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  “Noble Three One, take the helo on the left. We’ve got the helo on the right.”

  The F-16 formation banked apart into two pairs as they chased their targets, closing the coast in their desire to splash the enemy. The Libyans weaved from side to side in a futile attempt to avoid the cannon fire erupting around them.

  Noble Two Two sent bullets through the fuselage of the lead helicopter, killing a crew member and two soldiers cowering in the back. An electrical fire blazed up on the MI-14, sending white smoke pouring out of the back door. But the MI-14 managed to turn, go lower, and head back toward Benghazi, trailing smoke from its interior. Cannon fire from Noble Three One and Noble Four Eight blasted the trailing helicopter, blowing its forward blades off and sending it crashing into the sea.

  Noble Three One pulled up, the lead helo, trailing white smoke, framed in her fire-control box. Automatically she fired an air-to-air missile that hit the turbos behind the turning blades. The helicopter exploded in midair. Only the blade remained visible to hit the sea. Funny thing about aircraft hit by missiles.

  Metal cascaded through the sky, but human bodies seldom survived intact. Vaporized, torn apart, and spiraling outward, the crews disappeared forever. Ah, the moral dilemma, Noble Three One thought as she smiled.

  “Good shooting, everyone. Form up on me,” said Noble One Six.

  From overhead a missile blasted by the front of Noble One Six, narrowly missing the F-16 before exploding harmlessly in the sea.

  “We’ve got company overhead, guys,” said Noble One Six. “Afterburners on! Climb! Climb! Break apart and reform at twelve thousand. Wizard One, what’s going on?” he shouted into his face-mask microphone.

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Noble, this is Wizard One. We have four Mig-25s in your vicinity.

  Don’t know where they came from, but they have you sighted! Must have been in radio silence with their radars focused until they attacked. Do you see them?”

  “Negative, Wizard One, we don’t see them. Narrowly missed joining the Gearing. Scratch one enemy missile. We need information! Vectors, we need vectors! Wizard One, talk to us! Where the hell are they? Reform us at twelve thousand feet. Do you have us?”

  “We have you, Noble One Six. Okay, we have them now,” a calm voice announced. “They’re at your five o’clock and descending. Roll left, come out on course two seven zero. Bandits are at altitude eight zero, distance seven miles. They should be straight ahead. They’re coming right toward you! You’re lucky, there’s only four of them.”

  “I see them! On the left! On the left!” shouted Noble Four Eight as the Libyan and American formations passed each other, neither firing.

  “Lead the way, Four Eight. Ain’t no fucking Mig-25 going to ruin my day,” said Noble Three One.

  Ahead of Noble One Six and Two Two, two Mig-25 aircraft rolled back toward them in tandem formation. The two opposing formations saw each other about the same time. The fire-control radars on the F-16s locked on the oncoming Libyans.

  “I have lock-on!” shouted Noble Two Two.

  “Noble Formation, tallyho! Remember the Gearingl” shouted Noble One Six as he banked left, bringing his nose head-on to an attacking Mig-25. The Bird rocked his F-16 left as bright flashes of cannon fire erupted from the Libyan Mig-25. The shots went down his right side, narrowly missing the F-16. He swung the F-16 back in attack position as the Libyan maneuvered for another firing solution.

  The four F-16s engaged the Mig-25s. The air battle raged directly overhead above the Gearing survivors, who watched the aerial combat as the aircraft dodged and weaved for position. Another missile impacted the sea half a mile from the rafts of the USS Gearing.

  Noble One Six and Noble Two Two fired two Sidewinder missiles as two AA-7 missiles left the pylons beneath the wings of two Mig-25s.

  “Flares, chaff!” screamed Howard

  “The Bird” Webster as he jerked back hard on the throttle, sending the F-16 in a near vertical climb.

  From the rear of the two F-16s, four flares shot out at one second intervals, their burning magnesium temperature drawing their sensors of the Mig’s missiles off target. Chaff clouds confused the semiactive homer on the older Soviet missile, decoying it away from Noble One Six and his wingman. The Bird raised his eyebrows in surprise when no ECM erupted from the Migs. The two Sidewinders blasted into the Libyan fighters. Damn, just like an arcade game.

  “Scratch two Migs!” shouted Webster. “Two Two, right turn, reform. Do you see Three One and Four Eight.”

  “Noble One Six, this is Wizard One. Three One and Four Eight are to your right ten miles. Steady on course two eight seven for intercept.

  Altitude ranging between eight and twelve thousand feet. They are engaged.”

  “Let’s go, Noble Two Two!”

  “Noble Three One and Four Eight, we are on our way!”

  The Bird and his wingman pressed the throttles of the F 16s forward to maximum speed, and roared past the Gearing survivors in a headlong dash toward the other two Air Force fighters.

  Ten miles from where The Bird and his wingman, Noble Two Two, shot down their two opponents, Noble Three One and Four Eight flipped, rolled, and fired in the continuous ballet of a close-air-combat duel.

  So far, four missiles had been expended by both sides with no hits.

  Noble Three One rolled to the right as the Mig-25 banked left. She pulled the F-16 up, executed a half loop, and came out behind the Mig-25. The locked-on alarm sent a steady tone to her earphones. She squeezed the trigger. Her third Sidewinder ignited and shook the F-16 slightly as it blasted away at Mach Two toward its target. Flares shot out from the Mig-25.

  Noble Four Eight, two miles further west, had the remaining Mig-25 on the run. The Libyan pilot was on the deck, rocking back and forth in a frantic effort to avoid the American fire-control radar.

  A minute passed without the Mig-25 pilot hearing the warning tone from his sensors. The fleeing Libyan grinned as he congratulated himself on evading the American fighter. He eased his aircraft up to three thousand feet. As he keyed his microphone to call Tripoli military airfield, Noble Four Eight fired his missile. Inside the Mig-25 cockpit the beeping alarm of an inbound missile disrupted the call for eight seconds before the Sidewinder hit the engine exhaust. The Mig-25 wheeled over and began an out-of-control spiral toward the sea. It exploded when it hit, sending debris a hundred feet into the air, enveloped by a dark cloud of smoke. Noble Four Eight looked for the Libyan pilot’s parachute, but didn’t see one.

  “Scratch another Mig!” shouted Noble Four Eight gleefully.

  “He’s on my tail!” shouted Noble Three One. “He has lock on.”

  From the tail of Noble Three One, four flares and a cascade of chaff shot out. The missile from the Mig-25 hit the number-two flare and passed harmlessly under the F-16 to explode fifty feet in front of it.

  Noble Three One faked a left roll, and pulled up on the throttle as the Mig-25 flew by her to the left. She banked a hard-left diving turn, coming out behind the Mig and “luck firing” her cannon as her missile system searched for a lock-on. Hitting an aircraft with cannon fire when the target is evasive-maneuvering is hard. Most pilots believe it is just plain bad luck if you get shot down with cannon fire.

  Missiles were the weapons of choice for aerial combat. They required little thought, and electronics did the work. One of the twenty-millimeter shells penetrated the hydraulic system of the complex Mig-25 avionics, causing the Libyan pilot to lose control.

  The Foxbat jerked, swinging from right to left and back again, as the pilot strained with muscle power to compensate for the loss of hydraulics. Without the critical hydraulic systems to move the ailerons and flaps, the aircraft was barely manageable.

  Noble Three One lined up behind the Foxbat and laced the aircraft with a burst of twenty-millimeter cannon shells. The left engine of the Mig-25 burst into flames.

  Without hydraulics and with only the starboard engine, the Libya
n pilot lost all control of the Mig-25. The heavy Foxbat began to spin in a left-hand roll on a downward spiral to the sea.

  An ejection seat blasted out from the Mig as the Libyan pilot abandoned his fighter. “Noble Formation, reform on me,” The Bird said as he began a right-turn circuit, waiting for the other three to show.

  “Wizard One, how does it look out here?”

  “Noble One Six, Wizard One; clear skies. Well done. Time to go home now.” “Roger, Noble One Six,” said Noble Three One. “Scratch another Foxbat.

  One pilot in the drink about five miles from Gearing survivors. And not one nail damaged, not one hair out of place, and — dry knickers!

  How’s that for calm?”

  “Was that why you were crying, “He’s on my tail,” “He’s on my tail’?”

  Noble Four Eight laughed.

  “Hey, you twit! That wasn’t a cry. It was just me stating a mere fact that all women understand; there’s always some man somewhere on your tail.” “Good job, Noble Formation,” The Bird said.

  “Noble Formation, this is Wizard One. Congratulations! We watched everything from here.”

  “Roger, Wizard, we be ready to go home. Want to make one pass by the Gearing as we exit area. They were the only audience for this little air show and they deserve the finale.” “Wizard, this is Hunter Six Zero,” the P-3C. “We are north of thirty-sixth parallel and heading home. Noble Formation, well done.

  Thanks for doing what we would have loved to have done.”

  The four F-16s reformed into a diamond formation. At one thousand feet the Air Force fighters roared over the Gearing survivors, who waved their hats. Noble Formation executed a formation victory roll as they departed the area.

  “Wizard One, this is Noble One Six. Scratch six helicopters and four Mig-25s. Request two more Foxtrot Sixteens and we’ll take on their entire damn Air Force.”

  “I think you just did, Noble Formation!” yelled the Navy P-3C pilot.

  “Noble One Six, fuel state?” the ATE asked.

  “Roger, fuel low. Request tanker.”

  “Roger, turn to course three five zero for tanker support. Kilo Charlie One Three Five standing by,” the ATE said, informing the F-16 formation that a KC-135 tanker was orbiting in the assigned refueling zone. “Turn to channel sixteen and contact tanker. Upon refueling, check back in on channel fourteen and contact Wizard One. Noble Formation, Admiral Cameron, Commander U.S. Sixth Fleet, sends

  “Well Done.””

  “Noble Formation, this is Hunter Six Zero. The pitchers will be waiting at the club.”

  “Just make sure they’re full, Hunter.”

  “You can be sure of that, but a full pitcher of beer in front of a lot of thirsty sailors doesn’t stay full long.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Shortly before midnight the submarine surfaced.

  Silently and quickly, sailors spilled out of the black monster as they ran to Their positions. Each was acutely aware of the vulnerability of the USS Albany while surfaced. They hurried about their tasks, conversations low as they rushed to disembark their rioers. Groaning from exertion, several sailors helped the SEALs pull the awkward rubber boats topside. Faint red light from the interior illuminated the nighttime task.

  Belowdecks, Duncan stood with the remaining SEALs, waiting for the “all clear topside” before heading up the ladder to what Duncan termed freedom. Cooped up inside a steel coffin for the past thirty hours had made him feel like he was trapped in a stalled elevator; only this elevator was surrounded by tons of water. On top of that, they were twenty-four hours late for their rendezvous. They had no idea whether Alneuf was there or not, and wouldn’t until they hit the shore. What a waste of time if they got ashore and found they’d missed him. Then, Duncanvould have endangered his SEALs for nothing.

  “Damn, what a time to get a headache,” Duncan whispered to Beau, who stood inches behind him.

  “Drink water and take plenty of aspirins. If you still have it in the morning, call me,” Beau replied.

  Duncan rubbed his temples, feeling the cammie paint rub off on his fingers.

  He pulled a stick of camouflage paint from his pocket. Squeezing a small portion on his fingers, he smeared the black-and-green makeup over his face.

  A head stuck itself in from above. “Pssst! Captain, y’all come on.”

  “Damn, I’m surrounded by you Southerners.”

  “Wasn’t he supposed to say, “All clear topside’?” asked Beau.

  “Well, Beau, I guess this is it. Good luck.”

  “You, too, Duncan.”

  Duncan turned to the squads. “Okay, let’s go,” he said softly. “You know what to do. Do it quietly and do it fast.” He slung his carbine over his shoulder and scrambled up the ladder. Faster than he thought he could. His sports arthritis bothered him more as he got older. He recalled fleetingly, as he pulled himself through the hatch, when he could break a six minute mile with a hangover. Now, it took eight on a good day. Here he was doing something a younger officer should be doing, and the migraine wasn’t helping. He should have let Mike Sunney take this mission. To hell with whether President Alneuf of Algeria would have been offended or not if a junior officer rescued him. Duncan could have always stayed behind. Plus, there was always Beau. Beau was more than capable of leading this expedition. But in the end, Duncan knew he would never throw in the towel or stay behind or give the mission to Beau. In spite of misgivings, in spite of what the Navy had done to him, this was his mission. And as he had done countless times during his Navy career, he would execute as ordered. A stab of migraine pain zapped him. Slight migraines had plagued Duncan periodically ever since a blow to the head years ago in a brawl outside a merchant marine bar near the piers in Marseilles. He hoped it would go away before they hit the beach.

  “Captain James,” a voice called from above.

  Looking up, Duncan recognized the silhouette as the captain of the submarine, Commander Pete Jewell, leaning over the rail.

  “Yes, Captain,” Duncan answered, using the title that all commanding officers of Navy vessels earned, regardless of their true rank.

  “We’re at the launch point. The landing site is two miles away at one eight zero. I must really love you guys!” Jewell sighed audibly. “I never bring my boat this close to the beach unless I’m going on liberty. Captain, we show no signs of aircraft or ships in the area, though EW has picked up a Marconi radar west of us. They think it’s a merchant. We have no lights from shore other than those off Algiers.”

  He pointed over the horizon to the east, where a slight glow reflected off the clouds overhead the port city.

  “I want to stay surfaced as little as possible, so when you and your teams disembark, the Albany will submerge and turn seaward. We’ll be back, as agreed, in three hours, no sooner. What time do you have?”

  Duncan looked at his luminescent wristwatch. “I show zero zero twelve.”

  Jewell tilted his watch under a red-lens flashlight. He twisted the setting hand slightly. “There, I show the same, zero zero twelve hours. Sunrise is zero six fifteen. False dawn is zero five hundred.

  We’ll be back here at zero three hundred. At zero three-thirty, if we haven’t heard from you, Albany will depart and return at midnight tonight to effect a second rendezvous. If you’re not there then …”

  The two reviewed once again the particulars of the pickup arrangement, with Duncan warning Jewell that if the SEALs failed to keep the rendezvous, Jewell was to forget about the pickup and rejoin the battle group. Jewell listened and told himself that he would make the decision when to abandon the prearranged pickup. After all, he was the commanding officer of the USS Albany and operational plans only follow the script until the first bullet is fired.

  “Good luck, Captain,” Duncan said, shaking hands with the submarine skipper.

  “Good luck to yourself, Captain. I don’t envy your job. I feel safer here, knowing I’ve got two Kilos out there some where who would love nothing better
than to sink an American submarine, than going where you’re going.”

  “Funny thing, Skipper. I feel the same way about being topside.”

  Two SEALs crouched on their knees as they busily inflated the two rubber boats with the help of two Albany sailors. Meanwhile, other team members passed two thirty-five horsepower outboard motors up through the hatch and onto the deck. The other SEALs squatted patiently on the rocking deck, waiting to shove off. Their weapons rested across their laps.

  “See you, Skipper,” Duncan said.

  He hurried aft. The hissing sound of the boats inflating filled the air over the light slap of the waves against the side of the submarine.

  Clouds passing overhead periodically obscured the slight starlight.

  “Beau, you launch your swimmer scouts when we’re three hundred meters from the beach, then follow them in slowly.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Beau responded with a smile. “You mean like the way we’ve been briefing and rehearsing for the last twenty-four hours?”

  Okay, so he was a little nervous.

  “Ready, sir,” Ensign Bud Helliwell said, looking up from where he squatted beside one of the boats. He patted the outboard motor he had just finished latching to the transom. “All ready, Captain.”

  Duncan had consciously planned the infil for five knots. On a calm sea like tonight, they’d make that easy. Four paddles per boat backed up the motors. It would take less than a half hour before they’d be in position for Beau’s swimmer scouts to break off.

  “Launch them,” Duncan commanded.

  The boats eased over the side, tether lines held by sailors on the Albany. The SEALs crawled over the side of the submarine, four to each boat. Duncan was the last to go. His knees creaked when he hit bottom and more fell into than boarded the rubber boat. He rubbed his knee.