Jihad
7.2 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?

7. Battle in the Streets

7.2 America

* * * * *

7.2.1 Centcom

"General!" The G-2, Colonel Frederick "Shorty" Kearns, burst into the room. "General, we got troubles!"

Algarro looked up at him through tired, bloodshot eyes. 'No shit,' he thought. "OK, Shorty, give it to me."

The colonel's angular six-foot six-inch frame bent over a console. The screen brightened with a picture of the entire Suez region. "The Libyans have crossed the Egyptian border at As-Sallum. They are advancing on Sidi Barrani. Estimated strength is ten plus divisions.

"Then, we got this in from the Air Force. It took them almost two days to get it to us:

Many ships from ports in Tunisia and Libya heading east. Three escorting warships. Estimate that shipping consists of twenty general cargo ships, ten container ships and numerous smaller vessels. Intent unknown. Destination unknown.

"Day late and a dollar short. Apparently, the Tunisians landed in the Tobruk area and marched east. The Egyptians are screaming bloody murder. They've got one infantry division in El-Alamein and an armored division heading out of Alexandria. They've got a third division in Giza, but everything else is still forming up.

"The Brits have already been on the horn with the President. They're pulling the British carriers out to defend Suez and are demanding our Marine Brigade. They've already embarked the Royal Marines, but it'll take them four or five days to get there. Now, get this. They want to try to stop the Libyans at El-Alamein. I'm just waiting for them to show up with some cocky son-of-a-bitch named Montgomery."

Algarro ran his fingers through his hair, distractedly. "Damn, damn, damn! Has anybody told the Saudis? No? OK, set up something real quick with Sayd a-Fayd. He's going to be really disappointed. We've all been counting on those Marines."

He sat back and stared at the display, considering this new development. "The Brits are right," he concluded, "We have to protect the Suez Canal, and, with the forces there, it may make sense. They'll have a big carrier to protect them, and the Ajax is a jump-jet carrier. They'll be interchangeable pieces with the Marine Harriers. With the force and mobility of the Marines, they can be anywhere along the coasts that the Egyptians need 'em to be.

He glanced back at Shorty. "What's happening in the cities?"

"Well, Sir, you had planned on a bloody campaign. Casualties are light to moderate. Enemy casualties are moderate to heavy, so we're winning on that ground. But, at the present rate of attrition, they have us. We've got to slow them down even more, or they'll be through us within the week."

Algarro stared at the desk top, almost mumbling to himself, "So, we've gained seven days? That could just be enough." He pulled out an old, tattered map of eastern Saudi Arabia. "Shorty, I've been working on something. It's one hell of a long way from Iraq to Al-Qatif. I estimate that it's over three hundred miles. If we can loose our carriers on their supply lines, send our Marines in from the sea, and tear into them with the One-Oh-One, we should be able to destroy their supply lines and keep their rear in chaos. It'll take another three days or so for the carriers to get in position. So here's what I want.

"I want the Air Force to push hard. I want them to target everything that moves and everything that doesn't. I want them to shoot down every damned Iranaqi plane they've got. I want sorties and damn the losses! The whole idea is to keep the Iranaqis off the carriers and the PhibRon until it's too late and their supply lines are in a shambles.

"Now, the effect of the supply situation should take two days to be noticed, three at the most. By the end of their third day, they should be out of everything, and there will be nothing to replace it. That's a week, and that's exactly what we need to bring this to a stalemate. If we once stop them, then time is on our side. We'll have real divisions in here in ten days to two weeks. What do you think?"

The Colonel stood for a long time staring at the maps. "Yes, General, it could work. As I see it, that's our only hope. When did you want to talk with the Saudi Chief of Staff?"

"ASAP, Shorty, just like always."

* * * * *

7.2.2 Strike Plans

Admiral Duncan angrily pounded the table. "Algarro's done what? What about the Albert Strong? I need that ship, desperately. And, it'd be a damned shame to lose Victory. If they need Ajax, fine, no problem, but Strong will continue on, or we turn back. Get that to CentCom."

A staffer raced away to deliver the admiral's message. Duncan turned to his J-2. "What other good news do you have for me today, Mr. Threat?"

Johanson calmly reviewed his notes. "Not much actually, Admiral. The Egyptians are cooperating, by laying down the big threat against anything that interferes with our passage through the canal. They haven't said as much, but if anything does get in our way, and we happened to sink it, there'll only be some kind of mild diplomatic protest.

"The Army's in deep shit, though. They've holed up in the cities and are taking one hell of a beating. Gator's idea is for us and the Kimmel to coordinate with the Screaming Eagles to pound Iranaqi supply lines. He's hoping that we'll be effective enough to sever them within a day or so. He says that he wants their supplies to be zero by three days from the time we get there.

"He's sent the Air Force on a killer mission. It doesn't matter what they do or how they do it, they are to shoot down the entire Iranaqi Air Force. Our flyers will keep them completely tied up so they can't chase us. At least that's the game plan. Somehow the Army always thinks that the Navy is invulnerable just because we're on the water and they're not.

"The best news is that the Twenty-Fourth is arriving in real numbers at Riyadh. It'll take a few days even at the pace they're going. But, Algarro should have a real division in there in just three to four days.

"This really dovetails with the rest of CentCom's plans. My guess is that Gator is trying to bleed them in the cities. If we can destroy their pipeline, then he'll hit them with the Twenty-Fourth and roll them up. That'll probably mean the Marines will have to go in at Tannurah or Jubayl to cap the bottle.

"Oh, one funny. The Air Force is complaining about our Hawkeyes. They say they're no good over land. Our guys have been trying to explain to them that the Navy operates on the water, and that over-water and over-land systems are tuned differently. They're convinced that our Hawkeyes are worthless, so I asked them to send them back!"

JT laughed, "That'd be the last thing Algarro will give up. Now what about Djibouti. I don't want any problems in those narrows."

"Both Carson and Neill are headed that way at flank speed. They should get there six or seven hours ahead of us. They are under orders to warn anything off. If it doesn't warn, you authorized them to use 'best judgment'. In either case, they sink or shoot down anything.

"Carson will hold on this side of the narrows and keep the western approached clear. Neill will head into the Gulf of Aden and block any approach from that side. So, we should meet up with the Seventh Fleet on schedule, late tomorrow. By the way, Sir, we'd better meet them on schedule. Both the FiGs will be running on fumes!"

"Yes, I know. It's a calculated risk running them at thirty knots, but we have to do it to get there on time.

"Next subject, what do we know about the Gulf of Oman and the Persian Gulf?"

"Captain Teegin's been studying that. He and CAG have developed the strike plans. Shall I get them in here."

"Do it."

* * * * *

7.2.3 DDG Neill

Commander Floyd Albertson knew that he was a naturally nervous guy. There wasn't a lot he could do about it. He jumped at loud noises. He was 'goosey', as the guys at the Academy had soon found out. "Boo!" worked on him.

The only way he'd ever found to combat his naturally nervous disposition was to prepare himself for every contingency. He figured that if he knew what was coming, it couldn't surprise him. So, he took it out on his crew. Of course, it wasn't that they weren't ready or able to meet contingencies. He wasn't, so they had to go through drills time and again until he felt he was ready. The fact that it was good training for them was important, too. But, he knew that he was the greatest danger to his ship.

The thing that scared him the most, though, was the "fog of war" that he had read about time and again. Nagumo had faced it. Spruance had faced it. Halsey had faced it. Hell, even Nelson had faced it. So, he had decided what he'd do. He'd take the best information available and do whatever first popped into his mind. He'd listen to further advice after the fact of his decision. He'd try to prepare for contingencies others pointed out, but he'd do what his years of training and experience dictated. Then, he'd go down with his ship!

"Kamaran on the port beam, Sir. Al-Hudayah on the port quarter. Straits of Mandeb dead ahead. At present speed and course, we'll pass through in three hours."

"Very good, Navigator, continue to keep me informed." Albertson looked to starboard. Carson was beginning to fall behind to take up station between Hanish and the Straits. He'd pass on, physically, not metaphorically, to the other side.

He read the signal lantern from Carson, "Good Luck, Bert. Call if you need anything." The signalman started to relay the message to him, "Belay, Signals. Respond, 'Good Luck to you, too. See you on the other side.' Sign it Charon." He had to spell it twice before the signalman got it right.

"Keep a close lookout, Deck Officer." He picked up his intercom. "CIC, anything?"

"Nothing, Sir. We have a small boat off our starboard quarter - probably wooden. One aircraft at oh-four-six, distance one-niner-niner, speed five-two-five - probably the regularly scheduled airliner from Bombay to Cairo. They had informed us that they were taking a more southerly route to avoid the war zone. Nothing on sonar, but at this speed we couldn't hear a whale surfacing right next to us never mind anything moving quietly. So, Sir, if you don't mind, we're on top of the situation ...

"Wait, Sir. Hold on a minute. The chopper's spotted something. Something's coming around the point from Djibouti. We just spotted it through the gates. It's pretty big, Sir. Hang in there."

Albertson couldn't. Was this to be his time in the barrel? Would he do a Nagumo? He rushed down to CIC and stood in front of the big display.

The radar officer pointed at a blip on his screen. "That's her, Captain. Moving at about six knots, from what we can see right now. She's headed for the narrows, that's for sure."

"Range?"

"Right on the edge. Maybe ninety or a hundred miles. Long way off."

Albertson quickly did his sums. Neill was just abeam of Hanish, about seventy miles from the narrowest point off Barim. At thirty knots, it'd take her roughly two and a half hours to get there. The intruder was roughly twenty nautical miles from the narrows. At six knots, it'd take her over three to get to the narrows. Of course, if she sped up...? But, she'd have to go at ten knots or so to get there before Neill.

"I think I'll just take it easy here in the quiet and air-conditioned comfort. Any coffee around here?"

Everybody knew that "The Old Man" was trying to be cool. Everyone also knew that he'd drink three sips and then start pacing. Then, he'd go up to the bridge and have a smoke. After that, he'd be back down in CIC wondering why his coffee was cold. It was always the same. It was comforting to know the CO that well, and to know that he had the situation under control.

Within ten minutes, Albertson was pacing, staring and muttering at the display. Ships moved at relatively slow speeds. Watching them on a big display was about the same as watching turtle races or cricket matches. After another ten minutes, he said, "Keep me informed, I'm going up stairs to bug the guys on the bridge."

Good, old Commander Albertson!

Bert stepped out on the starboard walkway and peered into the eye of the wind, coming off the starboard quarter. He pulled out a pack of "Sea Rations", as he called them, and lit up using an ancient Zippo lighter that had belonged to his father. He stood feeling the wind, listening to it play and whine through the masts, rigging and antennae. He felt the powerful thrust of his ship's engines plowing the bows though the water. He felt the slow rise and fall of the waves against the hull. He sucked the biting smoke deep into his lungs. He felt just great!

Five minutes later, Albertson was back in CIC. He reached for his coffee and incautiously gulped the steaming black brew. "Holy Shit! Who refilled my mug?" One young officer timidly raised his hand. "Thanks, son, but warn me next time. Remember, I'm not good at surprises."

This time, Albertson was different. He sat for over an hour before he started pacing. By that time, it was obvious that the large ship was moving at a steady eight knots. With every passing minute, she was becoming more of a threat.

The analysts had found her in Jane's computer registry. She was one of a series of seventy-thousand ton container ships built in Holland. Only three were still in service. One was an Indonesian flag, sailing in the Indian Ocean. Once was Liberian flagged, sailing in the South Atlantic. The third was Algerian, normally plying the route between the Persian Gulf and Tangiers. They checked and rechecked. Both the Indonesian and the Liberian ships were accounted for. Nobody knew the current location of the Algerian-registered ship. Commander Albertson figured he had a pretty good idea of its location.

"Barim on the starboard bow, Sir. We're about twenty-five nautical miles from Djibouti. The gulf opens up rapidly from here. We'll have plenty of room to maneuver."

"Where's the target?" he asked, surprising himself. Until then, nobody had called the lumbering merchie anything but "she". Then, his mouth had opened, and she had become a target, with all the complex meanings built into such a word within a ship at war.

"On course, Sir, straight at us. Distance, One-Five-Six-Double-Oh, ten degrees off the starboard bow, closing."

"Send the chopper over them. Send that god-awful message Centcom gave us on Marine Guard. Have the chopper shout at them with its speaker." Albertson watched the chopper close in on the lumbering merchie. He hoped against hope that she would turn off.

Instead, the R/O started talking, "You are inside of a declared war zone. If you proceed you will be attacked and sunk." "Negative, you are not a neutral. You are an Algerian flagged vessel, which is at war with the United States of America. Bear off, or we will attack you!" "Negative! You are a belligerent vessel in a war exclusion zone. If you proceed, we will fire upon you, and, if necessary, we will sink you. Wear away! Now!"

The communications officer turned to Albertson. "Captain, they seem determined to maintain their present course."

Albertson reached for his handset. "Bridge, Captain here. Battle stations. Set new course for that ship. Come right ten degrees. Prepare for surface action."

The klaxon blared three times before the voice on the intercom shouted, "Battle Stations! Battle Stations! All hands to battle stations!" The ship thrumbed with the pounding of running feet for over a minute. Then the noises gradually died away.

Albertson watched the procession of green lights appear all along the plan view and silhouette of his ship. The intercom at his side beeped, and he picked up the handset. His XO reported, "All hands at battle stations. All water-tight compartments sealed. Main battery ready. Missiles ready. ASW ready. ECM ready. Ship is at battle stations, Sir, awaiting orders." His ship had cleared for action in three minutes and six seconds. Not bad!

"Prepare torpedo tubes, Bridge. Prepare main battery for surface action starboard. I'll be right up." Two minutes later, Commander Albertson had "taken" both the conn and the bridge. "Range?" he queried.

"One-Oh-Five-Double-Oh."

"Well within range," he decided. "Main battery, I want a shot across their bow. Splash some water on their decks. One round. Fire!"

He waited as the five-inch gun trained and elevated. The barrel "tweaked" a little. An orange flame leapt out. A gray ring appeared as though a smoker had blown a smoke ring. The concussion of the great rifle's blast shivered the glass reverberating the air within the bridge.

Albertson had known that it was coming and had steeled himself for it. In spite of his preparations, his heart leapt into his throat. His pulse beat wildly as he gasped for breath.

The radio burst to life, "You are shooting at us! Why you are shooting at us? We are peaceful civilians pursuing trade upon the high seas."

"Have they changed course, Radar?"

"Negative, Sir. Steady as she goes."

"Main battery," he ordered, "One time. Fire into that vessel!"

"Sir?"

"Shoot the son of a bitch!" Four seconds later, the five-inch rifle fired, again catching Albertson completely by surprise. He almost spilled his coffee.

The shell struck the bow of the merchant ship. Seventy pounds of steel and high explosives curled the ship's deck away from its hull. Fire and smoke appeared on the deck, and crewmen ran forward to battle the blaze.

The radio screamed, "You have shot us! You Yankee swine, you have shot my ship!" The message whined on and on.

"Course?"

"As before, Sir. I don't know what game he's playing, but it looks pretty damned stupid."

Albertson thought for a moment. "No, it's smart in one way. He figures that we'll give up rather than sink him and incur the wrath of a watching world. He figures I'd rather not ruin my career by sinking him and making a big splash in the papers. The funny part is he may be right. I may get court martialed and drummed out of the Navy for this."

He reached for the intercom. "Torpedo Room, there's a ship, bearing zero-one-one, relative at a distance of nine-eight-nine-oh yards. You got him on your box?"

"Aye, Sir, we've got him. Is that the merchie we were shooting at?"

"Yes. Sink it."

"Sir? Confirm that order!"

"Sink that merchant ship that's ninety eight hundred yards off our starboard bow."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

The wait was interminable. Suddenly, a box swung out of the side of the superstructure. It rotated roughly thirty degrees, and a green shape, about twenty feet long and twenty-one inches in diameter, vaulted out of it like a sea lion jumping into the sea from a high perch.

"Time on the fish?"

"Seven minutes and thirty seconds, sir."

"Keep control of that fish. Do not, repeat, do not activate it until I order it. Confirm!"

"Aye, Aye, Sir. I'll keep her on target, but she's unarmed and will stay that way until you order it armed.

"Helm, come left ten degrees."

"Left ten degrees, Aye."

"Sparks," he ordered his R/O, "radio that tub. Warn them that we have fired a torpedo at them. Tell them that they have six minutes to abandon ship and to get far enough away from it so that they're not sucked under when she goes down."

The radio operator spoke slowly and carefully. This was not the time for one signalman to try to "burn" another.

The radio blared, "What is this you say? You shoot torpedo at us and then tell us to abandon ship! Mayday! Mayday! American warship has shot a torpedo at us in the Gulf of Aden. Mayday!"

Albertson turned the speaker down. "Inform them every minute on the minute." The babbling continued. "Course?"

"Unchanged, Sir. If this is a game of chicken, Sir, they're doing a real good job of it."

The signalman radioed once again, informing the Algerian that he had only five minutes to live.

"Course?"

"Unchanged."

"Any sign of activities? Any boats being lowered, anything?"

"No, Sir. They're just coming straight ahead at six knots."

"What the hell is the matter with them? That fish will blow them all to Paradise and back." What was this guy doing? Was he stupid? Was he playing chicken? Or, was he one of those bull-headed types who, when they thought they were right, charged straight ahead in spite of everything?

"Four minutes," the signalman called.

Jesus Christ! He hasn't sheered off one degree. Albertson lit a cigarette. He grabbed his coffee and tested it carefully. It was cold.

"Three minutes."

Still nothing. Neill was close enough for Albertson to clearly see the superstructure of the merchant ship. She was nearly hull up. He grabbed his binoculars and stared at the waterline. Black to the water, without a hint of red. She was loaded!

"Two minutes!"

Loaded with what? Why didn't she turn? What was going on?

"Captain, one minute coming up. If I'm going to arm the fish, I have to do it soon."

"Arm the torpedo. Repeat, arm the torpedo, and sink that crazy son of a bitch!"

"One minute!"

"New course. Left fifteen degrees. Make turns for twelve knots."

"Left fifteen degrees. Twelve knots." The communicator responded, indicating that engineering was slowing the boat as ordered.

"Now, Sir."

Albertson looked up just as the torp struck aft of the cargo ship's port bow. He saw the impact and the warhead's explosion. As he watched, the big ship shuddered. A red spark appeared in the foredeck.

Faster than his eye could follow, it blew towards the heavens. Red fire supported the explosion's base. The column above it faded into angry orange, as it disappeared into a cloud of gray that mushroomed towards the stratosphere.

The ship's superstructure sailed upward into the cloud. At first, the structure remained in one piece, cabin, bridge and all. As it rose, pieces took wing and flew away on their own. It reached its apogee at a thousand feet or five thousand feet, it was impossible to tell, but then it fell. As it plummeted downwards, pieces sheared from it, some sailing off like kites being flown by gigantic children.

Then, the sound struck Neill. The panes of bullet-proof, shatter-proof plastic encasing the bridge buckled inward, increasing the pressure within the sealed compartment. The over-pressure popped ears, and the sound, reverberating within the hard confines of the small enclosed space, echoed painfully. Everybody on the bridge grabbed their ears, howling in pain.

Only then did Albertson see the real danger. A wave grew into a seiche, which rapidly matured into a tsunami. A growing, dark terrifying wall of water hurtled towards them, threatening to engulf them all and send them down into the cold, dark depths.

"Right rudder, thirty-five degrees. Engine room, two-thirds speed. Sound the collision alarm!"

The klaxon whooped, and the talker warned, "Collision Alarm! Collision Alarm! Secure all water-tight hatches. Secure for collision."

Albertson leaned towards his young helmsman, encouraging him, "That's it, lad, head straight for it. If it gets on our beam, it'll roll us. If it comes up our stern, it'll swamp us. This is what bows are for. Hang on tight, now. Don't let it got away from you!"

He watched the wall approach, but it was impossible for him to say where it was. How far away is a cloud? It's impossible to guess, because a cloud can be of any size. How far away was the wave? Albertson couldn't tell. He just hoped that it was really close, because it was already taller than his ship!

The bow rose and then buried itself in a wall of blue-green. The sea crashed straight over them, hurling its mass at the bullet-proof, shatter-proof plastic windows. Nothing would withstand such a force. The panels shot straight back, stopping only when they'd struck and then bent the steel and Kevlar superstructure.

The wave washed over the decks, removing the five-inch turret from its mount and washing it over the side. It crushed the bridge, then bent, mutilated and discarded the electronic wizardry of the Aegis as well as everything else topside.

The wave washed aft, buckling the chopper hangar. The crushed chopper ignited. The fires were instantly quenched, as the wave washed the aircraft still within its hangar off the stern.

The wave washed over the stern. In its enormity, it engulfed the entire ship and held it in within its wet, deadly grasp. It had buried the warship and would possess it within its depths.

However, the doughty little ship had been built by the guile of Man. The wave had not crumpled her hull, nor destroyed her integrity. The sea could not enter the depths of the ship, nor pass her water-tight seals.

The ship shook herself. Her engines moved her ahead penetrating the danger into the calmer waters beyond. Slowly, the damaged, but still proud vessel returned to its natural position upon the waves, rather than beneath them.

Thirty-two, including USS Neill's navigating officer, were killed. Sixty-six, including her captain, were injured. The once proud warship was one no more.

* * * * *

7.2.4 Horrors from Aden

"Admiral," Ed Teegin called on the intercom, "we've just lost contact with Neill. Taylor says they saw a flash of light and a big mushroom cloud through the straits. He's dispatched Carson's chopper.

"The Hawkeye says Neill's still there, but its image looks funny. They say that she was warning off a big merchant ship and even fired on it with no effect. Albertson launched a torpedo at it. The secondary explosion was so big that the merchie disappeared, and the wave it set off almost capsized the Neill.

"We should know more in five to ten minutes. Carson's chopper has a TV hookup, so we'll be able to see it live. I've ordered two Hornets to her position, leaving our CAP a little thin. We could launch within five minutes, but it'd be tight. I'm also launching two of our choppers. It might be easier for Kimmel to provide air cover for the next hour or so, until we get beyond the narrows."

"Hell!" Duncan sputtered. "Do we have any better details? Casualties? And, what could have caused such a huge explosion."

"Not many, Sir. No word on casualties, but there has to be some. As for the explosion itself, my guess is fertilizer."

"Fertilizer?" Duncan asked, and then answered his own question, "Oh, yes. Ammonium nitrate. Perfectly innocuous, even under inspection. What do you figure, an over-grown car-bomb and a fanatic crew?"

"Looks that way, Admiral. If they'd been alongside us when they blew it, Halsey would have turned turtle. In this bath tub, the waves sloshing back and forth would have sunk or damaged the rest of the fleet. Oh, wait, something's coming in. I'll relay it to your stateroom."

"No, in Ops. I'll be there in two minutes. Have Johanson join me there, and you tie in from the bridge."

The pictures relayed were sickening. Unlike the FiGs, the Burke-class DDGs had a classic beauty. Their rakish bows swept to a flat foredeck, crowned by a sleek, stepped bridge, made of steel and Kevlar. The aft contained the second stack, the helicopter hangar, the larger of the two vertical launch missile bays and the helipad, all smooth, rounded and business-like.

The ship on their screens bore little resemblance to the Neill they knew. The forward mount was gone. The forward superstructure was bent and broken, with no sign of a bridge or its antennae. The after section was flattened, and the helicopter hangar was gone. USS Neill was out of action.

As they watched, several crew members rushed towards Neill's helipad to directed Carson's chopper into a landing. Minutes later, the word was relayed back through the Hawkeye. Casualties! Lots of them and many dead. Commander Albertson was alive, but both his arms and many of his ribs were broken. The XO, who had been in CIC had been electrocuted when the sea flooded their compartment. The only senior officer who was unhurt was the engineer officer who had been below decks in the engineering spaces. At the same time, the ship was seaworthy. All four gas turbines were functioning perfectly and the hull was sound.

Duncan called Teegin on the squawk box, "Captain, launch our choppers and set up a full rescue effort. Get their injured over here fast, and look for survivors washed overboard. Keep me informed."

Five minutes later, Duncan was talking with Rear Admiral Ellingstone aboard LPHN Hornet via the VisiPhone. "Elly, how are you?"

"Fine, JT, what's new with you?" Duncan told him. "Jesus, JT! What's the casualty figures?"

"Don't know yet, but it's bad, and Neill is out of action. She's still got power, so I'm sending her back to Naples. By now, that harbor should look like a junkyard.

"Elly, I'm going to have to pull some of your escorts. You'll be sailing with the Brits, and they've got plenty of escorts. So, send Albert Strong on ahead with DDG Dobson as escort. We're going to need every missile and bomb Strong's got, and the FiGs are almost dry. Strong's one hell of a target, so tell Gene Sylvester it'll be up to Dobson to keep the hounds off her. Besides, I need at least one ship in my fleet with some AAMs."

"Gotcha, JT. I had already figured that you'd need Strong and was going to suggest some kind of escort, especially since Bunker Hill got it. They'll be on their way within an hour. Oh, and JT, please take care of these, I don't have any more spares."