The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

  The navigator interrupted with an announcement that the ship had reached the fifteen-mile limit with a recommendation to come to course one one zero to commence track.

  “Very well. Officer of the Deck, bring us to course one one zero and maintain twelve knots.”

  “This is the officer of the deck. I have the conn. Helmsman, left fifteen-degree rudder.”

  With a smooth motion the electric drive, generated by four turbine engines, brought the ship to starboard with a minimum list. When the ship neared the track the OOD began easing the rudder, bit by bit, until the ship steadied on course one one zero.

  “Steady on course one one zero. Keep us at twelve knots,” Cafferty added. The Admiral Zumwalt DD-21-class land-attack destroyer was one smooth class of ships: different engineering technology; integrated power systems driven by the electric drive; and fully designed from the keel up with the concepts of Network Centric Warfare and offensive distributed firepower in mind. Of course. Network Centric Warfare assumed the ship was acting in concert with other units. For the Freedom of Navigation operation, the USS Gearing sailed alone. The sounds of the four turbine engines that generated the power for the electric drive vibrated the ship when increased power was required.

  “Aye, sir. Course one one zero. Steering one one zero.

  Twelve knots.”

  “Steering one one zero, twelve knots,” repeated the helmsman.

  “Very well,” replied the OOD.

  At the navigation table the navigator made appropriate log entries to include the distance from the Libyan land mass, unaware that the GPS position was erroneous. The USS Gearing was three nautical miles inside Libyan territorial waters.

  Cafferty briefed the two officers on how he wanted the guns and sensitive antennas and weapon systems covered.

  “Those that can be plugged, plug ‘em. Those that can be tarped, tarp ‘em. For those that need to be exposed to the weather, pack grease around them to keep the sand off the sensitive elements and gears.” The combat systems officer took notes. The XO nodded. On the port bridge wing, the quartermaster turned the sextant back and forth, checking the settings. The clumsy combat systems officer had knocked it out of calibration.

  Even so, the navigator wanted a sun fix and that was that.

  The quartermaster smiled. When she finished her sun fix, they would be spot-on GPS. She left the navigator sweating at the plotting table and went to take the reading topside, above the bridge. The signalmen always had better coffee up there than this shit they kept bringing up from the mess decks for the bridge. Plus, there was always the chance Sinclair may be there. Maybe she couldn’t drink on board, or smoke belowdecks, but when the sun went down … well, that was a different kettle of fish altogether.

  * * *

  The overhead speaker blared to life in the Operations room.

  “Command Post, this is Flight Twelve. Intruder has arrived.”

  Colonel Alqahiray nodded once as he twisted the end of his mustache.

  The operator picked up the microphone and in colloquial Bedouin Arabic acknowledged the transmission and asked the pilot to put the data system on-line. Sharp, crisp voice comments passed as the two exchanged equipment settings. When satisfied that the two systems were aligned properly the operator turned to the colonel.

  “Everything is ready, sir.”

  “Download, then.”

  The operator touched a heat-sensitive switch. A small red light on the console blinked a couple of times, then turned a steady green. At the PC, decrypted data began flowing across the CRT as it downloaded from the Puma helicopter that had been painted to resemble an oil company helicopter. The operator flipped a switch and the data on the CRT was routed simultaneously to an overhead display for everyone to see.

  The colonel rose from his seat and walked down the three steps to the main operations floor, his boots clanging on the metal rungs. He stopped in front of the communications systems array. Tilting his head back he watched the decrypted data scroll rapidly across the screen.

  He’d have it printed later to study, but even as it scrolled up he recognized the radar signatures and the highlighted navigational fix, placing the American warship three miles inside Libyan territorial waters. Later, in the afternoon, a scheduled Mirage V reconnaissance flight would provide photographic proof of the American warship’s intrusion.

  “Walid, enter the time as eleven twenty-three hours for event zero zero seven. The American destroyer has entered Libyan territorial waters in clear violation of international law.”

  Alqahiray turned to the plotting tables, where several soldiers stood.

  “Air cover?” the colonel asked.

  A soldier pointed at another display screen overhead.

  “Yes, sir, radar reflects two American Harrier aircraft northeast of Tripoli approximately seventy nautical miles in a racetrack orbit. Pattern suggests combat air patrol in support of the American warship.”

  “Keep an eye on them and tell the Air Force to put two MiG-25s on strip alert at Tripoli. The Americans will be expecting it, so let’s not disappoint them.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “Get me Colonel Alii Abu Gazellin at the airfield. Ensure it’s on the red line.”

  The communications officer acknowledged the order.

  He lifted the secure phone, pressed seven digits, and waited while the airman on the other end tracked down Colonel Gazellin. The colonel returned to his chair and hoisted himself into it. A broad smile showed the officers and troops that he was pleased with their performance and how well the plan was going. They smiled respectfully back.

  Alqahiray lifted the phone on the chair arm and dialed a number committed to memory. The call went through several diversionary electronic relays until it was answered with a loud click.

  “Stand by,” the colonel said. He reached over and pressed the cipher button. He drummed his fingers as he waited until the digital display read “secure.”

  “Salam-alay-ikum, my brother,” the colonel said.

  “You can lodge the complaint with the American interests section at the Swiss Embassy that an American warship is violating our territorial waters.”

  He listened.

  “Of course! You don’t think we confirmed it? It is nine miles from the coast. Three miles inside internationally recognized territorial waters, ninety-one miles inside Libyan recognized territorial waters.” He paused.

  “The Americans will deny it as they always do.”

  A raised voice came from the earpiece.

  “Quit worrying, Ahmid Tawali Mintab! You file the diplomatic paperwork and do it today. We can’t file it afterward, ya effendi. Just do it and then go back to writing your speech. You leave for New York when? Tomorrow?” the colonel asked curtly.

  He listened for several seconds and then replied, “Taib, Ahmid. You have your orders and you know the importance of your role. May Allah be with you.” He hung up before the person on the other end could reply.

  “Allah protect me from cowards and worriers,” the colonel muttered.

  “Walid, come here,” he snapped.

  The major hurried from his seat to where Alqahiray sat and saluted when he arrived. “Walid, send the signal to our friends that event zero zero seven has occurred. Notify me immediately after they acknowledge. I don’t like doing this. Too much of a chance of Jihad Wahid being detected, but it is critical that they know exactly where we are in our operation, otherwise Jihad Wahid is no more than all the other plans tried and failed.”

  “Yes, my colonel.” Walid saluted and began to leave.

  “Walid, don’t be so impatient. Come back here,” the colonel said, his mercurial mood swinging to one of jubilation.

  He leaned forward and, for a brief second, placed his hands on Walid’s shoulders.

  “After you send the signal, bring me the documents on the electronic array system concealed along the coast. I want to review again how it’s going to work.”

  Sharing his though
ts, the colonel added, “I never feel comfortable with things I can’t touch. Though, we are tweaking the tiger and he doesn’t even know it.” He grinned as he reached out and patted Walid gingerly on the cheek.

  Walid’s face turned red.

  “Colonel, these are great days in our history,” he stuttered.

  “They are indeed great days for Barbary, Walid. You and the others here will be heroes for our children and our children’s children. They will read about and glorify us in the years to come.”

  He gently shoved Walid.

  “Go ahead. Send the signal and bring the operating document on the array. Maybe then we can grab a few hours’ sleep before the next event.

  You’d think they’d have some modern name for the system instead of ‘electronic warfare array.” Something like ‘electronic signals suppression’ or ‘radar and communications interruptions device.”

  ” Seeing the bemused look on Walid’s face, Alqahiray stopped. “Never mind, Walid. Tell our friends of event zero zero seven and then bring me the papers on the array.”

  Walid saluted and ran from the platform to his console.

  Even as he threw himself into his seat his fingers danced across the keyboard; file pages spewed to the screen immediately, to be covered by other file pages until in the upper left-hand corner the system reported the signal sent.

  It would be a few minutes before he received a receipt.

  Satisfied the signal was transmitted, Walid departed the operations room in company with Major Samir. He returned alone fifteen minutes later with a leather satchel, which he carried directly to the colonel.

  “Thanks, Walid.” Alqahiray took the satchel, unbuttoned the leather straps, and pulled a heavy folder out. Opening the folder, Alqahiray began reading the documents, which were covered in Arabic script with photographs and diagrams on nearly every page. Even a country such as Libya, with a small military force, could afford to be a technological warrior.

  Walid returned to his console. Seeing the colonel occupied, he reached down and, with his back to Alqahiray, picked up his secure phone.

  “Ambassador Mintab, please,” he said quietly when he heard the click on the other end.

  * * *

  Most of Mers El Kebir napped through the hottest part of this June day as sailors raced up and down the length of the Algerian Navy Kilo-class diesel submarine to their “sea and anchor” detail. Dull, reddish areas dotted the thirty-year-old ship where wire brushes had won recent minor battles against the war on rust. The A/ Nasser was built by the old Soviet Union and bought from the new Russia that sold off its armaments to any nation possessing the hard currency to purchase them. Along with the purchase of two Kilo attack submarines by Algeria came peripheral contracts for spare parts, maintenance, and operational training so the weapons could live up to the buyer’s expectations. The Algerian submarines had spent a lot of time at sea in the intervening years perfecting tactics and developing professional expertise to the point where they were as good as most other Mediterranean navies.

  The contract with the Russians had been limited to spare parts and overhauls for the last three years. The glazed eyes of two dead Russian tech reps stared sightless through the front window of an office that overlooked the submarine pens. Revolutionary Algeria had just terminated the contract with a bullet to the forehead of each tech rep.

  Four doubled-upped lines ran from the light gray hull to the bollards on the pier. One from the port bow, two amidships, and one from the port stern. Amidships the lines crossed in an X to provide stability to the moored boat as the tides fought to shift it forward and backward.

  The bow and stern lines held the sub to the pier.

  The four teams, of four sailors each, formed up at their stations supervised by an Algerian chief petty officer. On the pier opposite each team two dockworkers waited impatiently to assist.

  From the conning tower came the word to single up all lines and in unison the pier side teams fought the tight topmost line off the bollards and, once free, the submarine crews, hand over hand, quickly pulled the lines back aboard. As the lines were hauled aboard, a sailor flemmed each back and forth in neat loops on the deck, far enough behind the teams so no one would trip over it, making it ready for storage as soon as they cast off. The captain ordered the officer of the deck to take in lines one, three, and four. The remaining line would be used to pivot the stern out as the captain momentarily ordered all engines ahead one-third and left full rudder.

  The submarine pivoted so that the bow crept closer to the pier while the stern began to slowly angle out.

  The captain ordered rudder amidships; all engines back one-third.

  The submarine eased farther away from the pier as the sailors fed out line to the same number two line, being used now as insurance against a helmsman or engine room mistake. When satisfied they had sufficient clearance from the pier the captain ordered the remaining line to be cast off. They were under way. He gradually increased speed as the submarine slowly merged into the channel. He shifted the rudders to left full for ten seconds to straighten out. Visually satisfied with the position of the boat, he brought the rudders to amidships and ordered the forward speed increased to four knots. His seamanship brought the warship perfectly into the middle of the vacant channel.

  The captain was proud of his boat-driving skills and knew this submarine like the back of his hand. No one else could maneuver the A/ Nasser like he could.

  On deck, sailors went about the business of storing the lines and the mooring cleats so that the hull of the submarine became sleek and smooth to allow it to slide through its underwater world with minimum effort and noise. Behind the A/ Nasser the second Kilo submarine, A/ Solomon, moved into position three hundred yards astern. The sailor manning the stern watch on A/ Nasser kept a continuous monologue going through his sound powered phone as he reported the relative positions of the two submarines.

  Wearing sound-powered phones, the port and starboard lookouts passed, on demand, compass bearings from the boat to various charted shore markers, to the navigation team in the control room. After plotting the results, the navigation officer made course recommendations to the captain, who corrected the heading and speed of the ship ever so slightly to keep the submarine in the center of the channel.

  Two hours later the two lethal attack submarines were out of the harbor and steering the navigational channel bordered with a series of green and red buoys. Al Nasser was first past the outer marker where open sea began. The submarine turned to a northwest course and increased speed to a more efficient twelve knots. The Al Solomon followed suit and the two submarines continued in line astern formation, their surfaced tandem maneuvering hidden from overhead eyes by thick summer clouds.

  The captain of the Al Nasser moved to the signal light.

  Motioning the signalman to one side the captain took control of the light and flashed a short coded message to the A I Solomon.

  On board the Al Solomon, the executive officer flashed an acknowledgment and breathed a lot easier. The most dangerous part was over. They were out of port and nearly through Algerian waters. The captain of the Al Solomon would have been on the bridge, but he was suffering a bad case of cut throat, courtesy of the executive officer. The crew believed the story of the captain suffering a slight bout of food poisoning, a malady that everyone on board an Algerian Navy vessel endured eventually.

  Thirty minutes after they exchanged signals, armed sailors boiled out of the insides. Using their rifles, the sailors prodded groups of officers and sailors to the bow of the submarine, their hands behind their heads. With a pistol to enforce their new authority, the leaders screamed at the captive officers, chiefs, and sailors until they were lined up along the seaward side of the submarine. Then, shouting, the leaders lined the armed sailors across from their former shipmates. Quick directions and a chopping arm motion and the sailors opened fire. Most of the prisoners stood shocked, unable to believe what was happening.

  When th
e first bullets ripped through the captives a few spontaneously leaped overboard.

  The squads rushed to the side and fired at those in the water even as water suction, flowing along the submarine hull, pulled some through the chopping blades of the propellers.

  Most who jumped avoided the bullets; unfortunately the firing squads shoved the dead and dying bodies into the sea. The submarine was near the horizon when the first sharks arrived. Only five survivors would make it to shore and then only because a fishing boat happened upon them early the next morning. By then, it was too late to warn loyal Algerian military forces.

  Two miles later, the executive officer of Al Solomon watched crew members bring the commanding officer’s body topside and dump it overboard along with the bloodsoaked mattress from the stateroom. There were plenty of empty mattresses on board to replace it.

  The Algerian Kilo submarines preferred to surface when their batteries needed recharging so the internal air could be recycled quicker. The advantage of a diesel over a nuclear-powered submarine was that battery propulsion was very quiet and seldom detected by passive sonar. The batteries of the two deadly Kilos were fully charged.

  The captain of the Al Nasser turned to course two seven zero at depth fifty meters and passed this information via underwater communications, UWC, to the Al Solomon. Al Solomon would follow on the same track two hours later at seventy-five meters. They would rendezvous later before starting the dangerous part of their journey. The first two warships of the revolution headed west.

  The captain prayed that they would arrive at their destination before the Americans did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Anwar put the phone down gently.

  “Tonight we strike a blow against the great Satan. A strike that will be heard throughout the world. Allah Alakbar! It is a glorious moment to be alive.” He smiled.

  Anwar turned to Taradin.

  “Give Kayal his khat,” he commanded.

  “Tonight he greets Allah in paradise as he leads us into battle. Don’t you, my drug-crazed zombie?” Anwar laughed, directing the question to Kayal. Derision dripped from every word.