“Thank you,” said Antonio. At two kilometers, Aswad Leader opened up the distance needed for the Sidewinder missile.
Ahead, the city of Tripoli filled Antonio’s window as the fight moved farther west of the airfield. Crowded slum suburbs passed rapidly beneath the Italian fighter.
The steady tone in his headset announced lock-on. Etna Leader fired his remaining Sidewinder and watched it weave through the air.
Aswad Leader dove for the ground in an attempt to use ground clutter to detract the missile. Flares erupted from the Foxbat, but the Sidewinder missile was already past the flares when they came out.
The missile hit the tail, blowing off the rudder and fins.
A second explosion separated the left wing from the fuselage. Antonio smiled and the buxom blond returned to his thoughts as he rolled the Falcon to the right and hit the deck at sixty meters as he tried to ignore the internal warnings caused by the Libyan Air Defense fire control radar’s attempts to lock on. A ground flash from the left caught his attention. He watched the Libyan SAM rise from its launching pad and harmlessly pass two miles from him.
“Etna Leader, where are you?” yelled Etna Two.
“I am crossing the coast. You?”
“We have re-formed. No combat casualties and no aircraft damage.”
“Roger, Etna Two, I have you on radar. So where shall we ditch, my fine fellow Italian air heroes? I have twenty five minutes of fuel remaining, so we can try for Lampedusa or Malta.”
“I vote for Lampedusa. It’s Italian, and even if it’s small, the beaches are covered with some of the finest women of Italy.”
“And of Scandinavia and Germany, too,” Etna Four added.
“And, of course, who could turn down a chance to be with Italy’s finest air heroes?”
“Then it’s Lampedusa. But I want a promise from everyone that we will return to Groseta as soon as possible. I am sure that Gabriella will miss our business otherwise.”
“Gabriella! Hell, Antonio, you mean Maria with the big bazoobas.”
“I am sure that Maria will want to grace me with her presence,” Antonio joked.
“Presence, hell! Her knickers will be so wet when Italy’s aces march through the door that you’ll be able to toss them against the wall and they’ll stick!”
“Etna Three, I will request that you do not talk like that about the woman I love. Show some respect.”
“Antonio, you love all women until you get into their pants, and then it’s off to another conquest.”
Antonio clicked his radio twice.
“Okay, my fellow air warriors. It is time to grace Air Defense with our position and status so they may celebrate our survival.
“Etna Two, would you do the honors? I am seventy-five kilometers from you and out of UHF range.”
“It shall be my pleasure, Etna Leader.”
For fifteen minutes sixth fleet operators attempts to contact Sigonella held the quiet attention of Admiral Cameron, Clive Bowen, and the others waiting impatiently in Sixth Fleet Combat Information Center. With Sigonella communications gone they waited for the Harriers to arrive. Clive ordered the radiomen to turn the volume up on the Harrier frequency. They wouldn’t be able to talk with the Marine fighters, but should be able to hear them.
The euphoria when the Harriers shot down the Mig-23 had dissipated as concerns of what might be happening at Sigonella filled their thoughts.
“Clive, what’s the status of getting an aircraft carrier into the Mediterranean?”
“As of this morning. Admiral, the USS Stennis is off the coast of Norfolk, conducting routine sea trials and carrier qualifications for a bunch of F-14s and F-18s out of Oceana. Atlantic Fleet has ordered her back to Norfolk to outfit for an immediate deployment to our theater. After she turns around, two F-14 fighter squadrons from Oceana will bingo aboard as soon as she clears the Norfolk channel.
Two F-18 squadrons — one of them the Marine Moonlighters from Cherry Point, couple of S-3A antisubmarine birds from Jacksonville, and an E-2C early warning aircraft out of Norfolk. We are estimating Stennis battle group’s earliest deployment time to be three to four days after it returns to Norfolk.”
Admiral Cameron paused to take a sip of water.
“I’d estimate nearer five days for the carrier battle group to get organized, outfitted, and turned around. At max speed, she can be at the Strait of Gibraltar eight days later. Escorts?”
“Yes, sir. The cruisers, destroyers, and auxiliary ships needed to round out protection for the carrier and provide the logistic support to keep the group steaming are being identified.”
“So, we are going to have to wait nearly two weeks before a carrier battle group arrives to help us?” Cameron asked, leaning forward, his hands spread on the table to brace himself.
“Yes, sir. It looks that way. COMUSNAVCENT is fighting the idea of releasing the Roosevelt from the Persian Gulf to come here. They’re saying without the carrier presence, there is nothing to counter the Iranians.”
Five stressful minutes later the Harriers flew over the destroyed airfield and began passing damage reports.
“Sixtyone, this is Bulldog Leader. We have taken up combat positions around the airfield. It’s terrible. I’ve never seen anything like it. I count eight aircraft burning on the apron. At least one is a KC-135, some are C-130s and P3s.
The runway is cratered as well as the near taxiway, where another aircraft is burning. Fire engines are arriving and I count two ambulances. We have no comms with the airfield. Both hangars are destroyed, burning … and there’s another aircraft I didn’t see also burning at the end of the runway. I intend to land two at a time to refuel, if we can find the capability to do that. Sixtyone, they need help here. The scene reminds me of the old pictures of Pearl Harbor after the Japanese attack.”
The staff duty officer approached Admiral Cameron.
“Sorry, sir. General Leblanc is ordering you to take his call now.”
“Ordering me? What the hell does he want and who the hell does he think he is to order me?” He leaned forward.
Clive put his hand lightly on the admiral’s shoulder. Sweat broke out on the injured admiral’s forehead as a wave of pain shot through him.
Commander Bailey looked uncomfortable.
“Sir, you’re not going to believe this, but he wants — no, demands is the better word — for you to transfer your flag under his command.”
“Under his command?”
“Yes, sir. As Strike Force South, your NATO hat.”
“Under his command!” shouted Admiral Cameron, refusing to believe what he was hearing. He fell back, resting against the back of the chair, his breath short, rapid.
“Why would he want that?” Clive asked angrily.
“He also wants all our forces to withdraw at least one hundred miles north of Algeria and above the thirty-eighth parallel until the situation clears. He says our unilateral actions are not in line with his strategy for the North African region and endangers European security.”
“Who the hell does he think he is?”
“He thinks, sir, that he is Allied Forces South and that Sixth Fleet belongs to him,” Clive answered.
“Clive, call that presumptuous son of a bitch and tell him that as far as I am concerned the United States Sixth Fleet just went to war. If he wants a piece of the action then he had better get his puckered French ass up and get busy. Then, after you’ve called him, transfer my flag to the Albany. Tell Captain Ellison to stand by to embark Sixth Fleet. The place for an admiral at war is at sea, not shuffling papers ashore.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Clive replied, giving the admiral a salute.