The Sixth Fleet Read online

  President Crawford nodded.

  “Keep me informed. General.”

  He looked at the secretary of state and the secretary of defense.

  “Bob, Roger, did the French or Germans have anything?

  They’re usually pretty much on top of the terrorist groups operating in Europe. And how about the British?

  MI-5?”

  “The British are as much in the dark as we are, sir.”

  “We’re having secure communications difficulties with the French and Germans and have had for about week,” Bob Gilfort added.

  “It’s on their end and both of them are working the problem. We asked if they had any data that might relate to the Gaeta bombings and both indicated they would review their intelligence sources for anything and get back to us.” The DCI raised his head.

  “We’re having the same problems at the action officer level with the French and Germans.”

  “That’s odd,” added Roger Maddock.

  “Three days ago the French dropped off-line to conduct some upgrades to their communications systems. Said they can receive, but are unable to send anything classified until they finish upgrading their software and complete necessary technical and security checks. The Germans said basically the same thing yesterday.”

  “So, we have no action officer level contact with our French and German allies at the State, Defense, and Intelligence levels. Bob, do these communications difficulties have anything to do with the political differences we’re having with them?”

  “I hope not, sir. Politics have had little effect in the past on our intelligence and military relationships. But, for two key allies with a well-known history of collusion to drop all contact — which it seems they have — at the level where desk officers routinely communicate and exchange items of interest is odd,” said Gilfort.

  “It could be coincidental,” said the DCI.

  “Or maybe not,” said the secretary of defense, looking at the president.

  “Within ten minutes of Admiral Phrang’s car bombing. General Jacques LeBlanc, the new French deputy to Admiral Phrang, announced the immediate assumption of duties as Commander Allied Forces South. I was surprised on the quickness of his announcement. Almost as if the obituary had been written prior to the bombing.”

  “Let’s don’t go too far down this road. I don’t want to turn this into another conspiracy theory, Roger,” the president said.

  “We’ve had conspiracy theories for every assassination this century, starting with Kennedy. Let’s not have this august body pointed to as the source of the next one.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President, but as you know, the appointment of a French officer as deputy AFSouth was done as a conciliatory action for the French, who had demanded that the AFSouth NATO command be a rotating European officer. General LeBlanc was the first appointee and we were surprised at the quickness of his nomination. The French had been recalcitrant on their position to accept a secondary role under an American officer. Then, with no explanation, about two months ago, the French agreed to the proposal and General LeBlanc arrived within a week.”

  “What is LeBlanc’s background?”

  “Infantry officer. Very parochial. Once commanded the famous Foreign Legion. Golden boy of someone with enough influence to move him rapidly up the promotion ladder. Not much combat or field experience, preferring the politics of Paris to the mud of Bosnia and famine of Africa.

  Where other senior French military officers have a sampling of foreign assignments, he had a one-year tour at Djibouti, followed a few years later with a six-month deployment to Chad. Not much military experience in comparison to other French Hag officers, but a heavy background in military intelligence. Though he does have the obligatory tours in Africa, unlike a lot of his peers he did not try to make a career of Africa but actively sought out duty in Paris. Speaks fluent Arabic and English and is well known for his anti-American, pro-European convictions.

  Appears to have some strong political backing within the government.”

  The president cupped his hands under his chin. He recalled a briefing last month from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that showed if the United States gave up leadership of NATO’s AFSouth Command, the United States Sixth Fleet would come under the control of a French general. It was the issue of Sixth Fleet that generated the rigid American position that the flag officer commanding AFSouth must always be an American.

  He looked at his secretary of defense.

  “Roger, how long before we can replace Admiral Phrang?”

  “Sir, we could do it today, but we have to vet our nominee through NATO and NATO is not known for its swiftness.

  By the time we finish the approval process, it’ll be a month at the soonest, three months more likely. On the plus side, the chairman of NATO is British and that will help.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re stuck with a French general who has NATO authority over our Sixth Fleet.”

  “Technically, when Sixth Fleet is called to service under NATO it is known as Strike Force South. Last night, European Command designated Sixth Fleet as Commander Joint Task Force in response to the worsening situation in Algeria.”

  “Going to be hard for Admiral Cameron to be a United States Task Force commander if he’s dying,” Franco Donelli added.

  “He’s not dying. That’s just the press. The truth is, he was wounded, but the wounds are not life threatening. We can always transfer Rear Admiral Pete Devlin, who is Commander, Fleet Air Mediterranean, to Sixth Reel if Admiral Cameron is unable to resume his duties. Admiral Devlin is in Naples. I’ll be able to tell you more later today, Mr. President,” Roger offered.

  General Stanhope snorted, failing to realize how noise carried in the amphitheater like conference room.

  The president looked down the table.

  “You’ve got something, General?”

  “My apologizes, Mr. President,” General Stanhope replied, his face a beet red.

  “I know this is out of line and not within my purview, but I would recommend you start meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sir. You’ve got two attacks against your two most senior naval officers in Europe.

  Attacks that were obviously coordinated and well executed.

  You’ve got Algeria going down the drain. The game is afoot,” as Sherlock Holmes would say. What game?

  None of us know yet, but my initial evaluation, Mr. President, is that you are going to need the military for whatever happens in the Mediterranean theater and your military experts are the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  No one spoke, waiting for the president to comment.

  After several seconds he turned to Maddock.

  “Roger? General Stanhope is correct.”

  “Mr. President, we agreed when I took this job that the JCS would deal through me with you. So far, that has worked fine. I have already scheduled a meeting with them later this afternoon to discuss the situation,” Roger said, throwing an angry look at General Stanhope, who smiled and nodded politely to his boss.

  Stanhope was retiring within the year anyway. Screw you, SecDef, he thought. The JCS are supposed to work directly for the president; not through a cabinet member.

  “This afternoon! Why not now? Why are we waiting so late to discuss what should be the overriding concern of Defense?” Calm down, President Crawford reminded himself.

  Control your temper. Remember your blood pressure.

  When no answer came, the president continued.

  “Mr. Donelli, call General Eaglefield and tell him that I want him in the Oval Office in thirty minutes.”

  “Mr. President, I’ll take that action, sir,” interrupted the secretary of defense.

  “No, Roger, I’ve told Franco to do this. You’re going to be busy because I want you, the DCI, and General Stanhope to tell me why the greatest intelligence apparatus on the face of this earth failed to see this was going to happen.”

  He slammed his fist down on the table.

  “Chri
st! I’m the one who has to go before the American people and explain this. I’m going to look the right fool, standing there, licking my lips with nothing to say!”

  A red light blinked on the telephone beside the secretary of defense. The president barely stopped himself from answering it.

  “Hello,” Roger Maddock answered.

  Taking his pen from his pocket he scribbled comments from the conversation on a pad of paper in front of him.

  “Okay. Keep me informed and have the public affairs officer develop a press release for my approval.”

  “What’s going on?” asked the president before Roger Maddock finished hanging up the phone.

  “A suicide car bomber tried to run the gate at Patch Barracks in Stuttgart, Germany, about an hour ago. He shot both MPs on the gate, but one lived long enough to give the alarm before she died. Quick reaction by base police cornered the terrorist as he was speeding toward General Sutherland’s house. One police vehicle rammed the car while the police in the second leaped out and grabbed the terrorist. The car was packed with explosives. They have roped off the car and bomb experts are working to defuse it. General Sutherland, the commander of European Command and head of NATO military forces, has been relocated along with his family to a secure area.”

  “I think that confirms my concerns, gentlemen and ladies. The United States is under attack. From whom, it is obvious we don’t have the gawldamnest idea, but we’re going to find out. Franco, you call General Eaglefield and tell him I want to see him ASAP and bring the entire JCS with him. Roger, on second thought, you had better attend also.”

  “General Stanhope and Mr. Digby-Jones, crank up your organizations and find out what the hell is going on. I want preliminary assessments by this afternoon.”

  “Franco, prepare some releases expressing our condolences to the families and saying something along President Reagan’s line about ‘you can run, but you can’t hide.”

  ” The president turned his attention to the lieutenant colonel at the front of the room.

  “Is there anything else that you have to make my day. Colonel?” Seeing her jump made Crawford realize how short he must sound.

  “Sorry, Colonel. I’m not snapping at you.” He gave her one of his “we’re in this together” smiles and was pleased when he saw it work.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I understand perfectly. In answer to your question, sir, I do have an item that is of concern to our Navy analysts. The Joint Chiefs of Staff can explain it better.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We have lost the whereabouts of the Algerian Kilo submarines.

  They were last photographed in port at Mers El Kebir two days ago, but as of this morning they are unlocated.”

  “You’re right. I probably need a little more explanation as to what that means. Where is Mers El whatever?”

  “It is in western Algeria, Mr. President.”

  General Stanhope cleared his throat.

  “Mr. President, Admiral Dixon can give you a more in-depth explanation, but we only have two American submarines in the Med. The two Algerian Kilos are diesel, making them quieter, and, with the situation in Algeria, we don’t know whether they are loyal to the government or operating for the Algerian Liberation Front. Until we know which side of the fence the two Algerian submarines have come down on, then we have to treat them as hostile threats to our ships.”

  “Sir,” the lieutenant colonel added, “they could also be heading for sanctuary. This morning two Koni-class warships docked in Malaga, Spain, requested asylum, much like what the Albanian Navy did when it sailed to Italy during the civil unrest in 1997. But, if they are heading to sanctuary then they’re doing it submerged.”

  The president stood.

  “Okay, keep me appraised. I want another meeting with the secretaries of state and defense, the DCI, and DIRNSA this afternoon. Plan a late working lunch and be flexible. I need alternatives, options, and recommendations — pros and cons on all of them. Franco, rearrange my schedule accordingly.”

  Everyone slid their chairs back and stood.

  The president turned to the secretary of defense.

  “Roger, put our forces on alert against further terrorist attacks. The attacks are focused on admirals and generals, our senior officers, so put armed guards on every flag officer in Europe until we know what the hell is going on.” He took several steps.

  “Better put them on every flag officer above the rank of two stars and every flag officer who is overseas.”

  He turned to Franco.

  “Give me the book,” he said testily.

  Franco handed it to him.

  “Let’s see what the polls say,” President Crawford mumbled as he left the room.

  * * *

  “General,” said Mr. Digby-Jones, “can we have a short, private discussion before we head to our respective agencies?”

  The nasal-drip, patronizing tone irritated the crusty general. He motioned the DCI, who also had no military experience, to an isolated area on the far side of the room.

  The other members of the NSC remained near their seats.

  Conversation erupted as soon as the door shut behind the president, further isolating the two intelligence leaders.

  “General, does NSA have any information on the whereabouts of President Aineuf of Algeria?”

  “No, but I can task the agency to search its data to see if we do. Any specific reason?”

  “This is kind of sensitive, but we have an agreement with Aineuf that makes it to our benefit to locate him. In fact, it is critical that we locate him.”

  “Farbros, are you telling me that Aineuf is a CIA agent?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that! Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact. President Aineuf is not considered friendly to the United States, but we did maneuver a private security arrangement with him. We want to locate him and, if he so desires, help him leave Algeria. I am sure you know how much we can gain by spiriting the disposed president out of Algeria.”

  “I understand and I’ll see what I can do, but you keep NSA out of this goat rope. I’ve seen what happens when we try to go down that road. Does Pinochet mean anything to you?” And, no, he didn’t understand how much it would benefit America to rescue the disposed president of a “gone to shit” country.

  “I only want information. General. That doesn’t necessarily mean the president would approve an insertion to pull him out.”

  “Information, Farbros. That’s the name of the game-information.” General Stanhope paused.

  “If we hear anything we’ll pass it on to you. There are several other items….”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “President Hawali Alneuf, said Colonel Yosef, his voice intentionally low. He stepped out of the night shadows of the alley into the faint light so the fleeing Algerian leader could see him. Yosef’s thin countenance belied the sculptured muscles beneath his gray military uniform. His gaunt face, on the other hand, betrayed his concern. His hawk nose and pencil-thin mustache were easily visible while the darkness hid his wide weathered brown eyes from view. Yosef worked hard to keep up his image of a professional soldier, though continuously worried that others saw through his disguise. It was a useless worry. As colonel of the Palace Guard he had earned Aineuf’s confidence and trust during these five years on the job. His men worshipped and respected him and would gladly follow him into combat, which they were doing now. Smallarms fire echoed from several streets away. The sounds of battle were closing in on the small band. The choice was move, or wait for the inevitable discovery and death. “The British Embassy is surrounded. We cannot go closer without risking your capture.”

  The Algerian president slumped back against the wall of the milk crate where Colonel Yosef had unceremoniously shoved him an hour ago.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Shock resonated in the tone of the president’s voice.

  There were no words of encouragement Yosef could give without lying, so he chose to ju
st answer the question.

  “Sir, we’re going for the harbor. Hopefully, God willing, we’ll find a boat to escape from Algiers to Tunisia.”

  Yosef nervously scanned the surrounding buildings and the deserted street.

  “Colonel Yosef, do you know anything about boats?”

  “No, but the other alternative is less appealing.”

  “Maybe the Navy still retains possession of the harbor?”

  Yosef looked at the president, shrugged. He doubted it.

  “We don’t know, sir. We haven’t heard from any of our forces in over four hours. I fear the worst for Algiers.”

  Yosef bit his lower lip.

  “What happened, Yosef?” President Aineuf looked up.

  Colonel Yosef’s haggard face, barely visible in the gray darkness of the street, showed the fatigue from the last few days. A tall athletic soldier, his usual crisp uniform was torn and dirty. A crumpled garrison cap, pulled down tight against the forehead, covered the short-cropped hair.

  President Aineuf sighed.

  “How could this happen in such a short time? A week ago we had the rebels on the ropes”-he squeezed his fist together—“like this, we had them in our grip…. And today, like criminals, we sneak out of our own country. Our own country!” Aineuf lowered his head onto his knees.

  “I pray that Allah will have mercy on Algeria.”

  Yosef gazed for a few seconds at Aineuf. He wished he knew who had ordered the troops to their garrisons. If the Algerian Army had remained deployed, it would be the FLA mnning now instead of them. Aineuf seemed to have shrunk in size.

  “Mr. President, the last signal received reported loyal forces fighting a successful counterattack from Oran. We may still control the western half of the country.