to our Egyptian friends, the carrier is on a journey to India. Perhaps they will not be on their guard the entire distance.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ali.
‘The Egyptians will make much information available. Some I do not entirely understand, I confess. They speak of three escorts, and an air arm at half strength.’
Three escorts would be standard – two optimized for air defense, one for submarine warfare. They were good ships, though certainly not unbeatable. The air arm probably referred to the carrier’s complement of Harrier jump jets; half strength might mean as few as four planes were aboard the carrier. Ali would have to find out; such a low number would limit patrols severely. The ship would also have helicopters for radar and antisubmarine work – potentially more of a problem than the Harriers.
Was he thinking of attacking? Against such strong odds?
It would be suicidal.
He did not care for his own life now. Death would be welcome. And wouldn’t God see to it that he succeeded?
The answer was obvious. This was an order from God; the Saudi was only a messenger.
During his time with the Italian destroyer Audace, one of their regular exercises had called for an attack on the flagship of the Italian fleet, the Giuseppe Garibaldi. The Garibaldi was somewhat smaller than the Ark Royal, displacing only about half the tonnage. In some ways it was much more capable, however – unlike the Ark Royal, it carried potent surface-to-surface missiles and torpedo launchers; even during the exercises when it was stripped of its escorts it held off Ali’s ship. In fact, it usually did better without escorts: There were never enough to properly screen against a surface attack if it was launched properly, but the carrier crews saw the other ships and believed they were well-protected. They were less than vigilant.
The attack would have to be orchestrated very carefully.
The surprising thing he had seen during the exercises was the ineptness of the flight crews when locating attacking ships. They trained almost exclusively to bombard land targets or combat submarines. The captain of Ali’s ship had dodged one patrol merely by identifying the ship as one of the carrier’s screening vessels. The vessel had been permitted to get close enough to launch its surface-to-surface missiles unscathed.
The commander had been reprimanded for his trickery; Ali thought he should have been commended. It was the pilot’s fault, after all; truly he should have been able to tell the difference.
If he could sink it – if he did sink it – wouldn’t that send a message that anyone who was friends with the Americans could be targeted? Wouldn’t the nations of the Middle East – the small ones especially, like Djibouti and Bahrain, but also the bigger ones, Egypt, Saudi Arabia – realize they weren’t safe?
Ali looked over at his visitor and found him smiling.
‘You understand how truly majestic it would be,’ said Osama. ‘I can see it in your face.’
‘Yes, I do understand,’ said Ali. ‘But – it would not be an easy task. I would need much information – considerable information.’
‘You will have it.’
‘The Iranians?’
‘The Iranians will not be cooperative. We will work to get you other resources,’ said the Saudi. ‘And God will be with you. Come. It is almost dawn. Let us prepare to pray. It will be a glorious day.’
Aboard the Abner Read 4 November 1997 0800
Storm sipped the cold coffee, its acid bitterness biting his lips. Admiral Johnson had been called away from the camera in the secure communications center aboard the Vinson. The pause gave Storm a chance to regroup and reconsider his approach. By the time Johnson’s face flashed back on the screen, Storm was more deferential.
‘As you were saying, Captain?’ said Johnson.
‘We have reviewed the data, and the weapons were definitely aimed at us,’ said Storm.
‘You still disobeyed your orders of engagement. You were not within visual range and therefore could not positively identify the craft.’
‘Admiral, I believe that United States warships are permitted – excuse me, directed – to take any and all prudent actions to protect themselves.’
‘You were not supposed to pursue any warships into territorial waters,’ said Johnson, who wasn’t about to let go of this. He continued over the same territory he had covered earlier, speaking of the delicacy of diplomatic negotiations and the political situation in the Middle East.
Storm took another sip of his coffee. No other commander would get this lecture; on the contrary, they would be commended for forceful and prudent action and the sinking of two pirate vessels, wherever their rusty tubs had gone down. Storm was only getting blasted because Tex Johnson hated his guts.
‘Talk to the intelligence people. I have other things to do,’ said the admiral finally.
Storm leaned back in his seat, waiting for Commander Megan Gunther and her assistants to come on line. But instead the screen flashed with the chief of staff, Captain Patrick ‘Red’ McGowan.
‘You son of a bitch you – congratulations on sinking those bastards!’ said Red.
‘Thank you, Captain.’
‘Don’t give me that Captain bullshit, you dog. Tell me – did those idiots you were chasing blow themselves up or what?’
‘Just about,’ said Storm.
‘So you sunk them with the gun, huh?’
‘Didn’t seem worth a missile,’ said Storm. ‘Of course, a tactical decision like that would be made by the ship’s captain.’
‘Bullshit. I’m surprised you didn’t go down and load the damn gun yourself.’
‘Computer does all the hard work.’ Storm smiled. He might be a micromanager and a pain in the butt and all that – but he also knew that he took care of his people when the shit hit the fan. And they knew it too.
‘They’re mighty pleased back at the Pentagon. Everybody’s lining up to buy you some champagne.’
‘Everybody except your boss.’
‘Ah, don’t worry about Tex. He’s just pissed that you’re getting most of the credit. He’ll come around. By tomorrow he’ll be reminding people Xray Pop was his idea.’
Red meant that as a joke – Tex had opposed the idea as premature, and Storm had only
