The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

  Twenty-four pairs of eyes stared intently at the green lights. Seldom were the seventeen lights green at the same time and even less were they all red. Once every three weeks for nineteen seconds they glowed red at the same time and that time was nearly here again. If they missed this window of opportunity, it would be three weeks before it would happen again. A lot could happen in three weeks. Secrets never stayed secrets long and a secret like Jihad Wahid was like water in a sieve. It was today or never.

  He lit another cigarette. Taking a deep puff, he shoved himself off the chair and strode to the computer that held the package. Walid nodded as the colonel passed. A humorous thought flickered through Alqahiray’s mind as he walked by Walid that if he jumped at the weasel, the man would spring off like a pinball, bouncing off the walls.

  Alqahiray found this amusing.

  The Libyan colonel stopped at the console to watch attentively, along with everyone else, the green lights. His attention alternated between the clock and the lights. The screen saver blanked out the CRT. Three minutes later the first green light turned red. He butt-lit another cigarette.

  His face, enshrouded in a cloud of bluish smoke, looked as if it were surrounded by a halo.

  “Satellite one below horizon,” announced the sergeant monitoring the lights. He then continued for the next fifteen minutes until all the lights glowed red.

  “Satellite seventeen below horizon!” shouted the sergeant.

  “All lights red. Colonel!”

  The decisive nineteen seconds were here. Nineteen seconds to transmit the package to the weapons site before three of the lights would turn green at the same instant.

  Nineteen seconds when no Western electronic surveillance satellites monitored Libya. He casually reached down, smiling, and pressed the transmit button.

  The CRT flashed an alert indicating an erroneous code word. The computer requested password reentry. The colonel’s wry smile vanished beneath the heavy graying mustache. His dark eyes flashed from their caverns with an intensity that caused Major Walid to step back.

  “Colonel,” said Walid, his voice an octave higher than normal. “It needs your password! The system requires a password reentry if idle for more than fifteen minutes, sir.”

  Sweat on Walid’s forehead glistened in the overhead blue light. His stomach churned again.

  “A security caution,” Walid mumbled, the words tapering off.

  The array of electronic systems crammed into the operations room maintained a steady hum in the background.

  The colonel threw his cigarette on the floor. Walid stomped it out. Colonel Alqahiray flopped down in the seal and hurriedly typed his password into the computer. He missed a letter, causing the computer to beep ominously as another stupid Microsoft message flashed on the screen.

  He glanced at the clock. Seven seconds. He rubbed his fingers against his wet palms and concentrated on the keys.

  The computer beeped acceptance and loaded the last page.

  He hurriedly pressed the transmit button. This time, without a covering mask, raw traffic headed toward the airways.

  The compressed program raced for the microwave relay site where for the first time in its journey it entered the atmosphere and became detectable by threat sensors. It hit the first tower, where it was bent to the curvature of the earth before being sent reeling toward the second. Each of the twelve towers amplified the program and slightly changed its direction to focus its journey toward the next tower in the chain. At each tower it went through the same telecommunications cycle until it arrived at its destination-a specially built Jihad Wahid site deep within one of the numerous mountains that decorated the southern Libyan portion of the Sahara Desert.

  Similar to the operations room at the main command post a suite of stand-alone portable computers awaited its arrival where the program downloaded into their system.

  With four seconds remaining, the uncompressed program projected duplicates of itself along six lasers that immediately fired their beams upward. For a fraction of a second the Libyan weapons illuminated the six global positional satellites that guarded Mediterranean navigation.

  The twenty-four satellites, known as GPS, circled the earth in stationary orbits. Each satellite constantly transmitted a unique radio signature and an accurate timing signal so that anyone receiving the transmissions from four or more satellites had position and speed calculated to within seventy-five feet and one knot accuracy. GPS had replaced the old LORAN system of terrestrial-based radio data transmissions and, in many ships, manual navigational calculations had long ago ceased; such was the dependence on GPS.

  The laser transported the “information attack” program to the GPS satellites. A preamble code triggered dormant viral software within the GPS program. The viral software initiated several security check programs against the laser delivered trigger to ensure its validity. Satisfied, the viral software downloaded. The evolution completed, it initiated a correction to the GPS math coprocessor that caused the position read-out of GPS receivers to be off by five minutes of latitude. Ships now depending on GPS would discover, if they compared the readings to radar reckoning, or did a moving fix against land markers, that they were five nautical miles farther south than GPS showed. This was no problem if they were far enough north in the Mediterranean. When the virus completed the programmed function, it began to eat itself. Twenty-eight seconds later, it was as if the virus never existed.

  “Event zero zero one implemented and functioning,” said the soldier technician monitoring a GPS receiver. An intelligence screen above the double steel doors reflected a red event notation changed to green. Colonel Alqahiray stood rigid at an attention posture, his feet at a forty-five-degree angle, heels touching.

  “It begins!”

  he yelled, throwing his arms out wide.

  A single clap was soon followed by a thunderous ovation.

  His lower lip jutted out — his Mussolini look, he called it. He raised his head and put his hands on his hips in what he thought of as his Patton pose. Soldiers stood and continued cheering and when the applause began to die Alqahiray began to clap, bringing renewed vigor to another round of self-congratulatory ovation. Alqahiray enjoyed the adulation.

  Jihad Wahid had been launched and only those in this room knew the exact time that war with America had begun.

  The computer, where the program resided, beeped, drawing the colonel’s attention from the festive spirits. A series of indecipherable script, numbers, and signs rushed across the screen, scrolling upward. The operating software was self-destructing from a daeman virus delivered with the package.

  “Damn them!” Alqahiray shouted.

  Walid jumped, throwing his hands up to ward off a nonexistent slap.

  Colonel Alqahiray dove for the interrupt switch to save the program, desperate to keep the surreptitiously made bootleg copy.

  Realizing what was happening, Walid leaped forward and jerked the plug from the wall.

  “What do you think?” the colonel asked, stepping back.

  “I don’t know, sir. We’ll turn it back on and see if we can recover the data.” Walid wiped his brow. What if the colonel blamed him for this?

  “Good, Walid. But I think you’ll be unsuccessful. Obviously our friends had little trust and no intent of leaving us with anything that someday may be used on them. Seems our one-time buy was for a one-time use.” Alqahiray placed his hands behind his back and strolled across the room to the command chair, reconciled to the loss.

  “Play with it, Walid, but don’t feel bad if you’re unable to do anything. If they’re capable of making what we bought, then they are easily capable of protecting their programs.”

  Walid saluted. He plugged the computer back in and began the mentally intensive job of recovering the software and reconfiguring the system.

  The colonel sat down. The few standing followed suit, quickly turning their attention to individual tasks. A pensive look crossed his face as he watched the soldiers for a w
hile before his gaze moved upward. Screens, the size of those in small movie theaters, mounted on the walls high above the electronic systems on the floor and below the satellite warning lights, showed various intelligence data and situational projections. From here Colonel Alqahiray would watch Jihad Wahid. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. From behind, a young soldier in a white coat and gray slacks handed him a cup of strong tea.

  All things come to those who wait, says the Koran, and the colonel had waited and planned for years. The next few days would be enjoyable. He laughed. This far underground, even if the Americans discovered the location, there was little they could do; and when he finished, the Mediterranean Sea would be an Islamic one and Europe would be a pawn forced to bend to his influence.

  Ah, the tea was just right. Hot, steaming aroma, tickling the nose. Sweet, strong tea with a touch of cream to titillate the tongue. He savored the taste a couple of seconds before taking the first swallow.

  He motioned to Major Samir, the intelligence officer.

  “Where is the American destroyer?”

  “Colonel, the warship is approximately forty nautical miles northwest of Benghazi on a southeasterly heading.”

  “Like dogs attracted to poisoned meat they come. Major Samir. So, tell me the disposition of the American Navy.

  Aircraft carrier? Any change?”

  “No, sir. Colonel. The American aircraft carrier Roosevelt is the nearest and it is in the Persian Gulf. It will not be allowed to return. That leaves only the American amphibious task force in the Mediterranean. The USS Nassau is the lead ship. She is an amphibious assault ship-called an LHA by the Americans — one of the older Tarawa-class units. The Nassau has a minimum of eight AV-8 Harriers on board. She also has at least six CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters. There may be more helicopters belowdecks. Our agent counted them when the task force visited Livomo recently. If she is fully manned by the United States Marines then she will have approximately one thousand seven hundred troops on board. We do not know what type of landing craft she has embarked.”

  “I am not concerned about the Marines at this time, Major Samir,” Colonel Alqahiray snapped.

  “What will the Nassau do during the destroyer’s mission?”

  “Sir, they have already started supporting the destroyer USS Gearing. Two Harriers from the Nassau are orbiting about one hundred miles northeast of Tripoli. We expect them to continue a combat air patrol for the duration of the destroyer’s mission along our coast.”

  “Do they really think Harriers can stand up against a highperformance fighter such as our MiG-25 or MiG-23?

  They are stupid if they do.”

  “What counts. Colonel, is that they are United States Marines and, regardless of the odds, we know they will fight. They won’t run.” The colonel gave his intelligence officer a look of disgust.

  “Then they will die.”

  “Yes, sir. They will die, but they will fight.”

  Major Samir bent his head to break eye contact before he continued, changing the subject back to safer ground.

  “The amphibious task force has been re designated a battle group by their Sixth Fleet commander because of the departure of the carrier two weeks ago. The nearest real fighter aircraft are United States Air Force F-16s stationed far to the north at Aviano, Italy. We have agents observing the base who will tell us if they move south.”

  “Tell me again the other ships with the USS Nassau,” the colonel directed, waving his cigarette at the major, the smoke weaving an erratic pattern between them.

  “Along with the Nassau are two old Austin-class amphibious transport docks, the USS Nashville and USS Trenton.”

  Major Samir flipped hurriedly through the papers in his hands before he found what he was looking for.

  “The Nashville has four Sea Cobras on board along with a minimum of six CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters. The Trenton has a mix of two additional Sea Cobras along with two CH-53 helicopters.”

  “That is their air power in the Mediterranean?” the colonel asked, displaying a broad smile.

  “Yes, my colonel.”

  He clapped his hands.

  “Why do I always feel so good when I hear this information. Major Samir? Is it because I know that Allah has ordained our victory even before we begin?”

  Major Samir pushed a wisp of sweat-matted black hair back across the top of his head.

  “Colonel, along with the Nassau battle group are the Aegis-class cruiser USS Yorktown-“

  “She is an old ship. Not much to fear there. Major.”

  “Yes, sir. She is old, but she, like the Hayler and the Spruance, has the vertical launch system in her bow loaded with Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles. The Tomahawks can reach Libya from where they are operating now, southeast of the Italian island of Lampedusa near the Strait of Sicily.

  They can launch them without warning.”

  “Quit worrying. They can, but they won’t. The Americans will, as usual, beat their chests and chase their allies to get a consensus before they react and by then Jihad Wahid will be completed. Old Saddam taught us the secret of jerking the American tiger. No, we will have changed history by the time they can respond.”

  Major Samir nodded. He doubted Alqahiray knew what he was talking about, but he also knew the folly of disputing the colonel’s views. So he continued, “Yes, sir. The destroyer USS Gearing, which is conducting this navigational freedom mission, is a new DD-21 destroyer. She is only one of two warships in the American battle group commissioned within the last ten years. Her combat capabilities are still being assessed. She was designed for minimum crew and ultimate computer-controlled war fighting.”

  The colonel chuckled.

  “Then, I guess we will find out how these capabilities stack up. And we know about computers, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir.” Major Samir licked his lips nervously.

  The colonel smiled as he dismissed the intelligence officer with a curt nod.

  “Keep me informed of any changes to the disposition of American forces.”

  Major Samir, and the two junior intelligence officers with him, saluted and hastily departed through a side door.

  They never say anything, those two, thought Alqahiray, as he watched them leave.

  I will be the most powerful man in the Arab world, Colonel Alqahiray said to himself. And even more worshipped than old Saddam, who still manages to hold on to power at his age. He propped his feet up on the metal stanchion in front of him and for the thousandth time began to go through the hundreds of things that could go wrong.

  Minutes later he shook his head.

  “Steward, bring me another cup of tea.”

  Two hours later, a young captain standing near the primary operations console reported to Alqahiray that a supertanker had run aground off Morocco in the Strait of Gibraltar. The erroneous data broadcast from the GPS satellites was confirmed. Alqahiray watched expressionless as they monitored the joint Spanish and British maritime control on Gibraltar shifting transit shipping to the northern channels and closing the southern lanes. Jihad Wahid had claimed its first casualty, even if it was Panamanian registered.

  * * *

  “Damn it!” Captain Duncan James, United States Navy, grumbled. He wadded up the letter and tossed it. It bounced off the hallway wall to land beside a similarly discarded letter that had arrived from the Navy yesterday reminding him that he had to retire in August.

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I give you money to live with that boy toy, Cathy,” he said.

  Duncan James thought of himself as a strong, no nonsense naval officer, but beneath that granite veneer was … a sensitive man?

  “Yes, a sensitive, goddamn twenty-first-century male who is going to ring that son of a bitch’s neck when I get my hands on him.”

  He stared at the face in the hallway mirror as he straightened his tie. Duncan lightly stroked his chin. No double chin, he noted, thinking to himself that most men would have two by the time
they were forty-eight. He squinted at the image in the mirror and leaned forward for a closer look. With two fingers on his right hand he pulled his lower eyelids down.

  “Shit,” he said, looking at the bloodshot eyes. He released his eyelids and his gaze drifted downward to his uniform. He leaned back.

  “Damn, where did that come from?” He scratched at a stain on the dark tie, feeling a small crusty patch.

  “It’s either last Friday’s or this morning’s eggs. Duncan, watch where your food falls,” he said aloud. A slight echo came from the other end of the hall.

  He brushed the tie straight and figured no one would notice unless they looked close. He turned sideways, continuing his appraisal. Flexing the muscles of his left arm, he was rewarded with the reflection of a firm bicep. He ran his hand across his head, rubbing the short stubble, noticing — really noticing for the first time — that gray strands far outnumbered the black and wondered how long his hair had been gray instead of black. He leaned closer and lightly traced a receding hairline that was in an impossible race against a bald spot for possession of the top of his head.

  His finger touched a faint three-inch shrapnel scar on the left cheek near the jawbone, courtesy of an Iraqi grenade during Desert Storm. His hand moved to his stomach.

  “Maybe an inch too much around the waistline, but I still have everything I had when I was in my twenties; it’s just further south now.”

  He squared himself toward the mirror and took a step back.

  “I’m six foot two, one hundred seventy pounds, and all muscle … well, nearly all muscle. Everything a Navy SEAL with twenty-eight years of service should be.”

  The shock of the past ten days hit again. He couldn’t believe that his wife of twenty years had thrown him over for a stock boy at Safeway. Why, Cathy? The son of a bitch is nothing more than an anemic stock boy who can’t be more than thirty! He’s at least thirteen years younger than you are! I love you. But, he thought, maybe love was too strong a word. Maybe their marriage, like thousands of others, had become more one of convenience than love; acceptable friends rather than close lovers; roommates over husband and wife. He rubbed his hand over his head again.