The Sixth Fleet

by David E. Meadows

  A Lopez never ran … God, country. And, of course — he smiled — there was that buxom blond at Gabriella’s, who he had been cultivating for weeks, who would probably rip off her knickers and screw his brains out when he returned as an air hero. Maybe he would be the one to play hard to get … for about a minute, he thought.

  “Yes, Etna Leader. Understand, but your fuel state, please?” the controller asked, bringing Antonio’s thoughts back from the blond at Gabriella’s where his mind was already tracing his fingers up the inside of her thighs.

  Antonio glanced down at the gauges.

  “We have sufficient fuel and do not intend to return yet.

  Request a tanker.” He reached between his legs and pushed his rigid dick to a more comfortable angle.

  “Etna, we cannot provide a tanker. The tankers were destroyed during the attack.”

  Etna Leader clicked twice and switched channels on his radio to the formation frequency.

  “Etna Formation, we are going to intercept and destroy the Libyan scum even if it means following them to Tripoli.

  Unfortunately, we don’t have enough fuel to make it back to Sicily and, as you heard, there is no tanker support. For those who want to turn back, now is the time to do it. For me, I am going to pursue those who have attacked our country and avenge Italy!” And get that blond at Gabriella ‘s.

  “What is it in the films that the American Indian says on a sunny day before a battle?

  “It is a good day to die.”

  I think I will stay along for the ride, Etna Leader. Besides, I have an uncle who is a mafioso and he would not be a happy capo if I came back from a vendetta without a kill,” said Etna Two.

  “We are not going to be the ones who die, Etna Two.

  Besides, I know your uncle. He’s not a mafioso. He runs a bakery.”

  “Well, he would still be unhappy.”

  Etna Three and Etna Four also refused to turn back.

  “Besides, Etna Two owes me two hundred euros,” said Etna Four.

  “It’d be just like him to get shot down to avoid paying me.”

  Etna Leader switched back to the main control channel. “Air Defense, Etna Formation will continue pursuit. Try to arrange a tanker for us. If not, then send a ship to pick us up. We will let you know where to send rescue.” He flipped off Groseta Control as the officer on the other end began to shout.

  Thirty minutes later, Etna Formation passed the Libyan coastline. Ahead lay Tripoli Military Airfield, the old Wheelus Air Force Base of the United States Air Force in the 1960s.

  “Groseta, I have a Blinder taxiing off the runway and two Mig-25s landing. We have enough fuel and weapons for one pass. Etna Two, take the Blinder; Etna Three, the lead Mig; Etna Four, take out the parked fighters and I will take the second Mig. After attack, break left and head north. One pass only. After missiles, use cannons. Good luck and God’s grace, my friends. For Italy and family!” And good loving.

  The Italian fighter aircraft dove at the airfield. The first missile fired by Etna Two tore through the antiquated bomber, killing the bomb crew in the rear. The Blinder split in half, the rear portion and wings burning. As Etna Two neared the missile hit, three crew members evacuated the cockpit. Etna Two fired his six-barrel cannon, blasting the cockpit and sending three bodies flying into the air. He increased power and sent deadly twenty-millimeter cannon shells into a tower that unexpectedly appeared in front of him. Etna Two banked left, avoiding the tower, and headed north — his internal warning system going wild from the Libyan surface-to-air missile radar system’s attempting to lock on. He hit the deck at fifty meters and dodged for the coast.

  Etna Three opened fire with his cannon at the six Mig25s and four Mirages parked in a line along the edge of the apron. One of the Foxbats rolled out and began a highspeed taxi toward the runway. Etna Three fired two missiles; both of them bracketed the Mig-25. He squeezed the cannon trigger. Two twenty-millimeter cannon shells hit the cockpit, blowing apart the pilot’s head and upper torso. The Mig’s ejection seat activated, rocketing the headless body into the air. The burning Mig veered left into a parked Mirage V aircraft. The nose gear collapsed, causing both aircraft to collapse onto the apron. The Mig engines continued to work as the fire worked its way toward the rear, causing the unmanned fighter to spin slowly around the pivot of the buried nose gear, pulling the Mirage with it. Two other Mig-25 aircraft burned along with these two. The other aircraft parked along the apron miraculously survived undamaged from the one firing pass of Etna Three.

  Etna Four’s first missile hit the first Mig, landing dead center. Flames shot up fifty meters, followed by a gigantic explosion that covered the Foxbat aircraft with roiling black smoke as it fell the remaining thirty meters to explode on the edge of the runway. The second missile hit the center of the runway, blowing a small crater in the asphalt.

  The second Mig-25 pilot hit his afterburner and ascended in a combat roll to the right. Etna Leader’s missile missed the escaping Foxbat and exploded harmlessly on the taxiway apron. The Mig-25 looped up and over, as Etna Leader banked left. Aswad Leader came out of the loop behind Etna Leader. The Libyan veteran had Antonio’s F-16 bracketed with his fire control radar.

  Etna Leader ignored his wingmen calling “Mission complete.”

  They were headed for the coast, leaving him behind.

  He rolled the F-16 to the right, pulled a nearly two-G climb for a couple of seconds, and then throttled back, causing the aircraft to stall. The Libyan fighter flashed past, its cannons blazing. The two adversaries were too close for missiles. Antonio knew he had to make the only remaining missile count. He needed separation.

  Antonio pushed the throttle forward as he rolled the aircraft to the left on a powerless race toward the earth. He flicked the power switches. The engines caught; he twisted the steering column to the right and brought the nose up in a power climb. The thrust of the Falcon shoved him back against his seat. Antonio shoved the steering column forward, coming out of the climbing turn heading west and finding himself five hundred meters behind the Foxbat. He pressed the cannon button and a neat stitch of holes crossed the tail section of the Mig.

  Aswad Leader broke right and up, taking the Mig-25 through a 360-degree roll as he took his aircraft through a series of roller-coaster maneuvers in an attempt to lose the angry Italian. Unable to shake Etna Leader, Aswad Leader hit his afterburner, went vertical, and left the slower F-16 behind.

  “Thank you,” said Antonio. At two kilometers, Aswad Leader opened up the distance needed for the Sidewinder missile.

  Ahead, the city of Tripoli filled Antonio’s window as the fight moved farther west of the airfield. Crowded slum suburbs passed rapidly beneath the Italian fighter.

  The steady tone in his headset announced lock-on. Etna Leader fired his remaining Sidewinder and watched it weave through the air.

  Aswad Leader dove for the ground in an attempt to use ground clutter to detract the missile. Flares erupted from the Foxbat, but the Sidewinder missile was already past the flares when they came out.

  The missile hit the tail, blowing off the rudder and fins.

  A second explosion separated the left wing from the fuselage. Antonio smiled and the buxom blond returned to his thoughts as he rolled the Falcon to the right and hit the deck at sixty meters as he tried to ignore the internal warnings caused by the Libyan Air Defense fire control radar’s attempts to lock on. A ground flash from the left caught his attention. He watched the Libyan SAM rise from its launching pad and harmlessly pass two miles from him.

  “Etna Leader, where are you?” yelled Etna Two.

  “I am crossing the coast. You?”

  “We have re-formed. No combat casualties and no aircraft damage.”

  “Roger, Etna Two, I have you on radar. So where shall we ditch, my fine fellow Italian air heroes? I have twenty five minutes of fuel remaining, so we can try for Lampedusa or Malta.”

  “I vote for Lampedusa. It’s Italian, and even if it’
s small, the beaches are covered with some of the finest women of Italy.”

  “And of Scandinavia and Germany, too,” Etna Four added.

  “And, of course, who could turn down a chance to be with Italy’s finest air heroes?”

  “Then it’s Lampedusa. But I want a promise from everyone that we will return to Groseta as soon as possible. I am sure that Gabriella will miss our business otherwise.”

  “Gabriella! Hell, Antonio, you mean Maria with the big bazoobas.”

  “I am sure that Maria will want to grace me with her presence,” Antonio joked.

  “Presence, hell! Her knickers will be so wet when Italy’s aces march through the door that you’ll be able to toss them against the wall and they’ll stick!”

  “Etna Three, I will request that you do not talk like that about the woman I love. Show some respect.”

  “Antonio, you love all women until you get into their pants, and then it’s off to another conquest.”

  Antonio clicked his radio twice.

  “Okay, my fellow air warriors. It is time to grace Air Defense with our position and status so they may celebrate our survival.

  “Etna Two, would you do the honors? I am seventy-five kilometers from you and out of UHF range.”

  “It shall be my pleasure, Etna Leader.”

  * * *

  For fifteen minutes sixth fleet operators attempts to contact Sigonella held the quiet attention of Admiral Cameron, Clive Bowen, and the others waiting impatiently in Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center. With Sigonella communications gone they waited for the Harriers to arrive. Clive ordered the radiomen to turn the volume up on the Harrier frequency. They wouldn’t be able to talk with the Marine fighters, but should be able to hear them.

  The euphoria when the Harriers shot down the Mig-23 had dissipated as concerns of what might be happening at Sigonella filled their thoughts.

  “Clive, what’s the status of getting an aircraft carrier into the Mediterranean?”

  “As of this morning. Admiral, the USS Stennis is off the coast of Norfolk, conducting routine sea trials and carrier qualifications for a bunch of F-14s and F-18s out of Oceana. Atlantic Fleet has ordered her back to Norfolk to outfit for an immediate deployment to our theater. After she turns around, two F-14 fighter squadrons from Oceana will bingo aboard as soon as she clears the Norfolk channel.

  Two F-18 squadrons — one of them the Marine Moonlighters from Cherry Point, couple of S-3A antisubmarine birds from Jacksonville, and an E-2C early warning aircraft out of Norfolk. We are estimating Stennis battle group’s earliest deployment time to be three to four days after it returns to Norfolk.”

  Admiral Cameron paused to take a sip of water.

  “I’d estimate nearer five days for the carrier battle group to get organized, outfitted, and turned around. At max speed, she can be at the Strait of Gibraltar eight days later. Escorts?”

  “Yes, sir. The cruisers, destroyers, and auxiliary ships needed to round out protection for the carrier and provide the logistic support to keep the group steaming are being identified.”

  “So, we are going to have to wait nearly two weeks before a carrier battle group arrives to help us?” Cameron asked, leaning forward, his hands spread on the table to brace himself.

  “Yes, sir. It looks that way. COMUSNAVCENT is fighting the idea of releasing the Roosevelt from the Persian Gulf to come here. They’re saying without the carrier presence, there is nothing to counter the Iranians.”

  Five stressful minutes later the Harriers flew over the destroyed airfield and began passing damage reports.

  “Sixtyone, this is Bulldog Leader. We have taken up combat positions around the airfield. It’s terrible. I’ve never seen anything like it. I count eight aircraft burning on the apron. At least one is a KC-135, some are C-130s and P3s.

  The runway is cratered as well as the near taxiway, where another aircraft is burning. Fire engines are arriving and I count two ambulances. We have no comms with the airfield. Both hangars are destroyed, burning … and there’s another aircraft I didn’t see also burning at the end of the runway. I intend to land two at a time to refuel, if we can find the capability to do that. Sixtyone, they need help here. The scene reminds me of the old pictures of Pearl Harbor after the Japanese attack.”

  The staff duty officer approached Admiral Cameron.

  “Sorry, sir. General Leblanc is ordering you to take his call now.”

  “Ordering me? What the hell does he want and who the hell does he think he is to order me?” He leaned forward.

  Clive put his hand lightly on the admiral’s shoulder. Sweat broke out on the injured admiral’s forehead as a wave of pain shot through him.

  Commander Bailey looked uncomfortable.

  “Sir, you’re not going to believe this, but he wants — no, demands is the better word — for you to transfer your flag under his command.”

  “Under his command?”

  “Yes, sir. As Strike Force South, your NATO hat.”

  “Under his command!” shouted Admiral Cameron, refusing to believe what he was hearing. He fell back, resting against the back of the chair, his breath short, rapid.

  “Why would he want that?” Clive asked angrily.

  “He also wants all our forces to withdraw at least one hundred miles north of Algeria and above the thirty-eighth parallel until the situation clears. He says our unilateral actions are not in line with his strategy for the North African region and endangers European security.”

  “Who the hell does he think he is?”

  “He thinks, sir, that he is Allied Forces South and that Sixth Fleet belongs to him,” Clive answered.

  “Clive, call that presumptuous son of a bitch and tell him that as far as I am concerned the United States Sixth Fleet just went to war. If he wants a piece of the action then he had better get his puckered French ass up and get busy. Then, after you’ve called him, transfer my flag to the Albany. Tell Captain Ellison to stand by to embark Sixth Fleet. The place for an admiral at war is at sea, not shuffling papers ashore.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Clive replied, giving the admiral a salute.

  “Nothing will give me greater pleasure, sir.”

  “Commander,” the admiral said to the staff duty officer, “contact European Command and tell them I want to talk to General Sutherland immediately. And I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing; get him on the phone.”

  The admiral stood, forcing himself to stand erect. Energy apparently blazed in his posture, but Dr. Jacobs knew the man was in great pain. Cameron turned and walked out of Combat, his Marine Corps guard and Captain Jacobs close behind him. Clive caught a glimpse of the doctor and the Marine taking Admiral Cameron’s arms as soon as they were through the door. The admiral’s last few seconds had exhausted the wounded leader, but his walking out unaided and his comments boosted the morale of a navy going to war. A navy that had just suffered its second Pearl Harbor.

  Clive started the actions rolling to transfer the Sixth Fleet battle staff to the Albany. Later he would call and pass along Admiral Cameron’s regrets to the French general who now controlled the southern NATO forces.

  Clive hoped they were on the submarine and out to sea before Washington started bombarding them with questions.

  Information technology was great, but it allowed too many armchair quarterbacks an opportunity to direct the plays.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The first Tomahawk missile broke the surface as the setting sun touched the edge of the horizon. The noise of the rocket engine blasted across this Mediterranean Sea area south of the Italian island of Lampedusa, startling the crews of three merchant vessels and a small coastal freighter west of the missile. The missile quickly sped straight up and as the crew members’ eyes tracked the contrail of the deadly weapon other Tomahawk missiles began to break the surface, one after the other, until a total of six contrails marked their path into the low cloud cover.

  The two nearest merchant vessels t
urned hard to port to open up the distance from where the missiles had been launched — the nearest ship being only eight miles away.

  Little did they know that the skipper of the submarine USS Miami had deliberately maneuvered his boat so witnesses to the initial American response to the Libyan attack could broadcast what they had seen. American forces may have drawn down to a point where a third world nation like Libya felt it could attack with impunity, but it was sadly mistaken.

  “Okay, XO, take her to the surface,” the Miami’?” skipper said. Then, turning to the chief of the watch he asked, “You got the battle flag?”

  “Better than that. Skipper. I broke out the holiday ensign we purchased for your change of command last year.

  It’s twice the size.”

  “Skipper, XO,” the sonar operator said, holding one earpiece away from his ear as he spoke, “two of the ships are turning west.”

  “One hundred feet!” announced a nearby chief petty officer who was monitoring the depth gauges.

  The skipper grabbed the microphone.

  “Attention, all hands. Grab hold — we’re going skyward!” He slapped the microphone back in its rack.

  “Blow all ballasts and trim nose up,” he ordered.

  The old Los Angeles-class submarine was at a forty-five-degree angle when she broke surface. Her nose traveled into the air nearly one-third the length of the boat before the submarine splashed back down onto the Mediterranean.

  Sea spray rose fifty feet into the air along the length of the Miami. Admiral Cameron wanted witnesses and he wanted the Libyans to know he was coming after them.

  Well, he got it, the skipper said to himself. No one knew how impressive a submarine looked when it surfaced like this except those who had actually seen one do it.

  The sterns of the two merchant vessels were crowded with crew members who pointed with awe at the submarine that had fired the missiles and leaped from beneath the sea.

  Several cameras with telephoto lenses were busy snapping photographs. Two on the nearest merchant vessel managed to take photographs of the last missile fired. That photograph and the ones being taken now would earn them a nice chunk of change when they pulled into Marseilles in two days.