The speaker burst to life.
“Sixth Fleet, I count minimum of sixty-two souls in the life rafts and the water. Am making another pass to drop.” The voice paused.
“Wait one, Sixth Fleet.”
A moment later Stillwell said excitedly, “Sixth Fleet, we have multiple bogeys airborne out of Tripoli and Benghazi.
Minimum nine fighters and a possible TU-20 Blinder. I have no idea why a Blinder would react against us. I find it hard to believe a bomber that old can fly.”
Admiral Cameron grabbed the microphone.
“Ranger, get out of there. Hit the deck for home, now!”
“Admiral, if I hit the deck any lower I’m going to be submerged. As you said, sir, I am the on-scene commander and, unless otherwise directed, this on-scene commander is going to complete this run and drop the number three life raft and provisions. Then, we’ll outmaneuver the entire Libyan Air Force.” The number three life raft was the largest one of the three aboard the EP-3E.
The admiral keyed the mike a couple of times, fighting the urge to order the pilot to obey his command. Then, he caught himself and released the key. Most times the best one to determine the threat is the one in contact with it.
He recalled his own experiences in Desert Storm and remembered his father’s tales about Vietnam and rear-echelon quarterbacks … though quarterbacks wasn’t the term he used. He’d be damned if he was going to be a REMF. He handed the microphone back to the duty officer.
The chief petty officer returned, walking briskly to where the admiral stood. The admiral looked at him.
“Well, Chief?”
“Sir, General Leblanc himself is on the phone and demands that you talk with him now.”
“Demands?”
“Yes, sir. Demands is what he said, though he is French so he may not understand what he’s saying. I told him you were busy, but he ordered me to tell you that he did not care what you were doing, you worked for him and he wanted to talk with you and he wanted to talk now.”
“He did, did he?” the admiral asked, amazed.
“Yes, sir. He said it was very important.”
“Then leave the bastard on the phone. I’m busy. Tell him he can wait, but it’ll be at least an hour before I answer.”
The chief left, hurrying through Combat and carrying with him a perverse sense of pleasure at being able to tell a flag officer, even if he was French — in a tactful manner, of course — to go to hell. He waited until he left Combat before he smiled. Only the British would enjoy better what he had been “directly” ordered to do.
Three tense minutes passed before the unarmed reconnaissance aircraft called again.
“Sixth Fleet, we have dropped provisions, wiggled our wings, and are turning north. The Libyan aircraft are feet wet twenty miles off their coast and about twenty-five miles from us and closing. Estimate intercept in five minutes.
Commencing evasive maneuvers at this time. Have opened our side windows so we can at least shoot forty-fives at them.”
“Spirited pilot,” commented the admiral. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Around him, the command team wore coats and sweaters in the fifty-degree air-conditioned space, but it seemed hot to him.
“Twenty miles from us. Have lost the Tripoli aircraft, Admiral. Their last course was zero zero seven at twelve thousand feet and we counted the Tripoli formation as one TU-20 and three Mig-25 fighters; could be four fighters.
Don’t know what in the hell they’re going to do with the TU-20, guess we could fly side by side and fire our pistols at each other.”
“What is the Libyan Blinder doing over the ocean, Kurt?” the admiral asked his intelligence officer.
“Admiral, the last thing we had on Libyan Blinders was that they were inoperative from lack of proper maintenance and spare parts. They used to do free fall bombing runs on their ranges east of Tripoli. But that was over a decade ago. Of course, they could have converted them into maritime reconnaissance aircraft.”
“Sixth Fleet, Ranger Two Niner; intercept time is two minutes. We are reflecting six Mig-23 Floggers out of Benghazi. Bandits are beginning to descend from twelve thousand feet altitude.”
The admiral turned to his staff duty officer.
“Where are those Harriers?” His handkerchief fell out of his hand and landed on the tips of Bowen’s shoes.
“Wait one, Admiral,” he replied as he ran to the air plot table.
Clive bent down, picked up the handkerchief, and placed it in the admiral’s hand, who nodded weakly, took it, and wiped the sweat from his face. Clive noticed the fleet surgeon, Captain Jacobs, move from his place along the bulkhead and cross Combat to stand directly behind the admiral.
Their eyes met briefly before Clive turned back to the displays.
He was glad Doc had disobeyed the admiral and followed them to Combat.
Admiral Cameron leaned back against the back of the stool and quietly watched the exchange between the staff duty officer and the Sixth Fleet Combat team.
The staff duty officer shouted across Combat.
“Admiral, they’re too far out, sir. They’re one hundred miles southeast of the Strait of Sicily. Nassau will have to recall them in fifteen minutes due to fuel state.”
“Can they reach the EP-3E?” the admiral asked. “Sir, they can try, but then it’s going to be a race to bingo to Sigonella. They won’t have the gas to return to Nassau.”
Clive interrupted.
“They’ve got Air Force KC-130 tankers at Sigonella. Call air traffic control at Sigonella and tell them to launch the alert tanker.” He pointed at the air traffic control operator.
“Identify the nearest refueling orbit point and issue a verbal air traffic movement to Sigonella.
Tell them we’ll worry about hard copy later.”
“SDO, I want a launch estimate on that tanker from Sigonella ASAP!”
“Roger, Admiral.”
“Clive, get Commodore Ellison on the phone and tell him to turn the Nassau around and close his aircraft. Tell him to launch the other four Harriers also. Further, order Sixtyone to vector his aircraft to intercept the EP-3E.”
Clive rushed over to the console.
“SDO,” said the admiral, “sound General Quarters. I want this space brought up to combat standards now. And I mean now.”
The SDO reached behind him and flipped the lever on the red sound box. Throughout the USS La Sane the ear shattering bongs announcing General Quarters caught a much fatigued crew unprepared, but by the third bong, adrenaline surged through their arteries and startled-awake sailors raced to battle stations. Fear lurked in the back of each mind that once again the USS La Sane was under attack.
On board the USS Simon Lake and the USS Albany, tied alongside, similar General Quarters bongs broke the summer morning stillness of the surrounding village of Gaeta.
One hundred and twenty-five Italian military Special Forces, who had arrived within hours of the terrorist attack two days ago against the ships, unslung their weapons. The Italians raced for their assigned defensive positions, unaware of what danger caused the Americans to go to full security, but no more attacks on Italian soil were going to occur without the attackers facing Italy’s best.
Male sailors raced through the hatch of Combat pulling on their shirts, while female sailors crammed their hair under ball caps as they ran to their stations.
“Sixth Fleet, this is Ranger Two Niner. I have Libyan fighters all around me, according to our sensors, but I can’t see any. We show them on the same course at six thousand feet altitude. We are under a cloud bank that bends to my ten o’clock. I intend to remain under it. My altitude is fifty feet and this aircraft is shaking like a banshee!”