Beau touched his heart. “Duncan, how can you ever think that I would do something so outrageous; especially on a U.S. Navy ship of war. Why, it’s — it’s unthinkable! It’s pure nonsense. Besides, we haven’t been able to find an appropriate place to even discuss weapons, much less sex.” He wondered if H. J.“s nipples were pink or brown.
“Good, then don’t. Stay on the professional level,” Duncan replied. He rubbed the hard features of his face. His index finger lightly stroked the three-inch shrapnel scar on his left cheek courtesy of Desert Storm. He needed another shave. There was no reason for Hodges to have sent him on this trip. The admiral must have a hidden agenda. Two sailors hurried past, causing the two men to step back to make way.
“But we both know that strict professional relationships have never built the camaraderie needed for war,” Beau added after the two sailors passed.
“True, but sex hasn’t either.”
The door opened. Commander Mulligan, the short pudgy intelligence officer, and Commander Peter Naismith, the tall, lean, Task Force 61 operations officer, stood just inside, reminding Duncan of the old comedy team of Laurel and Hardy.
“Come in,” said the commodore, blocking the door. He moved aside.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, but we were going over the rescue operation for those poor souls on the Gearing. The Miami continues enroute and should arrive sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have the problem of the Libyans. We don’t want them rescuing our sailors. The last thing we need is another Kodak film moment of our people being marched through the streets of Tripoli like our prisoners of war during Vietnam.”
The intelligence officer’s eyes were red and bloodshot, making Duncan think of a road map of New Jersey. An intelligence officer’s job like Commander Mulligan’s would have been boring as hell for Duncan. Lots of work, little appreciation, and if you’re wrong once, off the ship, off the staff, and out of the service. He thought of them as public affairs officers with a top-secret clearance.
The inevitable chart was taped to the table with red lines and black overlays displaying various options for an evacuation of Algiers.
“Duncan, something important has come up and you’re the only game in town to do it. You and your teams,” Commodore Ellison said as he moved to the other side of the table so he could face the two Navy SEALs.
“This is top secret, eyes only. Joint Chiefs of Staff called this morning. Apparently, President Alneuf had a secret agreement with the CIA to get him out of Algeria if he ever needed to leave in a hurry.
Last night he apparently contacted them and called in the marker. We’ve been tasked to go in and get him. Sorry, Duncan, but as this shit job rolls downhill, you’re the one stuck with it. You’re going to have to go into Algeria and bring out President Alneuf.” He shook his head.
“It ain’t enough we don’t have the forces to rescue our own citizens; we’ve got to go rescue a foreigner who spent most of his time giving America the finger.”
“President Alneuf? I take it then, Commodore, we know where he is?”
The door opened and the communications officer, Lieu tenant Junior Grade Smith, apologized for interrupting and handed the commodore a sealed message.
“What’s this?” Commodore Ellison asked, not expecting an answer and not receiving one. He tore the envelope open and removed the message.
“Well, well, well,” he said, looking up and smiling. “Seems the old warrior spirit is still alive and kicking in some of us old veterans.
Dick Holman. commanding officer of the USS Stennis, has turned his carrier battle group east and is heading this way. He estimates four days until he in chops the Med.”
“That’s good news, Commodore,” the IO added.
Duncan nodded. “Nothing like Naval air power to shore up a NEO.”
“Good news? It’s great news! Means that in three days, with tankers, the Stennis can be in range to provide us air support. Nothing against the Marines and their Harriers, but Harriers can’t provide the air superiority we need to control the skies.”
“I bet you they’re scrambling back on the East Coast now to identify fighters for Holman. Do you know him, Commodore?” Pete Naismith asked.
“Yeah, I know Dick Holman. He got passed over for flag last year.”
Ellison patted his stomach. “Failed the body-fat measurements. The man has a reputation for speaking his mind. Rumor has it, he has something in a fit rep when he was a junior officer about being a gregarious individual with great professional potential, but prefers to resolve personal differences with physical means. He’s probably lucky to still be in the Navy, and it’s a miracle he even made captain, much less commanding officer of a carrier. That being said, I’ 11 light a candle tonight for Dick Holman.
“Duncan, back to you and your question. No, we don’t know where President Alneuf is, but we know where he’s going to be. Have you ever heard about General Mark Clark’s covert trip to French Algeria during World War II?” the Commodore asked, and before Duncan or Beau could answer, he continued. “Prior to Operation Thunder — the American invasion of North Africa — a British submarine sneaked General Mark Clark, who was Eisenhower’s right hand man, onto a beach near the French villa of a man named Tessler, located west of Algiers. The general met with the Vichy French military leaders in an attempt to convince them to allow the upcoming Allied invasion of Algeria to go unopposed. Wasn’t too successful. The Vichy French fought the invasion, killing a bunch of Americans before they finally surrendered.” The commodore took his glasses off and waved them at Duncan as he shouted, “They opposed the landing so they could say they fought with honor! That bullshit cost American lives. Should have shot the lot of them.” He put his bifocals back on.
“Anyway, Duncan, President Alneuf is going to meet you at the same villa.”
The commodore picked up a pencil and placed the tip on the coastline west of Algiers. “Right here is where President Alneuf and his party will meet you.”
“How many are in his party?”
“Don’t know. Could be just him or could be a slew of them.” Ellison waved the message in front of them. “This damn thing doesn’t tell us anything other than where and when to meet him. So, all we know is that President Alneuf will be waiting there, beginning tonight.”
“Transport, sir?” Duncan asked as he scrutinized the chart.
“Submarine.” Duncan looked up at the commodore. “I thought you said the Miami had been dispatched to rescue the survivors of the USS Gearing!”
“It has been, but the USS Albany arrives within the next six hours to transfer Admiral Cameron and his staff to the Nassau. At that time, you and your crew will embark. I have already discussed this with the Sixth Fleet chief of staff, Captain Clive Bowen. We both agree. We need the SEALs to bring him out, and because it’s President Alneuf, they want a senior officer to represent the United States. You fit both criteria, Duncan. Therefore, the Albany will transport you and your team to the rendezvous.” He pointed to the operations officer.
“Commander Naismith has the details you’ll need to work out your CON OP How you will contact President Alneuf and his party is anyone’s guess.
Commander Mulligan will provide the latest imagery of the area and an intelligence brief on what you can expect. Work with Pete on getting you and your team out after you locate President Alneuf.”
“That’s seems simple, Commodore. We’ll come out like we go in,” Duncan said, thinking out loud.
“Captain James, that’s easy to say, but I’m sure we’ve both seen enough operations to know that nothing goes as smooth as planned. Let’s have some backup in the event, like Clark, you find yourself stranded for a couple of days. We need alternatives to other than just the Albany.”