Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  “When will we know if Operation Tangle Bandit worked?” Dick Holman asked as he nodded to a sailor standing across from him and pointed to an area on the chart. Dick waited while the sailor pushed his sound-powered phone button, asking the person on the other end for the winds in the area where Dick Holman had pointed, the same area where the first Libyan missile was shot down.

  Pete Devlin shrugged his shoulders and looked across the compartment to where General Lewis stood talking to Kurt Le derman. “Whenever the general tells us or when Kurt decides to slip us a tidbit of information. You’d think he’d remember that he is my intelligence officer, not Army General Leutze’s, and when this is over with, he will become my intell officer again.”

  “Admiral, if you don’t mind me asking, how long have you known about this operation?”

  Dick Holman looked at the sailor with the sound-powered phone set while he waited for Admiral Devlin to respond. “Get me the winds for the area.”

  The sailor reached forward with his pencil and ruler and drew a small inch-long line with an arrowhead leading from the shootdown area along a course of two nine five. Along the line, he wrote the caption “10 knots-true.”

  Dick Holman nodded at the sailor, who stepped slightly back from the two men to where his body from the shoulders up disappeared into the shadows.

  “A week, Dick. I would have told you, but it was compartmented. More compartmented than most other secret operations I have been involved in.”

  “Let’s hope they all live.”

  “Admiral, Captain Holman,” Commander Bailey said, approaching the two men. “The SEALs have recovered the hostages. Colonel Stewart has initiated the second phase of the operation. We should know something soon.”

  The assistant TAO approached the group. “Sirs, Task Force Tango Foxtrot reports destruction of second missile by Spruance.” He leaned forward and made a small diamond on the chart. “Right here, according to the long-range display, Admiral.”

  General Lewis and Captain Kurt Lederman worked their way into the group.

  “Good. With both of those missiles out of the way, we need to take out the remainder. How long before we launch our attack, gentlemen, or am I the only one curious?” General Lewis asked.

  “General, we need several more minutes to coordinate the launches. The B-52s have already turned toward their launch zones—”

  “Well, I am glad the Air Force is doing something right.”

  “General, with all due respect,” Admiral Devlin said irritably, “this is a joint operation, and we are working to make the launches coordinated and correct. If we hurry this, we run the risk of missing or even worse killing those who have nothing to do with this small war.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes had passed since the second Libyan ballistic missile had been destroyed. The whipping winds of altitude had dispersed the anthrax spores across a broad front of two hundred miles as they descended through the clouds into the lower atmosphere where the winds changed slightly to a more northwesterly heading. Below them, over one hundred merchant ships closed upon themselves as they approached the narrow Strait of Sicily between Tunisia and Sicily. Directly in the path of this invisible swath of deadly spores lay the USS Hue City and the USS Spruance, steaming in a large MODLOC as they waited for further instructions.

  Directly below the missile flight path, parts of it fell, spreading deadly cargo in a ten-mile cone across the surface of the Mediterranean.

  The roll-on roll-off automobile carrier Maru Caracas steamed through the cone, unaware of the trillions of spores raining on the exposed decks of this huge ship destined for Livorno, Italy. The fifty-six Asian crewmen who manned the Japanese-owned merchant vessel breathed in the odorless spores as they sailed through the invisible biological rain. The ventilation system of the ship sucked the spores into the interior of the vessel and deep into the cargo holds, where new Nissans and Toyotas waited to be driven off the ship when they docked in twenty-four hours.

  These anthrax spores would find their way into the interiors of these new cars. By the time the ship docked in Livomo, most of the crewmen would begin to experience flulike symptoms. The captain would be confined to his bunk, each breath a fight. The first officer, assaulted by a raging fever, would dock the ship, slightly bumping the pier as three tugs attempted to steer the huge ship to its berth.

  By the time the Italian public health service became aware of the problems on board the Mam Caracas, the efficient port services would have already off loaded the cars, driving them directly to a protected storage area fenced off near the customs facility. It would be ten hours after the deadly ship docked before health officials hurried to quarantine it, thinking they were fighting a variant of Asian flu.

  Only when the crew members began to die, vital organs shutting down, drowning in their own blood, bringing gushes of dark blood out the mouth and nose, would be the first warning to the doctors that it was anthrax and not a virulent flu they were fighting.

  By then, the cars had been loaded on trucks and were scattered throughout the Italian mainland, heading for central distribution points throughout Europe. One by one, dockworkers would come down sick and begin to die. The majority wore work clothes contaminated by the spores and transported them home. Members of many of their families joined the afflicted. Two weeks after the arrival of the Maru Caracas, the port of Livorao closed as authorities rushed to clean up the biological agent.

  Over four hundred civilians around the port died because of the deadly anthrax cargo delivered along with new Nissans and Toyotas.

  Fast work by Interpol and the European Union quickly located most of the lorries transporting the infected cars, but not before 150 people, including drivers, were infected along the route of the huge trucks.

  Along the roads leading from Livorno, many of the spores blew off the vehicles and floated harmlessly to the ground, where the next wind lifted them, blowing the anthrax toward other warm bodies needed to let it grow and mature.

  * * *

  The Maru Caracus route carried her north of the USS Hue City and USS Spruance.

  Buc-Buc put the handset back in its holder after congratulating Louise Edwards on the success of the firing. He turned to the TAO, patted him on his back, and then keyed the bridge that he wanted to address the crew. He waited for the boatswain whistle to finish piping over the IMC before he took the microphone.

  “Men and women of Hue City, this is the captain speaking.

  Congratulations on a job well done. Task Force Tango Foxtrot — Hue City and Spruance — destroyed two ballistic missiles launched from Libya against our forces in Algiers and against either Sicily or Naples to our north. Your dedication to training and keeping this ship in its high state of readiness was directly responsible for that success. Now, we wait for further orders before we can do anything else other than watch for further launches. Any other hostile actions will be met with the complete firepower the USS Hue City has to offer. No threat passes our bow. Remember the Gearing!”

  He clicked off for a moment to take a sip of water. He tweaked his nose as he pushed the Talk button again. ‘ bad news is that the missile the Spruance destroyed may contain the biological agent anthrax. We have fought this enemy before, and all of you know the precautions to take.

  The winds are flowing east to west toward our position. If there is a biological agent in that missile, then it will reach our area within the next two to three hours. I am ordering all topside watches belowdecks. I want no one topside or outside the skin of the ship. We are setting circle William to ensure all ventilation is secured and are doing everything we can do to protect ourselves. I want all of you who have never had anthrax shots to report to your supervisors so we can start antibiotics. Sailors, great job; now we protect ourselves and wait for further orders. I want everyone in the ship to check your chemical, biological warfare garb. I know they’re hot, but better a little hot than taking a chance on breathing anthrax”.

  The TAO handed
Buc-Buc a small note he had hastily scribbled. He read it and continued. “We have just received further orders to launch several Tomahawk missiles within the next few minutes at targets in Libya. Godspeed and His blessing to each one of you as we do our nation’s work. I know each of you will do your jobs professionally and competently. Let’s roll.” He put the microphone down. Several hands clapped in CIC, and even as Buc-Buc, embarrassed, tried to stop it by raising his hands, it rose in tempo. This was not the quiet CIC he envisioned, but the accolade did wonders for his soul.

  As quickly as it started, the applause died out and the crew turned to the new task at hand. Buc-Buc looked over the tasking message from CJTF African Force: “At 0800 Zulu, Surface Action Group Tango Foxtrot will commence launch of Tomahawk missiles against the following military targets within the Republic of Barbary and North Africa, formerly known as Libya … ” Below the short action order were six geographical coordinates with sequential designations and times for Hue City launches. He wondered about the geographical box outlined in the desert south of Tripoli with the warning that no missiles were to be targeted within those coordinates, but his curiosity only lasted seconds as he prepared the ship for action. Zero eight hundred Zulu was the action hour, the action minute. Zulu was the military language for Greenwich mean time, used throughout the United States military to provide one common measurement of time. The ship’s clock read zero eight hundred local, one hour ahead of Zulu. They had sixty minutes until launch. The assigned platforms would launch their missiles at staggered intervals designed so the entire missile pack would hit at nearly the same time.

  Buc-Buc raised his eyebrows when he saw Air Force B-52s included in the operation order. He knew they were scheduled but figured it would take the Air Force another forty-eight hours for them to arrive on station.

  The B-52 launch box put them about one hundred miles northwest of the Hue City and Spruance.

  “TAO, what is the status on those threat naval targets?” Bucbuc asked, referring to the enemy warships detected earlier to the south of them.

  “They have turned south, sir, and are leaving the area.”

  “Keep an eye on them, and let me know if they turn north again.”

  The decision whether to use Tomahawks with their longer range or the new improved Harpoons with their shorter, intermediate range was usually left to his discretion, depending on the distance from the target. This time, the decision was made by Sixth Fleet, who really made up Joint Task Force African Force. The entire attack would be Tomahawks. Tomahawks, with their superior land terrain mapping capability and low flight altitude, reduced the chance of detection until it was too late. The superior targeting computer in its nose also reduced the chance of collateral damage, a Pentagon euphemism for killing civilians. Failing to respect the chance of collateral damage was a sign of a badly planned operation.

  Buc-Buc turned to the TAO just as his command master chief handed him his CB W gear along with the bulky gas mask. His attempt to wave the master chief away met with ironclad resistance. Even as he discussed targeting events and maneuvering requirements with the TAO, Buc-Buc struggled into the CBW gear. He knew he should have been one of the first to don this gear, instead of one of the last.

  The command master chief whipped his own gear on before helping the captain. Just what he needed at sea, Bucbuc thought with a twinge of amusement; here he was, commanding officer of one of the mightiest warships in the world, having a mother figure help him dress. His attempt to delay cramming his face into the hot gas mask met with the same inviolate spirit. Two things a good commanding officer needed to be successful, other than himself or herself: an energetic executive officer and a command master chief unafraid to tell him or her what most times he or she would rather never hear. The problem with master chiefs were they made up 1 percent of the entire enlisted force, and someone told them that. They were the best and, unfortunately, they knew that, too.

  “TAO, tell Spruance to open up our separation to ten miles. I want them off our beam when we fire our missiles.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain. Starboard or port beam?”

  “You decide, TAO. Just give us a separation so our missiles don’t interfere with each other’s when we launch.” He handed the OPORDER — operational order — back to the TAO. “According to this, we are doing simultaneous launches from both us and the Spruance. It wouldn’t look pretty if we both launched six Tomahawks only to have them collide with each other before they got a mile from us. Let’s make sure we have done everything we can to deconflict our launches.”

  “Sir, I would recommend a minimum eighteen-mile separation. That will reduce electromagnetic scatter between the nose cone radars and should—”

  “Okay, TAO. Make it so.” Eat your heart out, Jeanluc Picard.

  A couple of minutes later, the cruiser turned as Hue City moved farther south, opening the distance between itself and the USS Spruance. Buc-Buc glanced at the surface picture display as the surface operation clicked on the video of Spruance. It showed their sister ship crossing behind the Hue City, heading southwest at twenty knots, opening the distance.

  East of the ships, the clouds of anthrax spores continued their slow descent, expanding along the long, tumbling front with the Mediterranean winds.

  * * *

  Sergeant Adib fired his AK-47 at desert-camouflaged soldiers who appeared in the doorway. Firepower from four automatic weapons arrayed against him tore through his body before he could fire a second burst in return.

  Alqahiray stared at Adib. No expression registered on his face. The intensity of the firepower kept the sergeant’s body upright as the dead Adib bounced like a disjointed puppet along the railing behind him, bullets ripping into and through him. When the firing stopped, the body tumbled forward, landing facedown on the rubber matting. Blood poured from multiple wounds, spreading across the floor.

  Sergeant Adib’s Beretta rested in Alqahiray’s right hand along his leg.

  Soldier after soldier poured through the door. It took a few moments before the Libyan leader realized the attackers were shouting in English. What were Walid’s traitors doing speaking English?

  Several soldiers kneeled and pointed their automatic weapons at the Libyan colonel who stood all alone in the command post operations room.

  He gripped his pistol tighter. Walid was not going to take him prisoner again.

  “Who are you?” he asked, in strongly accented English.

  No one answered. Through the doorway stepped a tall, barrel-chested man with an armed soldier on each side of him.

  The helmet with the small microphone pushed upright alongside of it hid most of the man’s face. From the walk and the guards with him, Alqahiray knew this was the man in charge.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, directing his question to the tall soldier.

  The soldier stopped inside the steel door, taking a couple of steps to the side so the light from the hallway wouldn’t provide a better outline as a target. The man removed his helmet. Gray hair shaded the sides of the military haircut.

  “Colonel,” a soldier nearer Alqahiray said. “He has a gun, sir.”

  “Colonel Alqahiray, drop the weapon.”

  Alqahiray reached into his left shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette, all the while keeping the pistol pointing downward along his right leg.

  He shook the cigarettes out, most falling on the floor before he managed to get one into his mouth. He dropped the remainder of the pack on the floor so he could pull his lighter out. Alqahiray lit the strong, Greek cigarette. The hand with the pistol remained motionless alongside his right pants leg.

  “You can tell Walid, the traitor, that he will never succeed,” he said, blowing a ring of smoke out as he finished his sentence.

  “Sir, I am Colonel Robert Cooper, United States Army. Colonel, please drop the weapon.”

  Alqahiray lifted the cigarette back to his lips. He hated that his hand shook. Americans here! He let out a deep sigh. So, even here, Ameri
cans could come with impunity. What arrogant bastards they are! What infidels! Don’t they ever realize when they have lost? He concentrated on stopping his hand from shaking, afraid they would mistake his anger for fear. He took another deep breath, drawing every bit through the lightly filtered cigarette. If he must die, then let it be remembered as a brave death. The smoke burned slightly.

  “No, Colonel. You have no right to be here.”

  “Sir, you are under arrest as a war criminal. I ask that you drop the weapon. Our orders are to take you dead or alive. The decision rests with you, but we aren’t going to stand here waiting for you to make up your mind. We have helicopters and other forces topside. There is no way to escape or to call in further forces. Surrender or … ” Colonel Robert “Dusty” A. Cooper, United States Army Ranger, said, leaving the end of the threat unspoken.

  “Colonel, you Americans have to learn that the world is not yours. Do you think you can continue to pursue this war of terrorism forever?” he asked venomously. “Killing me is like cutting off the head of a snake that divides into more and more serpents. You can never stop us. One day, America will be destroyed. You know it, I know it, and the rest of the world knows it. You just refuse to admit it. From here, more serpents will grow.”

  “Colonel, I have no intention of taking you to America, if that is what worries you. You are being taken to Base Butler to stand trial before a military tribunal. At that time, you can use anything you want in your defense.”

  Alqahiray shook his head. “You fool, you fool. Do you really think I would submit myself? The Arab world? My country? To such a fair? No, I think we both know what I have to do. It is what a man of honor must do.” Alqahiray brought the pistol up fast, pressed it against his head, and pulled the trigger. A bullet from an M-16 hit him in the shoulder at the same time. Several other American soldiers fired.