The engineer listened to the timetable.
“I suggest that we use a MiG-23 Flogger jet to deliver the bomb,” he said, “It will be recalibrated to detonate at ten thousand feet in an airburst. Our engineers know how to do this. Releasing the bomb from the hard point on the Flogger’s wing will arm the bomb. It will be delivered over the target and descend from thirty thousand feet on a parachute to the ten-thousand-foot level, where it detonates.
“This will give our pilot plenty of time to get out of the way of the bomb blast itself or any effects of the radiation. He will circle thirty miles out, then return for a flyover for a report on the effect of the bomb. Pictures will be taken as well. When the nuclear engineers finish their work and give us the bomb ready to drop, we will be ready.”
Fantoli drew diagrams on a pad of paper on his desk.
“You’re sure that this will work?”
“The targetable nuclear warhead is relatively simple. We take off the guidance system and the small rockets, readjust the arming mechanism, and set them to detonate at ten-thousand feet of air pressure. Nothing can go wrong.”
“I agree. That’s why the Prime Minister and I and half of our staff will be in Benghazi for the next three days directing the attack from there. Good luck, and we’ll see you when we get back.” Fantoli chuckled. “That is, if nothing goes wrong, we’ll see you when we get back.”
Fantoli checked the target. It was just over the border into Chad a hundred miles, a small town called Yebbi Bou. None of the staff or the field commanders knew if they would actually drop the nuclear bomb or only threaten to. They would find out in three days. He had no current population figure for the town, but the estimate was about fifteen to twenty thousand people. It would be a wake-up call for Chad.
He made three phone calls alerting those who needed to know. Their troops would begin moving tomorrow, and would be in hidden camps along the border at the right time.
Fantoli knew it would happen. The engineers had researched this project for three months, had come up with their changes on the warheads and the propulsion systems and the arming device. They would have the bomb ready on time. The parachute had been tested a dozen times on a mock-up of the same weight. It had worked perfectly every time from thirty thousand feet.
He made one more phone call. Then was on his way to pick up the Prime Minister for their quick flight to Benghazi. It would be an interesting three days.
Commander Dean Masciareli slammed the flat of his palm down on his pristine-clean desk.
“Listen up, SEALs. There are going to be some changes around here. No more of this cowboy shit. You will go through channels of command. You will not bypass me or Admiral Kenner on any matter whatsoever. Is that distinctly clear?”
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, his 2IC Lieutenant (J.G.) Ed DeWitt, and Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie all nodded.
“Gentlemen, I want to hear you say it,” Masciareli barked.
“Yes, sir, clear, understood,” all three said, and Masciareli snorted and sat down behind the large desk.
“All right. Any time this Don Stroh character contacts you, he should be bumped up the chain to me and I’ll tell the admiral. Then if there is an assignment, it will come down the chain from the Chief of Naval Operations to the admiral, not from some chicken-sucking CIA man.”
Master Chief MacKenzie was the most relaxed man in the room. He had seen commanders come and go through this office. He cleared his throat, and Masciareli looked at him.
“Master Chief?” Masciareli asked.
“Sir. Let’s say I get a phone call or a signal from the office of the Chief of Naval Operations. I am to buck that up to you?”
“Precisely, Master Chief. The admiral and I are tired of being bypassed and not even knowing where our Seventh Team Third Platoon is half the time. We have to be in the picture. Admiral Kenner just talked with the CNO this morning and ironed things out. The CNO will not be calling you, Master Chief, or you, Commander. This CIA man, Stroh, may be a problem. If he calls, tell him simply that he must get into the loop and go to the CNO, who will then contact Admiral Kenner and we’ll get the word down to the concerned platoon. Is that all perfectly clear?”
Again the chorus of agreement came from the three SEALs.
“Good. Now sit down. We’ve had a tentative alert for sometime next week. It seems that the CIA has been monitoring a cache of former Russian ICBMs in the Ukraine. They all were supposed to have been returned to Russia years ago for their agreed-on destruction. Most were. Some were not. Now the CIA tells us that some of those missiles have been moved from the underground armory near Odessa, in what is now the independent nation of Ukraine, and put on board a Chinese freighter.
“The satellites have lost the freighter, but the CIA believes it to be somewhere in the Aegean Sea. It’s moving at only ten knots and the freighter is said to be an old rust bucket. The CIA thinks it’s on its way to China.
“Those ICBMs are the type that have ten independently targetable nuclear warheads in each nose cone. If the Chinese get three of them, that’s thirty more nuclear bombs they can add to their arsenal. If they get ten missiles, it’s a hundred more nukes for them.
“There is a chance that your platoon may be asked to intercept that freighter and take it over to destroy the warheads, or simply sail the ship into a neutral port where U.S. forces could take control of the nose cones of those missiles. Comments.”
“Why would the Chinese use an old rust bucket to haul out such a valuable cargo?” DeWitt asked.
“We don’t have an answer.”
“How fast is the ship traveling?” Murdock asked.
“That we do know,” Masciareli said. “Ten knots. Which seems strange when most freighters can make from eighteen to twenty-three knots. Comments why?”
“A ploy to throw us off the scent,” Ed DeWitt said. “Nobody would put all those missiles in an old scow that could make only ten knots. They hope to slip through the net.”
“Why didn’t they fly them?” Murdock asked. “Be a lot simpler and faster.”
“Probably too hard to get a Chinese transport plane large enough to take the type missile we’re talking about,” Masciareli said. “Then getting clearances in and out of an airport in Odessa would be much harder than slipping away from a dock at midnight.”
“So we could have a wet takedown on the scow if we can find her,” Murdock said.
“About the size of it,” Masciareli agreed. “The admiral will keep us up to date on matters. He said Don Stroh will still be a field rep for the CIA, but official action will go through the admiral.”
“Yes, sir,” Murdock said.
“That’s it. I would guess you might have some wet training to do about now.”
“Yes, sir,” DeWitt said.
The three stood.
“You’re dismissed,” Masciareli said. The SEALs walked out the door and left the building.
“Good-bye, Don Stroh,” DeWitt said.
“Not a chance,” Master Chief MacKenzie said. “Oh, he’ll pull back, send requests through, but there will be a time when it just won’t work through channels and he’ll jump the CNO to call me direct and get things moving. Won’t be long. Kenner and Masciareli had their big shot, moved things to Navy time, so they’ll be happy for a while. First thing you know they won’t want to take the time to keep tabs on us, and we’ll be back to business as usual.”
“Hope to hell you’re right,” Murdock said. “Stroh has been a pain sometimes, but he gets the job done. Now, for some training. Take down a freighter at sea. Ideas, 2IC?”