Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

  “Show of support?”

  Hands shoot into the air like a flock of startled birds taking flight. A sprinkling of “Hell yes’s” and “Let’s DO it, and “Son-of-a-BITCHs”

  JJ grins and glances over to CW. “You bring enough?”

  The major points to a large Pelican case on the deck beside him. “I never made Eagle Scout, sir, but I am always prepared.”

  He snaps open the case, rummages around and pulls out a blue baseball cap.

  JJ says, “Gentlemen, when we dock in Boston six days from now, you can tell your loved ones how you earned your right to own these glorious souvenirs for a job well done—if you please, major?”

  CW snugs it on his head. Embroidered in gold on the peak:

  USS NEW HAMPSHIRE BB-70

  FAREWELL CRUISE

  Murmurs of appreciation.

  “That’s just the start, guys. Here’s the rest of your “camo” gear.”

  He digs deep inside the case again, hoists a folded object, and then SNAPS it open to reveal the ultramarine blue Hawaiian shirt, complete with swooping palm trees, bright red Hibiscus blossoms, and famous WW2-era battleships sailing into battle.

  A sprinkling of “oohs” and “ahhs” a few “son-of-a-bitches” and a lot of “cools!”

  “Full mission briefing at oh-nine-hundred hours, gentlemen. See you then.”

  Cartel drug boss Hector Garcia feeds his tropical fish as he listens to an enthusiastic Iván Zambadas deliver the remarkable news that one of his up-and-coming lieutenants has managed to grab the United States of America by the short hairs and is not letting go.

  His Number Two finishes the exciting tale of Vargas’ security team not only foiling the DEA’s preemptive raid on his drug shipment but also snatching hostages.

  Garcia smiles, but then frowns as he spots a motionless African Butterfly fish drifting along the bottom of an immense, thousand-gallon fish tank. The plant and tropical fish-filled aquarium fills the entire south wall of the vast living room in his casa di invierno (winter house).

  And what a house it is.

  Once upon another time, during the tourism boom of the 1990s, this nine-hundred-acre beachfront paradise was an exclusive resort hideaway for the rich and famous. Now it’s become the drug lord’s primary residence between November and March.

  Situated near Puerto Aventuros on the Yucatán coastline, a few short miles south of Cozumel, it’s here that Garcia oversees the operations of his growing empire and delights in the never-ending antics of his feuding subordinates Iván Zambadas and Miguel Vargas, each desperate to climb the ladder of power but both clever enough to hide their ambition of doing so from the other—or so they think.

  But nothing happens in Garcia’s world that he isn’t aware of. It’s how he got to where he is, and how it will eventually get him to where he wants to be: the very top of the heroin pyramid.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “I never know what to expect from that young man. So clever.”

  This upsets Iván no end, and Garcia knows it. Vargas, it seems, can do no wrong. Toss the man inside a room filled with horse shit and he’ll start looking for the pony—and most likely find it.

  Garcia scoops up the dead African Butterfly with a net, examines it carefully, then shakes his head. “Look at its fins—or what’s left of them. His friends decided he no longer belonged.”

  He calmly regards the various schools of tropical fish swimming lazily past the scene of the crime, their pitiless eyes looking for food not friendship.

  “I paid good money for that thing.”

  He unceremoniously dumps the dead fish back into the tank. Within seconds, a small school of bright red Cherry Barb swarm the carcass and tear at its lifeless flesh.

  “Tell me, do you think Miguel can do it? Get his brother back?”

  Iván shakes his head. “If you asked me that question any other time I would say ‘absolutely not’. But because of Agent Jensen, he—”

  “The vice president’s son.”

  “Si. Miguel says the gringos need twenty-four hours to develop what they’re calling an “exchange offer.”

  “They lie, of course. Los gringos always lie. What did Miguel do? Did he agree?”

  “Yes, but only after he killed another hostage.”

  “Good for him. One of theirs or ours?”

  “Theirs.”

  “Muy bueno.”

  It takes Commander Goldstein and her team less than a half-hour to get mission surveillance up and running in the officers’ wardroom, two decks below, and aft of the Rock’s navigation bridge.

  To do so, five of her team members heft gear onto the tables, flick open lids, fold out keyboards, plug in display screens and scramble back and forth, running cabling and connectors to link with a temporary antenna system currently being rigged on the Rock’s forward Main Battery Director, specifically the center section of its non-functioning Mark-13 fire control radar antenna.

  Almost eighty years ago, the Rock’s state-of-the-art radar system detected suicidal kamikaze planes during the Battle of Tokyo Bay, and relayed target data to the secondary battery director. In turn, the battleship delivered a raging fusillade of 20mm, 40mm, and 5-inch anti-aircraft fire that thwarted Japan’s last gasp effort to change the course of history.

  Today, the pyramid-shaped, grey-painted Main Battery Director pylon containing non-functioning, obsolete radar is like a tombstone commemorating that historic day.

  It’s also here, under the strict supervision of Air Force Sergeant Wright, two hard-working team members finish securing a tripod-shaped antenna with rod-shaped “fingers” that will seek out high-flying geostationary satellites and also transmit control data to their aerial surveillance drones, once launched.

  But before they get up close and personal with the drones, Major Williston and his team need “broad brush” data from Air Force and CIA covert satellites orbiting the earth.

  The Air Force’s DarkStar’s a “keyhole satellite” capable of ultra-high-resolution imagery for direct overhead observation. This fifteen-ton orbiting monster can tell if you rinse your hair to hide the grey, or if it’s the real deal. Some say—off the record of course—it can even spot whether or not you have dandruff.

  The CIA’s DeltaCon is a smaller, geo-synchronous satellite specializing in real time imagery, shared with the armed forces on an as-needed-but-only-if-we-can-spare-it basis. Not the same crystal-clear picture resolution as DarkStar but good enough for tactical decision making.

  As for Goldstein’s drones, another five team members have hustled aft to the landing pad, where they’re setting up a launching rig for a whole different breed of UAVs.

  Cramped for space on board the Osprey, Commander Goldstein brought along two “nests” of YellowJackets: twenty, six-inch-long, Nano-UAVs packed tight inside two much larger “Queenie” drones that will transport them to the target and then release the “swarms.”

  For initial launch, the nano-UAVs inside the “Queenies” are in standby mode. When the “mother ships” arrive at the designated target, Cancún’s hallowed Catedral del Espíritu Santo. they’ll release the micro-drone swarm to surveil the area, using a wide array of miniaturized sensors, including color day cameras and fused thermal imagery.

  Almost impossible to detect, the main blades of the tiny “Pocket UAVs” are almost silent while operating. Even in a quiet environment you can barely hear their soft, sibilant “hiss” as they pass overhead, transmitting encrypted video to their “Queenies,” orbiting at a much higher altitude, ready, in turn, to relay data back to Goldstein’s team on Rock, as well as secondary feeds to Major Williston’s team as required.

  No GPS available? Or signal’s intermittent?

  Hold my beer.

  These nano-drones can do the job even in a GPS-denied climate—situations when the swarm can’t connect with “Queenie.” But even without satellite guidance, these little suckers can still find their way by using something called TPS (Theater Positioning Sys
tem).

  According to the geniuses who created it:

  “TPS is an integrated radio navigation system that adopts a state-space model represented by stochastic differential equations (SDEs) used to predict propagation disturbances.”

  Got all that?

  Which means in plain English, if the nanos lose their Queen’s GPS signal for whatever reason, TPS instantly takes over and duplicates “positional accuracy down to 36-inches.”

  How?

  Beyond stating that the Queenie “generates a 90-110 kHz ground-wave radio frequency (RF) location signals” the geniuses who created these tiny marvels are understandably tight-lipped for national security reasons.

  Bottom line: it works.

  Can they fly indoor as well as out? You bet. And a good thing, too, because Major Williston’s team will be heading for il Centro, the center of downtown Cancún. Final destination: the catacomb-like tunnel system burrowed deep beneath Catedral del Espíritu Santo’s sacred walls.

  Whether or not you believe Maya history (and you should) those tunnel walls were once smeared with the blood of persecuted indigenous Maya who refused to bow down to the Spanish conquistadors. But to keep a modern-day bloodbath from happening to the hostages, CW and his team have to get there first.

  Because Cancún’s shallow waters don’t permit deep-water anchorage for cruise ships, the Battleship Boys’ mission will begin forty miles southwest of the city, at the Punta Langosta pier on the island of Cozumel.

  Over the years, this small island just off the coastline of the Yucatan Peninsula has become a gigantic parking lot for cruise ships. Other vessels tie up here too, of course, but most notably—for the Mexican economy—Cozumel’s the desired port of call for the snow-white, whale-sized, high-capacity, horizontal hotels to drop anchor and empty their staterooms of tens of thousands of bored passengers who want to see what Mexico’s got to offer that they can’t find in Akron, Ohio, or Biloxi, Mississippi.

  And there’s plenty to see in this largely undeveloped, thirty-mile-long island:

  Scuba diving in the underwater caverns of Chankanaab; home to manatees, dolphins, and sea turtles.

  Jeep tours of Punta Sur Ecological Park and glass-bottom boat rides.

  Maya bee sanctuary (LOTS of bees).

  And last but not least, Playa del Cielo (crystal clear water, sandy bottoms and beautiful starfish).

  Or....

  If you’re more in the mood for people and nightlife, you can catch a high-speed ferry and zip north to Cancún for the day—and night—depending on which floating hotel you’re staying on, back in Cozumel.

  Or...

  If you’re going to be arriving tomorrow morning in a much-publicized, WW2-era, Montana-class battleship, bristling with 16-inch guns and packed with 250+ guys wearing identical Hawaiian shirts, then you’ll be sure to head down the boarding ramp and mill around in a raucous group with your buddies, while waiting to head out on your “mission.”

  But all of that’s tomorrow.

  Right now, it’s 0330 hours and we’re still at sea.

  The excitement of the Ospreys arrival has passed. Things have settled down. Guys climbed back in their cushy racks to catch an extra forty winks before a leisurely breakfast and mid-morning arrival at Cozumel.

  Not a soul to be seen in the Rock’s enlisted mess, except one of CW’s Delta Force team: USMC Lance Corporal Carla Russell, sitting alone at a table. Like others might read their Holy Bible before starting the day, Carla leafs through a well-thumbed copy of USMC Training Manual No. 21-18, while the rest of her team catches cat naps after their flight out to the Rock.

  Unlike her fellow team members, Carla’s still wide awake, despite the ungodly hour.

  She holds her pinkie finger slightly aloft as she sips her hot chocolate. Not just any hot chocolate, mind you. It’s made from her private stash of Warme Chocolademelk ingredients that she always takes with her on tactical missions.

  You might think that instant hot chocolate isn’t much to brag about, and you’d be right. But that’s because you’ve never tasted Carla’s homemade version.

  Being of Dutch descent and taught by her maternal grandmother certain secrets she will never reveal, Carla knows what it takes to create a silky smooth, not-too-sweet-not-too-bitter-just-right beverage that warms not only your body on a chilly morning, but your soul too, no matter where you are or what the temperature might be—which at the moment is a little above 70 degrees here in the enlisted mess of a battleship sailing in the Gulf of Mexico, the last place she expected to be twenty-four hours earlier.

  Her last mission was on land, slogging through the endless socio/political quagmire of Afghanistan. She barely had time to unpack before getting the “call” from SOCOM to report ASAP for Major Williston’s Delta Force mission.

  Exactly how Carla’s particular skills can be of service remains a mystery to her at the moment. So far, based on CW’s ops plan, she’s in “standby status.” In other words, “All dressed up with no place to go.”

  Which suits her just fine, to be honest.

  Her recent tour in Afghanistan still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. The missed targets, the bad intel, not knowing who’s friend and who’s foe. So frustrating! Hot chocolate helps some, but time spent away from that dry and dusty, zero-sum shithole will prove to be a far better healer.

  Reading her technical manual is a source of daily inspiration. When not in her small galley kitchen back home in Washington, D.C., happily humming away while whipping up a batch of Warme Chocolademelk Corporal Russell can, upon command, “deliver long range, precision rifle fire at selected targets from a concealed position.”

  That’s because this tall, big-boned, well-proportioned woman with a brilliant, toothy smile like a three-way lightbulb is a range-qualified, battle tested, Marine Corps Scout Sniper.

  Her weapon of choice is a Barrett MK22 Advanced Sniper Rifle. Its belted, bottle-necked .300 Winchester Magnum rounds pack a punch that can knock down a bad guy for good at 1500 meters—almost the length of two football fields.

  Think about that.

  But first, you’ve got to see the bad guy. Carla’s 20/10 eagle-sharp vision, coupled with her Nightforce ATACR 5-25x56 F1 scope, make it look easy. Taxpayers like you and me pick up the scope’s $3000 price tag, of course. But that’s the cost Americans are willing to pay to maintain a democracy in the face of assholes who would have it be otherwise.

  At the moment, Carla’s rifle (nicknamed “Joey”) is safely locked up in her quarters, snug inside “his” padded nylon carry bag, stock folded back just so, and silencer removed.

  Yes, her rifle has a name, and yes, it’s a little nuts that it does. But Marine snipers by and large live on sanity’s fringe, so they can be guardian angels for their fellow Marines in the field when it matters.

  Most of the time, the “angels” arrive on station well in advance of everybody else to perform long range, endlessly patient reconnaissance, look for baseline anomalies, and “paint a picture” for units before they deploy into the battle zone.

  By doing so, they take away some of the fog of war. But most of all, when called upon and given target-clearance, they’ll take out whoever needs taken out, so that the good guys not only win, but after all the shit has stopped hitting the fan, they can return safely home to their friends and families.

  “This seat taken?” Gunnery Sergeant Nuell says.

  Carla closes her manual, keeps the place with her finger, and smiles brightly. “Can’t you see it’s reserved?”

  His eyebrows rise.

  “For you, Gunny. Take a load off.”

  He cradles his mug of hot coffee as he sits down, takes a sip, and smacks his lips. “Say what you will about the squids, they make damn good joe no matter what hour of the day.”

  Carla sips her hot chocolate. “Coffee keeps me up. My hot chocolate doesn’t.”

  “Then why are you here and not in the rack sleeping?”

  “Why are you?”


  Nuell ignores her question and taps her sniper manual. “Never quit do you, corporal?”

  “Forgot to bring my knitting when I got the call, so.... I figured I may as well brush up on my chosen profession, since all I’m supposed to do while you guys head out and have all the fun is park my majestic ass on this gigantic boat and twiddle my manicured thumbs.”

  “You never know when the call may come.”

  “This time I do. You guys need a sniper like I need a... a....” Her blush stops her.

  “The medical term is ‘penis.’ That the word you were looking for?”

  “With all due respect, Gunnery Sergeant Nuell, watch your dirty mouth.”

  “You gonna’ report me?”

  She takes a deep breath, and in doing so, her upper torso strains her Valkyrie-sized bosoms against her uniform shirt. “I’ll do worse than that, and you know it.”

  Nuell grins. “You’re the best of the best, Corporal Russell. That’s why CW picked you.”

  “Cut the bullshit. What’s the real reason?”

  He ponders for a moment, but then shrugs. “Search me. I’ve known the guy for almost ten years and not a clue what makes him tick. All I know is that he sees shit happening before other people do and figures out ways how to shovel it off the path before we step in it.”

  She considers this response for a moment. Then slowly nods. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Gospel truth, Sister Russell. Gospel truth.”

  Four hours later, with Cozumel getting closer, JJ’s final briefing is relatively brief. These navy vets understand the need for secrecy. Especially so, when special ops Ospreys land on a battleship in the middle of the night and a Delta Force team dressed-to-kill (literally) spills out of one aircraft, along with an equally determined—but not armed-to-the-teeth, high-tech recon team from the other. After that dramatic arrival, you’ve got to figure these guys will tell you only what you need to know and not a word more.

  And what JJ gets ready to tell them is simple.

  But before he does so, Major Williston and his strike team stand before the gathered crowd on the landing pad. Gone are their tactical uniforms. In their place, they wear a variety of civilian clothes, ranging from shorts to cut-offs, track outfits, and dungarees, but all of them sport the blue baseball caps and the same bright blue Hawaiian shirts beneath which, you can be sure, is enough body armor to protect them, plus enough lethal gear to accomplish the rescue mission stowed away with straps, clips, and lots of Velcro.