“But how do we know for sure that the British didn’t take him against his wishes? Has anyone talked with Alneuf?”
Clive Bowen shook his head. “No, sir. I haven’t, but this is the Royal Navy, not the British government, and if they tell us Alneuf asked them for asylum, I would say they’re telling the truth. Or the truth as they know it.” Clive shook his head. “Christ, sir, it’s the Royal Navy.” Admiral Cameron sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, Clive. These last ten days have made me more than a little paranoid. Regardless, we need to hear it from President Alneuf’s own lips. Ask the British for permission to send someone over to interview President Alneuf. Let me know if you need me to talk personally with Admiral Sir Leddermanthompson.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral. I don’t foresee any problems if we do it before Washington and Whitehall get involved. I’ve already asked Captain Battleton, and he is discussing the issue with Admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson. He thinks there should be no problem with us interviewing President Alneuf.”
“Good. At least when Washington starts raining on our parade, we’ll be in a position to report exactly what the president of Algeria wants, or at least says. Take one of those voice-actuated recorders I’ve seen in the ship’s store. That way we can truthfully tell them, verbatim, why he prefers London to Washington. We may trust the Royal Navy, but our government won’t. Clive, tell me how can he prefer London over Washington,” Admiral Cameron said earnestly. Then, realizing what he’d said, he grinned.
“You’re right. We have to phrase that question a little differently.
Once we’ve talked directly with Alneuf, it’ll help keep Washington off our backs.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of that ASAP. Meanwhile, Admiral, the two LCACs arrived in Algiers harbor about thirty minutes ago. They are prepared to load the evacuees upon arrival. Colonel Stewart, commander of the amphibious landing force, has four Cobra gunships orbiting just outside the harbor, but in visual sight of the armed Algerians who have surrounded the pier.”
“What’s the situation in the harbor?”
“According to Bulldog …”
“Bulldog?”
“Sorry, Admiral. They call Colonel Stewart
“Bulldog.””
“Why doesn’t that surprise me — a Marine Corps colonel called Bulldog.”
“According to Colonel Stewart the Algerians refuse to discuss the evacuation. What we have is a standoff where everyone knows why we are there, but refuses to admit it. On the positive side, the Algerians aren’t firing at us, nor have they tried to obstruct Colonel Stewart securing the harbor. I think they want the same thing we do — for us to load our people and leave Algiers as soon as possible.”
“Then we both have the same objective. When are the evacuees leaving the embassy?”
“The Algerian transport trucks arrived a few minutes ago and the evacuees are climbing into them now. Should be heading toward the harbor within the next few minutes. Ambassador Becroft will ride in her armored sedan at the front of the convoy. There is a Marine radioman with her and he has a direct link with Colonel Stewart. The Marine security force and the added fire teams are dispersed throughout the twenty five military trucks, carrying the six-hundred-plus evacuees. That’s about two Marines per truck. Not really enough. If anything happens, then we’re—”
The speaker in Combat rattled to life. “Sixth Fleet, this is LCAC One with relay from commander, amphibious landing force. The Algerians have informed us that the convoy has departed the embassy enroute to the harbor. Colonel Stewart has informed them that we will be sending helicopters to assist as LCACs alone will be unable to complete the evacuation by nightfall. The Algerians told him to wait until they get permission. Colonel Stewart has informed them that this was not a request and that permission was not required.”
The red telephone near Admiral Cameron and Captain Bowen rang.
Commander Mulligan leaned over and picked it up. “Commander Mulligan here.”
He listened, acknowledged the voice on the other end, and hung up.
“Admiral,” Mulligan said. “Ambassador Becroft has notified Colonel Stewart that the convoy is enroute. That confirms what the Algerians told him.”
“Thanks,” the admiral replied, almost absentmindedly. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked up, biting his lower lip.
Clive recognized the pensiveness. He had seen it too many times in too many exercises and operations. Something was bothering the three-star admiral. Clive believed that he and Admiral Cameron made a good team.
He knew he handled the immediate tasks at hand and handled them well.
Unlike a lot of chiefs of staff, he tried not to wear his master’s rank to an extreme.
Admiral Cameron was like a master chess player whose thoughts were always several events ahead of the action. He continuously rolled things around in his mind, looking for those crucial moves to ensure victory, or moves that toss a monkey wrench into an operation.
Clive would be surprised if they hadn’t overlooked something.
Navy-Marine Corps operations were complex, convoluted, and evolved at a rapid pace. Most revolved around a “get in quick, get out fast” type of strategy. But no matter how well they planned or how many times they exercised, Murphy’s Law still lived. Beanballs were waiting to be thrown. Rakes were waiting to be stepped on. Monkey wrenches were waiting to trip. All hurt when they hit. It was what, Clive thought, made Navy and Marine Corps officers a cut above the rest; being able to handle the unexpected.
Clive leaned over and put both hands on the plotting table as he surveyed the order of deployed forces. He kept quiet. The admiral would tell him when he thought of anything. And he would tell the admiral if he did.
He looked around Combat. His mind filtered the myriad of operational orders and information flowing through the battle staff.
Clive soaked in the data, allowing it to create a mental image of ongoing events ashore. The air tactical net had four Harriers in a low-level combat air patrol just over the horizon out of view of the Algerians. All were armed with air-to surface missiles and free-fall bombs. The Cobra attack helicopters orbited at varied altitudes, their weapons trained on the Algerians. Marines surrounding the LCACs had their safeties on, but ready to engage at a moment’s notice, and wandering, ramrod straight, in the immediate vicinity of the LCACs, was Bulldog Stewart.
The Marine Corps colonel was probably more intimidating to the Algerians than all the firepower directed against them.
Twenty nautical miles northwest of the evacuation zone, F/A-18 Hornets wove an angry pattern, waiting impatiently for when they were needed.
There was little the ships could do at this juncture. Everything rested with the Marines and air power Ground forces won wars. All military leaders knew that. All the air power could do was influence the outcome.
Clive recognized the voice of Admiral Pete Devlin, Commander Fleet Air Mediterranean, on the tactical surface net. Admiral Devlin had arrived on USS Stennis yesterday to assume command of the carrier battle group.
The admiral’s prominent Alabama accent informed Sixth Fleet that eight F/A-18 Hornets were joining the Tacair picture of Sixth Fleet. That put twelve of them in the air. The operation called for the Hornets to take out the Algerian Air Force by destroying the bases around Algiers if anything happened during the evacuation. Pete Devlin had been a close friend and Academy classmate of Admiral Prang. It had been Admiral Devlin who had identified the bodies and handled the car bombing in Naples days ago when the senior U.S. Navy admiral in Europe was killed. It was the same day terrorists attacked Admiral Cameron and his staff during a social gathering at a local bistro in Gaeta, Italy, killing the admiral’s wife.