Jihad
5.1 America
by Red MacDonald
Copyright © 2013 Red MacDonald
All Rights Reserved.

The Faithful, North African and Middle Eastern Islamic nations, are plotting to seize the oil resources of the Middle East. By controlling the earth's oil and its major trade routes, they plan to bring the world to its knees. Then, when the entire world is kneeling, the Faithful of Allah will read to them from the Koran, preaching the message of Islam, the True Faith. The Faithful will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. But how far will they go? And how many lives will it cost?

5 Straits of Sicily

5.1 America

* * * * *

5.1.1 Rendezvous

It was 09:00 hours. The Italian DDG Garibaldi and the FFGs Alfonso Donatelli and Enrico Ghiarggio had just appeared over the horizon. It took only a few minutes for the Americans to appreciate the Italian seamanship.

When they first appeared, the Italian ships were in a perfect triangular formation with the larger Garibaldi in the lead. As they approached, they quickly fell into a single file, with flags flying and their off-duty crews standing at parade on their foredecks. As the bow of the Garibaldi reached the line of the Halsey's bow, their main batteries opened fire in a seventeen-gun salute appropriate for a Vice Admiral and Commander of the Sixth Fleet. As it neared the last ship in the American fleet, the missile cruiser Bunker Hill, the Garibaldi turned sharply to port and smartly paralleled the fleet. Each of the FiGs followed in turn, and the Italian formation settled in on the Halsey's port beam, with intervals aligned to conform to the American disposition.

Everyone who watched their arrival knew how difficult these maneuvers were to perform. Old timers as well as the admiral watched the entire evolution with evident pleasure. The Italians were pros, and it would be a pleasure to serve with them.

Within minutes, helicopters lifted off from all the American escorts delivering their commanding officers and staffs to the carrier. As the American choppers left the Halsey, others flew in from the three Italian ships on similar missions.

The planning meetings started immediately and went superbly. The Italians were enthusiastic about working with such a grand fleet. When an exchange of officers was suggested, they welcomed the opportunity. It was they who suggested that their FiGs should serve in-shore, confirming the American plans.

When Captain Enrico Vespation of Garibaldi was asked to join the missile team, he leapt out of his chair with a shout of joy. The Americans grinned at each other. The Italian temperament was going to take some getting used to, but it was wonderful to see such enthusiasm.

The meeting quickly broke into their respective teams. The ASW group planned coverage zones, codes and communications between themselves and with the Vikings. At the same time, the AA group determined their command and control, hunting preserves, back-up strategies, and frequencies. Captain Vespation downloaded the secured IFF codes for all the Italian planes in southern Italy and Sicily so that an over-stressed missileer wouldn't shoot down a forty million euro aircraft. Then, the Senior Squadron Commanders joined the meetings to hammer out the Air-Sea components of the fleet's defense. Only when all the details had been discussed and the contingency plans were hashed out did the final fleet battle plan emerge.

The new plan differed from the original in two important details. The Italians had placed small, portable radars on the summit of Pantelleria and on Lampedusa in the Palagie Islands. With those in place, the fleet could receive the Italian's data to augment that coming from the Hawkeyes, Regulators, Snoopers and the ship's Aegis systems. The second change involved the new computer codes and interfaces with the Italian Air Forces recently transferred into Sicily.

When they all felt that the fleet was ready to run the Straits of Sicily, Admiral Duncan joined the meeting and began the discussion. "Officers, I see that you've squared everything away between yourselves. Are you ready?" Each CO nodded or voiced their agreement. "Are there any questions before you depart to your ships?"

Captain Vespatian hesitantly raised his hand. "Si, Admiral, we do have one question. Why is it that you will force the Straits in daylight? Would it not be better to sail through at night?"

Duncan smiled broadly. "Captain, you are the very first to ask that question. I have been waiting for somebody to ask.

"My reasoning is as follows. We're just the first of many convoys that will pass through the Straits of Sicily. The next convoy will include our PhibRon with over five thousand U.S. personnel. After that, even larger convoys are expected, which will not have an aircraft carrier battle group to protect them.

"If we sneak through, under the cover of darkness, can they do the same? If a fleet is going to be attacked, which one should it be?

"In my opinion, it is our job to ensure that these waters are open and safe for everyone to travel, regardless of flag. So, if they're going to attack somebody, let it be us. We're ready for them. We have the right composition, at the right time, and the right place with the right doctrine. If they're going to attack, we're ready for them, and we will serve notice of what happens when pirates try to violate international waters.

"On the other hand, our show of force may deter a potential aggressor, as it did at Gibraltar. It was touch and go there for a few hours. The pendulum could have swung either way, but I believe it was our show of strength and our resolve to use it that swung the balance in our favor. Now, the Straits of Gibraltar are open, and the Moroccan government has guaranteed the right of free passage.

"It is my great hope that the show of strength on the part of the government of the United States and that of Italy, together, will deter aggression. If not, we'll blow the bastards to Hell!"

The admiral's fierce expression caused the Italians to hesitate, and one of them even pushed his chair back as though he were about to be attacked. Duncan had made his point. The line in the sand had been drawn. The twenty-first century's Battle of the Alamo would begin here.

The admiral looked around. "No further questions? OK, then I've got a few things to say. If these things appear obvious, good. There may be some officers here who have not worked with an aircraft carrier under these circumstances.

"Just as in the days of sail, an aircraft carrier is a prisoner of the winds. To launch or retrieve aircraft, we must head into the wind at maximum speed. The winds are out of the northwest and blowing at twelve knots. That means that we will be swinging into the wind at irregular intervals to launch and retrieve aircraft. This will be a severe test for all of our escort vessels.

"The FiGs out front will be busy looking for those Libyan subs. The missile ships will be looking for planes, missiles and ships. I will not be worried about you. You will form the moving box within which I will operate. The FiGs are the top of the box. The missile ships are the side. Please look at this diagram."

The screen on the wall came alive. It showed five little ship-like figures, labeled 'Frigates', arranged vertically. In front of them was a big arrow pointed to the right. Along the bottom were three middle-sized and one larger ship figure. These were labeled 'Missile Ships'. Another big arrow, pointing to the right, preceded them. Within these two lines of ships was a rectangle, representing Halsey, and a serpentine dashed line representing the carrier's course.

The admiral pointed to the screen. "As you can see, the FiGs out front will maintain a steady headway through the straits. Of course, they'll be sprinting and slowing to perform sonar detection. However, they will be relying more than usual upon their choppers and the S-3s. The missile ships will maintain a course and speed conforming to that of the FiGs while keeping their anti-air barrier along the threat axis.

"Halsey will follow a path such as this." He pointed to the serpentine curve. "In general, Halsey will advance at high speed off the port side of the missile ships. Before we crash into one of your ASW screening vessels, we will make a radical turn to port through approximately one-hundred and thirty-five degrees. At that time, we will commence air operations.

"Our aircraft will be flying over your vessels at low altitude." He turned to them and shook his finger like a parent scolding a child. "Please do not shoot them down!" He smiled, enjoying his joke, but everybody in the room recognized that what he had said in jest was deadly serious.

"After completing air operations, we will again make a radical turn, this time to starboard, through one-hundred and eighty degrees. That means that we'll be headed right at your missile ships at better than thirty knots. Don't panic. This is normal operations in the US Navy. We do it all the time. We know what we're doing." He stopped and smiled once again at the commanders, and they dutifully smiled at another of the admiral's little jokes. "We will then turn through forty-five degrees to parallel the missile ships.

"Halsey's maneuvers will make your tasks extremely difficult. Our actual headway may be as little as fifteen knots, or it may be twenty or twenty-five. It all depends upon the scope of our air operations.

"Both of the screen commanders will have their hands full. In our naval practice, we have an officer and two enlisted personnel aboard each ship who do nothing other than determine the speed and course of the carrier, try to guess its next maneuver, and then try to determine their own best speed. Although they might be wrong, by working at it, they are never surprised.

"Pay very close attention to your screen commanders, but do not rely upon them. If they are sunk, and you don't have a carrier watch, either your ship or my ship or both of our ships may join them at the bottom of Davy Jones' Locker. I remind you all, that if this happens, it will come out of your pay!" This time there was genuine if somewhat nervous laughter.

"As you engage in your computer analyses, be sure to include your seamanship drills. You will have a wildly maneuvering, sixty-five thousand ton aircraft carrier cavorting around like a love-sick whale. Any questions on this point? Any other questions?"

Muriel MacDonald spoke up. "Admiral, I have a problem with your love-struck whale scenario. What happens if we run into a sub? This could really complicate things, depending upon when it happens. Our group has practiced this time and again, but I'm not sure that our Italian allies are ready to sacrifice their ships."

"Yes, Mac, I see what you're driving at." Duncan turned to Commander Taylor. "Chuck, please make sure you run several simulations with both Donatelli and Ghiarggio. Make sure their captains understand all the ramifications of ASW screening for a carrier battle group, including the order of priority and visitation rights in the aforementioned Locker. If they want to pull out, let them, and that's an order. If they stick, they must understand that they could lose their ships, kill all their crew, and die in the process."

Both Italian FiG commanders looked up in horror.

Duncan nodded to them. "Yes, Officers, if the choice comes down to whether your frigate gets sunk or this carrier gets sunk, you must choose to put your vessel in harm's way to protect this ship. If push comes to shove, Halsey must be the last surviving vessel.

"If you are not ready for this challenge, we fully understand. Each of the commanders here has already wrestled with this dilemma and decided that they will sacrifice themselves, their crews and their commands to protect this ship. Think it over. Run through the scenarios. If you can't do it, we have to know it before we run the Straits so that we can make other plans."

"Senor Admiral," Commander Dominic Russi of the Alfonso Donatelli pointed at Muriel MacDonald, "will this woman be commanding a frigate like ours? Will she sacrifice herself and her crew?"

"Mac, you'd better handle that one."

"Yes, Sir!" Muriel glowered at the Italian, replying heatedly, "I am an officer in the United States Navy. I will protect my country, my flag, my honor and that of my ship with my dying breath! Bet on it!"

"Did that answer your question, Commander?" the Admiral inquired.

"Si! Indeed it did, Admiral! It will be an honor to serve alongside of such a brave and courageous officer of the United States Navy. It is my fervent desire, if we should survive this test, that this officer, Commander Mac, will accompany me on a tour of Napoli, my home, at her next port call." He stood, reached across the table and, taking Muriel's hand in his own, kissed it! "Bellisima, we shall go to war together, you and I, Commander Mac, and afterwards ... who knows?"

* * * * *
5.1.2 Takeoff

Oh-four hundred hours. Tunis lay off the starboard beam. Marsala, on the tip of Sicily, lay one hundred miles ahead. Commander David James Duncan, call-sign "DJ", sat quietly in the pilots' ready room trying hard to relax. He began calculating one more time. They'd be off Marsala in three hours. It'd take five to six hours to get through the Straits of Sicily. Adding one hour for luck, they'd be safe or sunk in ten hours. It was a disquieting thought.

It was time for him to go. He jogged up the ladders, opened the hatch and stepped over the coaming into the normal chaos of the flight deck. A white-shirted safety crew directed him to his plane. He performed a basic walk-around with his brown-shirted crew chief, and everything seemed to be OK. He signed for the plane, and the chief nodded a quick salute. After climbing the short ladder, DJ clambered into the rather roomy cockpit and the superbly comfortable, "Lazy Boy", conformational bucket seat.

The crew chief clambered up after him to help strap him in, connect up and make any other last minute adjustments. "Safe flight, Commander," and he was gone, as was the ladder.

DJ began his pre-flight checkouts. He engaged the electricals and lowered the "Bubble Sun-Roof". Two minutes later, his internal navigation system was functioning perfectly, and his canopy opticals were reading steady and positive. His radar, infra-red and TV all had passed their pre-flights, and his systems manager indicated that the plane was ready to start. His plane may have been, but none of the deck crews were.

As he sat, waiting his turn, his thoughts wandered back to the mission at hand. Both he and CAG had declared a maximum effort. Each of the Seniors, including CAG, had their own plane. RHIP! That meant that instead of two standard squadrons of eight planes, he would have an Air Group of seventeen. This odd number gave him a lot of options.

Normally, the two eight-plane squadrons were divided into two flights of four. Each flight was divided into pairs of a 'lead' and a 'wing' or 'trailer'. The seventeenth plane in a sixteen plane formation ruined the even multiple. This had been one of the problems carefully studied when the new and smaller carriers were first considered.

The first thing that was obvious to the naval tacticians was that an odd number of planes necessitated the demise of the two-plane team. This was anathema, and cries of anguish echoed through the Pentagon. The Navy brass fought against the concept tooth and nail. Regardless, they were forced to face the possibility of using one standard eight-plane squadron and an awkward, nine-plane squadron.

One young ensign, who didn't know any better, began to review the Japanese air tactics of World War II. Their carriers had used three-plane formations with great success. Japanese tactics were modernized for the higher speeds and greater loads of the modern jets and found to be completely applicable. The "3-3" formations, disrespectfully called either TFS for "Three-Finger Salute" or RBL for "Read Between the Lines", were found to be superior in specific situations.

The best reason for a flight of three was for training. An inexperienced pilot could hang around with two experienced ones, learning both formation and combat flying. The two experienced pilots could keep an eye on the new one. Since the inexperienced ones were always the first to die, this materially increased their chances of survival, while giving them the time and training they needed.

The second big positive was a defensive strategy called the 'Wagon Train' that originated in Viet Nam. When the MiGs were jumped by the big American Phantoms, they'd get into a big circle, just like a wagon train in an old western. Each MiG covered the other guy's tail. Two planes couldn't pull it off, but three planes could. In turn, this led to new American tactics and new formations in which the threesome covered each other's tail, while maintaining a strong offensive punch.

Later, this led to the third big positive. The three plane formation had fifty percent greater firepower and hitting power than the "Loose Deuce", with the greater defensive strengths of six eyes and modified wagon train tactics.

Of course, these changes in formation and tactics required a tremendous amount of practice, practice and even more practice. So, Seniors were in the air a lot, working with their squadrons. There were a whole lot of eight-on-nine combats with both sides taking turns being aggressors and defenders. Each squadron learned how to fly two-, three- and four-plane formations and master their intricacies. Today would be the big test.

DJ had opted to fly with the Mad Dogs, making them a "3-3" formation. The Mad Dogs would defend against bow attacks. The Talons, flying as a "2-4", would cover the anti-ship missions from the aft and the starboard side of the formation. His thinking was that any surface attack from the rear or the side would be partly countered by the fleet's general speed and heading, making either approach longer. A longer approach meant more time for the smaller formation of Talons to hit them. However, with an approach from the bow, time was against them. At a sixty knot closure rate, things could happen really quickly. His heavier Mad Dog RBL was more likely to score a kill.

Duncan reviewed his personnel. He'd be teaming up with Lt. Ingrid "Dilly" Ashultsohn, Mad Dog 4, and Lt. (jg) John "Candy" Candella, Mad Dog 5, and be called Boxer Flight.

Lt. Commander Betty "Betz" Chapiro, Mad Dog 1, was leading Lt. (jg) Pierre "Button" Bouton, Mad Dog 6, and Ensign Tobias "Tubby" Freeman, Mad Dog 8. They would have been the Dobermen, but Betz suggested Dober-persons. In the end, they all agreed on Dobies.

Lt. John "Bleeper" Bulkowski, Mad Dog 2, led the third flight with Lt. George "Shiner" Samuelson, Mad Dog 3, and Lt. (jg) Hiram "Higgy" Higginbotham, III, Mad Dog 7. Bleeper had wanted Bulldogs, but it sounded too much like "Bull" and might even be confused with the Boxers. So, they had ended up with Mastiff.

The Talons had chosen the name Claw for Lt. Peter "Skywalker" Lucas' westerly flight, and Hook for Lt. Commander Byron "Tiny" Small's southern one.

At 04:30, the Yellow Jackets were ready for DJ. A big yellow hauler backed up, hooked onto his nose wheel and moved him up to the ready line. White-clad Safeties watched wings and clearances, as "Grapes" topped off his fuel, and red-clad "Ordies" pulled the pins on his missiles releasing them for arming. When all was in order, the "Big Grape" flashed a hand signal, which DJ repeated back, confirming his plane's weight. The other colors disappeared except for the Safeties, and a "Greeny" catapult officer took charge.

It was time for DJ to start his engines. His plane was connected to a starter truck, and, at the Greeny's signal, DJ punched the start for his starboard engine. Slowly, at first, the big P&W started to whine and built up to power quickly. When the right engine hit sixty percent, DJ gave the thumbs up to the starters, who disconnected, while he punched his port engine. Within three minutes, both engines were steady and looking good.

The Cat Officer directed him to the end of the "cat walk", just aft of the forward catapults. The big blast deflector stood in front of him. A Holstein sat on the starboard catapult. With a puff of steam, it disappeared, trailing fire into the morning mists.

DJ was next in the "Cat Box". At the next signal, he tested all his control surfaces, while "Lemons" and Safeties checked them to make sure they were operating. The giant twin rudders and elevons were the easy part. A blind man could feel the breeze from them as they moved. The hard parts were the Hornet's LERXs.

A Lemon ran under his wing and held the cobra-like Leading Edge Root Extension in his hands. As DJ caressed the controls, it molded itself into a smooth curve which gave the entire wing a new conformation. Like a canard, when the LERX's wing-warping was working, the Hornet was almost impossible to stall, climbed like a scalded cat and turned up its own ass. When it failed, the Hornet crashed on launch. Only if the Lemon was happy with the wing-warping would he release DJ's bird. And, no Lemon ever got knocked for pulling a bird if he didn't like the feel of it. Never!

The deflector lowered, and the Cat Officer guided DJ forward. Within seconds, his nose wheel was attached to the shuttle. DJ turned to the Cat Officer and signaled his weight, which was re-directed forward to the catapult controllers.

The huge steam catapults were capable of flinging a fully loaded Avenger off the bow with enough air speed for those big birds to fly. Fully loaded, they weighed over forty tons. So, with DJ's tiny plane coming in at half that weight they had to adjust the catapult so that it neither tore his plane apart nor crushed him in his seat.

The Catapult Officer directed both his red-hooded "wands" towards him. That was DJ's signal. As he increased his thrust to full power, the blast deflector rose out of the deck, protecting the men and machines behind him from the fearsome blast of his twin Pratt & Whitneys. The Cat Officer held his right lamp straight up and circled the left above his head. The Hornet's mighty afterburners lit up, and David could almost see his fuel gauges falling. His Hornet screamed at full power hauling on the breaker bar that was holding his nose wheel firmly attached to the shuttle embedded in the deck. DJ raised both arms over his head, dropped his left onto the canopy rail, saluted and put his right arm on the opposite rail.

The Hornet had retained many characteristics of its illustrious ancestor, including the general styling. One of these, which Hornet drivers loved and everyone else hated, was that the bird launched itself. The Hornet's fly-by-wire controls carefully measured the thrust, pitch and roll of the ship, the wind and shear, and a hundred other variables. Then, it automatically made adjustments to all the controls to lift off safely, increase altitude and bank slowly to starboard to avoid the angled deck's flight pattern. It all happened in a split second, and interference by the relatively slow reactions of a human would disturb its delicate trims and timings. Only when the plane and passenger were safely aloft did the Hornet finally permit its human pilot to resume control.

Now that DJ was ready to launch, the Cat Officer saluted with his right wand, then brought it around in a great, arm-length circle. He dropped to one knee and as he bent forward onto the deck, he directed both lights straight toward the bow.

That was the signal to the catapult operators in the bow. They too checked for safety problems. Seeing none, the Launch Officer mashed the launch button.

Below decks, the massive piston was hit by an enormous blast of super-heated steam. It slammed forward, dragging the shuttle and the Hornet with it. Just feet from the bow, the ram smashed into a water dam and stopped with a huge, dull boom felt throughout the ship. The shuttle stopped, slinging the plane off the bow.

David relaxed his grip on the rails, and placed his hands on the controls. At his right hand, exactly where it fell naturally, was his joy stick. In his left was his throttleator, which controlled not only his engine's thrust, but also gave him push button control over many of the plane's control and display functions.

He circled, slowly gaining altitude as the rest of the Mad Dogs joined him. When the triangular formation of three triangles was formed, he accelerated southeast, and reported to the Senior Controller. "Mad Dog Ten to Senior Controller. Mad Dog Ten, leading three threes, Code Boxer, Code Doby, Code Mastiff. Altitude, angels 10; speed, 500; course, One-One-Oh true. Acknowledge."

"Roger Mad Dog Ten, I read you loud and clear, and I have you painted on my screen. Mad Dog Ten, increase to angels fifteen on present course. You will be moving into a standard holding pattern in zero-five minutes. Understand you brought the kennel with you DJ. Who's got what?"

"Bull is that you?"

"Roger, DJ. A top heavy evolution, don't you think?"

"Yeah, CAG's up. So are Pepe, Wrangler, and Connie. Everybody who's anybody is up here. Yeah, I'm Boxer, Betz is Doby, and Bleeper is Mastiff. The Talons are coming up soon. Skywalker's got Claw and Tiny has Hook. We figured on the junkyard dogs up here, and sharp pointy things covering our asses. Should make it easier all around."

"Affirmative. OK, you'll start into your standard left-hand turn in four minutes. Leprechaun Two is the one you see almost dead ahead of you. We're off your starboard side. Gunner and Ace are in the T-2s up there; Dinty and Kate are with us. CAG's way up doing TopCAP with the Knights. Once you're in position, I'll send the old chuck wagon around to visit with you. Oh, if you get the chance, ask Wrangler about Cow Boss."

"I will. By the way, who am I teamed with? Where's Pepe?"

"Pepe's Tequilas are flying RBT. He'll be with you. You should twitch him in any time now. He decided that, since they're a mixed formation, he'd mix his drinks. He's Strawberry, as in Marguerita. Banana is with Skywalker, and Pineapple is in the middle with Tiny. Well, gotta get back to work. Stay on button eight so I know how to get ahold of you."

David thought about Bull O'Connor for a few seconds. Downstairs it was hard to get the guy to say anything. One time, they were all out drinking with a big crowd and took bets on how many words Bull would say during the whole night. The winner went home with twenty-five bucks. Bull hadn't said a damned word! Yet, when he was up here, he was a Chatty Kathy, a blabber-mouth and Mr. Gossip all rolled into one.

"Boxer One to Senior Controller, we are moving into standard parking orbit. Boxer One on button eight, standing by."

* * * * *
5.1.3 Gambit

"Captain, take a look." Mr. Threat jabbed angrily at a mass of dots spread all over the radar image on the display. "We just got the feed from the Italians. Their transmitter is weak, so we're boosting it through one of the Hawkeyes."

Teegin looked, but he hadn't been following developments. He'd been launching sixty-four planes, and maneuvering his 'love-sick whale'. He'd had damn little time for anything else. "What is it, Jim?"

"Ships, boats, and every other kind of vessel known to man. The Italians said it started yesterday when the exclusion zone went into effect. Ships began filtering out of every harbor from Algiers to Benghazi. Some are big, like this cargo ship and this freighter. Others are small. This one is a dhow! You know? One of those Arab ships with the upside-down triangular sails? They're wood, so they put a big radar reflector on their masts so that other ships can see them and not run them down.

"The Italians say that these ships were trying to run the Straits before the exclusion time set in. Now, they're in deep water and have to keep steaming around. Every once in a while one of them seems to make a break for it. So, all the Arab fleets are out to maintain control.

"The Italians say that listening in on the Arab radios is great sport. One of the merchies will start a run towards the straits, and a gunboat or something will take after them, like a cowboy rounding up strays. They'll head them off and herd them back. But, over the radio they're hearing the gunboats being cursed, and orders like 'No, turn to your other right!' all the time.

"We've even got a few that have headed up into the Ionian Sea to escape the exclusion zone. This one's a small coastal freighter. This is one of those big oil tankers.

"Captain, we've got over a hundred ships lining the exclusion zone like spectators at a parade, and I don't like it."

"What's the problem, Jim?"

"First," Mr. Threat held up his index finger, "they're too damned close. When the exclusion was announced, the North African States protested the sovereignty of their territorial waters. So, the Italians backed down and accepted a 12-mile limit. These ships have just extended the Arab threat zone by twelve miles and cut our response time considerably.

"Second," he held up two fingers, "with all these ships milling about, the Arabs have managed to deploy their entire fleets along our flank legitimately, and there's not a thing we can do about it.

"Third," his three middle fingers splayed out, "they can use these civilian ships as excellent cover for their fleets. They can either use the oldest ploy in the world and drive the vessels towards us like they used to drive the cattle herds before their armies. Or, they could use them simply as a screen. It's almost impossible, even with our computers, to keep track of them with the low-res radars the Italians have on the islands.

"Now, look at that one, for instance." He pointed to a small blip that had rounded Pantelleria Island and was heading almost due north. "That son of a bitch is headed right at us at about four knots. That'll put him here, about ten miles south of us by the time we're there. If that's some kind of a Q-boat or something, we're in a world of hurt. We've got to drive it off or sink it, even if it's a defenseless civilian. We just can't take the chance."

"Shit, Jimmy, I'm not making that call. Let me get the admiral."

Five minutes later, Admiral Duncan was fully apprised. As he mulled over his conflicting orders and tried to decide whether sinking a civilian ship would start a war, the radio burst to life on the International Marine Frequency.

"Help us! Help us! Allah, help us! We are on fire! We are sinking! Help us! Please, in the name of Allah help us! We are on fire and sinking! Please answer us! ..."

The babbling continued for minute after minute. Obviously, whoever was using the radio had no idea that he pressed the mike button to talk and released it to listen. So, in his panic, he talked, and, hearing nothing in reply, just continued yammering.

"What the hell's going on?" Duncan demanded.

"Well, Sir," Johanson replied, "this ship that we were going to sink is trying to convince us that it’s out of control and afire at four knots into the wind. According to our best readouts, this is a small coastal vessel that really shouldn't be out here anyway. Although the IR from the Hawkeye says there is a fire on the deck, it's an unlikely scenario."

"You suspect a trap of some kind?"

"Yes, Sir! I think they're using it as a ploy to get their fleets even closer to us, preparatory to an attack."

"Couldn't it be for real?"

"No, Sir. If he's really in trouble, why's he doing four knots into the wind away from the land that he can see off his own port beam? Can't be right."

The radio, which had been spouting continuously for minutes, miraculously stopped. Another voice with an odd accent was already speaking, "...to your position in eighteen hours. Prepare your lifeboats, and use your radar reflectors. Repeating. This is the Kyoto Maru responding to your mayday. We are steaming to your area as fast as possible. We expect to arrive vicinity of Pantelleria Island in eighteen hours. Prepare your lifeboats and use your radar reflectors. Do you read us? Respond."

"Allah be praised! We hear you, ship. Hurry! Hurry! The blessings of Allah be upon you. But hurry, we will be sunk in eighteen hours, you must come faster! Pray to Allah. He will give you wings!" Once again the burning ship's radio wailed away in an interminable litany.

Johanson's computers searched for the ship's registry. "I have it, Captain, Admiral. Kyoto Maru. Three-hundred and fifty thousand tons, twelve hundred and eighty-eight feet length, one-oh-nine abeam. Speed, twenty knots. Could be it right here." He pointed to a ship north of Malta heading towards the Ionian Sea. "Fully loaded, it'd take her a long time to turn, and it'd take them about eighteen hours to get to Pantelleria. We'd estimate her course to come close to the southern coast of Sicily and cross our course on a long diagonal. We could speed up and pass in front of her, keep our present course and speed and be dangerously close, or head in-shore to go behind her."

"Could this be part of some elaborate trick, Jimmy? How does this fit into your scenario?"

"I don't know, Admiral. There's no way the Japanese would be in on this. It doesn't figure."

"Sir," Lieutenant (jg) Michael DuBlois blurted out, "if they're Japanese, then I'm Mexican!" In spite of DuBlois' French name, and California accent, his appearance was of a tall, rangy Oriental. "My Mom made me take Japanese lessons every day for my whole life until I joined the Navy. They are somebody else trying to sound like Japanese. You know how, it's like when you see a British film and there's this Brit trying to talk like an American, and it breaks you up to hear it? Well, this guy's really bad. But, if you don't have the ear for it, you'd never hear it."

Mr. Threat madly pounded the keys. "Yes!" he shouted in triumph, "Gulf of Hammamet! Libyan registry and sister ship to the Kyoto Maru! Mikey, you earned your pay this week. Admiral, this is a big fucking trap, and we're walking right into it!"

The alarm shrieked out all over the ship. A 'Talker' chanted, "Air raid warning from Leprechaun Four. Confirmed. Bearing 262 degrees, speed six hundred knots, course Oh-four-five. Designated as Sierra One.

"Air raid warning from Leprechauns One, Two and Three, confirmed. Bearing 195 degrees, speed seven hundred knots, course zero-three-zero. Designated as Sierra Two.

"Air raid warning from Leprechaun One, confirmed. Bearing 175 degrees, speed one thousand knots, course three-four-five. Designated as Sierra Three.

"Sierra Three may be splitting into two streams. Confirmed. Designating northern stream as Sierra Four. Bearing 150 degrees, speed six hundred knots, course three-three-zero."

Admiral Duncan stood rooted to the spot staring at the screen. The composite picture of all his sensors was being relayed to his command center. As the talker spoke, a label appeared next to each group of dots. Alongside of it was a set of numbers indicating the strength and composition of the attacking force.

Sierra One, coming from the southwest, contained approximately thirty fighters climbing rapidly through twenty-five thousand feet at Mach two with another sixteen fighter bombers at fifteen thousand flying at six hundred miles per hour.

The southerly group, Sierra Two, was slightly larger. Forty-two fighters, flying at over a thousand miles per hour, were accelerating through twenty thousand feet. Twelve others were flying at eight hundred miles per hour at ten thousand feet.

Sierra Three was very large. It contained three levels of fighters. One group of twenty-four fighters was at thirty-five thousand. A second group of eighteen was at twenty thousand and a third, at five thousand feet, containing twenty. There was also some indication of larger shadows beyond them, but that wasn't clear.

Sierra Four, the most easterly of the four raids, contained thirty-six fighters at thirty-five thousand. Thirty-six large reflections, that the computers said were bombers, were at twenty-thousand feet.

If the electronics were right there were two-hundred and forty fighters, close to thirty attack planes and another three dozen bombers headed toward his fleet.

The Talker hadn't finished. His chant of the dreadful litany droned on, "Surface action fleet confirmed by Leprechaun Four. One DD, one FiG and up to six patrol boats. Bearing 210, speed thirty knots, course zero five-zero. Designating Topaz One.

"Surface action fleet confirmed by Leprechaun Two. One DD and six gunboats. Bearing 181, speed thirty knots, course zero-two-five. Designating Topaz Two.

"Surface action fleet confirmed by Leprechaun One. Two DDs, two FiGs and eight gunboats. Bearing 150, speed thirty knots, course three-five-five. Designating Topaz Three."

As the talker spoke, little figures of ships appeared on the screen. Then, the designations and compositions appeared. The attack was just as Mr. Threat had predicted. Topaz One was coming out of the herd around the point of Cape Bon. Topaz Two was coming straight at them from the western lee of Pantelleria, while Topaz Three was sailing almost due north, crossing the American fleet's "T".

The Admiral shook off his amazement, "Execute, battle plan alpha. Execute! Weapons Free!"

The order spread to every plane and ship within seconds. The Sixth Fleet, America's guardian of the Mediterranean, was about to fight for its life.