Seawolf tsf-2 Read online

  “I see your men are as impressive as always.”

  “Yes, Colonel. Each man was personally selected by me for this, and all are prepared to give their lives if necessary.”

  “Let’s hope that it does not come to that, Captain, but I would expect nothing less from you and the men of your command,” Colonel Alqahiray said. A slight smile escaped. The secret the two officers shared was that the captain was the colonel’s blood cousin. Nothing was stronger in the Arab world than blood kin, not religion, not patriotism, not money — nothing.

  “And the photographer?” the colonel asked.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward. “I am the photographer, Colonel.”

  “Where’s your camera?”

  The soldier pointed to three black fabric suitcases stacked in the corner. “There, Colonel. All I have to do is unpack and set up.”

  “Are you any good with this stuff, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir! I am very good.”

  “Come then,” the colonel ordered. “And let’s give you an opportunity to prove it.” He stepped out of the door, without looking back, knowing the cousin-captain and the soldiers followed. The photographer carried his equipment, while another soldier carried his AK-47.

  The elevator waited They squeezed into the large elevator. Two guards waited at the top when the doors opened. Two AK-47’s, quickly pressed against their throats, disarmed the two guards.

  The colonel briskly led the armed men down the hallway to the room where the junta waited. He told the captain to wait outside until called, and that no one was to enter or leave while he was inside.

  He opened the door; the photographer followed.

  “Colonel Mumtaz Mohammed Alqahiray,” said the man at the head of the table. They all stood. “You honor us.”

  “My masters,” the colonel replied. “I bring great news for the leaders of Libya,” he said as he opened the envelope and spread the photographs on the table in front of the members of the junta. “Pictures to show that Libya has tweaked the tail of the tiger and found it toothless.”

  The seven men remained silent as the photographs were eagerly passed around the table. Photographs showing the USS Gearing and its sailors were mixed haphazardly with those showing the destruction and carnage of the Sigonella and Souda Bay air attacks. As they clicked their tongues in admiration, Colonel Alqahiray began a detailed briefing on every event that had occurred, the events ongoing at that moment, and the events expected in the next two days. At the farther end of the table, oblivious to the conversation, the photographer opened his suitcases and began assembling his cameras, tripods, and lights. The far end of the room began to look like a professional studio.

  “This is very good, Colonel,” the elderly Libyan statesman said. “But we question the use of the word ‘toothless.” The American Tomahawk attack has killed many senior military officers in Tripoli and Benghazi. We are concerned that this attack was only a prelude to further action. Qaddafi learned his lesson in ‘86 when a bomb from an American aircraft nearly killed him. Also, we have already had the Italians and Greeks attack and kill some of our warriors.”

  Several members of the junta nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “Whatever happens, Colonel, you have done well.” He nodded to the other junta members. “We must discuss how we defuse the situation without further losses.” He grinned at Alqahiray. “Now, tell me, why is the photographer here?”

  “For you, gentlemen. Our people and the Arab world must know how Libya has avenged itself. If you will do me the honor of assembling in front of the cameras, we will take photographs for the newspapers. Let the world know who controls Libya at this momentous time in our history. Let the world know that we have passed the legendary era of Colonel Qaddafi and are ushering in a new, vibrant era of Libyan pride.” He shook his clenched fist.

  The men rose, smiling and shaking each other’s hands as they moved gradually to the area where the photographer stood welcoming them. The colonel nodded at the soldier photographer, who guided the men forward and aligned them side by side. The leader of the junta stood in the center, with the next two most powerful men on each side of him. These three wore traditional Arab dress, while the other four were attired in Western business suits.

  The leader waved. “Colonel, you come stand with us.”

  “Thank you for the honor, sir, but this moment is for the leaders of Libya. We in the military are here to serve. With your permission, I will stand with you for the next photograph — the one for the Western press.”

  They nodded among themselves, aware of the colonel’s hatred for the West as well as the reason for it. The colonel had never forgiven America and its allies for that night in 1986 when, as a small boy, bombs rained down upon Tripoli and killed his mother and father. A hatred burned within him that they could only imagine.

  The colonel walked down the line, handing each man a single large photograph from the table.

  “Please, hold the photographs at chest level,” the photographer directed. “Smile, now.”

  “Yes, smile, please,” echoed the colonel. “Show the Arab world what you have done. Let them share in the glory of your power.” He nodded eagerly. This was easier than expected.

  They smiled more in reaction to the colonel’s theatrics than the request. Lights flashed as the photographer began. Ten minutes and numerous photographs later, the soldier-photographer signaled that he was done.

  The junta leader appeared tired. “Colonel, don’t you think these will be sufficient?”

  “Sir, if you will allow me. We need photographs of everyone in proper Bedouin clothes. My apologies, sirs. I know this is tiring business, but once done, we can use these photographs for weeks without worrying you again.” The leader sighed audibly. “Once again, you are right, Colonel.” He motioned the four in business clothes to the nearby closet, where they pulled white abas over their suits and put on the red squared headdress preferred by men of statute and power. When finished, they looked more like the Saudi royal family than junta leaders of a new Mediterranean power.

  “Tell me, Colonel,” the leader asked. “How do we deflect further retaliation against our government? We know the Americans will return, and when they do, they will return in sufficient force that we will be unable to oppose them. As much as I appreciate your loyalty and the dedication of our military forces, we are quite unable to meet Americans on equal terms. This gives us cause for concern.”

  He wanted to strike the man. Cowards. That was what had brought Libya to where it was today. Cowards! And Qaddafi had been the biggest one of them. Scared to stand up to the Americans. Relying on terrorism and sly methods to deflect any trace back to the country responsible.

  It goaded him that the junta leader was right! True heroes met the enemy head on. When he wielded sufficient power to oppose the great Satan, that was how he would respond — head-on. But now was the time for guile and stealth. Time to build toward that moment when the truth could be told.

  The photographer moved behind the men and began removing the patriotic portraits that decorated the white wall.

  “Sir,” the colonel replied after a few seconds. “We are going to mount a massive press campaign, telling everyone what we did. We are going to convince the world that the Libyan people were not responsible for the military attacks against the Americans, the Italians, or the Greeks. We will announce that a rogue element within our government planned and executed the attacks. That we captured them, tried them, and executed them. We will broadcast photographs of the execution to the world. There will be no reason for them to disbelieve us.”

  Colonel Alqahiray continued. “The West grasps for anything believable to avoid conflict. Look at Kosovo in 1998. By the time they decided that the Yugoslavian government was lying to them, a half-million ethnic Albanians were homeless and many were dead. So, what we do is to give them something to believe. Something that makes sense of what to them appears to
be an act of lunacy on the part of Libya.”

  The leader nodded as the other members of the junta returned to the photography area in their new outfits. “That sounds very ingenious, Colonel. I am presuming that you already have the details of such a ruse figured out?”

  “That is correct, sir,” the colonel replied. He walked to the door and opened it. “We need a set of photographs showing the rogue elements dead. And the rogue elements have to be people high enough in our government for the West to truly believe the story.”

  The cousin-captain and the other nine soldiers rushed in with their AK-47s trained on the men who were lined up along the wall.

  “What is the meaning of this, Colonel?” said the outraged leader, stepping forward.

  The clicks of the AK-47s caused him to step back.

  “Who are these men? What is going on? Speak up, Colonel!” he demanded angrily.

  “As you said, sir, placing the blame on a group of Libyans who acted without the blessings of the Libyan people would be an acceptable ruse.

  For that ruse to work, we have to ensure that those executed are of sufficient stature that the world will little doubt our story.” “Not me!” one of the men shouted, and ran toward the door. “I wasn’t in favor of attacking the Americans!”

  The cousin-captain pumped two bullets from the pistol in his hand into the junta member’s back. The sounds of the gunfire echoed, and the smell of burnt gunpowder quickly filled the small conference room.

  “I hate cowards,” said the colonel, spitting at the body. “Now stand tall, please. Think of yourselves as patriots dying for your country.”

  Frightened, two more tried to run for safety. Two soldiers opened fire before the elderly men managed more than a few steps, causing their comrades to open fire at the others too frightened to move.

  Bullets peppered the wall. Pieces of plaster mixed with blood and flesh. Blood splattered on the white wall and the marble tiles. The impact of the bullets, fired from less than ten feet away, sent two of the junta slamming against the wall, where they slid to a sitting position, leaving a bloody trail down the wall.

  “Not the faces!” shouted the colonel. The shooting stopped. “Not the faces.”

  The cousin-captain moved among the dead, kicking each one, his pistol at his side. One moaned when the steel-toed boot broke his rib. The captain stopped, put the pistol directly over the heart, and fired. The body jerked as the bullet went through the body and ricocheted off the floor back into the chest. Satisfied, the captain turned to the colonel and announced, “All dead.”

  “Take their photographs individually,” he said to the photographer.

  “Then line them up along the wall in the same order they were in for the earlier photographs, along with the photographs they were holding, and take them as a group. When finished, have all the photographs developed immediately. I want several copies of each, and you will personally deliver them to me.”

  “Aiwa, ya Modi,” the captain said.

  Madi, the chosen one. Mohammed returned to earth — better than being the new Nasser. Just as Christians believed Christ would return someday, so Moslems believed that Mohammed reincarnated would return to restore Islamic greatness.

  The colonel bowed his head. When he raised it, he smiled so that everyone saw the prominent gap between his two front teeth — a gap that the prophecies foretold as a sign of the chosen one. The last to assume the mantle of Madi had defeated and beheaded the great British General Gordon in the nineteenth century at Khartoum. Alqahiray had no intention of losing his head to anyone.

  Several of the soldiers bowed. The cousin-captain bent and kissed the gold band on the colonel’s right hand.

  “I will be in the operations room,” Colonel Alqahiray said. “Call the others, Major, and quietly assume control of this building. Let me know if anything happens.”

  “Major?”

  “Yes, Major. In the new Barbary Army, the loyal are righteously rewarded.”

  The new cousin-major saluted as the colonel departed. The door shut behind the colonej, but not before the slow chant of

  “Al Madi” reached his ears. Best thousand pounds he’d ever spent was in London at the dental clinic on Wigmore Street, having a dentist widen the natural gap in his upper teeth.

  Five minutes later, the colonel strolled into the operations room.

  Walid ran across to him. “Oh, Colonel, I am so glad you are here!”

  “Walid, calm down. What possibly could have gone wrong in an hour?” the colonel asked as he continued to bask in the knowledge that now he was the absolute ruler of Libya, like his predecessor Qaddafi. The difference, though, was that he planned to rule a much larger empire — an empire that the world had not seen since the eleventh century; an empire that would influence every country in the world and give control of the Mediterranean to him.

  “Sir, a battalion of Islamic Moroccan Army units have crossed the border into Cueta. They are fighting—”

  “Cueta? What is a Cueta?”

  “Cueta, sir, is the small Spanish colony on the Moroccan side near the Strait of Gibraltar.”

  “Spain? Why in the hell would they want to do that? Our plans do not call for us to antagonize the Spanish.”

  “Morocco has always claimed the city, much like Spain claimed Gibraltar. While Spain and Britain worked out a mutual agreement on Gibraltar, the Spanish have always refused to discuss the sovereignty issue of Cueta with Morocco. The Moroccans have always viewed Cueta as an issue of national honor.”

  The success of Jihad Wahid depended on everyone doing what they were ordered to do. Events had to dovetail as planned. Cueta could jeopardize Jihad Wahid.

  “Tell them to return to their soil. To leave Cueta immediately,” ordered the colonel, his voice rising.

  “Yes, sir, I know, and we have contacted the leaders of the rebel commandos. They profess to have no control over this Moroccan military unit. The unit that has invaded Cueta is operating independently, but flying our banner.”

  “What is Spain doing?”

  “They have a small military garrison in the city and are fighting. Some of the reports indicate they may be winning the battle. If we are defeated by the small outnumbered Spanish —”

  “We neither want to defeat the Spanish, nor do we want them to defeat us. Get me the leader we sent to Morocco to orchestrate this coup. Let me think, Walid.” After nearly a minute, the colonel said, “We have to get the Moroccans out of Cueta and we need them out now. You work on it, but by tomorrow they must be out!” When in doubt give the hard problems to a subordinate. They’ll either figure out something, or can be blamed for the failure.

  He left Walid standing beside the C3 console, and went to his chair.

  Innovative leaders whirled off on their own agenda too many times. That had been the reason for lack of unity in the Arab world for the past six hundred years. This was a critical time in the operation, and Cueta could ruin it all. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  The soldier-photographer arrived two hours later and proudly presented a brown envelope with the photographs in it. The colonel looked through the expertly done photos, scrutinizing each one.

  The soldier-photographer was still smiling when he departed an hour later, meritoriously promoted to master sergeant. What a great day to be an Arab! How great it was to serve the true Madi!

  CHAPTER 5

  “Noble Twenty-Two, tighten up your position on Wizard,” Noble Sixteen, the lead F-16 pilot, broadcast to his wingman.

  Noble Sixteen was the call-sign for Howard “the Bird” Webster, twenty-six years old, lean, cocky, and already a captain in the United States Air Force. He hated Howard, but loved to be called

  “The Bird.”

  He was so called because of his thin craggy facial features and a nose that his flight training instructors swore reminded them of a “goddamn chicken beak.” He considered himself lucky they didn’t call him “Chicken.”

  “Rooster” would have
been all right, but

  “The Bird” was best. If anyone ten years ago had told this son of a cotton-mill family that he would be a fighter pilot one day, he would have called him a liar. Sometimes he lay in bed in his two-bedroom bachelor apartment, or sat on the barbecue deck, smoking a stogie and pretending to be Will Smith in Independence Day, and amazed himself over how he’d gotten there. A poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks who’d lucked out on a math scholarship, followed by a commission in the world’s greatest Air Force. Someday he’d have to leave the Air Force and get a real job, as everyone joked.

  The four United States Air Force F-16 fighters flew a tight tandem pair formation alongside the huge four-engine RC135. The Bird’s pair, high and tight, were on the left and in front, while the other two took a low rear and right position. Their primary mission: to provide immediate protection for the Air Force reconnaissance aircraft as it relieved the EP-3E on station seventy-five miles north of the survivors of the USS Gearing. Today, they would leave the RC-135 for a while and escort a Navy P-3C on a supply drop for the survivors. The Bird hated to fly protection for turboprops. Not because they weren’t jets, but because they were so slow he had to watch his console constantly to make sure the F-16 didn’t stall.

  Since the sinking of the American warship and the surprise attacks against Sigonella and Souda Bay, the United States Air Force had been flying round-the-clock air-defense patrols out of Brindisi Airfield.

  Dual purposes drove the defensive actions. One was to ensure the Libyans didn’t get froggy again and mount another attack; the other was to provide overhead protection for the survivors of the USS Gearing until rescue arrived.

  “Noble Sixteen, this is Wizard One. Hunter Six Zero entering our zone in ten minutes.”

  Hunter Six Zero was one of four P3C Orion maritime patrol and antisubmarine-warfare aircraft that had escaped the destruction at Sigonella. This one had been conducting a maritime patrol in the west Med when the attack occurred. Unarmed normally, the P3Cs were capable of carrying air-launched Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles. Unfortunately, the missiles were at Sigonella and the aircraft were operating out of Brindisi. It would be tomorrow before Harpoons arrived at the recently reopened airfield at Brindisi.