Said pulled away from Taradin’s grip. “What’s he doing?” he said.
“He’s supposed to wait until we are ready.
Anwar will not be happy.”
“Anwar is never happy. Be quiet!” Taradin responded.
“Kayal is afraid we’ll ponder, discuss our plans, and find reasons to call it off. He has taken that away from us.”
Then he whispered respectfully, “Go with Allah, Kayal.”
“Anwar and the others are around the block,” Said said quickly, looking at his watch.
“It’s after ten o’clock. We’re nearly on time. It will be dark in thirty minutes.”
The two men walked at a brisk pace to the corner of the block and turned uphill away from the harbor.
* * *
Kayal slowed as he approached the left bend in the road. Public attention focused on the accident behind him. The two drivers, standing nose to nose, screamed at each other, their arms waving wildly, as only Italians can do to accent their argument. He thought of the joke about the Italian who lost his power of speech because they amputated both his arms. A crowd was growing from nearby coffee shops and as pedestrians and cars stopped to enjoy the spectacle. And everyone had their own opinion.
At the port, Kayal waited patiently for two cars to pass before he turned into the narrow entrance. His eyes shifted from side to side as at any minute he expected security forces to swarm over him. He took his hands off the steering wheel and wiped his sweaty palms on his stained trousers. The American sentry motioned for Kayal. An Italian sentry stood on the right side of the gate area while on the driver’s side an American Navy petty officer in uniform held his hand up for Kayal to stop.
“ID,” the petty officer said.
Kayal handed the envelope with the papers to the sentry. Sweat ran down Kayal’s face. The American removed the sheet authorizing access to the pier.
“Hey, mate, you have to have this displayed on your window to drive on the pier.” He reached inside and tossed the paper haphazardly onto the dashboard.
“Tell me, how the hell does a second class petty officer rate a Mercedes, Garcia? Ain’t fair.”
Kayal pointed to his throat.
“Okay, next time tell me. I want a Mercedes for a government vehicle also. Here’s your ID back, Garcia. Don’t give that sore throat to any of us.” He waved the man through.
Kayal drove about twenty feet and stopped.
The Italian sentry, seeing him stop, shook his head and started walking toward Kayal to tell the dumb American that parking spots were to the right and to move the car because he was blocking the narrow entryway. As he approached the rear of the Mercedes the car gunned its engine, popped the clutch, and peeled rubber, accelerating as it began to cross the hundred yards separating it from the sterns of the two larger ships tied together. Both ships were moored within ten feet of the pier.
The Italian sentry, a sinking feeling crushed to his stomach, guessed immediately what was happening. Adrenaline and terror rushed through his body. He pulled his pistol and began firing at Kayal. The American sentry ran toward the Italian, screaming at the top of his voice for the stupid Italian to stop.
Two bullets shattered the rear window of the car. One lucky shot hit Kayal at the base of the neck, shattering the spine and sending the terrorist into Allah’s arms at the same moment that the car hit the edge of the pier. The car catapulted toward the middle ship, the USS La Sane. Moored against the forward port side of the USS La Sane and barely visible from the pier floated the USS Albany, a nuclear attack submarine that had arrived earlier in the morning for a routine port visit.
The car hit the port stern line, flipping the Mercedes upside down in its flight, causing it to drop below the steel and cement pier before slamming into the stern gate of the USS La Sane. The impact crushed Kayal’s head between the steering wheel and the roof as one thousand pounds of semtex packed into the backseat, the trunk, and within the panels of the car exploded.
The explosion blew off the back doors of the Mercedes, sending the right one careening back like a deadly Frisbee toward the harbor gate. The door decapitated the Italian sentry, who took two more steps toward the car before his torso collapsed. A half second later it sliced the right arm and shoulder off the American sentry. Then at the end of its trajectory, a full second later, it blasted through the front door of the module logistics office near the parking lot.
The sides of the prefabricated hut blew apart as the impact killed the three inside.
On the USS La Sane the explosion destroyed the stern gate, breaking it loose and sending the twisted remains splashing into the harbor waters. The explosion shook La Sane violently, knocking those standing off their feet. The concussion blew upward, hitting a group of sailors, who had been smoking on the main flight deck above the gate.
killing those nearest the stern instantly. Deadly shrapnel, of what had been an automobile, propelled outward at bullet speed a millisecond later, cutting through sailors, dismembering them like a gigantic garbage disposal. Body parts rocketed over three ships, the pier, and the crowd of Italians surrounding the two arguing drivers. Most of the American sailors died immediately — others before they hit the water and the ships. Some lived a few minutes without regaining consciousness — mercifully — before life poured out of their limbless bodies.
With no stern gate to maintain the ship’s watertight integrity, seawater rushed into the well deck of the “amphibious” turned “command” ship. The USS La Sane’s stern section sank immediately, stopping only when it hit the shallow bottom of the port. The bow of the ship rose some twelve feet, creating a twenty-degree list to the stern. She was partially sunk, but still afloat. The ballast tanks, which the former amphib could have used to refloat, had holes blown in them from the explosion.
The USS Simon Lake, protected somewhat from the explosion because the command ship absorbed the bulk of it, had a hole blown inward on its port stern side the size of the Mercedes. The left back door of the Mercedes penetrated two frames below the Simon Lake’s waterline, bringing Mediterranean waters flooding into the compartments.
The majority of the ships’ crews were on liberty. The duty watch sections of the three ships rushed to their damage control stations even before the alarms sounded. The USS Simon Lake sank slower than the USS La Sane. It began to list to the port side as its stern settled beneath the waters. Wrenching steel, crashing of gangways tearing loose, and the ripping and falling of antennas, lifeboat stanchions, and masts mixed with the screams and cries of wounded sailors as the two gray behemoths caved into each other. Their main decks entangled in a mass of aluminum, steel, and flesh.
The General Quarters alarm of three ships broke the eerie seconds of silence that followed the massive explosion.
On the USS Albany, the duty officer pulled himself up from the deck and, doing well for such a junior officer, assessed the situation correctly. He shouted an order to a nearby sailor to cut the stern lines. The sailor grabbed a fire ax and ran to the stern of the submarine and cut the aft line attached to the USS La Sane.
The USS Albany’s 1MC blared.
“Security alert, topside.
Security alert. Away the security alert team.” On board the lone undamaged warship, M-16s and shotguns were unlocked from storage and thrown to eager hands that snatched them in midair, grabbing a handful of ammo at the same time. Like angry ants erupting from a disturbed nest, The submariners poured out of the dark hull.
The Albany duty officer, holding a pistol in one hand and the topside bullhorn in the other, announced, “La Sane and Simon Lake, stand by for Albany security force personnel to pass through your ships to secure the pier.” He repeated it several times as the submariners, anger in their faces, fear in their stomachs, and tears on some cheeks, rushed up the slanted brow to the La Sane. Everyone had their finger on the triggers and the guns were loaded.
They raced through the La Sane and across the connecting brow to the Simon Lake. The officer of the deck of the
Simon Lake, cradling a broken arm and sitting with his back against a bulkhead, motioned the Albany crewmembers onto the ship’s starboard side ladder, leading to the pier. The ladder canted to the right and swayed precariously between the ship and the pier. Within ten minutes of the incident the USS Albany had secured, by arms, the pier and the harbor entrance.
The Albany’s duty officer watched the damage control teams of La Sane and Simon Lake race about their injured ships. He took a deep breath and successfully controlled his emotions. He leaned against the conning tower and looked at his watch.
“Topside watch, make the following log entries….”
On board the USS La Sane and USS Simon Lake the lights flickered a couple of times and then went out as flooding belowdecks shorted the generators. The La Sane creaked as it hit the bottom of Gaeta Harbor. The ship rocked to starboard, bringing a new round of wrenching steel as it pushed further into the Simon Lake and settled lower in the mud.
* * *
“I don’t like sitting here,” Colonel Walt Ashworth stressed in a low voice to Admiral Cameron’s tall executive assistant commander. Jerry Baldston.
“Colonel, the seating arrangement was made a week ago and I passed that on the LAN,” Baldston objected to the stockily built, crew cut Marine, who stood five inches shorter than his own six-foot-five frame.
“I know, I know. Jerry, but I was temporarily deployed to Kosovo last week. Remember? I didn’t return until this afternoon so how in the hell could I read my e-mail and send you a reply. I couldn’t, so there.”
“Yes, sir. Look at it this way. Colonel: you asked to be seated near the admiral before you went on this TAD trip and you are.”
“Jerry, I didn’t know that I was going to be sitting with my back to the door facing the admiral!” Walt whispered emphatically.
“Colonel, I’m sorry, but you may try trading places with someone else. Besides, Diana is already deep in conversation with Elsie, the chaplain’s wife. I’m not going to tell her she has to move.”
Walt looked to where Jerry pointed. Diana and Elsie were head to head, exchanging the latest gossip. He sighed.
Walt would never move her now. At least they had a great view of the valley out of the windows that lined the back of the bistro.
“Okay, Jerry, you damn politician,” he said congenially. “You win, but in the future don’t put me where my back is to the door, okay? It makes me nervous. Never know when some bill collector is going to show up.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel. I’ll remember,” Baldston replied.
thinking that Colonel Ashworth was going shell-shocked at the old age of forty-seven.
Colonel Ashworth wandered toward his chair, exchanging greetings with other members of Admiral Cameron’s Sixth Fleet staff, until he stood behind his wife.
“Honey, I told you there are some things even a Marine Corps colonel can’t change,” Diana whispered, her smile accented by soft blue eyes. The same eyes that first attracted him to her at college. She patted the chair beside her.
“Now sit down and quit acting like a spoiled child.”
He bent down and kissed her. Twenty-six years of marriage this past April and her hair was still mostly blond. A wisp or two of gray speckled the sides.
“Maybe two nights in a row?” he whispered in her ear.
She playfully slapped his hand and patted his stomach.
“Oh, you naughty boy, you.” She laughed; her eyes sparkled. How she loved this tall, muscle-bound Marine-the man who swept her off her reluctant feet in college.
Twenty-six years, two grown boys, and a life of moving every three years and they still acted as if they were new in-love teenagers. Plus, unlike other middle-aged men, four of Walt’s six-pack were still intact. Maybe when Walt retired he’d grow a small stomach, but she doubted it. She tried to imagine him with long hair, but found it impossible.
He’d be a Marine until he died.
Turning to her friend, Diana said, “Can’t take Walt anywhere, Elsie, unless I take him twice. Second time to apologize.”
Heads turned as Admiral Cameron and his wife, Susan, worked their way along the narrow opening between the long table and the row of windows behind to their seats located in the center directly across from Walt and Diana.
At the admiral’s movement, those engaged in conversation over before-dinner drinks started moving to assigned seating.
Everyone remained standing until the admiral and his wife took their seats.
Admiral Cameron leaned forward.
“Walt, good to see you, but much better to see your better half. Diana, how do you keep track of him?”
“I don’t know. Admiral. After twenty-six years I can’t even keep him in bed past five in the morning.”
Before Tailhook the admiral would have replied with something like, “You wouldn’t have that problem with me,” followed by ribald laughter around the table. He did miss the humor of the old Navy.
“You’re lucky, Diana,” said Susan.
“Gordon sleeps until seven. Used to be, he was up and running by six.”
“I’d call the doctor if Walt was in bed at seven.”
“Admiral, I would like to ask you to disregard any opinions my wife may voice concerning me. The good ones I give her money to say; the negative ones she invents.”
They laughed.
“Walt, you are such a twit,” Diana said sweetly.
“Admiral, how much would I have to give you to keep him at work longer hours?”
“I have problems now getting him to leave on time. My goal has always been to be the last off the ship in the evening and I’ve found that unless I leave first the rest of the staff feels it’s their duty to stay. I like to think that any three-star admiral worth their salt is capable of taking care of him-or herself.”
“Yes, Walt brags that you are a low-maintenance admiral.”
“Diana!” Walt objected.
“Admiral, like I said, I don’t know where she dreams these ideas.”
“She is right, Walt. I like to think of myself as a low maintenance admiral. Don’t want a large entourage milling about trying to take care of me.” Admiral Cameron took a sip of his wine and squeezed Susan’s hand.
“It’s amazing how things you thought were resolved years ago resurrect themselves again,” Admiral Cameron said, changing the subject.
“Like the Greek-Turkish thing last month. The Greeks are still flying combat air patrols around the Aegean and have even started flying them during the daylight hours off eastern Crete. They buzzed Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two’s EP-3E aircraft over international waters yesterday and the EP-3s fly out of Crete.”
“It’ll calm down, sir. I would say it’s more the eastern Mediterranean macho thing that keeps stirring those two up, but they haven’t had a major incident in nearly ten years; not since the SA-10 crisis in Cyprus. Just words and, of course, around election time the inevitable sword rattling to get out the votes.”
“EP-3E?” Diana asked.
“The EP-3E is an electronic reconnaissance variant of the P-3 Orion patrol aircraft. Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two, we call VQ-2 when we’re at work. The Q stands for electronic warfare. They are a descendant of the “Old Crows’ from World War II, which was the first squadron ever designed for electronic warfare.”
“What do they do?”
“If I knew, Diana, they’d have to shoot me.”
Everyone laughed politely at the old joke.
The Italian waiters moved along the table, setting out bottles of house wine along with olives and cheese, as the conversation continued among the group. Admiral Cameron seldom had an opportunity to socialize with his staff, what with the myriad political and military conferences and meetings he was forced to attend. He tried to rally everyone together at least once every three months. It was good for morale. It helped the spouses strengthen their ties and periodically the alcohol loosened a tongue to tell him something he needed to know. Five years ago when he
became an admiral he discovered that few would risk offending him by bearing bad tidings.
The admiral looked down to the end of the table at Commander Jerry Baldston and raised his wine in a silent toast to his executive assistant. Baldston had been with him since he was a one-star at Cruiser Destroyer Group Eight in Norfolk, Virginia. While he had risen to three stars, Baldston had zoomed through the ranks from lieutenant to full commander. But Jerry stood the strong chance of stopping there. The admiral intended to correct a misjudgment that he felt the bureau had done in failing to give Baldston his own ship. Without an at-sea command, Baldston would never make captain, and Admiral Cameron knew the man was flag material, just needed the opportunity to prove it.
Baldston wiggled in his seat, trying to fit his refrigerator frame under the low Italian bistro table without falling off the small straw-seated chair. Over the years Jerry had adjusted to being a big man in a small world. Learned quickly after the academy how to duck through hatches and hunch his shoulders together when passing others in tight passageways.
The mobile phone rang. He pulled the phone out of its holster, pressed a button, and put it to his ear.
“Commander Baldston here.”
On the other end the excited voice of the Sixth Fleet staff duty officer garbled something about a bombing thirty minutes ago. He shook his head because the SDO couldn’t have said what Baldston thought he said. “Slow down. Lieutenant,” said Baldston quietly, trying to avoid attention from the others around the table.
“Tell me slowly what you’re trying to tell me.”
The blood drained from his face as he listened.
“Stop a moment and start over. Tell me, chronologically, what happened, the damages, and what actions have been taken.”
He reached in his shirt pocket and extracted one of the three-by-five cards he carried to take notes.
Mentally, he envisioned the lieutenant on the other end taking a deep breath. Then, with slow, methodical military precision, the officer relayed the events of the bombing.
Forty known dead, two ships completely out of commission — their sterns mired in the bottom of Gaeta Harbor, their sides caved in upon each other.
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