The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  “Admiral, I am patching the circuit controlling the Harriers to the number three speaker. We can hear CTF Sixtyone’s side of the conversation, but the Harriers are out of range.”

  “Very well, carry on.”

  The EP-3E speaker blared.

  “Sixth Fleet, Ranger Two Niner; they have passed us. I repeat, they have passed us.

  We are passing the thirty-fifth parallel southeast of Malta.

  We’re one hundred thirty miles from Catania and Sigonella.”

  “What do you mean, they have passed you?” asked the Admiral. He wiped his forehead again.

  “They are already past the thirty-fifth parallel,” Clive added.

  The duty officer relayed the admiral’s question to the EP-3E.

  “We see contrails between breaks in the cloud cover and those contrails are ahead of us. I estimate their course as three three zero. Sensors show they have descended to four thousand feet.”

  The admiral’s eyebrows bunched together as he thought about it. Several seconds passed. This didn’t make sense.

  Why would Libyan fighters be this far north? At this rate they were going to fly right into-He turned to the staff duty officer.

  “Chart! Where’s the chart?” He tried to rise, but sat back down, his breath coming rapidly. Cameron pointed to the surface plotting table in front of him. Dr. Jacobs took a step toward the admiral.

  Cameron waved him away.

  “Put it here,” Clive ordered.

  The chart of the central Mediterranean was quickly taped down across the Plexiglas-covered metal table.

  “Quick, Commander Bailey, draw a line from Benghazi on a bearing of three three zero.”

  “Yes, sir,” the SDO responded. He grabbed a compass ruler. He overlaid the Libyan city of Benghazi and drew a pencil along the edge of the ruler on three three zero degrees.

  The line ran through the central Mediterranean and through the Sicilian city of Catania.

  “Jesus Christ,” the admiral mumbled.

  “Now do one from Tripoli on a bearing of zero one zero.”

  He did. The line ran east of Malta and slightly north of Catania — directly through the United States Naval Air Station at Sigonella.

  The chief returned.

  “Admiral, General Leblanc—” Admiral Cameron held his hand up.

  “Not now,” he said.

  Clive waved the chief away.

  “Clive, call CTF Sixty-seven and tell them to prepare Sigonella Air Station for possible Libyan air attack. Tell Commodore Ellison the Harriers have weapons free authority and they are to engage the Libyans. Splash the bandits.

  Commander, contact Italian Air Defense and warn them.”

  Cameron slumped slightly on the stool. Clive reached out and took the admiral’s elbow as Cameron pushed himself back up. Cameron looked up at his chief of staff and nodded. Then, the two waited while the staff duty officer relayed the orders.

  “We need a quick calculation. Commander Bailey. How long at five hundred knots from Benghazi to Sigonella?”

  His voice was so low that Clive barely heard it. “This is Ranger Two Niner calling. The Benghazi formations have rendezvoused with the Tripoli bunch! They are on course three five five, altitude four zero. They ain’t turning back. Admiral! They ain’t turning back and if they keep going like they are, they are going to be feet dry over Sicily in minutes.”

  The commander grabbed a calculator and did a quick series of computations.

  “One hour fifteen minutes. Admiral.”

  “Thirty minutes until they cross the shoreline,” the admiral commented dryly.

  “Admiral, I have the Italian duty officer at Pratica di Man Air Base on the line. What do you want to tell him?”

  Pratica di Mari was the air operations center for the Italian Air Force located south of Rome.

  In the background continuous intelligence reports flowed from the EP-3E as the reconnaissance aircraft tracked the enemy formations.

  “Tell them, we believe Sigonella will be attacked within the next thirty minutes by Libyan aircraft. Then, as soon as possible, I want to know their intentions.”

  He turned to his chief of staff.

  “Clive, what do we have at Sigonella that we can respond with?”

  “Nothing, Admiral. Not a goddamn thing! It’s a logistics hub. The Air Force’s Air Mobility Command has at least two KC-135s and a KC-130 down there fully loaded with aviation fuel for today’s refueling missions. ASCOMED, the Navy’s transportation and passenger service, has two cargo C-130s on the apron, VQ-2 has two EP-3E reconnaissance aircraft, and there are four Patron P-3C maritime patrol planes. There are also several smaller aircraft, ranging from a couple of C-12 V. I.P transports to a couple of short-range helicopters for local operations. Plus, other aircraft are always transiting, so there could be more. We ordered the alert KC-130 aloft five minutes ago, so if the crew can be airborne within the next few minutes maybe …” dive’s voice faded, leaving his thought unsaid.

  “That’s eleven big boys,” the admiral said.

  “A lot of fuel-laden aircraft sitting on that small apron … like Mitchell Field when the Japanese hit it.” He merely mumbled the last thought aloud.

  “Can only be one EP-3E and one KC-135 there,” Commander Bailey added.

  “Ranger Two Niner staged out of Sigonella and the KC-135 for the Rivet Joint mission is on station in the West Med.” Rivet Joint was the Air Force RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft. The big difference between Rivet Joint and the EP-3E was that Rivet Joint had better sensors and was capable of air-to-air refueling.

  Admiral Gordon Cameron spun around to the duty officer and pointed.

  “Commander Bailey, call Sigonella and tell them to launch every aircraft they can and tell them that a Libyan air attack is inbound!”

  “The Nassau is on the other side of the Strait of Sicily.

  She has launched the remainder of her Marine Corps Harriers,” Clive added.

  Admiral Cameron looked hard at Clive, weighing the next course of action. A curt nod of the admiral’s head showed he had reached a decision.

  “Okay, tell Sixtyone to divert the second formation of Harriers toward Sigonella and tell him that I believe Libyan fighters are on their way to attack the base.” Then, calmer, he added, “And tell him what happened to the Gearing. I want those Marines more pissed off than Marines normally are. Then call Italian Air Defense and tell them that four United States Marine Corps Harriers are inbound from the west and not to mistake them for Libyan fighters!”

  Admiral Cameron shut his eyes. Dr. Jacobs moved forward and lightly pushed the admiral, who opened his eyes. “Couldn’t miss the excitement, Doc?”

  “Can’t have you flags having all the fun.”

  “This is Ranger Two Niner. Four of the Mig-23s have broken off and are heading west to engage our Harriers!

  We do not have comms with the Marines!”

  “That would be the first formation Ellison launched,” Clive clarified.

  Admiral Cameron looked around the Combat Information Center and, like everyone else, he waited. Something he did not do well. He tried to focus his attention on the JOTS display, watching the friendly and hostile symbols close, and discovered everything appeared to be going round and round like a multi lighted Ferns wheel. Clive moved silently up from behind the admiral and, with the smooth transition that chiefs of staff learn only from experience, he assumed command. Sailors stared at their officers. Chiefs waited, ready to respond to orders.

  Experienced officers knew the look. It showed in their eyes and their body language when things became confused or anxiety increased.

  “They’re scared, but ready,” Cameron said softly to the doctor.

  “Even the strongest look to their leaders in times of crisis, but even leaders sometimes lack the words to ease warriors’ concern.”

  “Rest, Admiral. Even you can’t order your body to heal faster.”

  “Got to stay awake, Doc. If you have so
mething, give it to me. If I pass out here … well, you know what it would do to morale. Get me through this for the good of the men and the fleet.”

  Jacobs nodded, reached in his pocket, and extracted a small bottle.

  “Swallow these,” he said, handing two white tablets to the admiral.

  “These will work?”

  “For a short while. Admiral, and then, I shall have the medical pleasure of watching you moan and complain about how medical science gave you the worse headache you’ve ever had.”

  “Admiral, the duty officer at Pratica di Man says they have four Italian F-16 Fighting Falcon interceptors airborne out of Groseta Airfield near Palermo, Sicily, conducting routine training. They’re not fully loaded. They only have two Sidewinder missiles each. Groseta has been patched through from Pratica di Man. The aircraft are over the sea north of Palermo. They estimate a thirty-five-minute flight to Sigonella. Groseta has already redirected the aircraft.”

  “Good!” The admiral looked around him. So young, most of them. He recognized the look. These past two days had aged them as only combat veterans can age. He placed his hand over his heart. Damn thing was sprinting.

  “Pratica di Mari reports the Italian fighters have been given ‘weapons free.” They may fire at their discretion.”

  “Are they aware of the Harriers headed their way?” Clive asked.

  “Yes, sir. Pratica di Mari says that Groseta has the Harriers on their air defense radar and has established voice contact with them. Nassau has released the Harriers to the Italians.”

  The NATO speakers on the starboard side of the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center roared to life.

  “Any station this net, and I mean any station, this is Souda Bay Naval Support Activity. Souda Bay Airfield, Crete, is under attack. We are under attack. I repeat, we are under attack!” shouted a voice, the slow southern drawl drawing out the transmission.

  The admiral looked at Clive Bowen.

  “Who’d be attacking Souda Bay, Crete?” He pushed himself up on the stool. Clive grabbed the microphone.

  “Souda Bay, this is Sixth Fleet. Explain attack. Who is attacking you?” He looked at the intelligence officer and the crypto logic officer. Captain Paul Brooks, who had earlier entered CIC.

  “Who’s attacking Souda Bay?”

  “Sixth Fleet, this is the air tower. We have multiple aircraft bombing the airstrip. I don’t know who they are, but they ain’t American and they ain’t Greek. Shit! Take cover!”

  The sounds of cannon fire, breaking glass, and the familiar roar of high-powered jet engines blasted from the speakers.

  “Sixth Fleet, if you heard that, you just heard our last transmission. We are abandoning the tower. Jets look Russian to me, but the writing on the side is Arabic. Go figure.

  This is Air Traffic Control Souda Bay signing off.”

  “Don’t go!” shouted Clive.

  “Screw you. Sixth Fleet. I’m a civilian. I ain’t one of yore sailors and I’ll tell ya right now, you’ve lost an EP3E and two C-130 transports. Every aircraft on the apron is in flames. Including that KC-135 tanker that landed earlier.

  That shooting you’re hearing isn’t at the tower, though we have taken some hits, I don’t mind telling ya; it’s at the aircraft parked on the apron. Shit! Here they come again.” The line went quiet.

  “They’re gone,” Clive said.

  Several seconds passed.

  “Sixth Fleet, I’m back. Y’all ain’t gonna believe this.

  The Greek Air Force just showed up and they’re kicking ass and taking names! You can scratch at least two of those Russian aircraft. They’re in flames south of the runway and the others are running.” Laughter followed.

  “They better run fast, I think there are some pissed-off Greeks chasing them. Earl, hand me that video camera and that pack of cigarettes. Shit! Earl, hurry yer butt up and take a picture of that. Whoosh! There’s goes another Greek missile and there explodes another asshole! Damn! This is just like a John Wayne movie. Sixth Fleet! CNN will pay a fortune for this. Earl, break out that Amstel beer and pass me that fucking camera. We gonna be rich, boy.”

  * * *

  The Greek National Air Defense Command tracked the Libyan fighter aircraft from the time they departed the coastline north of Tobruk. The attacking force, in tight formation, presented a radar profile of a passenger aircraft.

  The lone Greek supervisor consulted his flight plans for the day and found nothing scheduled. He scratched his head and looked at the radar contact. It showed the aircraft in the international flight corridor for commercial airliners.

  He hoped it wasn’t another defection. He put his pen down and walked to the radio just as the speaker blared.

  “Air Defense, this is Rhodes Leader. We are four Mirage F-is airborne for sector operations east of Crete,” said the lead Greek pilot. Major Demetri Andrecopouliou, into his helmet mike piece.

  “We will be airborne three hours thirty minutes, conducting routine patrol. Single wing tank.”

  “Roger, Rhodes Leader, this is Air Defense Command.

  You are cleared to transit to op area at altitude one two five. Report when on station.”

  “Roger, sir. Will do.” Demetri glanced at his altimeter, confirming their metric altitude equated to twelve thousand five hundred feet.

  Since the flare-up with Turkey three months ago, the Greek armed forces had flexed its military muscle by keeping round-the-clock air patrols between its eastern borders and the Turkish mainland. The east of Crete patrol was boring. No Turkish aircraft would dare penetrate this far west. The Greek patrol varied the time by doing formation aerobatics, buzzing merchant vessels, and conducting ground control intercept exercises against each other. Today started like every other patrol day.

  “Rhodes Leader, this is Rhodes Two. Let’s buzz some merchants.”

  “Let’s don’t and say we did.” Rhodes Two was going to be a good fighter jock, if Demetri could curb his wingman’s recklessness.

  Demetri visually checked his formation.

  “Rhodes Three and Four, close up. Diamond formation, maintain fifty meters separation. Divide radar coverage, as briefed, for three hundred sixty degrees and remain in tight formation.”

  “Rhodes Leader!” shouted Rhodes Two.

  “Aren’t we relieving Kostas Kelipolas and his band of renegades?”

  “Rhodes Two, no names. We will relieve Corfu Formation in fifteen minutes. We’re going to hit the deck, come up under them, do a visual pass, a quick wiggle, and then they’re off for a well-earned rest.”

  “Rhodes Leader, this is Corfu Leader. The day you and your boofus bunch sneak up on us is the day I buy Metaxa brandy for all!”

  “Hey, Kostas, if we lose, it’s retsina we’ll buy!”

  “Skita, posti! You’re a cheap bastard, lo annis Corfu Leader teased Rhodes Two.

  “No names, I said,” Rhodes Leader repeated.

  “Rhodes Leader, this is Air Defense Control. Report your position.”

  “Air Defense, Rhodes Leader; we are passing south of Khora Station. Maintaining one two five altitude at four hundred knots.”

  “Roger, Rhodes Leader, do you have bogeys southwest of you? We showed what I thought was an airliner outbound Tripoli Flight Information Region, but radar is now reflecting six to seven bogeys northbound.”

  “Negative, Air Defense Control. If you want, we can depart track and take a closer look for you.”

  “Roger, Rhodes Leader; come to course two two zero to free radars.”

  “Rhodes Formation,” Demetri broadcast, “come right to course two two zero.” The four Mirage F-is turned as one, the sun highlighting the two French Matra Mica air-to-air missiles under each wing.

  The formation leveled off. The four pilots continued in a diamond formation as each watched their assigned radar sector for the unidentified aircraft.

  “Rhodes Leader, Rhodes Three; I have multiple bogeys bearing two eight zero, crossing feet dry Palaiokori.”
<
br />   “Impossible! There are no other aircraft scheduled for this morning.” Palaiokori was a small coastal village south of the air base at Chania, Crete, where the Greek Air Force shared the runway with the United States Navy’s Souda Bay base.

  “Air Defense, this is Rhodes Leader. Do we have other Hellinikon Air Force aircraft airborne in the vicinity of Rhodes Formation?”

  “That is a negative, Rhodes Leader. Our schedule shows only you and Corfu Formation airborne at this time. Next flight not for two hours, though Chania has a ‘takeoff and landing’ evolution scheduled in thirty minutes.”

  Rhodes Leader passed the radar sighting information to Air Defense and waited for further instructions.

  The controller at the Greek National Air Defense headquarters, located across the runway from the United States Naval Support Activity Souda Bay, strolled over to the window.

  He put his small cup of strong Greek coffee on the window ledge before lifting his binoculars to scan the skies for the aircraft that Rhodes Formation reported and his radar reflected. A summer haze shimmered over the runway. Already going on nine thirty and the summer sun promised another record-breaking day. Good for tourism and hell on those who kept their clothes on. He’d drive down later after work, drink a cold Amstel beer at the beach bar, and watch ‘hose white tourist titties bounce across the beach — good for a man his age. Not bad for his wife either when he arrived home with that twinkle in his eye. He smiled. His wife would smile. Life would be pleasant in the Nicholas Skoumopolis household.

  Skoumopolis was born in Thessaloniki. He was six foot even and weighed two hundred fifty pounds. When the Greek Army had drafted him forty years ago at the age of seventeen, freeing him from a life of schoolwork, he had been the same height, but a hundred pounds lighter. He had no idea what army life was going to be like, but he quickly found it a welcome change after years of Father slapping his ears to study and Mother pushing his head into schoolbooks. Every male did two years’ mandatory conscription in the service of his country. His father tried everything to get the authorities to defer the draft, including bribing the local draft board chairman, but Nicholas breathed a hidden sigh of relief when Athens eventually refused the request. He discovered to his surprise that he loved the Army and made up his mind to break the news to his parents, thereby shattering their dreams, that he intended to become a career noncom. That was, until four months before the end of his two years of government service, when the small night patrol Nicholas was with stumbled across a group of armed Albanians with automatic rifles on the Greek side of the border. In the fire fight that followed, Nicholas’s company pushed the armed gang back across the border into the chaotic environment of Albania, killing four and wounding no one knew how many. For Nicholas, his Army dreams ended with a bullet through the left side, which miraculously missed his stomach, intestines, other vital organs, and blood vessels, but destroyed one kidney. His fellow soldiers had backtracked after the fight to find him bleeding and unconscious. A month later he was discharged with a small disabled veteran pension. He returned to the polytechnic to finish his degree and then worked his way slowly up nondescript technical jobs as a civilian, to where he was now one of three senior Air Defense controllers in Chania, Crete. Along the way he married a Cretan girl, who gave him three boys to brag about and challenged him in pounds. Through his own efforts in the bars, Nicholas Skoumopolis the wounded soldier became Nicholas Skoumopolis wounded, disabled war hero.