A bullet underwater could be more dangerous than a bullet fired inside an aircraft. An aircraft could always recover, or have survivors once it crashed, but a submarine hit the bottom and stayed there … a living tomb or water imploded shell.
The freezer on the Al Solomon held six victims of revolutionary zeal. Killed not in self-defense or survival, but in religious zealotry. Ibn Al Jamal prayed his counterpart on the Al Solomon kept enough crew alive to complete the mission.
Revolution was like a game of poker. No one knew the true winner until the game finished. Losers fell even as cards were shuffled, but the ultimate winner always boiled down to two players. He shut his eyes and wondered whether he would be a winner and live, or a loser and die, as he rode the erratic ebb and flow in the sea of revolutionary chaos. Nothing challenged a sailor’s loyalty more than a change in leadership. A leadership that failed to provide clear-cut objectives or goals. He knew this. He had spent the past two days trying to reassure the crew of their roles. He needed their loyalty. The new government needed their patriotism. Loyalty, like respect, had to be earned. He sighed. How could he recover that loyalty when even his loyalty was being peppered with doubts? It was hard for Ibn Al Jamal to reconcile Islam with the actions of a man like the new captain of the Al Solomon. He was glad both his parents were dead and did not have to see what Algeria was becoming.
He patted the sonar technician on the shoulder before moving to the helmsman. The escape of the two submarines out of Mers El Kebir had been with Allah’s grace. He smoothed the chart on the plotting table. They would avoid the naval base at Mers El Kebir on their return. The last report showed the base at Oran still remained in loyalist hands.
Ibn Al Jamal reviewed the orders issued, including the instructions to the Al Solomon skipper to return to Algiers in thirty days unless otherwise directed. But, the Al Solomon had to remain outside the Strait of Gibraltar for thirty days.
Al Jamal hoped the young man listened to orders.
He had this uncomfortable feeling, like an angry itch in the middle of his back that couldn’t be quite reached no matter how you twisted and turned. He knew the inexperienced captain of the Al Solomon endangered their mission — of that he was sure. The young man was lost in the passions of inquisitions and seemed more interested in executing his people than his mission.
They were now in the Atlantic Ocean. A quick peep through the periscope showed the sun below the horizon and summer night slowly descending. At 2210 hours, Al Nasser and Al Solomon exchanged a single sonar ping to locate each other. Twenty minutes later they rendezvoused south of Tarifa, Spain — the windsurfing capital of Europe.
He was surprised the Al Solomon made it safely through the crowded Strait of Gibraltar, such was his lack of confidence in its skipper.
He clicked the UWC twice. A return click acknowledged his underwater communication signal. Al Jamal ordered the Al Nasser to descend to fifty-five fathoms and slowed his speed to underway, barely making way, just enough to keep the bow pointed toward the wide Atlantic.
Behind, the Al Solomon maintained course at thirty fathoms.
A single ping fifteen minutes later by the Al Nasser verified that its sister submarine had passed and was in front of them. Captain Ibn Al Jamal waited another half hour and when five single sonar pings failed to detect the Al Solomon he uttered a blessing for the crew of the other submarine. Now, he had his own mission to do. He should have reminded the young captain about the thirty days. To return sooner would endanger the submarine.
* * *
Alone, the zealot aboard the Al Solomon was truly now in charge of his own destiny. Without the micro managing conservative, disapproving leadership of the Al Nasser’s older, if more experienced, captain, the rogue skipper intended to show the revolution a true Islamic warrior.
One hour later the Al Solomon changed course to approach the Spanish coast. It penetrated Spanish territorial waters off the Bay of Cadiz a few minutes after midnight.
Here, Al Solomon raised its periscope and did a quick navigational fix, using the lights of the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe and other isolated lights blinking along the coast. Then Al Solomon commenced a quiet five knot racetrack circuit as it monitored the Spanish fleet at the naval base at Rota and commenced a watch for any approaching American naval force. As far as he knew, there wasn’t an approaching American naval force, but there would be, and when it arrived it would find the brave revolutionary warriors of Al Solomon blocking its path. He looked at his watch — the one taken off a patriot executed yesterday. He smiled, tapped the watch crystal a couple of times, and headed toward the mess decks. He had another court to attend. When his ship returned to the new Algeria, not only would they be heroes of the revolution, but there would only be Islamic warriors on board.
* * *
Captain Ibn Al Jamal of the former republic of Algeria Navy waited patiently to see if the Al Solomon was detected. Soon an American battle force would come this way. He nodded as he gave silent thanks to Allah for the decision by the Americans to leave Rota Naval Base ten years ago. Only Spanish antisubmarine forces remained to endanger the Algerian submarines. The Americans had given up their only logistic hub at the entrance to the Mediterranean. The Americans would have to come through the strait without the benefit of a forward-deployed force to sanitize their path into the Med. Of even more importance was the fact that without Rota Naval Base, the survival of Israel was threatened. America could never remount the air resupply line it did in 1973 to save that terrorist country without somewhere to refuel.
The only concern to him was the Spanish Armada, led by its Harrier aircraft carrier the Principe de Asturias, four F-100-class frigates, and several auxiliary ships. The frigates were the biggest danger to the submarine. The F100s were variants of the United States Navy’s old single screw FFG-7 ASW frigate. They were Spain’s premier antisubmarine forces. Each frigate could carry two Sikorsky S-70L ASW helicopters; though Algerian Navy Intelligence reported that normally only one was embarked on the two-hanger ships. The Al Solomon could maneuver unmolested, awaiting the imminent American carrier force, as long as the Spanish kept their Navy in port. From his own experience, he hoped the captain on the Al Solomon did not underestimate the Spanish. Spain was a maritime nation with a long naval history — a proud history. Its Navy would not hesitate to attack a submarine violating its territorial waters and though Spain’s naval force was small, it had the tenacity of a barracuda on the seas.
He watched the compass needle move as Al Nasser turned slowly toward the strait.
Five minutes later, Ibn Al Jamal secured General Quarters to allow the crew to eat, use the toilet, and, for those capable, grab a few minutes’ sleep. There were two American submarines in the Mediterranean and, while Algerian Navy Intelligence had located one in Gaeta, the other remained missing. His ASW crew searched with passive sonar, looking for the telltale noise that nuclear submarines made. He was proud of his skilled plotting team. He looked over their shoulders as they monitored, plotted, and tracked every contact in an effort to maintain a surface picture of the ships above. At midnight, satisfied they had completed the first part of their mission without being detected, Ibn Al Jamal gave the orders for the Al Nasser to commence its lone transit back through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean.
It was now time for the second part. He brought the submarine to periscope depth to take a navigation fix against the evening lights at Algeciras and Gibraltar. Satisfied, Ibn Al Jamal calculated they would be through the strait and near Malaga by dawn. He looked at the air monitor.
They could stay submerged another week without surfacing.
He tapped the battery meter. Battery was fine, but it never hurt to keep the submarine’s battery power topped off. He wanted to be in a position by tomorrow night to either surface or snorkel to recharge the batteries and exchange the air. Plus, his plans called for them to be off Algeria in safer waters by tomorrow night. He would prefer to surfa
ce to recharge.
An hour later, the submarine passed abreast of Algeciras, the large Spanish port near the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar. Ibn Al Jamal quietly urged the crew back to their battle stations. When every station was manned, he called the stern torpedo crew and gave them what he sometimes thought of as his “patriotic talk number two” about Allah, Algeria, and the revolutionary brotherhood, encouraging them to do their job quietly, thoroughly, and professionally.
He nodded to the plotting team watching him. He saw the questions in their eyes. When informed by the watch officer that the stern torpedo crew was ready, and he was satisfied the plotting team knew the importance of their role, he gave the order to launch.
From the stern tubes, in controlled sequence, magnetic acoustic influence mines, designed by the long-dead Soviet Union and propelled by compressed air, shot out. They traveled nearly twenty meters before inertia took over and gravity pulled the rusty weapons to the bottom. In the control room, the plotting team marked on the chart each mine’s location.
It would be three hours before internal programs activated the mines. A magnetic detection of a target would turn on a sound analysis system where preset decibel levels would determine if the mines would attack. Modern mines were nothing like the floating balls dotted with sensitive pins used during World War II. Modern mines were computerized, capable of determining when, and if, to explode.
They could count the number of ships passing overhead or the number of blades on a propeller. They could be programmed to attack on any combination of aural and magnetic factors. They were truly the weapons of choice for a secret war at sea. Even if one of them were recovered, they could not be traced to Algeria — only to the Soviet Union … and the Soviet Union was dead.
These were the only mines of this sophistication in the Algerian inventory. When the sensors of the mines agreed, and the computer program directed, they would separate from their weights and, like small torpedoes, home toward the propellers of their target. Mines, unlike torpedoes, attacked from below and the chance of detecting them prior to impact was minute. Even if an astute surface ASW operator serendipitously detected the ascent, a surface ship would have little opportunity to avoid the initial hit.
He changed the course of Al Nasser slightly and commenced a zigzag transit through the Strait of Gibraltar. The Kilo submarine carried eighteen mines and nine torpedoes, unlike the Al Solomon, which waited for the Americans with a full complement of eighteen torpedoes.
He envied Al Solomon, in a professional way. When the American carrier task force arrived, and he knew it would, A/ Solomon would be the sword of the revolution, protecting the Barbary Coast against America’s might. The Al Solomon would be the first obstacle to stop America from returning in strength to the Mediterranean. When Ibn Al Jamal finished here, tonight, the Mediterranean would be sealed to the American Navy and the success of the “plan” would be assured. Only the small American amphibious task force would stand between them and ultimate victory.
The Mediterranean would truly be theirs.
Ibn Al Jamal stopped his train of thought. His stomach churned slightly as he realized he sounded like the fanatics that made up such a large portion of the Algerian Liberation Front.
The Americans would respond. Too many through history underestimated the resolve of the North American power. Slow to anger, but once angered, capable of unleashing a frightening show of force. So, the question was not if the Americans would respond — the question was when. America lacked the military power it had during Desert Storm, so how long would it take a declining power to respond? He believed America was a declining world power. Most of the world agreed, too. Only America refused to accept the inevitable. Twenty years from now America would be a has-been. Another in a long line of world powers, like England, that had its moment in history and watched its glory ebb away.
A/ Nasser was outfitted for a forty-five-day onstation time, though plans called for everything to be resolved within a week. If they could stop the West from intervening in Algeria during the next week, then everything would be settled — it would be too late for intervention. If he returned to port three weeks before the Al Solomon, Ibn Al Jamal intended to ensure that his fellow Kilo revolutionary did not continue his rampant zealotry. The stern torpedo crew reported ready. He looked at the chart and ordered dispersal of another mine. For the next three hours he maneuvered the Kilo-class submarine back and forth across the narrow strait, depositing the deadly cargo, until the Al Nasser emerged from the choke point at four in the morning. The mines were essentially harmless, as long as no supertanker, American aircraft carrier, or submerged submarine entered or departed the Mediterranean.
In thirty days they would deactivate. Saltwater would flood their cavities and those floating above the ocean floor would join those already on it, where they would eventually be buried for eternity by the shifting sands of the sea bottom. Captain Ibn Al Jamal picked up the microphone and congratulated the crew. The Mediterranean was now sealed off to the Americans. He smiled. The Mediterranean had become an Islamic lake. He forgot the French, Italian, and Greek navies in his exuberance. The Europeans would take strong exception to the idea of the Mediterranean being an Islamic lake.
The plotting crew pulled another chart out and taped it to the plotting table. The navigator made several quick calculations before he gave his course and speed recommendations to Ibn Al Jamal, who nodded in agreement. Al Nasser’s next destination was off the coast of Algiers, where it was to patrol the waters and protect the new capital.
Western ships would appear eventually to evacuate their citizens — most likely French and Italian. His job was to keep them away.
The new executive officer ran into the control room. Ibn Al Jamal cringed as the man’s head barely missed the top of the steel door. Breathless, the XO saluted before reporting that two sailors had been caught sabotaging the propeller shaft on the Al Nasser. Again? He asked where they were and was told they were under heavy guard in serious condition in sick bay.
He nodded and told the executive officer he’d look into the charges later, after a quiet rest.
Ibn Al Jamal ordered the crew secured from General Quarters and, with a fresh cup of tea in his right hand, he left the control room at the same time as the ship’s mullah chanted the crew to morning prayers.
Discipline was everything to a warship. Mutineers and saboteurs were different breeds from those who lacked an ability to articulate their faith to an overeager executioner gripping a raised scimitar above their necks.
Being captain of a warship was not a business for the squeamish.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Cafferty was steaming angry when he marched into Combat. He’d have him some officer’s ass about this. No comms with anyone for over twelve fucking hours and he had to discover it during breakfast by overhearing the supply officer bitching about having to issue spare parts during the night.
“Captain in Combat,” a shout announced from somewhere inside the darkened compartment. A moan escaped from elsewhere in the shadows.
“Lieutenant,” the captain said sharply to the CIC watch officer.
“What does the tactical picture look like?”
“Sir, we had problems earlier with the radars, but we shifted the parameters and cleared up the scopes. The Harriers remain orbiting northwest of us. We have a slow moving contact to our east that, on its current course and speed, will pass within sight of us in about two hours. We have had no communications with the Nassau battle group since Radio went down last night.”
“Lieutenant, why the hell didn’t you notify me or the executive officer about the radar problems and the lack of communications?” Cafferty asked. It was exasperating training this crew to function as he wanted them to.
“I did. Captain. I came on watch at zero seven forty-five, for the eight-to-twelve, sir. After I relieved, I failed to find a log entry that this information had been passed so I called the XO and briefed him. He said t
o keep him notified. I briefed the operations officer when he made his morning rounds a few minutes ago. Ops said that he would brief you.”
“I haven’t seen Ops,” the captain said.
“He was heading aft to the torpedo room to check on what the torpedomen were doing. Preventive maintenance check or something. Captain.”
“Call back there and have him come see me. Have you tried INMARSAT telephone to contact the Nassaut’ The lieutenant picked up the handset from the INMARSAT system located beside the captain’s chair.
“Yes, sir, I tried it with no joy. Radio called on your way down to give us a heads-up that they’re going to transmit at max power. We’ve put our comms in standby, but it shouldn’t affect our surface search or air search radars.”
“Fire control radars?”
“They’ve been in ready standby since we began the Freedom of Navigation op. Captain. Even if they were on and emanating. Radio’s power is in the high-frequency bands so it shouldn’t affect them.”
“Alright,” Cafferty acknowledged. He climbed up into the barber’s chair. He had to admit that the antique replacement for the normal captain’s combat chair was comfortable.
But that didn’t make it right. He was still going to replace it. His predecessor had been much too lax.
The supervisor of the watch brought him a cup of coffee. Black and fresh, the aroma gave Cafferty the first comfortable feeling he’d had this morning. Leaders have such a lonely job, he thought. Give him another three months, on top of the three he had been CO, and he’d have this crew whipped into fighting shape.
“Thanks, OS One,” he said to the first class operations specialist as he took the cup.
Cafferty spun the chair so he could see the polar display on the electronic warfare console.
The Sixth Fleet Page 21