, it is only appropriate that I press the transmit button.” Walid glanced up at Colonel Alqahiray, whose eyes met his for a second before focusing on the CRT — at least, he thought Alqahiray’s eyes focused on him. His stomach contracted like a fist as he mumbled an acknowledgment. He looked away quickly, pretending to study the console with Alqahiray. As calmly as possible Walid wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and fought the urge to shiver. Alqahiray’s unattractive but powerful face shocked even those who had faithfully served years with him. Bright daylight sometimes softened the man’s abnormal features, but in the dark, blue-lighted confines of this room, for a split second, Walid saw a death head vision staring at him.

  The Libyan colonel’s forced smile of yellow-stained teeth set against a heavy smoker’s map of wrinkles pulled an expressionless face leathery tight. Sun damage spots sprinkled a forehead exposed too much to the desert sun.

  The low light in the room shielded from view the charismatic leader’s dark eyes — eyes obscured in shadows from abnormally deep recesses and overarching, heavy eyebrows.

  “Gather everyone together,” Colonel Alqahiray said.

  “Yes, sir. Colonel.” Walid nodded respectfully. He stood, clapped his narrow, almost feminine hands twice, and motioned everyone toward him. The small crowd rose. Soft conversation broke out among them. They walked in twos and threes toward the end of the operations room, past the steel double doors, their eyes on the floor. Not out of respect, but because most had tripped or fallen at least once on the bubbles of the cheap rubber antistatic mats that covered the raised metal floor.

  “Come closer!” Colonel Alqahiray commanded when the group seemed to falter as they neared him. He raised his hands and waited for them to face him.

  “Today marks the return of Arab greatness. You are the modern warriors on today’s weapons that will take us there. No more will we be unheard. Together we shall follow Allah’s will and restore Barbary to its greatness,” he said, using the nineteenth century term for this region of North Africa.

  “Yes, to its greatness!”

  From the crowd came a lone chant, drawn out as if in song, of “Allah Alakbar”—“God is great”—joined quickly by others until it rose to a crescendo of respect, bathing Colonel Alqahiray, who spread his arms, basking in the recognition he so richly deserved. After a couple of minutes he lowered his arms and allowed the chanting to fade.

  “Go! Prepare your hearts and minds for the battle in the days to come, until Jihad Wahid purges the sea of the Great Satan and we cast them from our shores. For only then will we have returned Islam to its rightful place. Pray to Allah for his love and guidance. Pray to him to give us the wisdom we need to lead his people to greatness. Allah Alakbar!”

  With fists pumping the air and praises to Allah echoing through the room, the soldiers surged back to their positions.

  Several spread their tattered prayer rugs on the bubbled mat and, facing east, solemnly offered their prayers to a God equally worshipped by the Jews, the Christians, and the Moslems.

  Colonel Alqahiray reached into his shirt pocket and grabbed his pack of Old Navy cigarettes. He lit the unfiltered Greek fag, knowing the strong tobacco may one day kill him — that is, if he truly believed everything the Western press printed. As long as Allah smiled upon him he was invincible. He ran his tongue against the gap between his two front teeth — best money he ever spent. Already some were interpreting the gap as a sign of the Prophet.

  After a deep inhale on the cigarette, the colonel returned his attention to the console where the package waited. He hit the print button on the keyboard and waited impatiently for the laser printer to spit out the facsimile mask of the complex, and very expensive, “information attack” program.

  He pulled the paper from the printer and nodded absentmindedly as he read it. He took a couple of steps to a second console nearby. Seated, Colonel Alqahiray pulled up a formatted message to acknowledge receipt of the merchandise.

  Walid, his thin frame nearly invisible in the overpowering presence of Alqahiray, stood quietly to one side.

  His nervousness gone, Walid waited for him to reveal what he needed to know.

  With one finger Alqahiray typed the coded preamble from the sheet, keyed in the appropriate routing instructions, and with a “save and send” transmitted the receipt.

  Internal “information protect” registers misdirected and misled any database management or sniffer programs in the various telecommunications systems to hide the passage as the receipt sped back to Port Sudan.

  * * *

  At Port Sudan the receipt arrived at the personal computer that had transmitted the program, aboard a salt rusted freighter that rocked softly against the pier. The name Iran Bandar Abbas, painted in large black letters across the stern, could be easily read from the nearby public road that encircled the harbor.

  The same portly Oriental operator hurriedly poked in the shirttails of his white short-sleeve cotton shirt. He snatched the Libyan acknowledgment before the printer fully coughed it into the tray, ripping the bottom edge off.

  Then dashing out the door, he ran up three decks, tripping only once, to the bridge, where the captain jerked it from his hand. The captain smiled, revealing several teeth missing on the left side of his mouth, the result of a harbor bar brawl in Hong Kong many years ago. He read the receipt before grunting and nodding curtly to the messenger.

  Success was good in his line of work. Failure, though, could be a life-stopping event.

  Mission accomplished. The ship’s holds were full. Everyone was on board. He could leave. The sooner out of Port Sudan, the better. He picked up the bridge-to-bridge.

  “Port Sudan Harbor Control, this is merchant vessel Iran Bandar Abbas. We will be departing on time. We would like to take in all lines within the hour so as to be past the outer marker before sunset,” he said in an Oriental accent.

  “Iran Bandar Abbas, this is Harbor Control. Permission granted. Please ensure that you have completed departure paperwork, settled accounts, and have customs approval.

  You may single up all lines, but contact Harbor Control before casting off.”

  “Roger, Harbor Control; this is Iran Bandar Abbas standing by on channel sixteen.”

  The captain ordered the purser ashore to settle accounts with good Iranian currency, reminding him to pick up the customs forms and shipping manifest. Other members of the crew hustled to disconnect the phone and utility lines between the ship and shore. Within the hour the ship had all crew back on board, a customs stamp on the manifest, and an approved underway time. By 1700 hours the rusted stern of the freighter, with an oversized Iranian flag flying from the mast, caught the attention of the evening crowd as it eased past the narrow harbor entrance.

  A day later the same freighter was detected by a French Air Force Atlantique aircraft flying an afternoon reconnaissance mission over the Gulf of Aden. The freshly painted bright red hull caught the attention of the Atlantique’s pilot, causing him to divert the plane ten kilometers north, where the large-bodied jet circled the freighter twice before returning to normal track. The aircrew returned the waves of the Chinese sailors. The French operator recorded the course and speed in the visual sighting log for the merchant vessel Shanghai along with a notation that it was flying a normal maritime Peoples Republic of China flag.

  * * *

  Colonel Alqahiray stood looking at the operations room. Here, Jihad Wahid would unfold. The entire complex had been built for this. If he snapped his fingers-just like this — he could man every console and keep it manned forever. This was a snapshot in history that he wanted etched into his memory, for Alqahiray was going to be the catalyst and mover who changed the world. He, an orphan, who had fought his way to the top. He smiled as his eyes narrowed, the bushy eyebrows arching to form a sharp V. This day would start the revenge on the cowardly attacks of the American devils in 1986. His lips curled in disgust. Events begun today, he knew, would send the United Nations Security Council
scrambling into their useless and pitiful never-ending discussions and debates.

  Events meticulously dovetailed and calculated were poised now, like a tight row of dominoes, waiting for the first one to tilt into the second until, too fast to stop, they would knock each other down — one after the other. Today, Jihad Wahid — Holy War One — would be unleashed upon the world, starting with the Americans.

  He had never forgotten 1986: the raining carnage from fighter-bombers roaring by overhead, dropping canisters of death on the city. A loving mother dedicated to him and a hard-working father, more dedicated to the revolution, both died that night. His relatives never let him forget who killed his parents. When he reached seventeen he joined the Libyan Army — family prestige obtaining him a commission as an officer. Since then, over thirty-five years ago, all his plans and schemes had been to avenge the dishonor done to his country. And that dishonor would be avenged in the next few days.

  Installed at equal intervals where the top of the whitewashed walls met the fake ceiling tiles of the operations room were six-inch-wide glowing green lights. The colonel looked at each, mentally counting until he reached the total of seventeen.

  He leaned back in the raised chair at the center of the room and rested his feet on the metal stanchion that ran around the platform. He flicked the cigarette butt away. It was time to start.

  Colonel Alqahiray rose and walked to where Major Walid waited. The major reminded the colonel of a weasel, with the too narrow eyes, crooked teeth, and explosive, nervous energy that burst forth at the most unexpected moments.

  Walid’s short, badly cropped hair did little to dispel the weasel image that Alqahiray had developed of Walid. Look how scared the man had been earlier.

  “Walid, I know it’s your duty to transmit the package, but to mark the beginning of this historical moment I will assume responsibility for initiating Jihad Wahid. One day our sons and daughters will celebrate this moment in Arab history.” Without waiting for a reply. Colonel Alqahiray turned and shouted, “Assume stations, everyone!”