“Nothing will give me greater pleasure, sir.”
“Commander,” the admiral said to the staff duty officer, “contact European Command and tell them I want to talk to General Sutherland immediately. And I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing; get him on the phone.”
The admiral stood, forcing himself to stand erect. Energy apparently blazed in his posture, but Dr. Jacobs knew the man was in great pain. Cameron turned and walked out of Combat, his Marine Corps guard and Captain Jacobs close behind him. Clive caught a glimpse of the doctor and the Marine taking Admiral Cameron’s arms as soon as they were through the door. The admiral’s last few seconds had exhausted the wounded leader, but his walking out unaided and his comments boosted the morale of a navy going to war. A navy that had just suffered its second Pearl Harbor.
Clive started the actions rolling to transfer the Sixth Fleet battle staff to the Albany. Later he would call and pass along Admiral Cameron’s regrets to the French general who now controlled the southern NATO forces.
Clive hoped they were on the submarine and out to sea before Washington started bombarding them with questions.
Information technology was great, but it allowed too many armchair quarterbacks an opportunity to direct the plays.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The first Tomahawk missile broke the surface as the setting sun touched the edge of the horizon. The noise of the rocket engine blasted across this Mediterranean Sea area south of the Italian island of Lampedusa, startling the crews of three merchant vessels and a small coastal freighter west of the missile. The missile quickly sped straight up and as the crew members’ eyes tracked the contrail of the deadly weapon other Tomahawk missiles began to break the surface, one after the other, until a total of six contrails marked their path into the low cloud cover.
The two nearest merchant vessels turned hard to port to open up the distance from where the missiles had been launched — the nearest ship being only eight miles away.
Little did they know that the skipper of the submarine USS Miami had deliberately maneuvered his boat so witnesses to the initial American response to the Libyan attack could broadcast what they had seen. American forces may have drawn down to a point where a third world nation like Libya felt it could attack with impunity, but it was sadly mistaken.
“Okay, XO, take her to the surface,” the Miami’?” skipper said. Then, turning to the chief of the watch he asked, “You got the battle flag?”
“Better than that. Skipper. I broke out the holiday ensign we purchased for your change of command last year.
It’s twice the size.”
“Skipper, XO,” the sonar operator said, holding one earpiece away from his ear as he spoke, “two of the ships are turning west.”
“One hundred feet!” announced a nearby chief petty officer who was monitoring the depth gauges.
The skipper grabbed the microphone.
“Attention, all hands. Grab hold — we’re going skyward!” He slapped the microphone back in its rack.
“Blow all ballasts and trim nose up,” he ordered.
The old Los Angeles-class submarine was at a forty-five-degree angle when she broke surface. Her nose traveled into the air nearly one-third the length of the boat before the submarine splashed back down onto the Mediterranean.
Sea spray rose fifty feet into the air along the length of the Miami. Admiral Cameron wanted witnesses and he wanted the Libyans to know he was coming after them.
Well, he got it, the skipper said to himself. No one knew how impressive a submarine looked when it surfaced like this except those who had actually seen one do it.
The sterns of the two merchant vessels were crowded with crew members who pointed with awe at the submarine that had fired the missiles and leaped from beneath the sea.
Several cameras with telephoto lenses were busy snapping photographs. Two on the nearest merchant vessel managed to take photographs of the last missile fired. That photograph and the ones being taken now would earn them a nice chunk of change when they pulled into Marseilles in two days.
The hatch opened and sailors spilled out of the black hull. From beneath the conning tower, they hastily unfolded the collapsible flagpole reserved for special occasions such as the Fourth of July. Within minutes, a huge American flag fluttered in the wind. The skipper ordered a slight course change to increase the wind across the bow. The flag rose as the wind increased. A couple of minutes later the Stars and Stripes was plainly visible to those merchant sailors.
He stood on the deck of the conning tower and watched the spectators through his binoculars. Satisfied he had accomplished both parts of this mission, he ordered increased speed. The USS Miami stayed on the surface until the merchant ships disappeared over the horizon. Then he submerged and increased speed as much as possible without creating cavitation that would alert any antisubmarine forces they might encounter. His next mission was to rescue the sailors of the USS Gearing. It would take three days for him to reach the area at this speed.
Clive poked his head through the curtain that separated the cramped quarters of the small stateroom from the USS Albany’s single passageway that ran the length of the attack submarine. Admiral Cameron lay on the bed, his eyes open. Dr. Jacobs sat in the lone metal desk chair beside him, his head bobbing slightly as he dozed.
“Come on in, Clive,” Admiral Cameron said. His voice woke Dr. Jacobs.
Clive nodded.
“Birds away, sir. USS Miami reports six missiles fired and plenty of witnesses. He observed several with cameras.”
“Good,” Cameron responded, then sighed.
“How long until impact?”
“The five headed toward Benghazi Naval Base should hit at twenty-three seventeen hours, sir. If they are true to target, four will take out the remaining submarines and missile boats. The fifth one will pop up and penetrate the main headquarters building. Intelligence believes the command posts inside the building will be fully manned. They will be updating their situation reports from today’s events when your gift arrives over the horizon, penetrates the building, and explodes inside.”
The sound of footsteps passing along the passageway caused dive to stop momentarily to allow the sailor to get out of hearing range.
“The remaining one will hit the general staff headquarters in Tripoli five minutes later. It, too, will pop up and penetrate through the top of the old building to explode inside.”
Clive thought he saw moisture in the Iron Leader’s eyes.
His eyes locked for a few seconds with Dr. Jacobs until the medical officer reached down and began to straighten the crease on his trousers.
“That’s it for now, Clive,” Admiral Cameron said, leaning his head back on the pillow.
“Nothing more we can do until we get a carrier into the Med.”
“Sir,” Clive said, “since we have launched a retaliatory attack as European Command authorized, maybe you could reconsider and let us helo you into Naples or Sardinia so you can fly back with your …”
Cameron shut his eyes and nodded.
“I know, Clive. I should. My kids are not going to accept that I put duty above accompanying Susan’s body back—” He stopped, his voice catching. After a few deep breaths he continued, “You are probably right, Clive. The only thing left to do is bring out the Americans at the embassy and that will be the usual noncombatant evacuation. The Algerian rebels are going to want them out of there as much as we want to bring them out. Commodore Ellison can handle it and Pete Devlin is arranging transportation out to the Nassau in a few days to meet me. He can handle the NEO until I return.”
“Yes, sir. I will make the necessary arrangements. Admiral.”