Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  “Ah, Commander,” Beau said, nudging her gently on the leg with his combat boot. “You’d think you didn’t like this action adventure we’ve been on.”

  “Fine for you to say. You don’t have all these nanorobots in you. You’re not invincible.”

  They laughed, the adrenaline draining from their combat. “You know what else those nanorobots can do?”

  Beau shook his head. “No. What?” She leaned down and whispered in his ear. Duncan grinned as Beau’s face turned a scarlet red.

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way,” she replied. “And I may ask them to do it again tonight.”

  “Captain, this woman is one sick cookie,” Beau said, hooking his thumb at the laughing HJ.

  “Duncan,” Bulldog interrupted. “We need to load up and move out. We’re pulling out ASAP from Algiers. The first group of Marines have already left for the Fleet.”

  Why were they moving so quickly to pull out of Algiers? Yesterday, when they entered the sewers, Bulldog said it would take at least a week to commence evacuating, unless some drastic event required them to step up the timetable.

  “What’s going on, Bulldog? I thought we’d be here another week at least.”

  “I’ll tell you as we move, Duncan, but we have to move. But it’s all good news, Shipmate.”

  Bulldog turned to the Marines around him. “Let’s get these Americans loaded and out of here!” he shouted. Then he turned to the hostages, who were being led toward the gaping hole at the end of the warehouse. “Next stop, ladies and gentlemen, is the United States Sixth Fleet, waiting offshore for you.”

  An emotional cheer erupted from the civilians as they moved forward, following the young Marine riflemen. Many of the rescued hugged, touched, or wanted to touch the United States Marines and the Navy SEALs who had saved them from the terrorists and eventual death. The shock of their captivity would come crashing down around them later, after they arrived within the safety of the ships, sailors, and marines that made up the United States Sixth Fleet.

  THIRTEEN

  “Captain, twenty seconds to impact,” the tactical action officer said to Buc-Buc. The two radar returns on the screen showed the two extended-range surface-to-air Standard Missiles launched by the USS Spruance on a collision course with the Libyan ballistic missile.

  Buc-Buc detected a slight tremble in the TAO’s voice. Remain calm. He flipped a switch on the arm of his chair, and the scope picture appeared on the overhead screen. He leaned back. Ninety-degree approach, he said to himself. A crossing shot. A hard one to hit. The least mistake, the tiniest miscalculation in trajectory, a gale gust of wind at the crucial moment, and the ballistic missile would shoot past the Spruance missiles. Anything could happen and, if it did, there was little anyone could do to stop that missile from hitting its target in Italy. He couldn’t fire a backup salvo because if the Spruance missiles missed but exploded close enough, they could alter the flight profile sufficiently to cause anything he threw up to miss also. Hue City would have to wait, and waiting was something awfully hard for him to do. He realized he was drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and stopped.

  The Libyan cruise missile was slightly over one hundred nautical miles north of Tripoli. On current course, the target was either Sigonella, Sicily — the combined Italian/U. S. NATO airfield already bombed once by Libya — or Naples. Naples had not been bombed from the air since World War II. In his mind, he saw the morning bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic already pouring into the narrow and congested streets of this major Italian port. The deaths would be incalculable if this missile reached Naples.

  “Our solution?” he asked. He lifted his hand and neatly rubbed his chin.

  Not only did he need to remain calm, but he had to appear calm. Display professionalism. Act as if he had done this numerous times. Practice what he had been preaching to his officers and crew for the past year of his command. A professional crew was a quiet, methodical, well-trained crew.

  “Take us right up to the part where we press the firing button, Commander. I want to launch immediately if Spruance misses.”

  “We arc prepared to fire three seconds after a miss. Captain.”

  “Good work. Commander.”

  The tactical action officer flipped his microphone over his mouth and began to review the launch process again for two more SAMs against the ballistic missile traveling slightly below the speed of sound. It was an almost impossible hit if the Spruance missiles missed. Especially, if they had to recalculate the trajectory because of a near miss.

  “I have video merge on my scope.” reported the air search operator over the net, his words reaching Buc-Buc through the headpiece.

  He glanced up at the displays surrounding the C1C. returned to the air search one. and waited — crossed his fingers — for the video to disappear.

  If the radar video disappeared, it indicated the missile was destroyed.

  “Video fading,” added the air search operator.

  Buc-Buc released his breath, unaware until now that he had been holding it. He knew that if the Spruance solution had failed, their attempt had little chance of successfully destroying the missile. They would have tried, but it would have been a Hail Mary shot.

  One hundred twenty-seven nautical miles east of Surface Action Group Tango Foxtrot, the first Spruance extended-range Standard Missile exploded when its nose radar registered twenty meters from the Libyan missile that was passing from the south.

  The warhead did not need to hit the target to destroy it. It had a proximity warhead, designed to explode when its radar return reached certain intensity. The explosion of the extended-range surface-to-air Standard Missile hurled whirling pieces of metal like an expanding buzz saw that cut into and through the Libyan Al-Fatah III cruise missile.

  The resulting destruction at thirty-two thousand feet activated the aerosol warhead, releasing trillions of anthrax spores into the atmosphere. The roiling east-to-west summer wind at that altitude began to disperse the descending biological agent westward across the Mediterranean Sea and toward the operating area where the USS Hue City and USS Spruance sailed. Some of the spores traveled a faster route, riding the path created by falling pieces of metal headed for the seas beneath where the two missiles had destroyed each other.

  * * *

  Colonel Alqahiray slid down from his chair, “I ordered those missiles fired! Why haven’t they been?”

  “Colonel, I am clicking and clicking, but nothing is happening!”

  “Then move to another console!” he screamed, jerking the soldier by the collar out of his chair and shoving him aside. “Stupid!” he shouted to the soldier, who scrambled to his feet and hurried to the other side of the console array, away from the screaming Alqahiray.

  Alqahiray ignored the frightened soldier, already turning to another operator. “Fire the missiles!” he ordered the man seated in front of him.

  “Sir, I have tried. I cannot. The system is locked. When I click on the execute button, the screen scrolls up and around for a few seconds before stopping. Then it locks for a minute before I can shift the mouse arrow again.”

  “Am I surrounded by traitors and imbeciles? How can you tell them apart?” he screamed at Sergeant Adib.

  Sergeant Adib drew his Beretta, his finger slipping onto the trigger as he held the weapon alongside his leg, pointing down.

  “Colonel,” Major Bahar said from behind the two men. “With your permission, we can bring the system down and reload it.”

  “How long will that take, Major Bahar?” Alqahiray asked, bringing his face within inches of the older officer.

  Without moving his face or showing fear, the career Libyan soldier answered, “At least one hour, most likely two.”

  “I don’t have two hours, you imbecile!”

  “I am sorry, my Colonel, but it is the only suggestion I have.

  Hopefully, the reload will restore the computer program.”

  A thin thread of spittle ran out of th
e corner of the Libyan leader’s mouth. “Two hours … two hours? I want it done in one hour, Bahar, and I am holding you responsible.”

  “Yes, sir. I have always been responsible.”

  “You won’t be responsible for anything if this doesn’t work!”

  Sergeant Adib’s finger twitched on the trigger, his angry eyes staring at Major Bahar’s back.

  * * *

  The ten UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters flew over the desert at fifty feet, high enough to avoid sucking sand into the intakes and low enough to avoid radar detection. Each Blackhawk was capable of carrying up to twenty-two fully armed, combat-ready soldiers, but only eight carried troops and then only twelve in each one. One of the other two was a spare in the event they had to abandon a helicopter enroute to the operation area. The light combat load of the eight prime choppers gave Colonel Robert “Dusty” A. Cooper the flexibility to double up in the remaining helicopters if they suffered combat or mechanical casualties. The second noncombat helicopter was outfitted as a flying medical clinic. Two doctors and four medical technicians filled the empty space in the rear of the Blackhawk with their medical equipment.

  Equipment Colonel Cooper hoped he wouldn’t need it. Colonel Cooper, Army Ranger and career West Point officer, folded the diagram he had been studying since the helicopters completed air-to-air refueling an hour ago. He wanted no mishaps on this mission due to piss-poor planning. He glanced at his watch. The navigator riding behind the pilots in the cockpit tapped the pilot on the shoulder. Then he turned toward Dusty, smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up before holding up ten fingers. Ten minutes to objective. He checked his M-16 for the thousandth time and made sure the safety was on. His chopper would be one of the first into the hot landing zone. If the other elements in this operation did their job, they would do theirs.

  * * *

  Sergeant Adib pulled his gun and followed Colonel Alqahiray to the operations station responsible for relaying his orders.

  Two hours had passed since Major Bahar ordered the reloading of the command post servers. The body of the most competent officer in the CP remained in a sitting position against the far wall. The trail of dried blood from the small bullet wound in the center of the forehead ran down the left cheek of the tilted head. The glazed, open eyes of Major Bahar stared sightlessly at nervous soldiers manning the computer consoles.

  The Libyan captain jumped to his feet, and beads of sweat ran down the man’s face when Alqahiray stopped behind him. The armpits of his shirt were soaked with spreading stains of sweat moving visibly across the front.

  “I don’t know, Colonel. The computers are still locked up. I keep restarting them, and they work well until I go into an operational program. Then they lock up. They operated better before we reloaded the programs. Colonel, we can’t fire the other missiles from here. Our computers have been compromised. The Americans? The French? Maybe even the Italians? I don’t know who, but we no longer have control of our systems.”

  Colonel Alqahiray took the cigarette in his right hand and grabbed the back of the captain’s neck. He ground the lit cigarette into the forehead of the man. “You fool! It’s not the computer!”

  The man screamed from the pain. The smell of burning flesh whiffed around the three.

  Colonel Alqahiray released the Libyan captain. The man fell back against the console, bouncing off it as he tripped and fell to the floor.

  “You are part of Walid’s plan against me. I am surrounded by traitors!”

  Alqahiray reached behind him and jerked the gun out of Sergeant Adib’s hand, leaned down, and before the captain could remove his hands from the cigarette burn, shot him through the hands and through the head. The back of the head blew off, scattering brain and blood over the operations behind the unfortunate victim.

  The Libyan officer who was preparing to report the destruction of the second missile clamped his teeth together and moved slowly away from the group, the news of the missile kept confined inside him.

  “You!” Alqahiray shouted, pointing to the officer. Movement near the steel doors caught his attention.

  He raised the pistol and shot Major Ahsan Hammad Maloof, former electronic warfare officer and, until the bullet hit him, Alqahiray’s aide. The bullet caught the fleeing officer in the small of his back, shattering the spine, which stopped the bullet from entering the abdomen. The scream of pain from the wounded man continued even as Maloof pulled himself toward the door. Across the room, frightened soldiers stood up, looking at each other. Panic erupted in the room.

  Like a herd of stampeding cattle, the remaining operators rushed the door, trampling Maloof as they fled the belowground operations room deep within the command post. The aide’s screaming stopped abruptly.

  Alqahiray calmly fired into the crowd until the nine shot pistol clicked empty. The bodies of the dead and wounded trapped the steel doors open.

  Sergeant Adib stepped calmly into the light. “Colonel, it’s over, sir.

  We need to go.”

  Alqahiray pointed the empty pistol at the one person who had stood by him loyally throughout these past few days. “Another Walid conspirator.”

  He pulled the trigger several times, ignoring the clicking of the hammer against the empty cartridge.

  Sergeant Adib reached forward, holding a fresh cartridge in his hands.

  “Here, my Colonel,” he said.

  Alqahiray jerked the cartridge from Adib’s hand. The empty cartridge fell to the rubber-coated deck and bounced under the nearby computer console. Alqahiray shoved the full cartridge into the handle of the pistol. He pointed it at Sergeant Adib.

  After a few seconds, Alqahiray lowered the pistol and glanced around the room. With the exception of himself and Adib, only the groans of several wounded identified others still alive in the operations room.

  “Why, Sergeant Adib? This was a great enterprise. One that would have restored Arab greatness. It would have brought prosperity and power to our people. It would have showed America that no matter what they do, the Muslim nation will rise and keep rising until we control the world.”

  The sound of gunfire from the corridor filled the room, but neither man turned toward it, even as the fight edged closer. Sergeant Adib stuck his hand out for the pistol. Colonel Alqahiray looked at the weapon in his hand briefly before handing it to the sergeant.

  “Everything I did, I did for my people,” Alqahiray said, knowing he was lying but trying to convince himself of his sincerity. Maybe he believed his own lies. “If not for the conspiracy and intrigues of those I trusted, today would have seen a great Islamic empire rise out of Jihad Wahid. Jihad Wahid— Holy War One. Only I could have accomplished it, but what happened, Sergeant Adib? The Chinese promised to provide us support but only gave us enough to start a war here so they could encourage their Korean ally to attack South Korea. We were fodder to hold the Americans captive in the Mediterranean while they absorbed the prosperous South Korea. The Americans should not be here. The Sixth Fleet should be gone. It should never have been in the Mediterranean.”

  His head dropped as he reluctantly accepted the failure of his plan and the futility of continuing. “This is not an American sea; it is an Arab sea or even a European one; but not an American.”

  Shouts from outside and the firefight ongoing between whoever approached the operations room and remnants of Sergeant Adib’s Special Forces grew louder.

  Adib stepped away from Colonel Alqahiray and picked up an AK-47 propped against the railing of the observation platform. “Sir, I have to see what is going on,” he said, moving toward the steel doors and the bodies blocking it.

  “Give me your pistol, Sergeant. At least I will go down fighting as a soldier.” Adib handed Alqahiray the Beretta just as the firefight reached the bodies at the steel door. “Allah akbar,” he said to the sergeant.

  “admiral,” commander bailey interrupted. “admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson sends his respects and requests permission for his battle group to join the United States Si
xth Fleet.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Northwest of our position about fifty nautical miles, closing at twenty knots.”

  “The admiral still on the HMS Invinciblel” Admiral Devlin asked, referring to the aging British Harrier aircraft carrier.

  “I presume so, sir. It was the call sign of the Invincible that reported.”

  Admiral Pete Devlin looked away briefly from the long range displays.

  “Give the admiral my compliments and tell him we welcome the Royal Navy to the battle group. And then, Commander Bailey, create a two-carrier battle group layout to take us through the Strait of Sicily and into the central Mediterranean … if we have to go through.”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral. We are about three hours from the Strait.”

  Admiral Pete Devlin acknowledged the status report and urged Commander Bailey to incorporate the Royal Navy battle group into Sixth Fleet operations as soon as possible. The presence of the six British warships would double the size of the S’tennis battle group.

  “Yes, sir, Admiral. One other thing, Admiral, Captain Hoi man, the French are closing on Algiers. They are moving their carrier along with several French amphibious ships toward the Algerian capital.”

  Pete Devlin stroked his chin. “Have they told us their intentions?”

  “Yes, sir. Admiral, you may not like this, and it could be a language misunderstanding … but they said they are replacing Sixth Fleet since we have left the area.”

  “We haven’t left the area. We still have the Nassau Amphibious Task Force offshore!”

  “And, the USS Nassau has about the same number of aircraft as the Foch.”

  “About the same age, too. They do use the Super Etendards.”

  “Enough,” Devlin said. “We’ll worry about the French later. They’re the most arrogant ally a friend could want; sometimes I think they’d make better enemies.”

  “The British would agree with you,” Dick Holman said.

  Commander Bailey excused himself and hurried off to incorporate the Royal Navy into the Sixth Fleet battle group, putting the French actions in the back of his mind. The commander of the Amphibious Task Force would have to worry about them, and as long they didn’t interfere with the withdrawal of American forces, which had started, then there should be no problems. The French-American relationship had always been one akin to sibling rivalry, with the French always jealously guarding actions that might suggest they were anything but completely independent. On the other hand, it never ceased to amaze the French why so few recognized their inherent right to lead.