It was a bleak, no-frills ship’s compartment that reflected the harsh reality of the sea.
“Make a hole,” the mess man broadcasted as he weaved his way to the table near the coffeepot. Hands reached over and around him to grab the fresh pastries even as he raised his elbows in a vain attempt to keep their hands out of the tray.
“Officers,” Carter announced, grabbing the attention of those in the room.
“This is Captain James, Lieutenant Commander Pettigrew, and Lieutenant McDaniels. They’ve just arrived on the Sigonella shuttle and will be joining the Spec War teams on board.”
The few nearby shook hands. A lieutenant wearing desert cammies began working his way through the tight room toward them. The mess man exchanged the now halffull tray for the empty one and, shaking his head, griped about ungrateful people of doubtful parentage as he left the crowded compartment.
“Captain James, there’s coffee on the cupboard,” Carter said.
“And donuts for dunking. Help yourself and, with this bunch, if you want donuts you’d better grab them fast.
I’ll be right back. Oh, nearly forgot, the captain sends his respects and the commodore looks forward to meeting you.”
Then in a low voice he added, “You won’t have to worry about talking too much with the commodore. He’ll take care of the conversation.”
Grinning at his private joke. Carter left the wardroom.
The three weaved their way to where the condiments of the uniform professions — coffee and donuts — waited. From a nearby chair a tall, dark-skinned, mustached man stood and began to work his way toward them as they poured their coffee. He arrived slightly behind the lieutenant in cammies.
“Captain James, I’m Mike Sunney, the QIC of SEAL Team Four. Welcome aboard.”
“Mike, I’m glad you’re here. Can you maybe tell us what is going on?” Duncan asked.
“Seems our exercise has gone tits up and the Spanish are heading home.”
“Where’s the sugar?” asked Beau to no one in particular.
“Yes, sir. It’s Tango Uniform,” ” he replied, then, noticing the dark-haired mustached officer, introduced him.
“Captain, this is Major Jesus Alcontira.”
“Captain James?”
“Yes, I am,” Duncan replied, eyeing the tabs on the collar of the uniform identifying the officer as a major in the Spanish Army. The uniforms had changed little since Franco’s era.
Beau squatted as he riffled through the table drawers.
“There has to be sugar here someplace. What kind of coffee mess doesn’t have sugar?”
“Sir, I am sorry we will be unable to conduct a joint exercise.”
“What going on. Major? I was whisked out of Washington two days ago for this to find out when we landed that it’s been called off. Are you the senior officer?”
“Where’s the sugar, dammit?”
Major Alcontira pulled a cup from the stack and poured some coffee as he talked. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of sugar and emptied it into his cup.
“I am the senior officer. We were looking forward to this chance to work with the U.S. Navy SEALs. I understood we would participate with Lieutenant Sunney and his teams when we were told three specialists were coming to do the exercise with us. I apologize that I was unable to arrange an officer from my country of equivalent rank. Unfortunately, by the time I found out, the exercise had been canceled.”
“No problem. Major. I am a little confused. I was led to believe that the reason I was sent was that you had sent a colonel. It’s not a big problem, it’s just a typical Washington screw up. This is Lieutenant Commander Beau Pettigrew,” Duncan said, pointing down at Beau, who was searching the bottom shelf.
“Who is slightly taller than he seems.”
Beau reached up and shook hands with the major before returning to his sugar search.
“And Lieutenant McDaniels,” Duncan continued.
The major’s eyes widened. Alcontira pitched the empty sugar pack toward the trashcan; it missed and fluttered down in front of Beau.
“A woman?”
“I was the last time I looked. Major.” H. J. smiled, sticking her hand out. Their eyes locked for several seconds until the major blinked and looked away. H. J.“s smile grew wider.
“And a very bonita mujer at that. Lieutenant,” Major Alcontira replied as he grasped H. J.“s outstretched hand with both of his and held it.
“Hey, por favor, Jesus, where did you find the sugar?”
Beau asked, standing up and waving the empty packet.
“From a European I accept the compliment. Major,” H. J. responded in fluent Spanish.
“Ah, you speak Andalucian,” he answered, also switching to Spanish, referring to the dialect prominent in southern Spain. He reached in his shirt pocket, and, without taking his eyes off H. J.” extracted another sugar packet and handed it to Beau.
“Yes. My father was a career sailor who spent two tours of duty in Rota, Spain. I graduated from the Department of Defense high school there — Admiral Farragut High School — more famous for its parties than its sports programs.”
Beau turned the packet over, examining it.
H. J. reluctantly pulled her hand back. Alcontira grinned and bowed his head as he released it.
“Ah, yes. Rota. It is too bad your navy decided it was not worth the small amount it cost. Rota was good for both of us. Before the new millennium we had such a good, strong relationship that centered on your presence in Rota.
Our people worked closely with your SEAL team there, the Naval Security Group Activity, and those fearless individuals who flew the four-engine aircraft … what did they call them?” He snapped his fingers.
“Oh, yes, Orions.
They used the Sandeman emblem for their squadron.” He smiled, revealing a bright set of teeth.
“Oh, well, mari posita we can never go back to the past. It’s never the same. You can never go back. One must always move on.”
“Jesus, you have any white sugar?” Beau interrupted, holding the unopened packet toward Alcontira.
“Oh, shut up. Beau,” said Duncan, pouring himself a second cup of hot, black coffee.
“Sugar’s bad for your teeth.”
“Your father? He is still in the Navy?” Alcontira asked.
“No, he died two years ago in the States.”
“I am so sorry.” He reached in his other pocket, extracted a packet of white sugar granules, and exchanged them with Beau. He regained eye contact with H. J. Duncan wondered if the mess specialist had a bucket of cold water in the galley. He guessed he should say something in Spanish so the two would know he spoke the language and was following their conversation. But then, he thought, what the hell! “I know what it means to lose a father. Mine, too, died last year. It remains in here,” he said, touching his chest.
“One never forgets; one learns to live with it.”
“Don’t be sorry. He enjoyed and had a full life. Took sick one afternoon and was dead by nightfall. He went the way he would have wanted to go. Quick and without a lot of fuss.”
“I apologize. Lieutenant, if I seem mesmerized. It is just that in Spain we do not have women in our military and to find one in the United States Navy SEALs is quite … how do you say, a shock?” Jesus replied, switching to English.
“It’s still a shock to Captain James and Commander Pettigrew,” H. J. responded, also in English.
“It is not,” said Beau, glancing over his shoulder as he played with his coffee.
“She was going to participate in the exercise,” Duncan said.
“I think Captain James believes he’s in the hot seat for this one,” H. J. said.
“In fact. Major, it is I who have to prove myself, as every person who becomes a SEAL must do.”
“I understand that you and your team are being airlifted off the Nassau this afternoon to return to Spain?” Duncan asked.
“Yes, Captain James,” Alcontira
replied, reluctantly taking his eyes off H. J. He picked up his coffee and took a small sip.
“Unfortunately, with the events in Algeria, my government has asked that we return immediately. The antigovernment riots in Morocco and the unrest in Algeria affect Spain’s interests very much.”
“I understand, Major. I wish my bosses had told me.”
Duncan paused a moment.
“Major, how long have you known that you were to return to Spain?”
“Two days ago they canceled the exercise and asked for us to return.”
“Damn. Sorry, Major. It’s just that I was ordered out here two days ago.”
“Perhaps they did not know the exercise was canceled.”
Duncan took a sip.
“Oh, knowing Admiral Hodges, I doubt it.”
Captain Carter entered and held the door to the briefing room open for two other captains.
“Attention on deck!”
Everyone in the room snapped to attention.
The commodore walked to the head of the table before he responded, “As you were, please. Sit down.”
The other captain took the seat to the left as the commodore wiggled his ample bottom into the green armchair at the head of the table.
“That’s Captain Ellison, the commodore, at the head of the table. The captain to the left is Captain Farnfield, commanding officer of the Nassau. Hope you went to the head before you came in,” Mike Sunney whispered.
Everyone sat down to the rustle of shifting chairs, with the exception of several junior officers, who leaned against the bulkhead because of the lack of seats.
“Welcome aboard. Captain James,” the commodore said after the noise of seating faded.
“I’m Commodore Frank Ellison of Amphibious Squadron Two. Glad to have you aboard.” Ellison pulled a decanter over and poured himself a glass of water.
“There, that should do it,” he said to no one in particular.
Then returning his attention to Duncan, he said, “Captain James, I don’t need to tell you that things are a bit hairy in Algiers. I’m glad you’re here as there is a significant possibility that we will need you SEALs. When I told Bill Hodges the other day how things were heating up over here he promised us a hotshot captain with evacuation and hostage rescue experience. That’s not to say that Mike Sunney is doing a bad job. Far from it. Fine man. Fine young officer, I must say. But, we both know there’s no substitute for experience.”
Duncan leaned forward.
“Commodore, how long ago did you talk with Admiral Hodges?”
“Let me think. Captain. Yes, it would have been Sunday.
About four days ago.”
“Thank you. Commodore,” Duncan replied, leaning back. The next time he saw Bill Hodges he was going to rip the admiral’s lips off.
“We’ve been in transit since day before yesterday. Other than CNN Headline News and a day-old copy of a USA Today newspaper, that’s all we’ve heard or seen concerning events in Algeria. I’m afraid that Admiral Hodges lacked the time to brief me on everything before we left. Probably because of the short notice.” It was going to be a short, dynamic conversation when he returned.
“Yeah, and he forgot to brief me, too,” whispered Beau, stirring his coffee a little too fast, causing it to spill over the rim onto the top of the table, earning him a cut-eyed stare from a beefy supply corps commander seated across from him, to whom Beau smiled, threw a kiss, and stirred harder.
“Well, we’ll bring you up to date,” said the commodore, peering over his bifocals at everyone.
“Officers, we have turned the Nassau battle group westward and are steaming toward the Strait of Sicily at a mind boggling speed of six knots. I would prefer to be doing twenty, but European Command has yet to give us permission to pull USS Gearing off its Freedom of Navigation ops. Until we receive permission to stop the FONOPs, we have to remain within fighter coverage of the destroyer while it skirts the Libyan coast. The eight Marine Corps Harriers we have on board the Nassau are the only fighters we have in the Med until the aircraft carrier Roosevelt returns from the Persian Gulf. I have asked Sixth Fleet to intercede for permission to terminate Gearing’s mission.
We need the Gearing with us. The DD-21 class is a battle group by itself. Though I have great confidence in the older Aegis cruiser Yorktown and the destroyers Spruance and Hayler accompanying Nassau, Trenton, and Nashville, I want the modern punch the Gearing brings as aDD-21 and its Network Centric Warfare capability to control the arsenal ship USS King.”
Colonel “Bulldog” Stewart, the senior Marine Corps officer, raised his hand.
“Commodore, have we received any messages other than the one from JCS ordering us to prepare for a noncombatant evacuation operation for our citizens in Algeria?”
“Colonel Stewart, that’s the only one. As you know. Vice Admiral Gordon Cameron was shot during the terrorist attack at Gaeta two days ago. What you may not know is that the wound is not as serious as the press reported. Over secure voice communications this morning. Captain Clive Bowen, Sixth Fleet chief of staff, said they were expecting the admiral back aboard the USS La Sane today. The admiral was shot three times, but the bullets hit him at an oblique angle that resulted in little internal damage. He was one lucky bastard. We should have some direction from Sixth Fleet by this afternoon.”
The commodore paused, took a sip of water, and continued.
“Sadly, a lot of the dead from the attack on the bistro where he was hosting a wardroom social were family members, including the admiral’s and the chaplain’s wife. The Marine who disrupted the attack, stopping the massacre and saving the lives of the survivors, was Colonel Walt Ashworth. I think most of you know him?”
“I know the colonel very well,” Bulldog added, clearing his throat.
“We were stationed together at CMC headquarters.
My wife and I spent a lot of time with them during that tour. Walt Ashworth is a damn fine Marine.”
Captain Ellison pulled his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“And a damn fine hero, too. Unfortunately, the colonel’s wife was one of those murdered by those sons of bitches. Later today, Intell will brief what we know on that attack and the car bombing that killed Admiral Phrang, his wife, and his PA. He will also brief on the other attacks that have occurred in the past seventy-two hours.
“We believe these to be state-sponsored attacks. Everyone in the intelligence community is working hard to identify who is behind them. Admiral Phrang’s death and the attack on Sixth Fleet… you’d have to be stupid not to see that those two attacks — the car bomb attack on the USS La Sane and the USS Simon Lake, moored together in Gaeta, and the attempt late yesterday against EUCOM-are coordinated actions.” A sigh escaped.
“Damn cold.” His double chin bounced as he blew his nose.
“Here is what I expect to come our way, once the powers that be start reacting, and each of you needs to plan accordingly. First, we will be told to cease the PONOPs.
Second, Gearing will be ordered off station. When those two events happen, we will recover the Harriers conducting the combat air patrol and steam at full speed to take station over the horizon from Algiers. Once at MODLOC, we must be prepared to conduct an evacuation of American citizens, who are gathering in the American Embassy compound even as we speak. I want to emphasize our role in this internal conflict going on in Algeria. We are going in and out. Do it quick. Avoid any entanglement in this civil war. I don’t want us involved other than to evacuate our citizens. If they want to kill each other, let them, but we’re going to stay out of their war. We do not want to be lulled into doing something stupid that will cost unnecessary lives. We saw what happened in the Balkans when we got entangled in someone else’s war.”
Duncan rubbed his eyes. What the commodore may fail to realize was that staying out of wars was harder than getting into them. America had been a player in every modern war in the past hundred years. That didn’t mean Duncan didn’t agree with what
the commodore was saying. Most military officers agreed that it was best to avoid combat whenever possible; unfortunately, they also knew, with the demise of the draft years ago, the military experience in government had declined to where using the military as a foreign policy instrument came easier — and, often, it became the first choice. Wholeheartedly, he agreed with the commodore. In and out. Do it quick and don’t get involved.
But he knew from his own combat experience that events had a way of reeling you into them regardless of how hard you fought to avoid them and stay out.
Duncan shifted his weight in the chair. He may as well be comfortable. His left butt cheek needed some fresh circulation.
Rank did make for a captive audience, and the commodore obviously enjoyed that perk of rank. He tuned his ears back to the commodore.
“Yesterday, as most of you know,” the commodore continued, “we airlifted, via two helicopters, a company of Marines into the American Embassy — thankfully, before the Algerian insurgents gained complete control of the area.
That gives the thirty Marines at the embassy an additional thirty with our two fire teams. Tunisia has been a great help, allowing our helicopters to refuel at their air bases.
One of the helicopters returned late last night. The other chopper took small-arms fire, somewhere along the way, and is sitting disabled at the Tunisian Western Area Air Base. We’re flying a repair crew off later today.”
Beau leaned over to Duncan.
“I’d also ask Admiral Hodges, before you kill him, if he lost those golf games.”
“Colonel Stewart,” the commodore said. He pointed his finger at the lean Marine.
“You, as the commander of the amphibious landing force, are to be ready to conduct the evacuation immediately upon our arrival at the operating area off Algiers. While we hope that the Algerians will give permission to bring our people out, we must be prepared to conduct the evacuation in a hostile environment.
Please ensure everyone understands the “Rules of Engagement’ issued by Sixth Fleet when we in chopped the Med.
I do not want us initiating combat, but if we’re fired upon we will return it. That being said, I would like a quick rundown on where we stand right now.”
The Sixth Fleet Page 14