The Sixth Fleet tsf-1

by David E. Meadows

“Where’s the DCI?” asked President Crawford, craning his head slightly, searching the table.

  “The director of Central Intelligence phoned this time, Mr. President. He is stuck in traffic on the beltway. Traffic accident on Sixty-six. He should be here anytime, sir,” said Roger Maddock, the secretary of defense, looking at his watch.

  “Well, I see you made it from Fort Meade on time. General Stanhope,” the president said to the director of the National Security Agency.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. Sometimes it’s easier to make fifty miles from Fort Meade than ten from Falls Church.”

  The DIRNSA’s smile pushed his wide ears farther out. The NSA civilians joked that he looked like a taxi coming down the road with its doors open, hence the nickname “Taxi,” which he had heard, though no one had been able (or willing) to explain to him how it had come about or what it meant. Nicknames to military professionals were badges given by their comrades in arms; the level of prestige to a nickname was determined by how it was earned and what it meant.

  The door opened and the minuscule director of Central Intelligence burst into the room.

  “Sorry, Mr. President. I got caught in the early morning beltway gridlock,” he said, his alto voice rising a couple of octaves. Parbros Digby-Jones nodded to everyone around the table, a forced smile on his face. His disheveled appearance made him look as if he had slept in his suit.

  With papers held loosely under his left arm, he scrambled to his seat. Everyone expected the papers to fall any moment.

  “Sit down, Farbros,” the president said sharply.

  “If you’re ever on time, I’ll know it’ll be because I’m late.”

  “Oh, no, sir, Mr. President. Never that, sir.” He dropped the papers on the table and shoved his heavy black-rimmed glasses back onto his narrow nose as his small frame disappeared into the plush leather chair. The president thought of them as “chastity glasses.” If you wore them, you didn’t have to worry about getting laid.

  The president recalled a discussion a year ago with the first lady about Farbros Digby-Jones, recognized budget weenie wizard and pork barrel slasher, being put in charge of this nation’s intelligence apparatus. That was before she withdrew. He missed her quick, on-the-mark analyses.

  Nearly a year ago while lying in bed, sharing a bottle of wine, they privately decided that Farbros won the prize as the worst selection of his administration. Of course, they admitted, it was Digby-Jones who found the funds to push through Crawford’s health plan. And that nationwide health plan got him elected to a second term. The graying of America voted for comfort, which was the reason he quit dying his hair and let the strands of gray slowly speckle his sandy brown stock of hair. That being said, he and his wife decided they learned one thing from hiring Farbros and that was never hire a man with a hyphenated name.

  God, he missed his wife beside him.

  Crawford shuffled through the briefing material in front of him while everyone waited quietly for him to signal the briefing to begin. Even as he shuffled and recognized the papers as ones he had seen earlier during breakfast, his mind wandered to the two objectives for this second term.

  One, to mark a place in the history books for his administration, and two, to hold the spot for his party in the next election. He glanced at the black notebook in front of Franco. Last night’s polls showed a high approval rating of forty-seven percent. If he could maintain that, plus or minus five percent, his party would sweep into the White House two years from now. Even if his less competent vice president followed him, Garrett Crawford would receive credit for the victory.

  “I know, Farbros, I know,” said the president, bringing his thoughts back to the table.

  A female Air Force lieutenant colonel stood at the far end of the table beside a large screen. The military services alternated weekly the dubious honor of doing the intelligence briefings for the president. Most mornings, Crawford read the intelligence notes sent up from the basement while he sipped his two allowed cups of coffee and shoveled lightly buttered oatmeal around a bowl with his spoon. Last night’s events remained unclear. He touched the Band-Aid again. Maybe not unclear, he thought. What he needed was facts. Once arranged in his mind, orderly and chronologically, things would become clearer and clues to the relationships between the events, as always, would pop up and reveal themselves. His innate ability to discover hidden agendas and see the big picture was more than acute political skill. Until he was clear about what was happening the anxiety bubbling around his emotions would never disappear. He may not be one to call an emergency session of the National Security Council lightly, but… “Go ahead. Colonel,” said the president.

  “Good morning, Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, General Stanhope. I am Lieutenant Colonel FrasierAllen, your briefer for this morning.”

  Shit, the president thought, another hyphenated name.

  A picture of Algeria flashed on the screen, showing Algiers and Mers El Kebir highlighted with “campfire” symbols.

  “Last night rebel forces completed the capture of Algiers and demanded the few remaining loyal government units to return to their garrisons or face execution. Few have accepted the offer. Government forces still retain control of western Algeria from here to the city of Oran.” Her laser pointer highlighted the largest city in the western portion of Algeria.

  “The rebels control all of eastern Algeria.”

  The red laser beam moved across the map.

  “Initially President Aineuf directed government forces to return to their garrisons. We think he believed this would defuse the situation. Instead, where government forces obeyed the orders and returned, Islamic fundamentalists overran them, scoring easy victories. The casualty figures are staggering. The rebels are rapidly occupying the cities and already control most of the countryside. In western Algeria, where loyal military units continue to fight, we are seeing slow retreats mixed with some units holding stubbornly to strategic defensive positions.”

  An overhead image of Algiers flashed onto the screen.

  “This is Algiers, Mr. President. The American Embassy, located here, is twelve blocks from the harbor. Early morning imagery shows armored personnel carriers and soldiers of the Algerian Liberation Front taking positions around Embassy Row. According to the DATT, the main concentration of insurgents is around the American Embassy. Initial assessment by DIA is that the Islamic rebels intend to restrict access to the embassies by Algerian citizens. The American, French, British, Italian, and Spanish Embassies are surrounded, but with the exception of sporadic gunfire in the vicinity, there have been no overt hostilities against the embassies or their personnel.”

  “The DATT, our defense attache in Algiers, Colonel Markum, earlier today met with rebel leaders at the main gate to the American Embassy compound. He was told the insurgents’ presence was to protect the Westerners from the are of the Algerian people as they throw off the yoke of their oppressors. The utilities, water and—”

  “Tell me more about this meeting. Did the colonel express our concerns to the Algerian rebels? Colonel, the last thing we want is another Tehran,” the president interrupted.

  Heads nodded in agreement around the table.

  “Well, sir,” she said hesitantly.

  “Colonel Markum strongly protested their presence and expressed in the vernacular his doubts as to their intentions.”

  The president looked at Franco Donelli.

  “Franco, let’s ask the embassy to give us a statement on that meeting.

  Let’s show that we have some semblance of dialogue with the rebels.”

  “He said, “Bullshit,” ” Roger Maddock added, testily. “He said what?” President Crawford asked. Large bushy half-inch-wide eyebrows, by which the president was caricatured in political cartoons, rose upward in surprise over his wide eyes.

  “Bullshit.”

  The president thought for a few seconds. Then his head bobbed several times.

  “Why couldn’t he have said something s
uch as “Nuts,” like that general in World War II?”

  He tapped the Band-Aid on his nose.

  “Yes, sir, he probably would have, if he had thought about it, but what he said was “Bullshit.”

  ” The president grinned.

  “Well, Franco, can we release this to the press? What do you think they’ll say when they hear that a lone United States Army colonel, standing at the door of the American Embassy, surrounded by angry rebels aiming guns at him, replied, “Bullshit’? I think the American public will love it!”

  “They’d react like you did, sir. They will love it. But, you shouldn’t be the one to release it.”

  “Plus, Mr. President,” Roger Maddock added, “he had thirty Marines, armed to the teeth, standing behind him.”

  “That would give me the confidence to say “Bullshit,” ” General Stanhope said, unbuttoning his Air Force dress uniform tunic.

  Roger Maddock smiled.

  “Me, too.”

  “Okay, work it out with Roger and Bob, Franco.”

  The president turned to his secretary of state.

  “Bob, what does the ambassador have to say about the events in Algeria?”

  “I talked with her earlier this morning. Her comments agree with the briefer’s. The only addition is she believes the insurgents are preparing for a variation of the debacle we had in Tehran in 1979. She doesn’t think they’ll occupy the embassy, but she doesn’t believe their claim of being there to protect them. She has initiated the phone tree, requesting American citizens remain in their homes until the situation clarifies itself. Other than the contact between Colonel Markum and the rebel force commanders, there has been no other communication. She says that it’s a standoff between thirty Marines against several hundred rebels.”

  “Sounds like a mismatch to me if there’s only several hundred rebels,” General Stanhope said softly, drawing chuckles from the table.

  Bob Gilfort, secretary of state, pushed his bifocals back on his nose and continued, “Ambassador Becroft said the embassy still has electricity and water service, but she has ordered the generator topped off in the event they have to make their own electrical power. The embassy has a well, though we don’t know if the water is potable. She is having the water checked. Sewage control is her major concern if, or when, we bring our citizens to the compound.

  They can sterilize the water, they can make electricity, but for sanitation all they have are three portable chemical potties.

  The utility of the potties is directly tied to the number of people using them.”

  “What preparations for evacuating American citizens has she done?”

  “She does have a plan,” the secretary of state responded.

  His voice tapered off as something on the screen attracted his attention.

  The president waited a few seconds for the secretary of state to continue.

  “Well, Bob. Would you like to tell me what it is?”

  “Oh, sorry, sir. In the event that we have to do a noncombatant evacuation operation — a NEO — she intends to use the embassy grounds as a helicopter-landing zone with the evacuees rendezvousing at the embassy for processing. There are twelve hundred forty-seven American citizens in Algeria, with most located in the major cities along the coast. Those not in Algiers are to be evacuated by sea. The oil company personnel in the south will be a problem. We may have to fly them out through a sub-Saharan route.”

  The president turned to the secretary of defense.

  “Roger, what do we have militarily in the area to go in and bring them out?”

  “Sir, the Nassau amphibious task force is off Tunisia, providing air protection for a destroyer that is conducting a Freedom of Navigation operation along the Libyan coast.

  With the USS Nassau are the amphibious ships Nashville and Trenton; the cruiser Yorktown; and destroyers Spruance, Hayler, and Gearing. The arsenal ship King and the submarines Albany and Miami are also in the battle group.

  The USS Gearing is the one conducting the Freedom of Navigation operation off the Libyan coast. USS Albany is in the port of Gaeta, helping in the aftermath there.”

  “I want to discuss more about what happened in Italy last night, Roger.”

  “Sir, we can break off the Freedom of Navigation operation and have Gearing rendezvous with Nassau. We can order the Nassau to take position over the horizon from Algiers. Then, if we need a visible presence we can send a ship or two within sight of the shore. Doing this puts an evacuation force in place. As for the Albany, I recommend we leave her in Gaeta for the time being.”

  “Okay, do it,” ordered the president.

  “Yes, sir.” The secretary of defense motioned to a nearby Army colonel who had been sitting quietly behind him.

  Roger whispered the necessary instructions to his assistant, who quickly left the room to start the re deployment of forces. His first call would be to the vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Colonel,” the president said to the briefer, “can we shift to the events in Italy?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. There are a few more slides showing rebel force disposition and a short naval order of battle that reports the disappearance of two Algerian Kilo submarines. We don’t know exactly where the two subs have gone and low cloud cover in the area is adversely affecting overhead monitoring of the situation.”

  “Okay, thanks. Colonel. Let’s go to Italy.”

  Several slides flew by on the screen as the Microsoft Power Point operator moved the briefing forward to the bombings in Italy.

  “Mr. President, yesterday at approximately sixteen hundred hours eastern standard time a suicide bomber, driving a dark Mercedes, ran the gate at Gaeta, Italy — home port to Commander United States Sixth Fleet. Latest report indicates sixty-eight dead and two hundred sixteen wounded.

  We do not expect those figures to rise. USS La Sane, the Sixth Fleet flagship, and the USS Simon Lake, the submarine tender based in La Maddelena, but in Gaeta on a port visit, took the brunt of the explosion. The stern of the USS La Sane was blown off and the Simon Lake suffered major damage to her left rear side. Ships’ crews were in an off duty status at the time with only duty personnel on board.

  The USS Albany had arrived that morning and was tied up alongside the USS La Sane. The La Sane’s bulk protected the submarine, which suffered no material or personnel damages. It was her crew who stormed the pier and secured the perimeter.”

  “Good God,” the secretary of energy gasped, looking at the photo on the screen showing two ships down by their sterns and the body bags laid in rows on the pier. She had heard CNN while driving to the summons, but had failed to grasp the full impact.

  “What is this world coming to?”

  she asked, not expecting an answer.

  “Twenty minutes later, at an officers-only function hosted by Admiral Cameron, a team of five to six terrorists attacked with small arms. Five of Admiral Cameron’s staff were killed along with six family members who were attending. Admiral Cameron, Colonel Ashworth, and six others were wounded. The last update, three hours ago, reported the admiral had undergone emergency surgery at the Gaeta Municipal Hospital.”

  “Italian authorities have one terrorist in custody,” Roger Maddock added.

  “From what we—” Franco Donelli interrupted.

  “Mr. President, this is the terrorist I briefed you about on the way up. Seems the press have obtained information that one of the Sixth Fleet officers wrestled a gun from the captured terrorist, routed the attackers, and killed two of them. He then knee capped the captured one.”

  “Kneecapped?”

  “Yes, sir. He put a bullet into each of the terrorist’s knees. He won’t ever walk again without a limp. Rumor has it that he would have put a bullet into each elbow, but the Sixth Fleet chief of staff stopped him.”

  “Good!” the president said.

  “Should have shot the bastard.”

  His outburst startled everyone at the table. The elderly, overweight secretar
y of energy patted her ample bosom.

  “But don’t quote me on that.” He nodded at the briefer.

  “Continue, please.”

  “Forty-five minutes after the attack at the bistro in Gaeta, a second suicide car bomber rammed Admiral Phrang’s staff car when he departed a reception in Naples. The explosion destroyed Admiral Phrang’s car along with the trailing security vehicle and the bomber’s Mercedes. Admiral Phrang died instantly.”

  “Mr. President,” said Roger, “Admiral Phrang was our senior Navy officer in Europe, and he held two important jobs. He was the commander in chief of United States Naval Forces Europe, the component arm for European Command, and he was the NATO Allied Forces Southern Command, AFSouth.”

  “How many killed in the Admiral Phrang bombing?”

  the president asked.

  Everyone looked to the briefer.

  “Next slide, please,” she said. On the screen appeared a grainy photograph of a street with smoke rising from the chassis of three vehicles.

  “There were no survivors, Mr. President. Admiral Phrang, accompanied by his wife and his aide from a black tie dinner with fellow NATO flag officers and civilian dignitaries, were killed instantly by the blast. A Navy van, following with a small personal security force of three Marines and an Italian driver, were killed also. A total of six Americans and two Italians died in the attack.”

  “I am angry,” said the president, the blood noticeably rising in his face.

  “How could this have happened without us knowing?” He looked down the table to where the DCI sat across from the director of the NSA.

  “Farbros, how did terrorists mount an operation like this without the intelligence community knowing? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this was a coordinated attack against the top brass of our Navy in Europe. An attack against the United States of America!”

  “Mr. President,” the DCI stammered, leaning forward so the wings of the chair didn’t hide his face.

  “I can’t answer your question, sir. We had no indications of this. None whatsoever. If we had had anything suggesting a terrorist action we would have alerted everyone.”