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

5.7 America

5.7.1 Submarines

Commander Conrad "Connie" Fink found it first. He'd been flying for nine hours, returning to the ship twice to refuel and to pick up new loads of sonobuoys. He was due to be relieved by another Viking when his radio operator shouted, "Sir, we've just lost contact with the Jones. She just went off the air. I'm picking up all sorts of chatter, Sir. I think she's been sunk!"

"Sunk? Check that out before spreading any rumors, Mister," Connie ordered. His thoughts naturally returned to the events of ... when was it? Yesterday? Mac! Pretty, bouncy, tough-as-nails Muriel MacDonald. Boy! Oh, boy, had she set into that poor guinea! And, wasn't that Italian smooth with that "Bellisima" stuff?

"Sir, it's confirmed. Jones went down. Damned few survivors, Sir."

"Connie," the voice of his ASW chief hailed him, "I've got something on six-six. It's fading, Sir, but coming up on six-five. Moving at about ten knots."

Connie yelled to his R/O, "Sparks, send the contact data to the Screen Commander's box. Set up a sonobuoy run." His voice sounded strident even to his own ears. He took a deep breath. Then, in a calm and even voice, he spoke to everyone aboard Finkster One, "Alrighty, everybody, let's settle down and do this by the numbers. We've been through this a thousand times. This is just one more drill." He glanced over at his co-pilot. "Arm number one torpedo. We just might have a use for it." His thoughts turned to Muriel. 'Yup,' he thought, "and I know just where!"

The Viking's instructions for course, speed and drop timing came in from Charley Taylor aboard Carson. The Viking lined up carefully, dropping to two hundred feet and slowing to one hundred and fifty knots. The ASW aircraft ejected eight sonobuoys at precise, one-mile intervals along a carefully calculated line across the last known course of the submarine contact. As the sonobuoys entered the water, they deployed their antennae upwards and lowered their sonar detectors, actually very sensitive microphones, down into the depths.

Two minutes later, the ASW chief called again. "Sir, we have a submarine passing between seventy-two and seventy-three. I detect three screws, Sir. Tentative ID is a Foxtrot, Sir."

Connie keyed his radio to Carson. "Detecting a Foxtrot-class submarine passing between buoys seventy-two and seventy-three. Do you concur, Charley?"

Taylor's answer came back immediately. "Confirmed, Connie. Foxtrot-class between buoys seventy-two and seventy-three. Can you prosecute? The helicopters are not in position to prosecute at this time."

"Can do, Charley. Finkster One, prosecuting Foxtrot-class submarine at this time." He swung the big plane around in a lazy circle, heading for the center line between the two buoys.

"Yankee Search," he ordered. The two sonobuoys pulsed and waited for an echo to return off the sub's hull.

"Submarine contact! Course, three-three-one. Depth, three-four-zero. Speed, ten knots. Torpedo ready for drop."

The Viking swooped. Its bomb bay opened, and a single Mark 62 parachuted, nose first, into the sea. Upon contact with the water, a buoy separated from the package. An aerial deployed, and the torpedo headed on its course trailing a long leash of fine optical cable back to the buoy.

The Torpedo Officer, watching the read-outs carefully, ordered another Yankee Search by the buoys. The pings read out perfectly on his fish's sonar detector. He kicked the torpedo into high gear, steering it like a kid would fly a model plane with a dual-stick remote control.

The Mark 62 accelerated to fifty knots, pinging rapidly. The sub tried to run, but even at top speed, the Foxtrot could only move at sixteen knots. Forty-eight seconds later, the sea erupted in a column of dirty, oily water. The sonobuoys recorded the scream of collapsing metal being crushed by the inexorable forces of the sea.

Connie almost smiled.

"Possible submarine contact, Sir. The Enrico Ghiarggio reports a MAD contact. They hadn't detected anything until the magnetic anomaly detector twitched. Both the Italian boats are after it. Finkster Six is with them."

"Thanks, Sparks, keep me informed. Call Finkster Two to take over our patrol. We're out of everything, so let's get out of everybody's way."

Five minutes later, Connie had fed Finkster Two with all the updates on all the buoys. He turned his plane towards Halsey to rearm and refuel. His approach was SOP, right up to the point when he called in. "Finkster One to Halsey. We're entering the pattern. Request landing instructions. Over."

"Finkster One, negative. Assume course three-four-niner, and rendezvous with the Herd. Contact Leprechaun Three on button niner for instructions. Halsey out."

"Out? What do you mean out," Connie yelled at nobody in particular.

A few seconds later, after he'd calmed down, he thumbed button number nine. "Finkster One to Leprechaun Three, requesting instructions, over."

"Finkster One, Leprechaun Three, assume course, three-four-oh, angels one-two. Rendezvous with Milk Maid on Button Ten. Acknowledge."

"Leprechaun Three, Finkster One, acknowledged, but what the hell is going on?"

"Finkster, Three here. Halsey's been hit. Aft's been damaged, lots of casualties. Emergencies are going to Sicily. Halsey will resume limited air ops in two-zero minutes plus or minus. Hopefully, we'll be back on some kind of schedule in a couple of hours. Right now, we're rotating the Moo-Cows through Sicily. So, unless you're declaring an emergency, you'll get to fly around with all us good guys, and swap stories. We've reserved one channel for gossip. Switch to alternate dash three, button five. By the way, Connie, good prosecution. That'll pay 'em back a little for Mac! Leprechaun Three, out."

Connie was stunned. Jones sunk. Halsey out of action for who knows how long? 'What the hell did I miss while I was out front playing underwater tag?'

Sparks switched to the third alternate frequency range, and punched up button five. He played it over the aircraft intercom. It was bad -- real bad.

Bunker Hill had been hit amidships. Her whole bridge, command and combat centers had been destroyed. She'd suffered hundreds of casualties and lots of dead, including Captain Yuhovitch and Commander Halbertson. Garibaldi had been hit and had suffered light casualties. She was towing Bunker Hill northwest, probably to Naples.

Jones had been blown to pieces. Twelve of her crew, including one ensign who had been blown overboard, had been pulled out of the water. Two or three wouldn't make it. Her only other survivors were her chopper crew, who were now helping to prosecute that other sub.

Halsey's aft was a mess. She'd lost the aft starboard elevator, CIWS, ASW and AA. She had maybe twenty-five or thirty dead and two to three hundred other casualties. They'd lost only two planes, one Avenger going after Topaz One and a Hornet over Topaz Two.

Yet, in spite of the losses in ships, planes and friends, this looked like one of those things history would call a victory. They'd sunk three surface action fleets, shot down over a hundred planes, and sunk at least one sub.

'Victory!' Connie thought, but the sound was hollow, and the taste was acid.

It was the hardest thing Jim Duncan had ever done. No, it was the second hardest. The hardest was when he had to tell a young woman with three children that she was a widow. Her twenty-six year old husband had died in one of those senseless accidents that can befall a sailor at any time. The look of pain, the cries of grief, and the searching eyes of the children haunted him still. So today, presiding over the Naval funeral of some two hundred and seventy-two officers and crew from four ships and three planes from two countries was only the second hardest.

Halsey's midships were packed with ordered ranks of officers and crews from each of the ships and services that had been involved in the marathon battle. To his right, and nearest to the carrier's tower stood Halsey's CO and crew. Behind them were the ranks of the carrier's pilots, mechanics, armorers and others belonging to the ship's air wing. Next to them were the representatives of each of the American escort vessels, with the six ambulatory survivors of the Hiram Jones in the center. To his left were the officers and crews from the three Italian escorts and a large contingent from the Italian Air Force.

Before them all, between the ordered ranks and the bridge, were three rows of litters. In each row, there were eleven with the five to either side draped with an American flag. In the center were the litters of the fallen Italians, similarly draped with their own flag. Four guardians of the dead stood by each of these forlorn biers.

The services for Protestant, Catholic, Jewish and Islamic members of the crew had been performed, and now there were only two essentials left to perform. As commanding officer of the fleet, it was his responsibility to say a few words.

But, what to say? He'd tried to write something, but his grief blocked the words. And then, he had no more time. He stood on Halsey's wing overlooking the slowly swaying mass of sailors below him. He plunged ahead, unsure of his task or goal for the first time in days.

"Officers and crews of the Sixth Fleet and of our brave allies of the Italian Navy and Air Force, we are gathered together here to mourn the loss of our friends and our shipmates.

"Although I did not know all of those fine officers and crews that died or were mortally wounded in yesterday's battle, some of them were close, personal friends.

"I shall miss my dear friend, Captain Grig Yuhovitch. I knew Grig for over thirty years and had served with him often on many ships, many oceans and many ports of call. Grig was always there for me, and was a man whose judgment was solid, and in whom I could trust. Suddenly, he is gone from my life. I shall never again be able to pull him aside for a quick joke, or a short beer. We shall never again gather with our wives and children to barbecue, sit around, laugh and share good times. My friend is dead, and I shall miss him greatly.

"Many of you feel the same way. You have lost friends as I have. We have all lost shipmates. And, we have all lost countrymen and women. We should grieve together and mourn our loss.

"At the same time, I'm sure many of you are asking why. Why should these friends of ours, who were enjoying life so fully, have to die? I know what you're asking, because I'm asking it, too. And, I can give you only one answer.

"Two days ago, Lieutenant Commander Muriel MacDonald of the Hiram Jones said it far better than I could ever have done. When asked, she said that she would gladly give up her life in the defense of her country and this fleet. I know that she did not mean to prophesy her own death, nor that of any of her crew. It just happened. Yet, as she spoke those words, so proudly and so defiantly, each of us who heard her, stood just a little taller trying to measure up to her high standards.

"Grig, Mac and many others died yesterday defending their country and this fleet. Some of those who died were not Americans, but were our brave friends and allies from Italy. As we mourn for our own, so we mourn for them. For on this sea, all of us became as one - unified in our love of freedom and determined to carry truth and justice to the furthest, darkest corners of this world.

And, when they ask us why we have sacrificed so much, we will tell them that each of us would give our very lives to protect the rights and liberties of ourselves and all the other free peoples of this world!"

He stepped back from the microphone. Halsey's Chief Petty Officer's bellow could be heard the full length of the crowded flight deck, "Right Hand! Salute!" Three thousands arms bent, including that of the Vice Admiral, and three thousand hands touched three thousand brims. The Marine rifle squad fired their rifles into the sky three times. Muted trumpets played Taps. Bagpipes mournfully wailed Amazing Grace. The Chief thundered, "Two!", and three thousand arms fell to three thousand sides with a muffled slap.

As the last notes diminished into the distance, each of the ships left in the fleet answered. The Hiram Jones, Garibaldi and Bunker Hill were all missing. The remaining two destroyers and four frigates fired their main batteries three times in a final salute to their fallen comrades.

Then, the skies were filled with aircraft as the air wings said their last good-byes. The first four planes were Hornets, led by DJ Duncan, Betz Chapiro and Tiny Small. The fourth flyer in the "Missing Man" formation was Ensign Sunny Liu, who had been Lt. Peter "Greeny" Green's regular wingman and lover since they'd come aboard. Greeny had died leading the second wave against Topaz Two. The Tunisian DD had hit him with a fluke shot from its ancient five-inch guns. Until this point, everyone in VHF-8 had ignored their closeness. But now, it was vital for them all to say good-bye in a manner befitting a fallen hero.

Following the Hornets came the Avengers with Pepe Gonzalez in the lead. One of his Avengers had been destroyed attacking Topaz One. Only one body had been recovered, and the Tequilas were still in shock at their loss.

Finally came the Italian contingent flying five Typhoons. As they approached the fleet, the second plane from the right lifted its nose, and disappeared into the heavens. The Italians had lost two of their pilots in the furball with Sierra Three. They'd saved nine Americans, while sacrificing two of their own.

The drums rolled. At the Chief's command, all saluted. The honor bearers stooped, and the thirty-three litters were taken up for their final journey with the fleet. Slowly, at half-step, the guardians carried their friends, companions, shipmates and allies to the awaiting helicopters gathered near the fantail. Only when the last of the fallen had been safely bundled within the fuselage did the Chief relent, and order "At Ease!" Five minutes later, the six choppers lifted off, heading out of sight towards Sicily.

"Attention! Dismissed!"