Admiral Cameron shut his eyes. Dr. Jacobs moved forward and lightly pushed the admiral, who opened his eyes. “Couldn’t miss the excitement, Doc?”
“Can’t have you flags having all the fun.”
“This is Ranger Two Niner. Four of the Mig-23s have broken off and are heading west to engage our Harriers!
We do not have comms with the Marines!”
“That would be the first formation Ellison launched,” Clive clarified.
Admiral Cameron looked around the Combat Information Center and, like everyone else, he waited. Something he did not do well. He tried to focus his attention on the JOTS display, watching the friendly and hostile symbols close, and discovered everything appeared to be going round and round like a multi lighted Ferns wheel. Clive moved silently up from behind the admiral and, with the smooth transition that chiefs of staff learn only from experience, he assumed command. Sailors stared at their officers. Chiefs waited, ready to respond to orders.
Experienced officers knew the look. It showed in their eyes and their body language when things became confused or anxiety increased.
“They’re scared, but ready,” Cameron said softly to the doctor.
“Even the strongest look to their leaders in times of crisis, but even leaders sometimes lack the words to ease warriors’ concern.”
“Rest, Admiral. Even you can’t order your body to heal faster.”
“Got to stay awake, Doc. If you have something, give it to me. If I pass out here … well, you know what it would do to morale. Get me through this for the good of the men and the fleet.”
Jacobs nodded, reached in his pocket, and extracted a small bottle.
“Swallow these,” he said, handing two white tablets to the admiral.
“These will work?”
“For a short while. Admiral, and then, I shall have the medical pleasure of watching you moan and complain about how medical science gave you the worse headache you’ve ever had.”
“Admiral, the duty officer at Pratica di Man says they have four Italian F-16 Fighting Falcon interceptors airborne out of Groseta Airfield near Palermo, Sicily, conducting routine training. They’re not fully loaded. They only have two Sidewinder missiles each. Groseta has been patched through from Pratica di Man. The aircraft are over the sea north of Palermo. They estimate a thirty-five-minute flight to Sigonella. Groseta has already redirected the aircraft.”
“Good!” The admiral looked around him. So young, most of them. He recognized the look. These past two days had aged them as only combat veterans can age. He placed his hand over his heart. Damn thing was sprinting.
“Pratica di Mari reports the Italian fighters have been given ‘weapons free.” They may fire at their discretion.”
“Are they aware of the Harriers headed their way?” Clive asked.
“Yes, sir. Pratica di Mari says that Groseta has the Harriers on their air defense radar and has established voice contact with them. Nassau has released the Harriers to the Italians.”
The NATO speakers on the starboard side of the Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center roared to life.
“Any station this net, and I mean any station, this is Souda Bay Naval Support Activity. Souda Bay Airfield, Crete, is under attack. We are under attack. I repeat, we are under attack!” shouted a voice, the slow southern drawl drawing out the transmission.
The admiral looked at Clive Bowen.
“Who’d be attacking Souda Bay, Crete?” He pushed himself up on the stool. Clive grabbed the microphone.
“Souda Bay, this is Sixth Fleet. Explain attack. Who is attacking you?” He looked at the intelligence officer and the crypto logic officer. Captain Paul Brooks, who had earlier entered CIC.
“Who’s attacking Souda Bay?”
“Sixth Fleet, this is the air tower. We have multiple aircraft bombing the airstrip. I don’t know who they are, but they ain’t American and they ain’t Greek. Shit! Take cover!”
The sounds of cannon fire, breaking glass, and the familiar roar of high-powered jet engines blasted from the speakers.
“Sixth Fleet, if you heard that, you just heard our last transmission. We are abandoning the tower. Jets look Russian to me, but the writing on the side is Arabic. Go figure.
This is Air Traffic Control Souda Bay signing off.”
“Don’t go!” shouted Clive.
“Screw you. Sixth Fleet. I’m a civilian. I ain’t one of yore sailors and I’ll tell ya right now, you’ve lost an EP3E and two C-130 transports. Every aircraft on the apron is in flames. Including that KC-135 tanker that landed earlier.
That shooting you’re hearing isn’t at the tower, though we have taken some hits, I don’t mind telling ya; it’s at the aircraft parked on the apron. Shit! Here they come again.” The line went quiet.
“They’re gone,” Clive said.
Several seconds passed.
“Sixth Fleet, I’m back. Y’all ain’t gonna believe this.
The Greek Air Force just showed up and they’re kicking ass and taking names! You can scratch at least two of those Russian aircraft. They’re in flames south of the runway and the others are running.” Laughter followed.
“They better run fast, I think there are some pissed-off Greeks chasing them. Earl, hand me that video camera and that pack of cigarettes. Shit! Earl, hurry yer butt up and take a picture of that. Whoosh! There’s goes another Greek missile and there explodes another asshole! Damn! This is just like a John Wayne movie. Sixth Fleet! CNN will pay a fortune for this. Earl, break out that Amstel beer and pass me that fucking camera. We gonna be rich, boy.”
The Greek National Air Defense Command tracked the Libyan fighter aircraft from the time they departed the coastline north of Tobruk. The attacking force, in tight formation, presented a radar profile of a passenger aircraft.
The lone Greek supervisor consulted his flight plans for the day and found nothing scheduled. He scratched his head and looked at the radar contact. It showed the aircraft in the international flight corridor for commercial airliners.
He hoped it wasn’t another defection. He put his pen down and walked to the radio just as the speaker blared.
“Air Defense, this is Rhodes Leader. We are four Mirage F-is airborne for sector operations east of Crete,” said the lead Greek pilot. Major Demetri Andrecopouliou, into his helmet mike piece.
“We will be airborne three hours thirty minutes, conducting routine patrol. Single wing tank.”
“Roger, Rhodes Leader, this is Air Defense Command.
You are cleared to transit to op area at altitude one two five. Report when on station.”
“Roger, sir. Will do.” Demetri glanced at his altimeter, confirming their metric altitude equated to twelve thousand five hundred feet.
Since the flare-up with Turkey three months ago, the Greek armed forces had flexed its military muscle by keeping round-the-clock air patrols between its eastern borders and the Turkish mainland. The east of Crete patrol was boring. No Turkish aircraft would dare penetrate this far west. The Greek patrol varied the time by doing formation aerobatics, buzzing merchant vessels, and conducting ground control intercept exercises against each other. Today started like every other patrol day.
“Rhodes Leader, this is Rhodes Two. Let’s buzz some merchants.”
“Let’s don’t and say we did.” Rhodes Two was going to be a good fighter jock, if Demetri could curb his wingman’s recklessness.
Demetri visually checked his formation.
“Rhodes Three and Four, close up. Diamond formation, maintain fifty meters separation. Divide radar coverage, as briefed, for three hundred sixty degrees and remain in tight formation.”