by Ralph Kern
“A nice idea.” Bautista shook his head. “But you know they’ll never go for it.”
“Just make the damn offer, Urbano.”
***
Slater stood at the head of Atlantica’s conference table where the senior officers of the fleet were gathered.
“Maybe your girl needs to consider her career choice.” Wakefield said with a snort. “Two crashes in a week? That’s just shoddy.”
Slater ground her teeth, not rising to the man’s caustic barb. “I think, for now, we need to focus on recovery efforts rather than playing any kind of blame game.”
“Just saying.” Wakefield leaned forward. “Right. Anyway, I’ve spoken to my pilots and of course we’re happy to help. But the downside is I’m told we ain’t equipped for night search and rescue operations, and especially not when we don’t know what they might be facing out there. The fact of the matter is, if your helicopter’s gone down, then there’s a good chance that something brought it down.”
Reynolds face was as drawn as Jack’s. Both had heard the news that the expedition was overdue, and neither could shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. “Be that as it may, any rescue attempt is better than none and at the moment, we don’t know if this is some kind of mechanical failure or something more nefarious.”
“No,” Slater said slowly. “He’s right. A night attempt would likely be wasted fuel. And we’re still not at the stage where we want to chance using the oil the Titan is refining in the aircraft. We need to be ready to go at first light. I have our crew working on our second Seahawk, which is fully equipped with a search and rescue package—”
“That thing is in bits on Bautista’s field,” Reynolds said. “As much as I’d like to get every helicopter we have up, we don’t want to create more casualties with a piece of machinery which has already proven itself to be unreliable.”
Slater couldn’t help but agree. Yet the thought of having to rely on someone like Wakefield was galling. “Fine, but we’ll continue with the repairs. If it looks as if we can get her safely flying again, we will do so.”
“Captain,” a voice announced over the intercom. “I have Urbano Bautista on the line asking to be put through.”
“By all means, patch him into the conference room,” Kendricks called into the air.
A chime rang through the room, and Bautista’s thickly accented voice could be heard. “Hello. I have been informed of the difficulties you are facing with your missing helicopter and wish to offer our assistance.”
“That’s very kind of you, Urbano,” Reynolds replied. “At this time, I think we are close to putting together a plan and have it covered.”
“That is understood,” Bautista replied. “And a relief. I do however have a person in my community who has previous military experience including, he tells me, rescue missions. He is making himself available.”
“Well, that could be useful,” Reynolds conceded. “It’s always good to have more expertise on hand.”
“He is offering to go with any rescue flight. But...” Bautista’s voice trailed off.
“But what?” Reynolds asked wearily.
“This man. He is Karl Grayson.”
Jack slapped the mute button on the table. A chime indicated he had cut the mic. “No way. No goddamn way is that bastard going.”
Kendricks nodded his agreement. “Screw that.”
Slater leaned back in her chair. Her revulsion for the man churning in her stomach. This man who had caused such harm. The man who had evaded justice for weeks could not be allowed to come anywhere near her ship or people again.
Could he?
Slater’s mind raced. Perhaps there could be an unexpected opportunity here.
No. That’s not what I’m about.
“I think that’s decided then.” Reynolds gestured at Jack. “Unmute him and tell him thanks, but no thanks.”
“Wait.” Slater held up her hand. Could she give up the first opportunity in weeks to get hold of Grayson?
The others around the table looked at her quizzically.
“It is...” She began slowly, “incumbent on us to use every resource available to affect a rescue mission.”
“But Heather...” Kendricks’s voice took on a low tone. “Not him. He killed one of my crew. Besides, how do we even know he’s got this experience?”
“He successfully infiltrated your ship for over a month. He managed to successfully sabotage mine. I don’t like him, but he is resourceful,” Slater pointed out. “And we may need that. No. I say let him go.”
“I don’t like this, ma’am,” Jack said. Slater could sympathize. It had been Jack leading the investigation into Grayson’s first victim.
“I’m not asking you to like this. I’m asking you to rescue my people. By any means necessary. People, this kind of operation falls under my jurisdiction.” She looked around the room, daring anyone to challenge her authority before focusing on Wakefield. “Please prepare one of your helicopters for departure at first light. Jack, you will lead the rescue operation. Grayson will assist as an advisor.”
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, regarding Slater with cool blue eyes. “Heather, what we’re talking about is tactics, that’s your business while mine is strategy. I’m not going to undermine one of your decisions but—”
“Thank you.” She drew back her chair, ignoring Reynolds’s frown at being interrupted. “I suggest we begin preparations and then get some rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day and you’ll be setting off at first light.”
Reynolds nodded and stood. “I trust you know what you’re doing here, Captain.”
Kendricks remained seated for a long moment, before abruptly standing and walking out of the room, his face red. The others started to file out after him.
“Jack. A moment,” Slater said as the furious-looking Jack made to leave.
“Ma’am.” He stopped halfway to the door, not turning to look at her as he let the last of the others filter around him.
Slater took a deep breath. What she was about to ask him to do filled her with the same sense of revulsion that she had felt at hearing Grayson’s name mentioned.
But this needed to be done.
The silent moment ticked on. Jack turned to look at her, a question in his eyes.
“Jack. Listen to me. Grayson.” This is it. The point of no return. “He doesn’t come back from the rescue mission. Do you understand?”
There. She’d said it.
“Ma’am?”
“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Jack? That man has murdered people,” Slater pressed. “He’s responsible for murder and sabotage, and it’s gritted my shit for far too long that he’s been left to walk free.”
Jack walked back toward the woman. “Ma’am, I’m no assassin. I‘m not going to be responsible for murder myself out there. Two wrongs won’t make a right.”
“His actions cannot go unpunished.” She gestured through the conference room window at her ship, her mast still twisted, her paint still blackened. “Look what he did, Jack. Look at it. Think about what else he did. In the old days, there were drone strikes for less.”
Jack squeezed his eyes closed for a moment before looking at Slater. “And now I’m your executioner.”
“He’s a murderer and a terrorist.” Slater planted both hands on the table and leaned forward. “He wouldn’t be the first you’ve brought to justice.”
Jack looked down, the turmoil obvious in his face.
“He must not come back to the fleet, Jack.”
Jack lifted his head to meet her gaze. And she couldn’t return it; the conflict in his eyes matched that in her own soul. It was her turn to look down.
He didn’t nod, he didn’t shake his head. He just turned and walked out of the room.
Slater gave a deep breath and closed her eyes. She felt a tremor begin to vibrate in her body and she swallowed down her rising gorge.
She lifted her right hand and looked at the academy ring on her fin
ger. It symbolized as much to her, in its own way, as the wedding band on her left hand.
Was she dishonoring what it symbolized by ordering a man’s exile or assassination, or was she honoring it by bringing retribution to the man who had done such harm?
She simply didn’t know anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Five – The Past
Lieutenant Ollie Pearson dropped into the tight cockpit of his sleek, gray Lockheed Martin F-35 Lightening II. He nodded a curt thanks as his crew chief passed him his helmet.
He slipped his head into its musty-smelling confines and slid the visor down. Automatically, it began interfacing with the fighter’s systems. A wealth of information unobtrusively blinked into existence showing everything he needed to fly and fight, no matter which direction he looked. The F-35 was a seamless integration of man and machine.
And he loved her.
The canopy hissed closed and locked with a clunk. Pearson began flicking switches. Displays and indicators illuminated as his aggressive fighter came to life. In seconds, a dull whine permeated the cockpit as the Pratt and Whitney F135 engine spooled up. A few moments later, the pitch had risen to a subdued howl. The aircraft rocked forward against the brakes, eager to go. His flight, Key West Naval Air Station’s assigned Quick Response Force, was ready to rock and roll.
His baby was ready.
He was ready.
“Tower, Cobra 1-1 QRF, good evening and ready to taxi, over,” Pearson said, turning to the crew chief standing far off his wingtip and giving a thumbs up with his green gloved hand. The man returned his gesture.
“Cobra 1-1, roger that. Clear to taxi to runway 08 for scramble takeoff. Airspace is clear, over.”
“Runway 08. Scramble and clear, out.” Pearson gently nudged the throttle forward and released the brakes. The howl increased again in pitch. The fighter began rolling toward the apron His wing mate mirrored his movements in her own identical fighter before sliding out of view behind him.
As soon as they made the final turn onto the runway, Pearson drove the throttle forward. He felt himself being driven back into his seat from the G force as the engine power rose. The light encrusted buildings of the airfield rolled by, quickly turning from individual lights to streaks as his airspeed built.
“Rotate.”
He pulled back on the stick and the fighter roared into the sky. “Cobra 1-1 QRF away. Switching channel to Overlord, out.”
“Cobra 1-2 QRF away. Switching chan—” Pearson keyed his radio, changing frequency to Overlord, the combat information center which would manage his mission from here on out.
A thud came from below as the landing gear retracted into the fighter’s hull. The HUD on his visor showed the altitude ladder racing downward as he climbed into the star-speckled night. The spider web of illumination below gave way to the occasional light of a boat or ship as they crossed from land to sea.
“Overlord, Cobra flight of two F-35s QRF out of Navy Key West,” Pearson sent. “Going feet wet. Please advise heading and mission, over.”
“Roger that. Live mission confirmed,” Overlord said. “Standby for mission specifics on this intercept.”
A measured voice came over his radio, concisely rattling off details. He darted a glance over at his wing mate, Lexi Cormac’s fighter creeping up to starboard wing, hardly believing what he was hearing.
Shit, we’re hunting big game for real here.
***
This ends.
Grayson wrapped his gloved hands around the heavy-duty plastic rail surrounding the RIB’s black rubberized hull. The fresh sea air filled his lungs, washing away the acrid taste of his first cigarette and making him feel alive.
They had been steadily overtaking the Osiris for the last hour, and now the distant blob of light on the horizon had split into distinct running lights clustered ahead.
The cocky bastard isn’t even going dark.
Not like the Bahamas and the Nassau, which were stealthily sneaking up on the ship in total blackout. The two patrol boats at general quarters, ready to take on the target.
The other six men in the RIB looked nervous, their Adam’s apples bobbing. Whatever Wakefield was up to, they had to hope they’d pushed him on before he was ready, and he’d just quit when faced with the two heavily armed patrol boats. If not, they were going to be in for a hard time if he decided to give them a fight.
But they would do what it took to stop Wakefield, and get Bradley back. In that order.
“Three miles,” Dillon announced calmly as he leaned over the bow. “Time to deploy.”
The Nassau slowed to steerageway and the cranes running along both flanks lifted her two boats over the side and settled them with a mechanical whine into the water.
“Let’s do this,” Grayson called.
With a roar, the outboard engine turned over and the four RIBs, including the two from the Bahamas, fanned out in front of the menacing patrol ships.
“Osiris, Osiris, Osiris,” Smith’s voice came over both radio and loudspeaker at the same time. “This is the HMBS Bahamas of the Royal Bahamas Defence Force. You are ordered to heave to and prepare to be boarded. Resistance will be met with deadly force.”
***
Pearson had reacted with surprise, then trepidation on getting the mission brief. He’d fired in anger in the swirling vortex of the Middle East. He’d felt that heady rush of adrenaline when on a bombing run. He knew what it was like to pull the trigger and know people would die.
But he’d never thought he’d be called on to do so this close to home.
That didn’t mean he would hesitate. Not for one second. September 11th may have been both a distant boyhood nightmare for him and a reason why he’d joined up, but he was damn sure no such horrors like that terrible day would happen on his watch.
A low warble filled his ears as his attack radar sought the distant target. A crosshair in his visor HUD settled on a tiny speck of light.
The warble became a single tone.
“I have lock.” He flexed his hand around the stick.
No, nothing like that day twenty-three years ago would happen again.
“Bruiser, bruiser, bruiser!” He squeezed the trigger. A thumping noise came from below as the LGM-158C Joint Strike Missile fell from his open internal bay. Less than a second later, the missile’s engine erupted to life, and the sleek weapon lanced ahead of his fighter.
A few seconds later, from Cormac’s fighter, a second missile streaked into the distance after his own.
***
The four RIBs surged toward the Osiris, followed by their two motherships. Each craft spread glowing phosphorene Vs of wakes behind in the dark sea.
“Come on you bastard, pull over,” Grayson snapped as he hunched against the sting of salt spray whipping across his face.
Grayson cocked his head, hearing a dull roar over the sound of the RIB’s outboard engine. It rapidly rose in volume. He turned his head, trying to spot the source. He saw a flare of fire, growing in size. Something coming at them quickly.
“That sounds like a...” Dillon looked just as confused. “You don’t think Millard ordered a strike?”
“I don’t see how?” Grayson answered. “His ass is in the clink.”
***
The JSM slammed into the Nassau at just below the speed of sound, penetrating her armored hide before detonating a fraction of a second later.
The 125 Kg High Explosive blast fragmentation warhead vaporized the center of the ship in a furious explosion. In seconds, the flaming bow and stern split open before disintegrating completely, leaving a patch of burning debris on the water.
***
“No!” Grayson shouted as he watched the Nassau disappear, leaving just a fiery plume of smoke to mark her watery grave, fed by the spilled fuel from her tanks.
And if they were going to hit one, they were going to hit both. Grayson keyed his radio. “Bahamas, you have incoming. Chaff, Flares, evasive... fuck it... abandon ship!”
Th
ey reacted quickly. Damn quickly. Bahamas began to swing in a desperate attempt to evade the second missile roaring toward them. Streamers of tracer fire erupted from her 50 caliber machine guns. An even more desperate attempt to swat the missile out of the sky.
It was in vain.
The second lance of fire streaked low over the waves and slammed into the stern of the Bahamas. A fan of fire and debris erupted out of the opposite side. It was a suboptimal hit, but no less lethal for it.
The patrol boat rolled as the momentum of the missile drove it over and she turned turtle, leaving just the dome of her hull to ride on the waves. Fire flickered through the chasms torn through her battered body.
“Jesus,” Dillon muttered. “The poor bastards.”
In seconds, over sixty men and women had been ruthlessly and efficiently killed.
“We have to go back. We have to see if there are survivors.” The young officer in charge of the RIB’s teeth chattered, and Grayson didn’t think it was from the cold.
“There’s no one left,” Grayson said coldly, turning to look forward toward the Osiris. “We have to stay on mission.”
“But...”
“No buts,” Grayson shouted. “Get us to that fucking ship. Now!”
From the skies, another ominous roar grew in volume, deeper than that of the missiles. Whoever had just taken out the patrol boats was coming.
Chapter Twenty-Six – The Present
A burning agony raged through Mack’s body, bringing her to merciless consciousness. She couldn’t help but let a cry of pain escape her lips.
So many nerve endings signaled their distress, she couldn’t even figure out which parts hurt the most. She tried to look around, but her neck felt stiff as if she’d been sleeping funny and she groaned. Strangely, a forest appeared to have grown in her cockpit.
