Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  General Lewis turned toward the Sixth Fleet surgeon. “So, if we have enough penicillin and similar antibiotics available, we could defeat these two warheads?”

  He nodded. “If we had enough, General.” Dr. Jacobs shook his head.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have that much antibiotics in Sixth Fleet to start the necessary preventive antibiotic course to protect everyone.

  Just isn’t enough. And I doubt that the European countries will have enough. But what we do have is technology. We have a Zebra chip in our medical computer. The Zebra chip is a screening shield we use in medical on all blood samples. It contains biofingerprints of most contagious diseases and known biological warfare agents. It would be our quickest way to discern between an outbreak of flu and the presence of anthrax.

  That way, we can best determine who needs the antibiotics to stave off anthrax. Meanwhile, we will ask the Pentagon to rush us an increase in supplies.”

  “The entire Mediterranean coast is within range of the missiles, General,” Kurt Lederman added.

  “Do all our ships have these Zebra chips, Doc?” Pete Devlin asked.

  Captain Jacobs shook his head. “No, Admiral. Only the Stennis and the Nassau, as far as I know.”

  General Lewis leaned back. “Gentlemen and ladies, we have to stop those missiles from being launched. That is the same thing that the chairman and General Sutherland, the European commander, relayed: ‘ those missiles!’”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Jacobs added. “If those missiles hit a populated area, then we can expect a ninety percent death rate. Survivors can expect a significantly shorter life span. Death by anthrax is an ugly, painful death. The lymph glands swell to immense size, racking the body with pain as the bacteria spreads throughout the body. The lungs begin to drown in fluids produced by the victim’s own body. Dryer parts of the body such as the hands and feet have been known to crack and bleed as if a sharp knife had sliced through the skin in the more virulent strains.

  What I have described has been the common anthrax bacteria found in the ground and on farm animals, commonly referred to as woolsorter’s disease because of its association with sheep.”

  “So, you think the warheads have an unknown variant of anthrax in them?”

  “Yes, sir, General Lewis. The former Soviet Union had over nine hundred strains of anthrax in its military inventory, some genetically manipulated and some not. If the Libyans had these scientists working on anthrax warheads for six months, then, most likely, they have a genetically modified anthrax bacterium in the warhead. Common anthrax is too easy to replicate and reproduce for them to have spent six months developing it.”

  “Captain Lederman, what is the soonest the Libyans can launch those missiles?”

  “Tomorrow morning, General.”

  “Then we need to be in position to launch a preemptive strike tomorrow morning. Can we do that, Admiral?”

  “General, we are steaming west at twenty knots, but it will be late tomorrow before we pass through the Strait of Sicily. The Hue City and the USS Spruance are transiting through the Strait now.”

  Admiral Pete Devlin, his second day on the job as the commander of the United States Sixth Fleet, turned to the faces behind him. “Who’s the command duty officer?”

  “I am, sir,” answered Commander Bailey, stepping toward the table but stopping a few feet away.

  “Estimated time of arrival at the Strait of Sicily?”

  “Ten hundred hours tomorrow morning, Admiral.”

  “That’s unsat!” boomed General Lewis. “I want the battle group in strike range by morning. When the sun comes up, I want us to be through the Strait.”

  Captain Jacobs stepped forward. “General, they won’t fire those missiles before tomorrow night.”

  All eyes turned toward the medical officer. “Why is that, Captain?”

  “Sir, anthrax is negatively affected by sunlight. Sunlight can kill the spores. The way anthrax normally survives is in the tissue of its victim or hidden from sunlight in the ground. If they launch those missiles during the day, most of the spores will be dead before they reach the ground. They have to launch at night for maximum effectiveness.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Unless they have developed a particularly virulent strain of the disease.”

  The officers turned to Kurt Lederman. “So, Kurt, how long do we have if the Libyans do what the doc thinks they will?” Captain Dick Holman asked.

  “Sunset is twenty-one forty-five Greenwich mean time tomorrow,” Commander Bailey added.

  “Then, sirs, we have less than twenty-four hours to locate twelve missiles, plan, and launch a strike to stop those warheads,” Kurt Lederman announced.

  “We will do it. Right, Admiral Devlin?” General Lewis asked, hitting his fist on the table.

  Pete Devlin shook his head. “We can handle the western portion of Libya with no problem. But from the center of the Gulf of Sidra, midway of Libya to the Egyptian border, we will need help from our allies.”

  “The chairman has diverted five Air Force B-52s with air launched cruise missiles to support our strike. The aircraft arc already airborne from Mildenhall Air Base in England.”

  “Yes, sir, General, and we have them arriving on station within the hour,” Commander Steve Cloth added from the back row.

  “The Italians and the Greeks are aware of the dangers,” Kurt Lederman added. “An Italian battle group, centered on their aircraft carrier Garibaldi, is getting under way from Taranto tomorrow morning. They have a reconnaissance aircraft flying a mission along the CENTMED littoral in the hopes of pinpointing the location of the twelve missiles. The Italian battle group should be within striking distance of the central Libyan coast by early afternoon. The Greek Navy remains active off the east coast of Libya, and the Greek Air Force has already increased air patrols between Crete and Libya. The French and British battle group has been forewarned, but we haven’t received any feedback from them … unless you have, General.”

  “I have. The Royal Navy battle group intends to break away from the NATO combined battle group within the next hour. They will join us somewhere near the north coast of Tunisia, and we shall become a coalition battle group. Admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson said his duty officers would coordinate with ours.”

  Dick Holman leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s a pleasant surprise, General. I thought the British were hamstrung under their European Union agreements.”

  General Lewis stood up and shook his head. “There’s more to the British action than just the preemptive strike for tomorrow, but I’ll tell you about that later. The actions of the British battle group were decided at a much higher level than the military, the results of which you two deserve to know.”

  Dick Holman and Pete Devlin exchanged glances. Dick Holman had worked with the British warrior during the antisubmarine actions of the Stennis battle group following the sacrifice of the USS John Rodgers during their initial approach to the Strait of Gibraltar. The Royal Navy aircraft carrier Invincible Battle Group had been following only miles behind the American carrier battle group when it was attacked near the Strait of Gibraltar. Admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson had ordered a destroyer and his antisubmarine helicopters forward to work alongside the American counterattack against the unidentified submarine attempting to keep the warships out of the Mediterranean. The Royal Navy would be a welcome addition, even if their only aircraft were the limited-range, vertical launched Harrier ground support/fighter aircraft. The surface warships would at least have cruise missiles on them.

  General Lewis interrupted Dick Holman’s thoughts as he spoke to Pete Devlin. “Admiral, I would like a draft strike ops on my desk within the hour. Nothing fancy or firm, just an order of events.” He turned to Kurt Lederman, standing in front of him, and pointed his finger at the Navy officer. “Captain, by morning. I want to know where those missiles are. Get some reconnaissance assets airborne and active.”

  The three
Navy officers exchanged glances with each other. “General,” Pete Devlin said. “We only have Ranger Two Six, an EP-3E out of the Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron Two, in theater. The Italians have promised to share any missile locations they get with us. They should be finishing their mission any moment now.”

  Lewis put both hands on his hips, stretching the top part of his extra-large-tall shirt across his massive chest. “Well, answer me this, Pete, why in the hell doesn’t the Navy have any carrier capable aircraft SIGINT reconnaissance assets? Seems to me you’d give up the shore-based capability before you’d forgo a carrier-based capability. I would think shore-based would be more an Air Force mission than a Navy.” He glanced at Colonel Brad Storey, who nodded quickly’ in agreement.

  “That’s a long story all the way back into the mid-‘90s about a fleet commander in chief who wanted so desperately to find money for information technology upgrade that he forced the Navy to cut the ES-3B program. Most of us with war fighting experience disagreed. When this is over, if the general finds the subject interesting, we can spend a couple of hours discussing it.”

  Lewis exhaled audibly and dropped his hands. “Well, maybe. Right now, find the location of those missiles, and take them out. If we can use allied intelligence and reconnaissance results like we have the Hungarians, then do it.”

  General Lewis took a few steps toward the hatch, preparing to leave.

  “General,” Kurt Lederman interrupted. “Before you go, sir, Paul Brooks knows the location of the Libyan mastermind behind the missiles, behind the North African crisis, and who has been identified as responsible for the sinking of the USS Gearing”

  The cryptologic officer, his dark hair too long and covering the tops of his ears, stepped up beside the intelligence officer.

  “Go ahead, Captain Brooks,” Pete Devlin said when he saw General Lewis nod.

  “Next slide, please,” Paul Brooks said. A map of the Libyan coastline replaced the textual slide. With his laser pointer, he targeted an area about one hundred miles south of Tripoli. “The exact coordinates are—”

  “I know the exact coordinates, Captain,” General Lewis interrupted.

  “Sir?”

  “The question is how do you know the coordinates?” he asked, a little anger in his voice.

  “Colonel Alqahiray loves his computers, General. It was only a matter of time until we became computer partners with him. Fleet Information Warfare Command at Little Creek, Virginia, pinpointed him yesterday.

  They infiltrated his command, control, computers, and communications — C4—link with an electronic warfare array activated along the coast of the Gulf of Sidra. Our initial assessment is that this EW array is responsible for blinding the USS Gearing while it operated in the area. It could have been responsible for the destroyer sailing into Libyan waters, suckered into—”

  “Can you take them down?”

  “The EW array?”

  The general rubbed his chin for a second. “Yes, the EW array, but I was thinking more of getting inside his C4 net and either controlling it or blinding him.”

  Paul looked at the admiral. “Sir, we can task FIWC to take the C4 down just before we launch the attack. We take their C3 and computers down, Alqahiray won’t even know an attack is under way until those cruise missiles pierce the floors of that underground bunker and blow him to hell and high water.”

  “Good. But I don’t want you to do anything unless I tell you to. If I do tell you to take it down, I also want to remove the EW array.” General Lewis looked around the operations briefing room. “I want no misunderstanding at this point of discussion. I am not targeting Colonel Alqahiray. I do not want to target him. But there are other things going on that not all of you are aware of. Captain Brooks, tell your FIWC to withdraw their electronic tendrils from the Libyan headquarters, but be prepared to launch a computer network warfare attack, if so ordered.”

  His voice betrayed the tone of a conspirator.

  “But General,” Kurt Lederman interrupted. “We have his location. We can put a missile right down his throat. Kill the bastard responsible for this.”

  Lewis glared at the intelligence officer. Kurt took a step away from the table, a little surprised at his own outburst. The blood vessels on the general’s neck grew as the already tall flag officer seemed to expand in height. “Captain, there may be other operations going on that you are not privy to. A cruise missile would disrupt it and prove disastrous for everyone. I have said no hard targeting of this asshole. You understand?” He put his hands on his hips.

  “Yes, sir,” Kurt replied, his mind reviewing what the general had just said. He, as the intelligence officer, was responsible for the targeting phase of any military action. If another operation was going on in this theater, then it had to be a covert Special Operations Command action out of Tampa. Shit! How the hell was he going to identify what to target other than those missiles if he had no idea of everything going on in the Sixth Fleet area of operations?

  Dick Holman looked at Admiral Devlin, who mumbled quietly, “Wait.”

  “Admiral, I will be in my quarters for a few minutes and afterward at the gym. Until then, gentlemen and ladies, remember the Gearing and the John Rodgers. It’s time to take the message home, and we’re the ones who are going to do it. Our victory in Korea sends the right message to these nuts.”

  “That was great, sir,” Colonel Storey said in a soft but audible voice as the huge flag officer stepped through the exit. “Great morale-building, sir.” “I’d gag if it weren’t so serious,” Dick Holman said, listening to the exchange.

  Kurt Lederman joined the two Navy officers. “Admiral, what is he talking about? Is there a military operation going on that I don’t know about?”

  “Kurt, Dick, I wish I could tell you more. In this one, you will have to trust me. Don’t target Alqahiray. And, if any of those missiles are within fifty miles of his bunker, then check with me before adding it to the target list.”

  “But, sir—”

  “No, buts, Kurt. No targeting, and I want no brainstorming as to why.”

  Kurt acknowledged the order, knowing as soon as he returned to his spaces, he was going to tweak the Naval intelligence circuits to find out what the hell was going on. By God, he was the intelligence officer.

  How the hell could he do his job if they were keeping secrets from him? He remembered the paper he was holding.

  “Admiral, bad news from the beach,” he said, glancing down at the folded paper in his hand. “Captain James and his SEALs entered the sewer system leading to the suspected hiding place of the rebels holding our American hostages. A few seconds after entering it, the pipe blew, sealing them inside the catacombs.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Don’t know, sir. The Marines are removing the rocks and debris from the entrance as fast as they can. That will take several hours. Bulldog is rigging lighting so they can continue.”

  “Let me know when we find out the status. Without them, the hunt for the hostages must go on. Our plans still call for us to evacuate Algiers in seven days with or without the hostages. I had expected General Lewis to share that timetable at this briefing, but he either forgot or decided to keep it close hold, so keep that information to yourself until he releases it. Anything else, Kurt?”

  “No, sir, Admiral, other than that Bulldog is not happy about the carrier abandoning Algiers while he has forces still engaged on the ground.”

  “He will still have the Harriers on board the Nassau. If something happens where he needs high-performance tactical aircraft, then we can launch them from our station off Tunisia. They can always recover at the Algiers airport,” Dick Holman said to Admiral Devlin. “Of course, he doesn’t know about the imminent attack on Libya.”

  “He doesn’t really have a need to know,” Paul Brooks added, walking up to the group.

  “I disagree,” Kurt added. “What if one of those missiles is aimed at Algiers?”

  “Why would Alqahiray
do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  The hatch burst open, and a master chief petty officer, who Dick Holman recognized as one of the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center assistant watch officers, stepped inside. The woman looked around the darkened room, saw the briefing was over, and flipped on the nearby light switches. Dick squinted his eyes from the sudden glare of the fluorescent light.

  The master chief rushed over to the four senior Navy officers standing near the felt-topped table. “Admiral, you are needed in Combat, sir. We have detected a missile launch out of southern Tunisia.”

  “A missile launch?” Admiral Devlin asked, surprise echoing in his voice.

  Ha glanced at Kurt. “You said they wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t, Admiral. Doc said that.”

  “Maybe they had others — nonbiological warhead missiles— already deployed?”

  “No, sir. Only those twelve.”

  An intelligence specialist first class petty officer entered the compartment with a folder stamped TOP SECRET COMPARTMENTED TRAFFIC. He handed it to Kurt Lederman, who flipped it open and glanced at it before shutting it as he opened his mouth to speak. He stopped and flipped it back open.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! The Italians have located the missiles.”

  “Plot them out, and let’s get the targeting orders out ASAP!” Pete Devlin ordered.

  Admiral Devlin led the way, with Dick Holman hurrying to keep up. Kurt Lederman and Paul Brooks followed close behind. “I hope you’re right, Kurt. If not, we are going to have a lot of dead people on our hands.”

  At the door, a first class petty officer materialized, nearly colliding with Admiral Devlin. He stepped back sharply and saluted. “Sir, a second missile has been detected. Fired from north of Tripoli, it is on a northerly trajectory.”