The Mediterranean would truly be theirs.
Ibn Al Jamal stopped his train of thought. His stomach churned slightly as he realized he sounded like the fanatics that made up such a large portion of the Algerian Liberation Front.
The Americans would respond. Too many through history underestimated the resolve of the North American power. Slow to anger, but once angered, capable of unleashing a frightening show of force. So, the question was not if the Americans would respond — the question was when. America lacked the military power it had during Desert Storm, so how long would it take a declining power to respond? He believed America was a declining world power. Most of the world agreed, too. Only America refused to accept the inevitable. Twenty years from now America would be a has-been. Another in a long line of world powers, like England, that had its moment in history and watched its glory ebb away.
A/ Nasser was outfitted for a forty-five-day onstation time, though plans called for everything to be resolved within a week. If they could stop the West from intervening in Algeria during the next week, then everything would be settled — it would be too late for intervention. If he returned to port three weeks before the Al Solomon, Ibn Al Jamal intended to ensure that his fellow Kilo revolutionary did not continue his rampant zealotry. The stern torpedo crew reported ready. He looked at the chart and ordered dispersal of another mine. For the next three hours he maneuvered the Kilo-class submarine back and forth across the narrow strait, depositing the deadly cargo, until the Al Nasser emerged from the choke point at four in the morning. The mines were essentially harmless, as long as no supertanker, American aircraft carrier, or submerged submarine entered or departed the Mediterranean.
In thirty days they would deactivate. Saltwater would flood their cavities and those floating above the ocean floor would join those already on it, where they would eventually be buried for eternity by the shifting sands of the sea bottom. Captain Ibn Al Jamal picked up the microphone and congratulated the crew. The Mediterranean was now sealed off to the Americans. He smiled. The Mediterranean had become an Islamic lake. He forgot the French, Italian, and Greek navies in his exuberance. The Europeans would take strong exception to the idea of the Mediterranean being an Islamic lake.
The plotting crew pulled another chart out and taped it to the plotting table. The navigator made several quick calculations before he gave his course and speed recommendations to Ibn Al Jamal, who nodded in agreement. Al Nasser’s next destination was off the coast of Algiers, where it was to patrol the waters and protect the new capital.
Western ships would appear eventually to evacuate their citizens — most likely French and Italian. His job was to keep them away.
The new executive officer ran into the control room. Ibn Al Jamal cringed as the man’s head barely missed the top of the steel door. Breathless, the XO saluted before reporting that two sailors had been caught sabotaging the propeller shaft on the Al Nasser. Again? He asked where they were and was told they were under heavy guard in serious condition in sick bay.
He nodded and told the executive officer he’d look into the charges later, after a quiet rest.
Ibn Al Jamal ordered the crew secured from General Quarters and, with a fresh cup of tea in his right hand, he left the control room at the same time as the ship’s mullah chanted the crew to morning prayers.
Discipline was everything to a warship. Mutineers and saboteurs were different breeds from those who lacked an ability to articulate their faith to an overeager executioner gripping a raised scimitar above their necks.
Being captain of a warship was not a business for the squeamish.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Cafferty was steaming angry when he marched into Combat. He’d have him some officer’s ass about this. No comms with anyone for over twelve fucking hours and he had to discover it during breakfast by overhearing the supply officer bitching about having to issue spare parts during the night.
“Captain in Combat,” a shout announced from somewhere inside the darkened compartment. A moan escaped from elsewhere in the shadows.
“Lieutenant,” the captain said sharply to the CIC watch officer.
“What does the tactical picture look like?”
“Sir, we had problems earlier with the radars, but we shifted the parameters and cleared up the scopes. The Harriers remain orbiting northwest of us. We have a slow moving contact to our east that, on its current course and speed, will pass within sight of us in about two hours. We have had no communications with the Nassau battle group since Radio went down last night.”
“Lieutenant, why the hell didn’t you notify me or the executive officer about the radar problems and the lack of communications?” Cafferty asked. It was exasperating training this crew to function as he wanted them to.
“I did. Captain. I came on watch at zero seven forty-five, for the eight-to-twelve, sir. After I relieved, I failed to find a log entry that this information had been passed so I called the XO and briefed him. He said to keep him notified. I briefed the operations officer when he made his morning rounds a few minutes ago. Ops said that he would brief you.”
“I haven’t seen Ops,” the captain said.
“He was heading aft to the torpedo room to check on what the torpedomen were doing. Preventive maintenance check or something. Captain.”
“Call back there and have him come see me. Have you tried INMARSAT telephone to contact the Nassaut’ The lieutenant picked up the handset from the INMARSAT system located beside the captain’s chair.
“Yes, sir, I tried it with no joy. Radio called on your way down to give us a heads-up that they’re going to transmit at max power. We’ve put our comms in standby, but it shouldn’t affect our surface search or air search radars.”
“Fire control radars?”
“They’ve been in ready standby since we began the Freedom of Navigation op. Captain. Even if they were on and emanating. Radio’s power is in the high-frequency bands so it shouldn’t affect them.”
“Alright,” Cafferty acknowledged. He climbed up into the barber’s chair. He had to admit that the antique replacement for the normal captain’s combat chair was comfortable.
But that didn’t make it right. He was still going to replace it. His predecessor had been much too lax.
The supervisor of the watch brought him a cup of coffee. Black and fresh, the aroma gave Cafferty the first comfortable feeling he’d had this morning. Leaders have such a lonely job, he thought. Give him another three months, on top of the three he had been CO, and he’d have this crew whipped into fighting shape.
“Thanks, OS One,” he said to the first class operations specialist as he took the cup.
Cafferty spun the chair so he could see the polar display on the electronic warfare console.
“EW,” he said, “what are you showing out there?”
“Sir, we’re getting sporadic hits from that ship approaching us. Looks like a Russian merchant. Captain. The computer identifies the contact’s navigational radar as a Don Kay. That radar has been around since the 1960s, but a lot of ships still use them.”
Cafferty took a sip of coffee.
“Let me know when it pops up again.” The radar has been around longer than that, young lady, thought Cafferty.
“Captain, he’s popped up again! Either he’s increased his power or we are sailing into a ducting zone.”
Cafferty spun around to the surface search radar operator.
“What do you show on the contact?” he asked, half listening to the reply as he seethed over the comms snafu.
God! With the exception of him, did imbeciles man this ship?