The man standing at the door was not Abu, but Sub.-Lt. Omar al-Maari, one of the junior officers, handing Sharef a message clipboard. He read the odd message from Ahmed, Khalib Sihoud’s aide.
What did he mean about rescuing two survivors. Survivors of what? Sharef left his stateroom and walked to the control room, shaking his head.
Admiral Richard Donchez was perhaps only the second Chief of Naval Operations in navy history ever to dirty his hands with the details of combat operations. In the last five years the office of the number-one admiral in the navy had been changed from an administrative command to an operational billet. Which was fortunate for the U.S. Navy, because Dick Donchez would not have taken the post unless it allowed him to be more of a tactician than a paper pusher. It had also been beneficial to the navy and to the course of the war with the United Islamic Front. The most recent example of this was his design of Operation Early Retirement, the mission to assassinate Sihoud and, if successful, end the war early.
Donchez was tall, and although in his sixtieth year, he swore he was losing an inch of height each time he checked the mirror. In fact, the only discernible signs of age were his cueball baldness, the bushiness of his gray brows, and his slightly diminished height. But Donchez’s mind was sharper than it had ever been. He was dressed now in his service dress-blue uniform, the sleeves heavy with gleaming gold, the wide band nearest the end of the sleeve, three slim bands running up almost to his elbow, the sharp pointed star presiding over the stripes. Over his left breast pocket six rows of colored ribbons climbed toward his shoulder, the gold submarine pin above them. The pin resembled an airman’s wings, but on closer examination the wings were scaly fish with curving tails pointed outward, the odd heads facing an old-fashioned diesel submarine plowing through rough seas.
The pin was solid gold, a gift from his old Annapolis room mate’s widow, given him when he had first been promoted to flag rank.
Donchez stood before one of the plot walls of the room, the electronic plot showing the Mediterranean, the colors and lines and dots each signifying the deployment of his forces. Donchez’s right hand was shoved into his coat pocket, his left fist clutching the long Havana cigar, the end glowing, the smoke rising to the overhead where the red no smoking sign was bolted into the wall. Alongside Donchez were a group of senior officers, admirals in charge of the operational groups: Adm. Kenny Mckeigh, the commander in chief of the Atlantic naval forces; Adm. John Traeps, commander in chief of the Mediterranean naval forces; Adm. Dee Watson, the vice C.N.O for operations. Also Donchez’s aide, a plump and rumpled captain from naval intelligence named Fred Rummel.
Donchez puffed the Havana as Rummel continued his briefing. “… about an hour after the explosion of the Javelins a Firestar fighter took off from the Sunni Air Base in Ashkhabad and headed west. Vector analysis shows it heading for the Med. Of course we’ve seen hundreds of Firestar sorties over the last few days but this particular flight, coming so soon after the attack and leaving from Ashkhabad itself, leads us to believe that it may be connected with someone in the command structure.”
“How long ago?” Donchez said.
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“What are we doing about it?”
John Traeps answered for his Med forces. He gestured to the Med plot while he spoke. “Sir, the USS Reagan carrier task force is off of Tripoli, Libya. She scrambled two F-14s about ten minutes ago. They should be intercepting the Firestar in the next half hour, as long as we can keep tracking it. The task force commander has authorized shooting it down.”
“No,” Donchez said quietly, still looking at the tip of his cigar.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Don’t shoot it down. If we do we’ll never know who the hell got out of Ashkhabad.”
“Aye, aye, sir, but how can we”
“Instead of intercepting, have the fighters tail the Firestar and force it down.”
The briefing broke up. Donchez left the room and walked rapidly to his office suite, Rummel and vice C.N.O for operations Dee Watson following. Watson was, as he himself proclaimed, the ugliest and most obnoxious admiral in the fleet; although he was hard to take, someone Donchez might not have chosen for his number-two man, he was savvy and had a penetrating grasp of tactics and a detailed understanding of special warfare. A former Aegis-class cruiser commander, Watson was the only surface-warfare officer in Donchez’s inner circle, the remainder predominantly aviation types or submariners. No one spoke until they were in the special-compartmented-information-facility portion of the office.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, sir?” Rummel asked Donchez.
Donchez nodded, stubbing out the cigar in the ash tray.
“Sihoud.”
“Son of a bitch got past us,” Watson said.
“We’ll know in the next hour, anyway,” Donchez said, pulling out a fresh Havana and flicking his lighter at its tip.
“I think I’ll go on back to flag plot, see what’s shakin’,” Watson said in his cracker accent. “By your leave, sir.”
“I’ll be down as soon as we have something. Dee.”
Donchez smoked in silence for a moment, then looked at Rummel.
“Think I should call General Barczynski?”
“Are you coming down with something, sir?”
Donchez chuckled. “Just testing.”
“Maybe we should have shot the Firestar down after all, sir.”
“Firestars aren’t up to the task against F-14 Tomcats. The flyboys will bring Sihoud to us, now that the god damned seals screwed up.”
“Ah, hell. Admiral, maybe this Firestar is just some panicky lieutenant trying to get away from our missiles.”
“We can only hope.”
The Firestar had flown without incident for almost an hour, cruising at twelve kilometers altitude at one and a half times the speed of sound. During the trip Ahmed let the computer fly the aircraft, content to monitor the systems, keeping a careful eye on navigation and the electronic sensors that guarded against incoming missiles and radars. Other than the normal surface- and air-search radars at sea in the Med and. in the southern shores of Greece, there had been no unusual activity. Ahmed had even begun to wonder if it was perhaps too quiet. Occasionally he selected his onboard monitor to the rear-facing camera, checking General Sihoud. The Khalib had slept most of the trip, his flight helmet against the canopy. The Firestar had skirted Israeli territories to the north and crossed over Kassab and the dark waters of the Mediterranean before Sihoud awoke.
The general tapped on the top of Ahmed’s seat, trying to get his attention.
“Go ahead and speak into the oxygen mask. General. It has a voice-activated intercom.”
“Where are we?” Sihoud asked, his voice rasping and weak.
“How do you feel, sir? If you’re thirsty there’s an insulated bottle under the right console.”
Sihoud fumbled for the bottle. Ahmed watched the Khalib on his monitor, seeing how tentatively he moved. He wondered if the general would be strong enough to make it to the submarine — the only way other than a high-risk ditching to get to the sub would be to bail out at the lowest speed and altitude the jet could fly, as near the surfaced submarine as possible. And bailing out, taking a parachute’s g-forces, hitting the water and swimming to a submarine were not easily done by sick men. Ahmed bit his lip.
“I think I need to see a doctor. Rakish. As soon as we land.” Sihoud coughed violently.
“General, we will not be landing. This is the last flight for this aircraft. We will be abandoning it over the sea. The Hegira will be waiting for us.”