Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  Cobra

  ( The Sixth Fleet - 4 )

  David E. Meadows

  The men of the Sixth Fleet are on a last-ditch effort to rescue hostages in Algeria, but when they uncover a secret weapon of unthinkable power, their true mission becomes clear: save the hostages, save themselves —and save the world.

  David E. Meadows

  Cobra

  To the men and women of Naval Security Group Command

  Acknowledgments

  This is the final book of The Sixth Fleet series To answer some common questions that have arisen from this series, first let me say that there really is a United States Sixth Fleet It is located in the Mediterranean While the Mediterranean is a beautiful sea, its shores are crowded with volatile areas such as Crete, the Balkans, the Middle East, and North Africa The United States Sixth Fleet has been involved in every crisis in this region since World War II, and today, it still sails this volatile sea protecting the interests of the United States and its allies

  To answer another important question, all of The Sixth Fleet books were written prior to September 11th Only this book has been tweaked to reflect some of the geopolitical and military changes caused by those horrific and evil attacks against America The genesis for what would become The Sixth Fleet came to me during a plane trip across the Mediterranean in 1998 At the time, talk about withdrawing the U S Navy from the naval base in Rota, Spain, and moving the Navy headquarters from London to Naples were ongoing while Islamic radicalism was spreading across the Middle East Below me, spread out across the sea was a United States earner battle group in all its strength and majesty In this tmderbox area, this ability to project American power abroad was instrumental in containing so many different volatile situations, ranging from Crete to the Middle East to North Africa from erupting and spreading across the globe

  There are two people who deserve a lot of credit for this script My wife, Felicity, for convincing me that I should write what I know about, and Mr Tom Colgan, executive editor at The Berkley Publishing Group, who had confidence in my writing and developed the idea for the four-book series titled The Sixth Fleet

  It would be impossible to thank everyone who helped to contribute to the senes by providing comments and technical advice To the multitude of fans who sent E-mails, left comments in the guestbook at wwwgeocities com/igorl610, and wrote reviews, my thanks; your encouragement was appreciated. To Frank Reifsnyder, Sharon Reinke, Art Horn, David Reidel, Samantha Mandor, Angela Webster, Karen Gardner, Kelly Nickell, and Nicole Balenger, my special thanks; every author needs a cheering section and I had that in the enthusiasm and encouragement from Nancy Coffey, my agent.

  I have two authors I would like to thank for their encouragement and support. Mr. Stephen Coonts, a fellow Navy veteran and best selling author of ten novels, which include Flight of the Intruder, and his most recent, Saucer, and Mr. Joe Buff, known for his undersea war novels such as Deep Sound Channel and Thunder in the Deep.

  ONE

  The steel doors burst open to the operations room in the command post. Armed Libyan soldiers, wearing camouflage uniforms, rushed into the spaces, dispersing throughout the blue-lighted area.

  Their AK-47 automatic weapons waved threateningly back and forth as they ran through the room.

  “Not here!” shouted one of the soldiers.

  “Nor here!” a soldier crouching in a corner, hidden by the shadows of the blue-lightened space shouted, his voice echoing from the other side.

  The gray-clad Libyan soldiers manning the computer consoles watched, expressions changing from confusion to anxiety to fear.

  The tall, lean sergeant, standing in the middle of the open steel doors, took one step backward into the hallway. He turned right and saluted someone out of sight of those at the consoles and said, “Neither of them appear to be here, sir.”

  A mumbled reply could barely be heard by the console operator nearest the doors. The voice sounded familiar. The operator’s dark eyebrows bunched as he concentrated on the voice.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. He stepped back into the operations room and shouted, “Corporal, search the back rooms!”

  A slender black Arab saluted, touched two of the armed soldiers near him, and the three ran around the back row of computer consoles and through the door leading to the briefing theater. They came out a few seconds later.

  The corporal looked at the sergeant and shook his head. The sergeant pointed to the galley doors at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind the raised platform chair that overlooked the two rows of computers. The three soldiers ran to the other side and slammed the swinging doors out of the way as they burst into the kitchen.

  The sound of metal pots and pans banging together intermingled with breaking china.

  “I said, see if they’re here, not tear the place down!”

  The corporal led the three out of the kitchen. “All clear, Sergeant!”

  Behind them, three cooks emerged slowly, standing close together, wiping their hands on stained aprons and watching as the armed soldiers surrounded the operators.

  The sergeant turned his head toward the hallway.

  “I heard, Sergeant,” the voice said.

  The operator placed the voice, a smile spreading across his lips as he mumbled a prayer to Allah.

  A moment later, Colonel Alqahiray strolled through the door. The fear of those at the computer consoles changed gradually to smiles of relief.

  The hero was back. The soldiers at the consoles stood. A nervous clap by the operator turned into a torrent of standing cheers and applause. The newspapers were wrong. Alqahiray’s wounds must have been less serious than believed. That was obvious! Otherwise, how could the man be here?

  Most recalled how, attacked and wounded in the briefing theater off to the right of the operations room, the colonel had personally shot his assailant — his own cousin! It was truly a miracle. Allah blessed Alqahiray.

  Alqahiray nodded and waved at the loyal soldiers manning the consoles as he moved past. His head turned quickly from side to side as he tried to watch everyone at once.

  Sergeant Adib shadowed three feet behind the colonel, his sharp eyes tracking everyone and searching everywhere. Any one of these operators could be an assassin. The soldiers’ enthusiasm over the return of Alqahiray caused most to miss the sergeant’s finger tightening on the trigger of the AK-47. The tall figure standing quietly in the shadows saw the slight movement but remained silent.

  Those nearest reached out to touch the hero colonel, the founding father of their new nation. Alqahiray nervously avoided their hands by touching them slightly with his before sweeping past. A dull throbbing pain from the shoulder wound reminded him how close he came to death here four weeks ago. Death did not bother him as it would others. This earthly existence was only temporal anyway. Something to enjoy while alive. What mattered was to complete his mission before he died. Alqahiray’s eyes, hidden in deep recesses of abnormally sunken eye sockets and overarching, heavy eyebrows, searched the compartment, looking for Colonel Walid, the traitor, the turncoat, the son of camel dung. The comments he overheard from these worshipers told how they believed he had killed his own cousin, a lie that might serve him well. His cousin had died trying to protect him. Walid had twisted the story to hide how the traitors kidnapped and held him prisoner in his own home. Thanks to Allah, his cousin had foreseen something like this and had made arrangements. Twenty-four hours earlier, when gunfire and explosions rocked his house, he had hidden under a table, thinking Walid had returned to kill him. Now it was his turn, and he would not make the same mistake Walid had. Walid would soon be dead. This time, Alqahiray would leave no one alive who threatened his power. For Major Samir — the one who shot him — his death would be a slow o
ne. Allah, allow me to honor Islam with the blood of traitors.

  Seconds later, after avoiding most of those in the enthusiastic crowd, he made it through the two rows of computer consoles to where the raised platform in back offered an opportunity to stand and survey the operations room.

  He ignored the circle of men surrounding the platform, pulled an Old Navy cigarette from his shirt pocket, and lit it, grimacing slightly from the gunshot wound in the shoulder. The strong, bluish smoke wafted up, slowly sucked away by the ventilation filters overhead. Your day will come, Walid. He touched the bandage around his shoulder. Since his freedom this morning from the guarded confinement at his home on the outskirts of Tripoli, he had been salivating at the thought of this moment. This moment when he strolled into his headquarters and resumed the reins of the great jihad against America. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, relishing the prospect of personally pulling the trigger to send Walid into Allah’s arms.

  Opening his eyes, he saw everyone watching him, waiting for his words.

  He smiled. “My fellow warriors, my comrades in arms, my loyal patriots.

  I apologize for my absence, but I am back. Please return to your consoles. I want each department leader to brief me on his situation.

  Until then, we must push forward with the Jihad Wahid until we are finished.” Jihad Wahid — Holy War One — the overall plan to unite the entire North African coast into one nation stretching from Morocco on the Atlantic to Egypt along the Red Sea. For, whatever had happened, the genesis of a radical Islamic nation was proving fruitful, even if attempts to stop it still existed. What the world needed was an example of the avenging arm of the new Al-Qaida, which he would lead. He had the weapon to do it: a weapon of such magnitude that it would cause the nations of the world to show respect for the new nation. Then the Republic of Barbary and North Africa would leave the rest of the world alone until—

  Alqahiray looked down at the electronic warfare officer. “Ahsan, where is Colonel Walid and my intelligence officer. Major Samir?” he asked softly.

  The officer snapped to attention at his console, his boots clicking together as he stomped down on the rubber matting, and saluted. “Colonel Alqahiray, welcome back. We are honored you have returned. Sir, Colonel Walid departed several hours ago with Colonel Samir and many others.

  They left in such a hurry, they failed to say where they were going.”

  “Did you say Colonel Samir?”

  “Yes, sir. He is a colonel now, thanks to you, sir.”

  Well, he can die as a colonel as well as a major, thought Alqahiray. The traitors had to be nearby, and they would find them. To seal him off in his house after shooting him and tell the people he was dying. They broadcast false words attributed to him to stir the people’s patriotism.

  No, Walid and Samir, your deaths will be slow and painful. Your deaths will be a lesson to this new nation I have formed and that I will lead.

  Plus, the work you did to make me look omnipotent will be put to good use. For that, you only have yourselves to blame.

  “Thank you, Captain!” Alqahiray shouted, causing the young man to jump and start to sit down. “No, don’t sit down,” he said, calmer, motioning the captain to come nearer. He must control his temper. “I need an aide.

  You are it. Moreover, we can’t have a captain for an aide; you are now a major. Ahsan, what is your full name?”

  “Ahsan Hammad Maloof, Colonel!”

  It pleased Alqahiray to see the smile spread across the young man’s face. It further pleased him when he saw moisture in the young man’s eyes. Then he recalled that Walid smiled the same way with moist eyes when Alqahiray pulled him from the ranks and made him a member of their inner circle. He would not make the same mistake with this young officer. This soldier would die for him, and that was what he wanted: unquestionable loyalty. Someone he could shove in front of him, if needed.

  The captain — now major — saluted again. Alqahiray reached forward and shook Ahsan’s hand briefly. Applause roared across the closed room again and would have continued for several minutes if Alqahiray hadn’t held up his hands to stop it. Alqahiray was no fool. Promotions such as this reminded those around him of his power. It would encourage others to remain loyal as they fought for his benevolent attention, and it would strike just the right chord with those who risked their own lives to free his. He silently congratulated himself on his ability to manipulate those around him. He was damn good. So good, that it even amazed him.

  Every human being begged for recognition of work well done. Alqahiray believed it was his job to ensure awards were recognized in such a way so as to seal loyalty to him.

  The new major beamed as he waited for Alqahiray to say something. “Well, Major Maloof — Ahsan. See what the cooks can whip up for Sergeant Adib, his men, and me. It has been a long morning, and we have yet to eat. I have missed my strong cups of tea with my croissants.”

  “Aiwa, ya Colonel,” the new Major Maloof, standing at ramrod attention, replied, whipping off a snappy salute before hurrying through the swinging doors in back of the operations space.

  Ah, thought Alqahiray, he moves with a song in his heart and spring in his step. He tightened his lips to keep from laughing. Stupid boy; he would wear his arm out with all that saluting! There would be no more Walids in Alqahiray’s life.

  Two soldiers stood guard near the open heavy, soundproof steel doors leading into the spaces. He made a mental note to increase the security leading to this deep underground complex.

  It seemed to him that if it was this easy for them to reach the operations space, then others could also. Of course, few had his knowledge of the command post; he helped design it and oversaw the building of it.

  Alqahiray stepped onto the raised platform that held his chair. He tossed the still-burning cigarette at the nearby trash pail and missed.

  Alqahiray pulled himself up into the high control chair in the center of the platform and patted the arms twice as if welcoming himself to an old and familiar place. He pulled another cigarette out and lit it. Within minutes, the familiar blue cloud of acrid smoke encircled the hero of the revolution. He recalled how he had sat right here when they sank the American destroyer USS Gearing. His idea, his plan, and his revolution.

  No one else would have figured out how to lure the American warship into Libyan waters and then sink it.

  He took another deep drag. He hoped he could restore Jihad Wahid to its proper course. His eyes studied the intelligence screens lining the tops of the walls around the compartment. The gigantic digital screens allowed him to start with the first, and as his eyes moved from one to the next, he began to interpret the current situation as it unfolded, screen by screen, with ever-increasing resolution. The first screen showed the Mediterranean Sea and the littoral countries surrounding it.

  Red diamonds reflected the location of enemy ships, and red brackets told him where enemy aircraft were operating. Each symbol had an arrow pointing in the direction of travel with a number on the arrow identifying the speed of the contact. In the southern desert of Algeria, a red square flashed alongside a similar one flashing in southern Morocco. What are those? he asked himself.

  The second screen showed the North African coast and about 100 kilometers of surrounding sea. The third refined the presentation to show Algiers, and the fourth reflected an outline of the Libyan coast.

  The remaining three rotated presentations with various situations ranging from the Red Sea to hundreds of miles into the Atlantic. The key to good military operations is having a firm grasp on situational awareness. He pursed his lips as he took in the information on the screens.

  A bank of seventeen six-inch-wide lights glowed a mixture of red and green above the intelligence screens. A red light meant the American satellites, identified in bold black Arabic letters beneath the light, were out of range of Libya. The green lights identified those overhead surveillance systems currently watching the new Barbary Republic. If only the Chinese had give
n him one of their laser weapons, this constant surveillance would be a thing of history.

  Even the information warfare data the Chinese provided to change the geopositional satellite output to lure the American destroyer into their waters was gone. The Chinese had put a self-destruct program in the software weapon they sold to him, ensuring he could never use it again without their help.

  They have their own problems trying to control North Korea. The threat of North Korea invading South Korea was supposed to have been a feint to occupy the Americans while he consolidated his hold on the whole of North Africa. Well, the Chinese had their hands full now. The North Koreans had invaded. The fly the Chinese thought they had under their thumb had flown away. Though America was deploying most of its forces to repel the invasion, there remained the United States Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean — a smaller Sixth Fleet than years ago, but still strong enough to destroy everything he had worked to achieve.

  He blew a cloud of smoke toward the first screen where his attention had settled. The fact that the American Marines occupied Algiers had been broadcast on state radio. Still, seeing it on the screen sent a surge of anger rushing through him. If Walid — the traitor — had remained loyal, this never would have happened. He would have ordered the Algerians to let the Americans go. But, no, the weasel-faced twit wanted power for himself, under the guise of true Islam. To hell with Islam; the future of this effort rested in the might of the armed forces. It rested on his shoulders. Two broad red arrows pointed from the north coast of Morocco into the interior of this Atlantic coastal country. Then the arrows curled back, turning west to cross the Atlas Mountains that separated Algeria and Morocco, their sharp tips heading toward the important Algerian town of Oran. Oran: the Mediterranean city occupied by the remnants of President Hawaii Alneuf’s army. The Algerian objective would have been achieved, if only they had successfully captured the Algerian president. The Americans had rescued the democratic icon of Algeria, who kept a never-ending tirade of BBC rhetoric flowing from London. Where was their spokesman to twist their own story across the airways?