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  Duncan rose to his knees, his hand on the rim of the fountain. Well, there went his plan to head back out to sea and wait for the Albany.

  The roll against the fountain had slammed his right knee against the brick and porcelain fixture, bringing renewed waves of pain. He ran his hand searchingly down his leg, checking to make sure that nothing was broken. He limped to the truck. H.J. and Helliwell pulled him up onto the flatbed. Why did growing old have to be so painful?

  Bashir hoisted his massive body into the driver’s seat. His cellular telephone fell out of his pocket and landed beneath the front tire of the truck. Yosef shoved Alneuf into the cab and plunged in beside the Algerian president.

  “Let’s go, Bashir. Quick!” Yosef commanded.

  The whistle of another shell drove out the sounds of the other men scrambling into the truck. It hit the rear of the old house as Bashir, with a jerky start, floored the gas. The truck bounced along the unkempt driveway that led out of the villa garden.

  “Beau!” Duncan called.

  “Here, Boss!”

  “Take muster!”

  “Have already and we’ve got a problem!” “What is it?” Duncan asked, pulling himself upright on the wooden rungs of the truck siding.

  “No passports.”

  The truck hit a deep hole as it pulled out of the entrance to the villa gardens, knocking Duncan and Beau off their haunches. Bud Helliwell leaned over the top of the cab. He pointed his carbine ahead. Mcdonald took a prone position along one side of the truck with the barrel of his MG-60 sticking through the lower rung of the wood siding. Monkey had the right side covered similarly. Duncan and H.J. guarded the rear of the truck. Alternating among the SEALs, the Algerians took their own defensive positions.

  “Gibbons, come here,” Duncan commanded.

  The radioman crawled over to where Duncan sat.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Turn around. I need the radio.”

  Gibbons turned so that the captain had access to the radio.

  “Shit,” said Duncan.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “You can throw the radio away, Gibbons. And you can thank Motorola for your life.”

  Gibbons removed the manpack and twisted it around in front of him. A sliver of roof tile, like a foot-long icicle, stuck out of the center of the radio.

  “So, that’s what’s been sticking me in the back.”

  “Can you fix it?” Duncan asked expectantly.

  Gibbons shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t think I can. I’m a gunner’s mate trained to do first aid, not an electronics technician.” Gibbons pulled the fragment out. A tangle of burnt wires and destroyed circuit cards filled the center of the radio where the audio-control system and antenna connections had once existed. “What’ll we do, Captain?”

  Duncan shook his head. “We’ll do something, Gibbons.

  Right now, looks like we’re going on a dynamic tour of this North African country.”

  They were a hundred yards from the villa, bouncing across the weather-eroded drive, when the third shell hit the fountain killing the three prisoners.

  “captain, i’m picking up naval gunfire,” the sonar operator said to Jewell. “Look at the waterfall display on my CRT. See this blip across here?” “Give me a headset,” Jewell said, grabbing an extra pair hanging above the console. The muffled sound of the second round came through the underwater detection system.

  He watched the slow waterfall of the CRT change its intensity as the sonar device recorded the Naval gunfire. The two sailors and Jewell looked at each other.

  “It’s definitely Naval gunfire,” the chief sonar technician said confidently.

  Jewell nodded in agreement. “Range and bearing?”

  “Bearing one niner zero, Skipper. Range has to be under ten thousand yards because then you hit land.” The officer of the deck. “Captain, the sonar bearings cut through the rendezvous area and correlate with the EW bearing on the Marconi radar. The gunfire must be from that Algerian coastal patrol craft.”

  “Doesn’t sound like large-caliber shells, Captain,” the sonar operator volunteered.

  Jewell hung the headset back up. “Can you hear the shells hitting?”

  “No, sir. I would guess they’re firing at a target or targets ashore,” the chief replied.

  “No splashes, Skipper,” the sonar operator confirmed.

  “Officer of the deck, clear baffles and prepare to come to periscope depth. I want a firing solution on that ship ASAP!” Jewell ordered as he hurried to the periscope.

  Seeing the XO arriving through the forward hatch, Jewell stared intently for a second and then said calmly, “XO, man battle stations.”

  “Officer of the deck, man battle stations!” the XO shouted.

  The OOD turned to the senior enlisted man in the control room. “Chief of the watch!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Man battle stations!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” The chief of the watch reached over and pushed the red lever on the ship’s alarm system down. A soft honging vibrated inside the sound-insulated hull to reach every nook and cranny in the attack submarine. Sailors tumbled out of their racks and left their night snacks scattered as they ran to their battle stations. Events began to roll off in sequence to turn the submarine into a deadly machine.

  “Baffles clear,” said the officer of the deck.

  “This is the captain, I have the conn, make your depth six two feet.

  “Up scope,” Jewell said, more calmly than he felt.

  “Steady on course one niner zero,” the helmsman announced.

  “Coming to six two feet,” said the diving officer of the watch.

  The periscope cleared the water. The running lights on the coastal patrol craft made it easy for Jewell to find the small boat. He pushed the button under his right hand, switching the periscope to infrared.

  The Algerian coastal patrol craft became instantly visible to the American submarine, the heat from its engine overpowering the coastal heat sources. On the bow several Algerian sailors were hand-loading the single shot cannon.

  “Captain, we have a firing solution,” the XO announced from his battle station as the fire control coordinator.

  “XO, the shore bombardment by this vessel is being directed against our Navy SEAL team. I see what I strongly believe to be them on the hillside,” the captain said, knowing the infrared system was ineffective with a heat source like the patrol craft between Albany and the beach.

  “XO, take a look and give me your assessment,” Jewell continued, in a loud voice so everyone could hear.

  The XO put his sound-powered phones down, and worked his way through the press of flesh jammed into the control room until he reached the periscope.

  They exchanged a wink. Bending down, the husky executive officer viewed the craft through the periscope for nearly two seconds.

  The XO looked up. Their eyes met. “Captain, I concur. I count a minimum of eight heat sources on the hill,” the XO said in a loud voice.

  Everyone in the control room would remember this exchange between the captain and his executive officer and, later, report it nearly verbatim to the investigating board.

  “Captain, I recommend we take defensive actions to protect our forces ashore.”

  “Sir, he just fired again!” the sonar operator reported.

  “Officer of the deck, note the XO’s concurrence in the log. XO, return to your battle station.” He touched the XO’s shoulder as their eyes locked for a moment. Then the taller man wormed his way back through the mass of humanity.

  “Make tubes one and two ready in all respects. Shallow draft target, minimum enable. Tube one is the primary tube. Tube two is the backup,” Jewell ordered.

  “Roger. Captain,” the weapons officer replied.

  Across from the XO’s battle station the weapons officer leaned over the firing panel operator. While the captain and XO had gone through their transparent charade, he’d used the t
ime to confirm the torpedo room was ready.

  “Firing point procedures,” Jewell announced as his impatience grew to get a torpedo in the water.

  “Ship ready, Captain,” the officer of the deck reported.

  “Weapons ready!” followed the weapons officer.

  “Solution ready!” the XO reported, wrapping up the checkoff sequence.

  Jewell took a deep breath and let it out. “Final bearing and shoot. Up scope.”

  Jewell looked into the periscope. “Bearing … Mark.” he said as he pressed the button on the periscope, electronically correcting the firing solution.

  “Set,” replied the XO.

  “Shoot!” shouted the weapons officer into his mouthpiece.

  The sailor on the weapons control panel turned the firing key. “Tube one fired electrically! Tube two ready!”

  The submarine shuddered slightly as the torpedo exited the boat.

  “Down scope,” ordered Jewel!.

  Jewell shut his eyes and counted. This would be the first time since World War II that an American submarine had used a torpedo to sink a surface ship in an act of war.

  “Weapon has enabled,” said the weapons control coordinator.

  “Conn, sonar, weapon speeding up!” announced the sonar operator. The torpedo had locked on target and was speeding for the kill.

  Silence descended in the control room as every man willed the torpedo onto its target.

  “He’s just fired again. Captain.” the sonar operator said, breaking the tense silence. Jewell watched. The sonar operator took off his headset as the display from the torpedo and the target merged.

  Two seconds later the submarine shook as the torpedo blew up beneath the keel of the Algerian patrol craft. The explosion split the small boat into two halves. A shower of splinters and flesh skyrocketed into the air.

  “Up periscope,” Jewell commanded. He grabbed the eyepiece and handles before they were waist high. Directly ahead, the flaming remains of a bow and stern touched each other like a man bent backward until his spine cracks and his heels touch the back of his head. The small patrol boat sunk in seconds as Jewell watched.

  A cheer erupted in the control room. Several looked away to hide wet eyes.

  “That’s enough,” Jewell said. “We still have the SEALs out there. Down scope.”

  Jewell stepped away from the instrument as it slid belowdecks. “EW, keep a good lookout. Sonar, you, too. OOD, you have the conn, come to course zero one zero and keep her pointing that way in case we have to make a quick exit.”

  The XO left his position and joined the captain near the center of the control room. “What now. Captain?”

  Jewell looked at his watch. “It’s three ten. We’ll wait thirty minutes and if they’re not here, then we go to plan B.”

  “Plan B?”

  “Yeah, we go look for Kilos until tomorrow midnight when we’ll return. That is, if the entire Algerian Navy isn’t overrunning this area by then.” “Sir,” the XO said. “Good shooting.”

  “Yeah,” Jewell replied. “Now comes the best part.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The second-guessing by Washington.”

  Jewel picked up the microphone for the ship’s announcing system. “This is the captain. We have just sunk an unidentified ship that was firing on the SEALs we sent ashore earlier. Well done to all of you. We are going to remain at battle stations while we wait in this area to recover the returning SEAL team. Once again, well done.”

  He hung up the microphone. “XO, we need to let Sixth Fleet know what’s happened. The rest of you keep a keen eye on your sensors.

  “Up scope. Stand by with the infrared signal light on the scope.” He wiped his sweaty palms on his khakis. There was an overriding urge to head for deeper water. His stomach felt queasy. He knew Duncan and his team wouldn’t be waiting. By now, they had probably gone to ground. Regardless, in the fog of combat the SEALs’ only alternative was for the Albany to follow the plan as closely as possible. Jewell had no way of knowing that his passengers were ten kilometers inland and heading deeper into Algeria as the Albany waited.

  CHAPTER 7

  The periscope of the Algerian Kilo submarine Ai Nasser slid into the well beneath the control room. Hydraulic fluid leakage around the mast dripped onto the deck, the sweet smell clashing with the unwashed scent of 120 sailors. Captain Ibn Al Jamal stared blankly at several sailors, who turned away, refusing to acknowledge his gaze. Eight thousand meters away the Nassau battle group steamed, as it had for the past twenty-four hours. Throughout that time the Algerian Kilo-class hunter-killer submarine had shadowed the Americans without even a tiny hint that they knew it was there — a credit to the Algerian crew’s training.

  His last futile attempt, two hours ago, to reach Algiers Naval Headquarters remained unanswered. He navigated at the edge of the American forces with no clear-cut orders, other than the ones issued seven days ago.

  He wiped his palms. Out here, two American attack submarines patrolled. Submarines much more capable than the diesel he commanded.

  Despite his efforts, the two nuclear submarines remained unlocated. At least one of them had to be here. It would be a tactical failure to leave the American battle group undefended. But the captain was wrong.

  Neither of the American submarines was with the bailie group. The USS Miami was enroute to rescue the survivors of the USS Gearing, and the USS Albany loitered near the Algerian coast waiting for the second rendezvous attempt with the SEALs.

  Captain Ibn Al Jamal walked to the plotting table, trying to appear more confident than he felt. On top, an outlined scheme of where their passive analyses and periscope sightings positioned the American warships was displayed. A penciled arrow shooting out from each symbol had the course and speed written along it for the American warship it represented.

  He had selected the arsenal ship as the primary target, with the USS Nassau as number two. Without the arsenal ship. USS King, American firepower against Algeria would be limited to aircraft and the limited number of cruise missiles on the other ships.

  The arsenal ship was an Admiral Boorda initiative, before his untimely death, to carry a reduced United States Navy into the twenty-first century. The USS King was unique; one of a kind. The arsenal program was canceled before the USS King was ever built, but Boorda supporters on the Hill voted funds for one to show the utility and tactical value of the concept. USS King was that one — kind of a memorial to Boorda.

  Captain Jamal picked up a photograph taken earlier in the day through the Kilo’s periscope. The arsenal ship was a modern-day monitor that looked similar to the historic Confederate warship CSS Virginia. A long, dark menace with a low waterline complemented topside by a triangular-shaped Aegis forecastle that ran from near the bow to about a third of the length of the ship. The rear two thirds was a flat deck covered with metal hatches, hiding the vertical-launched weapons ranging from Tomahawk cruise missiles to surface to-air missiles. The ship could mix its missiles to fight an air, shore, and antisubmarine battle simultaneously, but it only provided the weapons. Other ships in the battle group did the targeting and the firing. The arsenal ship was a weapons platform for the battle group — surrounded by a half-inch-thick aluminum hull capable of stopping anything with less power than a.22 rifle. One good torpedo, properly placed, would sink her. He intended to put four into her.

  Ibn Al Jamal checked his watch before he ran his finger down the navigational checklist taped to the plotting table. Sun set in thirty minutes. Add another thirty minutes for darkness, and then he would launch his attack. He looked at his watch. He would attack at twenty-two hundred hours, ten o’clock, when the Americans were announcing taps for the crew and their attention was distracted.

  He gave orders to descend to one hundred meters. He’d wait fifty meters above the shallow sound layer until it was time.

  Captain Jamal changed the course of the Al Nasser to parallel the heading of the Nassau battle group. He told the offic
er of the deck to maintain eight thousand meters distance from the Americans, and make appropriate course changes as necessary to maintain that separation. He wanted no accidental detection by the Americans. He’d close the battle group prior to firing.

  Satisfied, Captain Jamal informed the officer of the deck that he was going to his cabin. He asked him to notify the steward to bring him tea. The captain strolled shakily out of the control room, turning sharply at the hatch as he remembered to tell the OOD to switch to red lighting. The next time the periscope went up it would be dark.

  Crew members respectfully moved aside as he wormed his way down the narrow passageway. Each and every one murmured a greeting to the captain — none met his eyes.

  He knew their reaction was to yesterday’s execution of the three traitors who had attempted to sabotage the Al Nasser’s reduction gears.

  An unpleasant task, but a wartime necessity. The bodies joined six others in the galley’s freezer, keeping the frozen food company on Al Nasser’s journey to greatness. He prayed that it wasn’t to oblivion.

  He wondered how the rebel zealot was doing on the Al Solomon, waiting at the mouth of the Strait of Gibraltar. An involuntary shiver shook him as he thought of his counterpart on the other Kilo submarine.

  The saboteurs had been seized quickly. A rapid inspection by the chief engineer had failed to find any obvious damage. But unknown to them, tiny flakes of hard metal had fallen into the gears. Millimeter by millimeter they had worked their way deeper into the gearbox, until hours later the spinning gears began to make a continuous clicking noise, which vibrated along the shaft and into the water. A soft noise anomaly, joining the myriad of sea sounds echoing through the water, inaudible to those inside the Al Nasser.

  * * *

  The sonar operator on the Spruance-class destroyer USS Hayler twisted the knob on the SQR as he fine tuned the waterfall pattern. There was that blip again. He’d tried everything he knew to determine its source, with no luck. As much as he hated to do it, because of the ribbing he would take, he had no choice. He pressed the button on the ship’s intercom for the chief.