Only static came across the channel.
“Special Unit Two? Who’s that?”
“Got to tell them something, Beau. The code word is
“Big Apple,” so we got to call ourselves something until we make contact.”
Beau looked at the craft speeding toward them. “Better make contact quickly because I would say in about ten minutes we’re going to be in hot shit!”
Duncan pressed the button again. “Any United States Navy unit this station, this is Special Unit Two in emergency need of assistance.”
Static echoed from the receiver.
“Not looking good, Duncan,” Beau said. He bit his upper lip. “I hope they put a plaque up with my name on it in the Fort Myers officers club.”
Duncan pressed the transmit button and, twice, sent the same message again. U.S. Navy units continuously monitored the international emergency frequencies. Why weren’t they answering?
“You’re right. Not looking good, Beau.” He hung the microphone back on the side of the unit. “I’ll get the men spread out. Let’s hope he has orders to take us alive and we can lure him in as close as possible. It’s our only chance for a fair fight.” Fair fight! The approaching warship would blow them out of the water before it came within rifle range, but he’d be damned if they didn’t go down fighting.
A boom drew their attention, causing everyone to turn. A small cloud of smoke rose from the bow of the closing warship. A spray of water two miles away shot up as the cannon shell hit.
“I would say, Duncan, their orders do not include having to take us alive,” Beau remarked. “What kind of patrol craft is it?”
“Don’t know. It’s still too far away. I don’t think it’s one of their OSAs.”
“Why not?”
“If it was, we’d have a missile up our ass by now. I think it’s a Kebir-class fast-attack craft.”
“Missiles?”
Duncan shook his head. “Guns only. Maybe we can hope for a boarding party.”
“Keep hoping, Skipper. If they were going to send a boarding party, they wouldn’t be shooting at us. But keep hoping. Nothing would surprise those Algerian sailors more than to leap aboard a vessel filled with pissed-off SEALs.” Beau laughed. “Scared, pissed-off SEALs at that.”
Suddenly the speaker on the radio blared. “Special Unit Two, this is a friendly Ranger. Please provide identification.”
Duncan grabbed the microphone, only to drop it and see it bounce off the deck a couple of times before he recovered it. He pressed the transmit button. “Friendly Ranger, this is Big Apple. I repeat, Big Apple.”
Nearly half a minute passed before the voice answered.
“Roger, we copy, Big Apple. Welcome back. The Navy is here. We have a bearing on you at this time. Can you confirm your coordinates?”
Duncan looked at Beau, who shook his head. “All we can confirm, Captain, is we are about five miles off the coast of Algeria, west of Algiers, and fixing to have hostile company.”
“Roger, Big Apple. Can you provide coordinates?”
“Friendly Ranger, this is Big Apple. We do not have our coordinates.
We need assistance ASAP. We have bad news inbound and no way to defend. Looks like a Kebir-class fast-attack craft. Can you help? We are under fire!”
“Big Apple, stand by one. Keep your transmitter keyed so we can track you.”
Another half minute passed. It seemed like an hour.
“What’s wrong with them! Are these radio waves slower nearer the Sahara?” Beau asked. He lifted his cap and wiped his forehead.
“No, I think they’re relaying our request to higher authority. Or probably checking with someone—”
Another cannon boom interrupted Duncan. This time the shell was a mile and a half shy of the lumbering boat.
“Not too good on that gun, are they?”
“As they get closer, they’ll get better,” Duncan said.
“Killjoy.”
“Friendly Ranger,” Duncan transmitted. “It’s getting real unfriendly here, so if you’d like to show up we’d appreciate it.”
“Big Apple, Friendly Ranger; how will we identify you? Interrogative your vessel?”
“Ranger, we are embarked on a low-riding water carrier and are the only one being shot at. And if you don’t hurry, we’ll be the only one sinking.”
“Are you lower in the water than the approaching enemy vessel?”
“That’s an affirmative, Friendly Ranger.”
“Help is on its way, Big Apple. ETA five minutes.”
“Thanks, Friendly Ranger, but five minutes is too long. We need assistance now! Request—”
A high tonal transmission blanked out Duncan as someone on the net began a constant. keying of their mike. He tried several more times to transmit, only to find the steady keying jammed the frequency.
“I think they’ve discovered who we are,” Duncan added. He hung up the microphone, leaving the speaker on.
Twenty-five miles off the coast Ranger Two miner, the EP-3E Orion reconnaissance aircraft of fleet air reconnaissance Squadron Two, relayed the information to Commander Sixth Fleet, who passed tasking to the USS Stennis located seventy-five miles northwest of the water carrier. Four F/A-18s assigned combat air patrol duties to the east of the USS Stennis began receiving vectoring instructions from the E-2C air-surveillance platform orbiting overhead the carrier.
A data link between the E-2C and the Stennis relayed the radar picture.
The data links between Stennis and the entire American fleet provided them with the same digital layout. With the information provided by the spooks on board the EP 3E and relayed by the E-2C, the carrier fighters went to afterburners. Armed and ready, the deadly Hornets commenced a highspeed run directly toward the water carrier. S-3 tankers trailed the fighters to provide the refueling these gas hogs would need. Ranger Two Nine informed Sixth Fleet that for the duration of the operation their call sign was now Friendly Ranger. They’d explain later.
The USS Stennis turned into the wind and launched the ready “cat.” Two additional F/A-18s of the United States Marine Corps Moonlighter squadron shot off the cat dipped slightly below the flight deck before reappearing at a forty-five-degree angle, afterburners on, heading for altitude. The bongs of General Quarters sent the ship’s company running to battle stations. The lone American carrier was entering combat.
Captain Holman smiled. The sight of the gigantic battle flag of the United States of America flying overhead brought moisture to his eyes.
The battle group was closing the action area. Another pair of fighters moved into launch position. The hot, oily smell of idling jet engines stung his eyes. The deck crew hurriedly connected the two F/A-18 Hornets to the catapult. A mile ahead, the two alert F/A-18s broke to the right, having reached two thousand feet altitude. One minute later, the F/A-18s merged with the two Hornets on combat air patrol.
“Algeria, you’re up shit creek. I have more firepower idling on my deck than you’re got in your entire Air Force,” Holman said to himself.
He pulled a Dutch Masters Panatela cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it. He leaned back in the captain’s chair and took a deep drag. Cuban cigars were okay, but too expensive and too strong. Of course, he had smoked his last Havana Monte Cristo last night.
Stomping ass and taking names was what carriers did best. Naval air at its finest. He looked again at the flag overhead. He wished he had the flag from his living room in Norfolk. The one from his collection with a hissing snake entwined across the field of red and white stripes, with the notation
“Don’t Tread on Me” hand-stitched in gold thread across the bottom. John Rodgers, here comes another payback.
Life doesn’t get much better than this, he thought as he took a deep drag on his cigar. Then started coughing — wasn’t supposed to inhale.