B00H242ZGY EBOK

by Unknown

  Jackson stood along with the other two men. “Thank you. I will.”

  “Sorry we had to disturb your evening. Thanks for your help,” said Hunt as the two men left the apartment.

  Jackson stood a moment and stared at the closed door. He looked again at the card in his hand. He had never liked Williamson, and wondered if he had gotten his boss into real trouble. He turned and made his way back to the couch. His beer was warm, but he took a sip anyway and made a grimace. Looking at the bottle, he walked back to the kitchen and got another cold one. Sitting back down, he began running things through his mind. There were thousands of things that could get a candidate in trouble. Finances, back room deals, promises to the wrong people, deals with the special interests – all could get a guy in real trouble. Then he thought about the piece of recording he had heard. ‘It could be they are pre-staging this team down there to use just in case. That’s what I might do,’ and, ‘If we go telling this guy they’re there, he might do something unfortunate. Remember, everyone is supposed to come back alive.’ Just three sentences and two voices. What could it mean? he thought. He focused on the phrase, pre-staging this team down there to use just in case. After several minutes of nothing jelling in his mind, he gave up and turned CNN back on. The story was about the American hostages and how there was still no word on their fate. Jackson bolted upright, his eyes glued to the set. It is the only thing it could be, he thought. He sat back on the couch. “Oh fuck,” he said with a sigh.

  Aruba Harbor

  The harbor was finally quiet. The North Carolina had almost been overrun with partying islanders in every kind of watercraft imaginable. Once anchored, the boats and small craft began to circle the huge ship. Everyone wanted to see the ship, and as you got closer, the bigger it seemed to become. Many of the boaters were young. The sailors aboard the ship got a big kick out of all the bikini clad girls waiving from the boats and occasionally throwing things up to someone. The deck crew even had to come get several young people off the edge of the ship’s armor around the ship. On the North Carolina, the armor plating ended a few feet above the waterline. This left a ledge about a foot deep around the outer hull which several found was a great place to sit and drink. The crowd and the boats didn’t really start tapering down until after midnight. By three am, only an occasional boat would cruise past.

  Riding on a small motor yacht, Lieutenant Carlos Romero finished his checks and got ready to ease over the side. He had been a diver for many years, always working in harbor cleanup or, more recently, to train to become what the American Navy called a SEAL. He and several others were getting very proficient in sneaking into a harbor and blowing up installations or rescuing a hostage of some sort. Tonight would be a little different. This time his orders were to place a magnetic mine against the hull of a ship. None of them had been trained on anything like this, but his superiors pointed out that this would give them such experience.

  Romero felt confident. It should be about a 200 yard swim from the boat to the ship. He was told to place the mine in about the middle of the ship, set the timer and leave. The boat would circle the harbor and then he would pick it up on the way out. It was a simple plan. Because he would go in at slack water, there would be no currents to deal with. Then, when the tide started to come back in, it would actually push him into shore, not out to sea. He had trained to swim more than a mile at a time in the sea. This should be easy.

  On the stern of the yacht was a door where a boat was stored. At night, and with only a sliver of a moon, it would be nearly impossible to see him dropping over the stern. Placing the mask over his face, he checked the regulator one last time, and then swiftly eased out the door and over the swimming transom on the yacht.

  Conserving his air, Romero used the snorkel to cover the transit to within 50 yards of the ship, then switched to his tank and began his descent. The water in the Caribbean was clear almost all the way to the beach. Using the ship’s lights as a guide, he made his way until he felt the side of the ship, then went deeper.

  Romero kept going down, farther and farther. He had though the ship might go down about 20 feet, but that point had passed long ago. At just over 30 feet, he felt the angled strake running along the bottom edge, then passed beneath. When the bottom finally flattened out, Romero was surprised to find there was little more than five feet between the ship’s bottom and the sand below. Weeds seemed to be growing up from everywhere, hampering his movement, and the bottom of the ship was almost like sandpaper from all the encrusted marine life.

  Easing along, he felt a current. Strange, he thought, the tide shouldn’t be starting in as yet. The current seemed to flow around him and towards the shore. Someone must have made a mistake in the tide tables. He kept swimming under the big ship, but he noticed that the farther he swam, the stronger the pull. He stopped for a moment and reached down to make sure the mine was still in its pouch. That was when he noticed that he was being pulled along far faster than he had realized. Trying to swim against the pull, he struggled with both the weeds and the current. The effort was sapping his strength and he was getting nowhere.

  Now Romero panicked. He began frantically swimming trying to break free from the now very strong current. He felt his tank bumping along the bottom of the ship. Pulling out a flashlight, he searched for some sort of handhold, but there was none. Using the flashlight with one hand only made things worse. Suddenly Romero felt himself being pulled into some large hole in the bottom of the ship. His tank caught along the edge as his feet were pulled into the hole and upward into its gaping mouth. Romero found himself stuck in the mouth of the hole. Things from the bottom were being pulled into the ship all round him. He was trapped. Slowly his arms and legs became so tired he could no longer try to get himself out. His rapid breathing ate up the air in the tanks and soon, there was no more to breathe. As the life exited his body, he went limp, freeing him from his position. His lifeless body was sucked fully into the hole.

  Deep in engineering, an alarm sounded and crewmen rushed to see what it was. Number three fire and flushing pump had suddenly stopped with a loud bang. Pumping thousands of gallons per minute, it made sure all the salt water systems on the ship had plenty of water available. Several crewmen tried to get it started again, but it was no use. The electric motor was operational, but something had been sucked into the pump itself. After an hour of trying to free it, they gave up. The number three fire and flushing pump was tagged out. Another was brought online. They would have to fix that problem when they returned home.

  Just a few minutes later, the anchor windless began hoisting the giant stockless anchor out of the sandy, plant laden bottom. Few knew that the North Carolina was leaving. Across the harbor the crew of the yacht watched in horror as two tugs came out to help push the great ship’s bow around so she could head to sea. Almost silently, the battleship made her way through the harbor entrance. As soon as possible, the people on the yacht began to search for Romero. They almost hoped the battleship would explode before their eyes giving their leader a huge victory. But it was not to be. Plying back and forth, they found nothing. By morning, they had extended their search toward the shore, but there was no sign of him. Working back to the harbor entrance, they were surprised that the great ship was nowhere to be seen.

  The Coast of Venezuela

  Just before the sun came up, as the early morning light began to light the sky, the lookout near Puerto La Cruze was horrified to see a huge ship operating near the shore. It had a flat top. Grabbing a stronger set of binoculars, he studied the ship more closely. There appeared to be aircraft on her decks and looking behind the ship, he saw what looked like landing craft going into the stern. Frantically reaching for the phone, he reported his sightings. Within ten minutes, aircraft came streaking over the lookout’s position and heading toward the ship.

  “Zero two, base. We have a large American carrier approximately 14 miles out. There are aircraft on her decks, over,” said the pilot of one of the two F-16 fight
er planes sent to respond to the incursion.

  “Roger, ascertain type of ship, over” came the reply.

  The pilot and his wingman were being careful not to fly too near the ship. No one in his right mind would try to take on an American carrier on their own. But this was not one of the huge Nimitz Class carriers he had seen. Instead it was smaller, almost rectangular in shape with a very large island. As he flew towards the stern of the ship, he saw it was hollow from the stern. “I make this one of their large landing ships. There are two landing craft lined up and entering the stern of the ship, and there is a guided missile cruiser coming out of the haze two miles out to sea, over.”

  “We have company,” said his wingman over the radio circuit.

  Looking behind him, two F-35 Lightnings had already joined up and were tagging along behind and to one side. There were white missiles on the wings. The F-16 could easily take on the Lightning, but at this range, he didn’t want to chance it.

  “Aircraft on my starboard side, this is Marine Corps Lightning two-zero-one. We request you proceed no closer to our ship. We are in international waters and exercising our rights of free passage. Do you understand, over,” said one of the Lightning pilots.

  The other pilot thumbed his transmit button. “This is Venezuelan Air Force plane Zero-two. Your ship is operating very close to our territorial waters. We do not intend any harm, just observing, over,” he said in response. His superior had already told them how to handle that situation.

  “Roger, we welcome your observation, but we will escort you while in the area, over.”

  “I understand,” said the pilot. He motioned for his wingman to follow and the two jets banked to give the LHD and her escorts a wide berth. They got the chance to see the cruiser a little better. It was one of those new ones. There would be no missiles on a rail like some of the older ones. These would suddenly pop out of one of the cells and be on you faster than he would like. The Venezuelan jets continued to circle the formation for about an hour before turning towards the shore and home base. Once they had moved five miles away, the Lightnings returned to a position near the LHD to be ready for another flight if it came.

  Chapter 12

  Playing the game

  Washington, DC

  Former Senator Dan Williamson sat back in his office behind closed doors and sipped a single malt scotch. He liked it when the candidate was on the road and he had the office to himself. Williamson found Foster to be a wet nose. He doubted the man had the backbone to really run a country, but after losing his senate seat just two years before, Williamson was doing anything he could to get back into his party’s good graces. Fortunately, he had something that was pretty damning on Foster and he used it to bully his way into the Chief of Staff position during the campaign. He intended to keep that position when he got Foster into the White House.

  Williamson hated President O’Bannon with a passion. He blamed him for the mess he got himself into during the war with Korea. The party had decided that someone else needed to occupy his senate seat and the newcomer moved in after the last election. A lot of the older party hacks didn’t want him, but he had too much experience as a campaigner and seniority as a political figure to be turned down. Besides, he also knew where the money was and could wield a broad axe when it came to soliciting campaign contributions. That alone had been worth bringing him back. But now, he had other ambitions. He missed the power he once had and there was only one place to feed it – the White House. Foster was so weak he could easily dictate policy from the Chief of Staff position. After that, who knew where it might lead.

  But now his main goal was to overcome the 20 point difference between Foster and O’Bannon. That would happen just as long as the American hostages remained in Venezuelan hands. He sat back and smiled remembering how easy it had been. He had been the one to get Jonas his position in Caracas. It had only taken a few phone calls to set up the deal. Parente was like him. He craved power and this was a good way for him to get some. Williamson couldn’t care less if someone got hurt. His plans for Parente were simply to use him and spit him out. Nothing mattered but to get Fowler elected. Who knows, he thought, I might just string Parente out for a few years. Eventually Parente would do something stupid and either be shot or go into exile. Besides, no one would believe a dictator against an upstanding American President.

  The phone rang on his desk. It was the private line. “Williamson,” he answered.

  “The President wants to know what’s going on. He says a battleship is parked just seventeen miles from his shores and his military just saw some sort of carrier operating near his eastern shore,” said Jonas from Venezuela. “He says they are also using landing craft. He’s really starting to get paranoid.”

  “Horse shit. I haven’t heard anything,” said Williamson.

  “His military confirms it. They are saying it’s just two incidences, but you know what he’s thinking,” said Jonas.

  “Let him think. Tell him I don’t know of anything happening, but I’ll check. Give me about an hour and I’ll get back to you,” said Williamson as he hung up the phone. Damned ignorant savage. Scared of every little thing, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialed another number. After two rings a tired voice answered the phone.

  “Captain Ferrell, sorry to bother you, but I need to know what’s going on down south,” said Williamson.

  At the other end of the line, Ferrell sat in a room flanked by two FBI agents who had headphones listening in. One motioned for Ferrell to be careful.

  “I don’t have anything coming from this end,” said Ferrell. “I heard about some exercises with Brazil and Colombia, but that’s been laid on for a while,” he lied.

  “Nothing having to do with our interests?”

  “No, sir. Not from my end.”

  “Very good. Let me know if you hear something,” Williamson said.

  “Yes sir,” said Ferrell as he heard Williamson hang up.

  “Very good, Captain,” said Kelly sliding back from the table. “You keep helping us out and you might just get through this,” he said.

  Ferrell looked as if the life had been drained from him. Everything he had lived for up to now was gone and his prospects were hinging on what these agents reported to a judge. If he were very lucky, he might get to wear an ankle bracelet for a few years. But as of now, an Air Force career and any hopes of political aspirations were flushed down a toilet. He contemplated working for the rest of his life in a car wash.

  Williamson hung up and dialed another number he knew.

  “Navy News Desk, Lieutenant Boynton,”

  “This is Bill Richards from the Washington Times. Can you give me some information about an exercise with Brazil?” Williamson asked.

  At the News Desk, Boynton looked at his handset with incredulity. “Sir, that information was passed out to your guy here a couple of hours ago,” he said. “It’s all over CNN right now.”

  “Yea, I know. I just wanted to check on some battleship visiting another country as a part of it,” Williamson said.

  “Yes, sir, that was the North Carolina. She had a port visit in Aruba yesterday. She is a part of the exercise,” said Boynton.

  “Can you tell me what other battleships are a part of this thing?”

  “Only the two that were announced. The North Carolina and the Iowa are taking part as a part of their Reserve training underway period. That’s as far as we are going to give out information as of now. You can call back later on and see if there is anything else to release.”

  “Somehow I heard there was a carrier.”

  “The Brazilian carrier São Paulo will be taking part, but the only ship carrying aircraft will be USS Wasp, an LHD. As we stated in the brief, we are going to exercise fleet and Marine units to conduct amphibious warfare,” said Boynton. “Their carrier will be the center of that exercise.”

  “Ahh, that answers the questions we had. Just got a little confused when someone down there gave us different in
formation. Thanks for the help,” said Williamson.

  “You’re very welcome, sir,” said Boynton.

  Williamson hung up the phone. All you have to do is ask, he thought to himself as he turned on the news. Sure enough, a CNN reporter was talking about how this would be the first time the United States would take a secondary role in the exercises. Images of the São Paulo were filling the screen. Video of aging A-4 Skyhawks were shown catapulting from her deck.

  Williamson chuckled to himself. All this worry for nothing, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialed the Ambassador. “Call off the dogs. It’s a planned joint exercise. They will be operating in the waters off Guiana for a while,” Williamson speculated.

  “You’re sure?” asked Jonas.

  “Goddamnit, do I have to paint a picture?” barked Williamson.

  “But why was Venezuela not invited?”

  Williamson almost cursed. After a breath he said, “Because our man never wants to play. Besides, can you blame the guys in the White House? Parente hates their guts.”