Seawolf tsf-2 Page 8

  “Walid!” the colonel shouted, and was rewarded with the man running to him.

  The officer saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have the American war criminals been in the water?”

  “Over two days, Colonel.”

  “Good. Time enough for them to welcome any rescue. Call Benghazi Airfield and tell them to prepare to rescue the Americans. It is time we show the world that we are not barbarians. Of course, they will have to stand trial for war crimes committed against the Libyan nation before we execute most of them. Then, depending on the actions of the Americans, we may allow a few to go home in disgrace. On the other hand, the Libyan people may demand their execution. You never know how the winds of the Sahara blow the dune.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walid answered, and rushed to a nearby phone to pass the order.

  Colonel Alqahiray returned his attention to Major Samir. “And now, Major, tell me about Morocco.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, nodding to the operator, who sent the next slide to the overhead screen. A map of Morocco appeared.

  “Colonel, Algerian units are poised along the Algerian Moroccan border, but only as a defensive measure. Rebel commandos, who have been in Morocco for the past thirty days, have linked up with their Moroccan counterparts. They are in position for their part in Jihad Wahid and await your orders.”

  “How many units are we talking about, Samir?”

  “Twelve commando units, but that fails to count the Moroccan military units who are sympathetic to the cause. We expect those units to rise to our side when the event commences.”

  “Do we have communications with our people in Morocco?”

  “Yes, Colonel, we do. The same way we have with our agents, but using a French web site.”

  The colonel nodded.

  Walid returned. “They are ready at Benghazi, sir. They have four stripped-down M1-14s on standby to rescue the American war criminals at your command.”

  “Good, tell them to expect to execute the rescue operation sometime tomorrow morning. Let the Americans drift at sea for another night.

  When they see the helicopters, they’ll come aboard with no problem.

  Three nights without food and water should temper any resistance.”

  The three intelligence officers looked at each other, but none volunteered that American patrol aircraft had been steadily dropping supplies. The colonel hated to be wrong, and Major Samir was not going to be the one to tell him. He would bide his time. His moment would come later.

  Walid saluted. Samir locked eyes with Walid momentarily before Walid looked away and returned to the telephone.

  Colonel Alqahiray discovered early in his military career that issuing one order at a time and seeing it properly carried out worked better than expecting his lesser-educated force to perform numerous orders perfectly. He va ingloriously believed that there were few such as him who were capable of the intellect to balance a multiple-tier operation such as Jihad Wahid.

  “Very well, Major, tell me about the Italians and Greeks. Do we have to worry about them conducting another strike against us?”

  “No, sir. NATO has ordered everyone to stay at least two hundred kilometers north of our coast while they debate an appropriate response to our attacks.”

  He laughed. “Stupid Westerners. I presume the French are leading this effort?”

  “The new French general who replaced the dead American admiral has so ordered it.”

  “What are the French doing?”

  “A French battle group sailed this morning toward Algeria, and has issued a warning to the new government there, and to us, that they will hold us responsible for the safety of their citizens. Further—”

  The colonel tossed his cigarette down and gripped both arms of his chair as he leaned forward.

  “Wait a minute! What do you mean, hold us responsible for the safety of their citizens? Why would they warn us about the situation in Algeria?”

  The major glanced at the other two officers, who shook their heads. “I don’t know, sir.” He looked to Walid for support, but the officer was deep in conversation on the phone.

  The colonel thought a minute. “The only reason they would issue such a d6marched to both us and Algeria is that they know something about our plans.”

  “It could be, Colonel. It could also be that after the attacks on the American bases, they are concerned about their citizens in Libya.”

  “Could be, but we have never done anything to antagonize the French.”

  “No, sir,” one of the two officers with Major Samir volunteered. “The French specifically identified their citizens in Algeria as being the ones that they would hold us responsible for.”

  “You sure?” “Yes, sir. I’m sure,” he said. Sweat broke out on his forehead. In the future, he would not pass up an opportunity to keep quiet.

  The colonel leaned back to ponder this development.

  Walid appeared beside Colonel Alqahiray and reported the relay of the rescue order.

  “Walid, have we seen any indications that the French are aware of Jihad Wahid?”

  Walid shook his head.

  The other intelligence officer with Major Samir spoke up. “Colonel, the merchant vessel Shanghai reported an overflight by a French Atlantique in the Gulf of Aden, following their delivery of the program for event zero zero one.”

  “I don’t like this. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable when I don’t fully understand something. Find out more, but say nothing to our friends in the east or to our comrades in Algeria.”

  The three officers acknowledged the colonel’s directions. The intelligence briefing slide faded, to be replaced by a map showing the location of Algerian and Libyan Army units along the border of Tunisia.

  “Walid, it’s time. Regardless of what the French may know, or suspect, we have no choice but to move forward. We are too committed to turn back now. Tell our comrades to execute event zero two zero in”—he looked at his watch and compared it with the digital clock over the intelligence screen in front—“forty-seven minutes.”

  He stood and followed Walid to the command, control, and communications (C3) console to observe his order being transmitted. When they received the acknowledgment seconds later, he pulled another cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

  Forty-seven minutes later, Algerian and Libyan Army units crossed the Tunisian border, meeting light resistance as the surprised blitzkrieg advanced rapidly toward Tunis. Algerian and Libyan aircraft, flying low-level, attacked the Tunisian airfields, destroying most of the small nation’s aircraft before they had an opportunity to get airborne.

  At midnight Algerian and Libyan forces met on the outskirts of Tunis, the last holdout against the invasion. They waited there through the night, poised to enter the Tunisian capital.

  When the morning sun cast its early haze across the Tunisian countryside, Algerian and Libyan infantry began a house-to-house fight for possession of the capital, encountering fierce opposition from the betrayed patriots of pro-West Tunisia.

  In Morocco, another scenario unfolded simultaneously with the invasion of Tunisia. Twelve terrorist and rebel commando units initiated a series of coordinated attacks in Rabat. A Moroccan military unit, led by a zealous Islamic major, stormed the king’s palace through a massive breach in the walls caused by a suicide bomber. Brutal fighting inside the palace sparked enormous losses for both sides. Two hours later, the rebellious major and four others, all that remained of the original twenty-five attackers, reached the monarch and fired several shots into the king’s chest before being riddled by bullets from counterattacking Moroccan commandos.

  Moroccan Islamic cells captured the more popular radio and television transmission sites throughout the country. Other units destroyed stations they were unable or unwilling to use. By morning, the country was in full rebellion, with loyal Army units converging on the capital to fight the rebels. The Air Force quickly sealed its bases and refused to choose sides, preferring to wait
until the victor was more clearly defined. Crew rest was the term of the day.

  Fez, the historic mountain city notorious for ferocious barbarian warriors who were renowned for their love of the lance and the feel of the wind across their faces as they charged into battle, failed to live up to its reputation. Fez fell within two hours to sun-hardened Bedouins who quickly overran the city before turning their camels toward Marrakech to join rebellious Army units marching against loyal forces fleeing toward Rabat.

  The Moroccan military units at Fez joined the rebellion, and along its march to support the uprising, picked up peasants, farmers, and other disenchanted citizens. Overnight a people’s crusade, like those of the eleventh century by Europeans to free the Holy Land, converged toward Tangier, intent on seizing this important seaport for the revolution.

  It was strictly the decision of the colonel leading the former loyal troops as to the destination. He chose Tangier because a senior Moroccan Army general, whom he hated with a religious fever, lived there. That, he kept to himself. He promised the wealth of the city to those following. The anticipation of achieving some modicum of wealth added to the zealotry of the crusaders as they moved forward like locusts, pillaging everything in their path.

  In Tangier, the military units remained evenly balanced between those loyal to the Crown, those who were fervent Islamic supporters and the undecided Army units who waited anxiously to see which side appeared to be winning before they decided their course of action. Eight hours later, the Islamic crusaders from Fez reached Tangier. At that time the undecided Army units threw their support to the Islamic revolution.

  The battle for Morocco was under way. Frightened tourists streamed to the airports to discover them closed and themselves stranded as gunfire, mortars, and hand-to-hand combat flowed around various refugee pockets like streams around boulders. wa lid touched the colorh-l on the arm and lightly shook him. Colonel Alqahiray slept heavily. Sweat stuck his shirt to the plastic upholstery of the chair. An occasional throaty snore escaped to disturb the professional quiet of the command post. Walid, reluctantly, shook the colonel harder.

  The colonel grunted and straightened himself upright. He pushed himself out of the chair, stretched, and rubbed his face. “It’s been a long night, Walid. What is the situation?”

  “Colonel, Tunis is nearly ours. The president fled by helicopter to the Italian island of Pantelleria about an hour ago. Thirty minutes after he fled, the Tunisian General Alasousse requested a truce to meet with our combined forces leader, General Abouimin. We have this proposal from Alasousse.” Walid attempted to hand it to the colonel, who waved it away.

  “Just tell me what it says.”

  “He proposes to surrender the country, if we promise no reprisals and that he and his soldiers be permitted to lay down their arms and return to their homes and families. In return, he pledges, on behalf of his officers, their professional honor not to take up arms against our forces nor oppose our occupation.”

  The colonel shook his head. “Not enough. Tell Abouimin to present my compliments to General Alasousse for his patriotism. Tell him that I honor his concern for his men, but we do not want their weapons, nor do we want them to go home. What we want is for him to swear allegiance to the revolution and integrate the Tunisian military into our combined forces. If he will do this, he will retain his rank and control over the former Tunisian forces during integration. If he refuses, then obviously we cannot have traitors in our midst.” He lit the morning cigarette and took a deep breath. A dry hacking cough followed. “Sound fair, Walid?” he asked.

  “Sir, it is very compassionate. Such an honorable solution will show Arab solidarity.”

  “You are right. But, Colonel Walid, be careful with General Alasousse.

  Tell General Abouimin to ensure that Alasousse understands that failure to agree to these terms will result in renewed fighting until no one is left in Tunisia with the skills to ferment rebellion. Make sure General Abouimin knows that I want the threat portion of our reply delivered very tactfully. Do not put General Alasousse in a position where he feels honor-bound to fight. Damn Sandhurst graduate would fight just for the footnote he’d make in history and a misguided sense of honor.”

  “Yes, sir.” Walid hurried to the C3 console. Twenty minutes later the reply to General Alasousse’s surrender proposal was transmitted to the Algeria-Libyan Army headquarters located on the outskirts of Tunis.

  Colonel Alqahiray looked at the digital clock as it changed to 0800.

  Not bad for a night’s work, he thought. The steward hurried over with several croissants and the inevitable cup of tea. The colonel motioned for the tray to be set on the small folding table beside his chair. He stood and grabbed a croissant. Then, chewing on the fresh pastry, flakes falling down his gray tunic and onto the recently swept tiles, he walked to where Walid waited for a reply.

  “Walid, tell Benghazi to initiate the rescue of the American sailors at ten hundred hours.”

  Walid acknowledged the colonel’s order. He turned to the console and dialed the number for Benghazi Airfield.

  Colonel Alqahiray strolled across the room, leaving Walid to execute his orders. He patted the operators on their shoulders congratulating them on the night’s success. He basked in the admiration, bordering on worship. As it should be, he thought, making the mistake that charismatic leaders throughout history had made. He believed in his own omnipotence. He wiped the pastry flakes from his heavy, black mustache, and tweaked the ends to make them stand up. Self worship surpassed strong self-confidence. He had reached that righteous level where disagreement meant disloyalty. Conflicting advice, even if good, would be considered traitorous. Hidden in the dark recesses of abnormally deep sockets, his dark eyes twinkled with the realization that he was the new Nasser of the Arab world!

  He stopped at Walid’s supervisory console and sat down. He called up the file marked

  “Jihad Wahid,” and down loaded it to a duplicate file.

  He displayed the original and read it thoroughly, deleting some of the information and pasting a large segment from the center of the file to the beginning. By the time he finished, thirty minutes had passed. He saved the file, called forward an e-mail format, attached the file to it, and transmitted it. Fifteen minutes later it arrived in a nondescript building on the former British Naval base at Hong Kong.

  Walid, silently observing the Libyan leader at the console, confirmed his suspicions that the colonel knew more about computer technology than he let on. the chinese general, standing at the console, saw the file arrive and impatiently demanded for it to be printed. He grabbed it, departed the room, and read the file as he walked to his office. There, he laid the file on his desk. From the full-length window across one side of the room, he looked out over the floor below, where numerous operators manned individual PCs. Wisdom came from the ways of the ancients, but a little luck, such as the computer technology left behind when the British returned Hong Kong and that purchased yearly from American commercial firms, helped also. The success of the Libyan adventure depended on the support of the People’s Republic of China. His recommendation would mean the difference between success and failure of the North African quest.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk as he weighed the pros and cons on whether to recommend they continue covert support or remove China from participation. So far, little linked the actions in the Mediterranean with the People’s Republic of China, but like all secrets, the more who knew and the longer it continued, the more likely it would be discovered. He nodded once as he reached his decision, grabbed the piece of paper, and departed his office with it. Any accusations against the PRC could be adequately explained. Plausible denial was something the Chinese invented long before the American presidents put a term to it.

  * * *

  Colonel Alqahiray finished his tea and his third cigarette before popping the last bite of that first croissant into his mouth.

  “Walid, you’re in charge while I am gone,”
he said as he chewed. “I expect I will be away — maybe two hours.” He swallowed, and then leaned forward until an inch away from Walid’s face. “Remember, Walid. I trust you.”

  Walid straightened. “You can trust me, Colonel.”

  “Trust you, Walid? Of course I do. If I didn’t, do you think you’d be here now?” he asked, watching Walid’s face intently.

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  “Relax, Walid. Two more days and this will be over. Just two more days, praise be to Allah.”

  Walid stood nervously while the colonel picked up the photographs and slid them into the envelope. “I’ll be back soon, Walid.”

  He patted Walid on the shoulder and walked swiftly through the operations room to exit through the double steel doors. He walked past the elevator to the second door on the right. Walid was hiding something, and he’d find out what it was eventually, but right now, he had to execute his own event.

  * * *

  Walid waited a couple of minutes after the door closed. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, got up, and left the operations room for the nearby lavatory. He latched the door and tugged it a couple of times to make sure it was secure. Then he pulled a small cellular telephone from the inside of his jacket. He plugged a connection into a wall socket, giving the telephone the means to communicate from three hundred feet beneath the surface by using the electrical lines as a makeshift antenna. When the connection was made, Walid whispered in French, “Two days,” to the person on the other end, and then disconnected.

  * * *

  Colonel Alqahiray entered without knocking, pleased to see the men inside the anteroom snap to attention. He nodded approvingly.

  “Good morning, Captain,” the colonel said. He inspected the ten soldiers. Each of them stood ramrod-straight. Each were within one inch of six feet. Only the captain was shorter, at five feet seven.

  Each man held an AK-47 tucked neatly under his right arm. The starched gray uniforms displayed razor-sharp military creases that accented the shirts. Every trouser leg was identical: pants wrapped tightly toward the inside of the legs and tucked into leather, spit-shined combat boots. It was enough to bring a tear to the eyes of a career soldier.