David E. Meadows
The Sixth Fleet
Dedicated to the United States Navy Sixth Fleet
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thanks to Mr. Tom Colgan of Penguin Putnam Berkley Publishing Group who came up with the idea of this military thriller series and provided much needed encouragement and editorial advice during the process. Of course, every writer needs a strong advocate and coach, and that is what I had in my agent, Ms. Nancy Coffey. Her continuum of enthusiasm was a much-appreciated tonic.
I would like to express my gratitude for the gracious technical advice received from CDR Roger Herbert, U.S. Navy SEAL, and Maj. Andy Gillan, U.S. Marine Corps, while writing The Sixth Fleet. And, a special thanks to Capt. (ret.) Frank Reifsnyder, former commanding officer of the nuclear attack submarine USS Baltimore, who read the manuscripts for the first two books of the Sixth Fleet series. His in-depth technical advice and encouragement were very much appreciated. While these three provided their recommendations, any technical errors in this novel are strictly those of the author, for there were times when technical advice was overridden by literary considerations.
CHAPTER ONE
The American destroyer was fifty miles north of the Libyan coast when the signal entered the telecommunications system at the Red Sea harbor city of Port Sudan over a thousand miles away.
The intense concentration of the portly crewmember caused the Oriental features of his face to scrunch up as if he had taken a bite from a particularly sour lemon. Satisfied, he hit the transmit button. The package was gone, disguised within a facsimile transmission. From outside the hidden compartment directly behind the captain’s stateroom, the sounds of the afternoon, arguing between the Sudanese tradesmen and the visiting merchant sailors, distracted him slightly, but the innate desire for a long life kept him from fouling his directions.
The signal hit the coaxial line that ran from the loading pier to the main telephone center in this summer hot and dusty African city. At the telephone center the signal was automatically shunted among millions of others to a landline that carried it to Khartoum. There, it joined the main East African trunk and began a near light-speed journey along the busy line to Cairo.
At Cairo, the signal manipulated the local telecommunications system’s attempts to transmit it via microwave until the “protect” programs successfully queued it to an alternate coaxial landline to Alexandria.
At the breezy Mediterranean seaport the system automatically amplified the signal to restore attenuation lost during its brief trip. Microseconds later the Egyptian telecommunications complex transmitted the signal along an undersea trans-Mediterranean line that connected the North African coast to Europe, routing it via Athens, Greece.
The signal hopped from one relay to another in Athens as it avoided multiple attempts by the Greek telephone system to transmit it via satellite. Hundreds of thousands of fire walls connections, and internal loops later, the program tripped the proper series of switches to divert the signal to another trans-Mediterranean cable. The transmission headed to Malta, jumbled amid millions of communications packets, ranging from voice to computer to data to facsimile.
The Maltese relay redirected the signal to its intended destination, Tripoli, but registered the signal as destined to a telephone number for a florist on Via Veneto in the heart of Rome. When the signal left Malta, evidence of its real destination was electronically erased.
At Tripoli, the modern telephone system shunted the signal through a series of routers as it moved from relay to relay until the correct sequence occurred.
An auto switching function sent the program and its host signal through a firewall that restricted access to a military coaxial land cable, running from Tripoli Telephone south, under the desert floor, to a hidden Libyan military command post one hundred miles from the capital. Since the early years of the new twenty-first century, Libya hid much of its military infrastructure underground in a series of bunkers and tunnels that made the London Underground look simple and small.
The signal arrived and bore straight for the active and waiting IBM PC. The beeper from the internal speakers alerted Major Walid. Over the PC hung a handwritten sign in bright red Arabic script that read, jihad wa hid — Arabic for “Holy War One.”
The beeping brought the nearby Libyan colonel, a taller man, to the console in long fast strides. Ashes from a cigarette dangling from his lips dropped on Major Walid, who sat quietly in front of the screen. Walid’s attention was so riveted on the computer that he failed to notice the snow of ashes falling on his crisp gray army uniform. The colonel leaned over Walid’s shoulder and pushed the “wait” command, trapping the signal.
“It’s here, Walid,” Colonel Alqahiray said, his deep bass voice carrying throughout the room.
“The package is here, on time. They’ve kept the first part of the agreement.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the smoke filter out of his nose like some medieval dragon.
The entire trip from Port Sudan to the operations room in the command post had taken less than thirty seconds.
Alqahiray pushed a few strands of hair back that had fallen across his forehead. They had met their responsibility to ensure the package arrived undetected. The responsibility rested with him for the next transmission of the “information attack” program. This last portion would be through the air; through the electromagnetic spectrum where Western satellites waited to detect anything of interest or unusual.
Colonel Alqahiray looked at the sensors that lined the walls around the operations room. Patience, he thought. He took a couple of deep breaths, each polluted with a deep drag from the strong cigarette. Calm and patient. This was a great moment for Libya! His leadership must instill the necessary confidence for Jihad Wahid to take Libya to its righteous height of power and drive the devil Americans from the Mediterranean Sea.
Colonel Alqahiray’s dark eyes narrowed. He took the cigarette from his lips, for only a moment, and then quickly brought it up for another deep drag. The yellow stains on the index and second fingers wrapped nearly completely around the two and, even on sun-darkened skin, was eye catching in normal light. He surveyed the operations room, noticing how the blue fluorescent light cast dark shadows around the two rows of active, scrolling computer screens.
The soft green CRTs reflected off the intense faces of the operators.
Impatience could ruin this plan. A plan he’d personally developed, written, and orchestrated. Alqahiray thought of himself as a great conductor, bringing together varied and diverse instruments to complement each other. Jihad Wahid was the symphony he would deliver. He smiled at the comparison.
Something as simple as impatience could, in the blink of an eye, send months of planning spiraling into failure. Patience was a virtue he hated, but recognized. He twisted his bushy mustache, discovering a drop of tea hidden in one end. He twisted the end together until the moisture disappeared and then wiped his fingers on his starched gray uniform.
He reached over, tapped Walid on the shoulder, and was rewarded with a mousy jump from his nervous underling.
He enjoyed the fact that people feared him and rule by fear meant his tasks were accomplished quickly. Respect could be earned many ways, Alqahiray rationalized.
“Major Walid, well done. I know this is your position, but for the start of Jihad Wahid, it is only appropriate that I press the transmit button.” Walid glanced up at Colonel Alqahiray, whose eyes met his for a second before focusing on the CRT — at least, he thought Alqahiray’s eyes focused on him. His stomach contracted like a fist as he mumbled an acknowledgment. He looked away quickly, pretending to study the console with Alqahiray. As calmly as possible Walid wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and fought the urge to shiver. Alqahiray’s unattractive but powerful face shocked even those who had faithfully served years with him. Bright daylight sometimes softened the man’s abnormal features, but in the dark, blue-lighted confines of this room, for a split second, Walid saw a death head vision staring at him.