Duncan called Beau and H. J. off to one side.
The other members of the two SEAL teams were either sitting on the deck or crouched over, packing their kits.
Everyone was in camouflage utilities with the trouser legs wrapped around the ankles and laced inside the combat boots. They’d be ready soon in the event the NEO timetable was moved up.
“Yes, boss,” Beau said.
“Just talked with Commodore Ellison. Seems he is not as convinced now as he was earlier today that this evacuation is going to be an opposed one. It would not surprise me if we were held in reserve rather than sent in with the Marines. Either way, the commodore has agreed that as soon as the evacuation is over he will off load us at either Gibraltar or Sigonella — if it is capable of handling air traffic by then. He will be done with us after the evacuation, so by this time next week we should be back sweating in the gridlock of Washington. Meanwhile, we have this mission to do. Intelligence is arguing that there is a possibility the Algerian president escaped from Algiers. If they are right, then this evacuation operation could turn nasty. But, on the other hand, our fine friends at CNN and MSNBC are reporting the capture of President Aineuf. They listened to a broadcast by Aineuf ordering the remaining Algerian forces to return to their barracks. Looks to me as if this will turn into a nonevent.”
“Alisha?” Beau said wistfully.
“Who?” H. J. asked.
“Yeah, Alisha,” Duncan said.
“And I can hardly wait to meet her once we get back to your place.”
“My place?”
“Well, Beau, you are my best friend, and my wife has taken possession of our house. You wouldn’t want your boss homeless and sleeping on the streets.”
H. J. grinned.
“Of course he does, Captain.”
“Well, no, I don’t, but … you are going to have to make yourself scarce when she does fly back in.”
“Now I understand,” H. J. said.
“She’s an angel.”
“Can’t be,” Duncan said, “she sees something in Beau.”
“Maybe she wants to convert him,” H. J. offered.
“And I intend to let her convert me as many times as she wants and I am capable.”
H. J. playfully tossed her cap at the laughing lieutenant commander.
Colonel Walid saluted Alqahiray.
“Colonel, we have just received word that American missiles have hit Benghazi and the headquarters of the general staff. There have been massive deaths at both locations, sir, including members of the general staff who were weighing today’s events at the headquarters building.”
Alqahiray’s eyebrows rose for a second, and then he smiled.
“What a shame,” he said, his face brightening.
“All those senior officers, who doubted Jihad Wahid, dying by the hand of the great Satan.” He shook his head several times and began to laugh.
“What a shame. It is so unfortunate that I must be the one to tell the junta about this. Don’t you think they were smart to ride out Jihad Wahid here”—he pointed to the floor—“with us in this isolated area of the desert? Otherwise, Walid, they, too, could have been casualties — and I have bigger plans for them.”
Walid looked confused, but said nothing. He knew the mercurial nature of this man and he, too, had his plans.
And to ensure those plans would reach fruition, he had to remain alive. This was once a great country and he was a member of a great people. It was important that true believers guide their return to greatness.
The commo saw Captain Clive Bowen talking quietly to the skipper, Commander Pete Jewell, near the wardroom coffeepot. He approached and waited quietly a few feet away from the two men, not wanting to disturb their quiet conversation. After a few minutes, when it appeared they were going to continue even when they knew he was there, he coughed, drawing their attention.
“Yes, John?” Jewell asked.
“Sir, I have a special category message that just arrived for Admiral Cameron. I saw Captain Bowen and thought …”
“Here, I’ll take it,” Clive said, reaching forward and taking the folder marked with bright orange stripes and the words top secret printed at the top and bottom.
He opened the folder, scanned the contents, and shut it.
“Anything I can do?” Jewell asked.
“Yes,” Clive said as he sat down on the edge of a nearby seat. Fatigue washed across him.
“Forget everything I said about the admiral’s departure. When he reads this, he won’t go. I know him too well. He’ll want to continue to the USS Nassau” Pete Jewell had been in the Navy long enough to know you didn’t ask why. If the senior officer wanted you to know or if you had the need to know, then you would.
Otherwise, you kept quiet and followed orders.
“Aye, aye, sir. That’s easily done. We have only been heading north toward Sardinia for an hour.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Just to be sure. Captain. We are returning to our original destination of the USS Nassau battle group?”
“Yes, but it is no longer to be considered a battle group.
It has now been re-formed as an amphibious task force and”—he waved the folder—“judging from this, they will get to use it.”
Clive stood up and left the skipper and the COMMO alone in the wardroom. Jewell looked at his communications officer, who shrugged and mouthed the word sorry, for they both knew he couldn’t tell the captain of the USS Albany what the message said.