SEAL Team 13 st1-1

by Evan Currie

  “Jesus, Captain, it’s almost right underneath us already—”

  The sonar operator’s exclamation was cut off by a plume of water erupting just off the bow of the boat, showering the foredeck with water. The Arleigh Burke — class destroyer rode the shockwave, barely shuddering as it drove on. The second and third explosions threw them a little to one side, knocking around some things inside the ship, but the fourth through sixth detonations were considerably less powerful as the Fitzgerald began to put some distance between itself and the things that went boom.

  As the concussions quieted down, Izerman looked around. “Sonar, do you have anything?”

  There was a long silence as the sonar operator tried to clear up the noise he was reading and differentiate between an actual contact and the residual sounds of the explosions. After a long moment he looked up. “No contact, Captain.”

  There was a collective exhale, the atmosphere noticeably relaxing as the captain nodded and moved over to the communications station.

  “Get on the horn to the Seahawk. I want to know as soon as they locate the team.”

  “Aye, sir,” the commander answered.

  Izerman shook his head, walking across the command deck to the sonar station. “You reading anything out there? Even wreckage?”

  “That’s the weird thing, Cap.…There’s nothing. It’s like whatever it was just disappeared.”

  “Yeah, well I wouldn’t count on that. There aren’t many things capable of surviving six hits from our torpedoes.”

  The sonar operator nodded in agreement.

  “Keep looking. Just in case.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Izerman walked over to his first officer, his face grim as he pondered the events of the last few moments. “Any ideas, Evie?”

  Yvonne Sanderson shook her head. “Never seen anything like it, sir. Fifty knots, at the size sonar was reading — I didn’t think it was possible.”

  “Me either,” Izerman said softly, glancing around, “other than a swarm of torpedoes, but if that was it—”

  “We’d be dead.”

  “Maybe not — we probably would have gotten a lot of them with the six we fired, but still…”

  Commander Sanderson nodded. “It still doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Right on the money.”

  “Do you think the ship was Chinese, sir?”

  Izerman winced. “I sure as hell hope not, but what else could it have been?”

  She shrugged, shaking her head. “I don’t know.…”

  “Captain! Contact!”

  Izerman twisted around, looking over at the sonar operator with a fierce expression. “Location!”

  “Three hundred feet directly under us and rising! Two fifty! Two hundred!”

  “Ahead flank!”

  “One fifty!”

  The ship surged forward under full military power, her engines sending a whine through the steel of the ship as it swished against the water surrounding it.

  “One hundred!”

  Izerman staggered over to the sonar station, leaning in close in time to see the rising contact. It was huge, bigger than he’d seen before, and it was indeed coming right up under them.

  “Seventy-five feet!”

  The Fitzgerald was accelerating forward, but it was obvious that they weren’t going to get clear in time.

  “Fifty feet.”

  “Sound collision!” Izerman ordered.

  “Aye-aye!”

  The collision alarms began blaring again as the sonar man announced twenty-five feet and grabbed his console to brace himself. The captain did likewise as the sonar image became an amorphous blob that was too close and too large to distinguish.

  For a moment nothing happened, and Izerman entertained the absurd hope that it had all been some bizarre system malfunction. He looked around, took a breath to speak, and then was cut off by a shocked scream. When he looked over, a young ensign was pointing wordlessly out the window at the foredeck. Izerman shifted his gaze and was transfixed by what he saw.

  Outside, on either side of the ship, thick limbs had risen from the sea. They were towering over the ship, shedding water on all sides as the Fitzgerald surged onward, looking for all the world like the massive tree trunks of some insane jungle they were sailing through. Izerman was at a loss for words and ideas, his mind boggled by what he was seeing.

  Then the strange limbs began to fall back toward the sea, only instead of sinking they were toppling across the deck of his ship.

  WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  The shocking vibrations shook the destroyer as they all braced themselves through the slamming impacts. Izerman shook himself free of his stupor and managed to call out his next orders.

  “Master-at-Arms! Draw weapons from the armory and have security report on deck to repel…boarders.” He finished the order a little weakly, but he had no idea how else to say it. He certainly couldn’t order them to report on deck to clear it of giant squid tentacles?

  Because that was what they looked like, he realized. Tentacles tightening around his ship as if around prey. It was insane, not to mention utterly impossible, yet it was the only comparison that worked.

  Men were already pouring out on deck, and small-arms fire was roaring loud enough to be heard in the command center. They watched as the men poured fire into the things, some of them even grabbing fire axes and hacking at the tree-trunk-sized limbs. The effect was less than impressive.

  A groan of metal stole Captain Izerman’s attention away from the action on deck, and he looked around, trying to identify the source.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Not sure, sir. The engines are starting to heat up, but they’re well within tolerance.” The commander sounded concerned, but not too worried just yet.

  Izerman nodded vacantly, still looking for the source of the groaning sound even as it came again. He looked out at the deck, then beyond it, at an oncoming wave. Izerman’s eyes widened as he watched the wave actually break over the deck, and he frowned. It wasn’t that rough out there.

  “What on…,” he trailed off as his eyes widened. “We’re being dragged under!”

  A sharp cry of surprise rose up around him, at first tinged with disbelief, then with fear. The waves were now washing over the deck with regularity, and several of his men had been washed overboard.

  “Launch the rescue craft!” Izerman ordered. “Engines full astern! Break us free!”

  “Aye-aye!”

  The Fitzgerald’s engines whined in response to his team’s work, and the big ship shuddered, but the grasping limbs didn’t budge. Izerman swallowed as the sea broke over the bow of the ship, rushing up the foredeck and crashing into the bridge.

  He suddenly knew that he wasn’t going to get the ship loose, and also that he’d waited too long to order an evacuation.

  He still had to try.

  “All hands, abandon ship! I say again, all hands abandon ship!”

  The order given, Captain Izerman watched as the water climbed up and swallowed the deck of his ship. Those in the bridge knew they weren’t getting out when the water rushed past the windows and they found themselves staring down into a murky sea.

  Izerman reached out one hand toward the window as the first crack formed and let out a single whispered word.

  “No.”

  Then the glass shattered and the ocean rushed in.

  * * *

  The beat of the rotors washed out over the sea as the helo’s powerful searchlights scanned for any sign of the SEAL team in the waters below. The crew had trained for this a thousand times, but the stakes were always higher in real life — they knew that they were all that stood between the men below and a watery grave.

  “Sir, something’s going on back at the Fitz.”

  Commander Gavin glanced over at his copilot. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but their lights are weird.”

  “What?” The pilot frowned, leaning over to gla
nce in the direction where his copilot was looking. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just look for yourself.”

  Gavin turned the helo around, then frowned and tipped its nose forward as he circled back toward the ship.

  “Hey! We haven’t cleared the area yet!” the rescue swimmer yelled from behind him.

  “It’ll have to wait!”

  As they got closer, the scene below them became more and more bizarre, until the reality of the situation finally dawned on them. None of them could quite believe it. They were seeing the lights of the USS Fitzgerald as they shone from twenty feet down. The ship was sinking.

  “Holy shit,” Gavin said in a stunned voice. “What the hell just happened?”

  There was no response other than the beat of the Seahawk’s rotors and the shimmering light refracted from the water below.

  * * *

  “Where are they going?” Rankin asked, his voice husky.

  “Don’t know, brother,” Hawk said as he clung to the remains of the raft, fatigue beginning to seep through the adrenaline and numb his arm.

  He looked around before his eyes returned once again to where the Fitz had been, focusing on the eerie glow that was fading into the distance. It had to somehow be coming from the Fitz, but he couldn’t imagine how they could have gotten that far away so quickly. The glow didn’t look right either, more like some ghostly apparition fading into the night than the lights of a US destroyer.

  The lapping of the waves against the wreck somehow seemed louder in his ears as the sound of the helo rotors faded in and out in the distance. He pulled himself up a bit higher, then secured the Chinese national a bit better before slumping against the partially inflated rubber membrane.

  They’d started the night with a full squad of real-deal US Navy SEALs, now all that was left were two battered SEALs and a Chinese national who looked like he’d been drowned twice and put away wet.

  “Anyone have a freaking clue what the hell just happened?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

  CHAPTER 1

  WASHINGTON, DC, THE PENTAGON

  PRESENT DAY

  The man walked through the halls of the E-Ring, ignoring those around him as he locked his eyes on the entrance to the tank. The case cuffed to his arm barely swung with the motion of his walk, and he moved more stiffly as he got closer.

  At the security entrance to the tank he paused as the two marine guards eyeballed him, then directed him to the security station.

  “Rear Admiral Karson, reporting as ordered.”

  “Yes, sir. Please look into the scanner, sir,” the marine ordered him politely, one hand not quite resting on his weapon.

  Karson grunted but leaned over and stared into the retinal scanner, letting the infrared beam do its work. It paused for a moment, then chimed as his identity was confirmed.

  “Very good, sir. You’re cleared to enter.”

  Karson nodded and waited for the doors to begin to open, slipping through as soon as there was room. He walked over to the conference table, nodding to the men who were already seated there, then saluted.

  “Admiral Karson reporting, sirs.”

  “At ease.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Karson said, depositing the case on the table. “I have the recordings from the North Sea Task Force.”

  The president nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Is it as we feared?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  A soft murmur rose up around the table, the two- and three-star admirals and generals unable to quite keep their thoughts to themselves in that moment. Karson understood the temptation, but his nose didn’t quite bleed enough yet to join them.

  “That’s the fourth incident this year,” the president said.

  “Confirmed, you mean,” was Karson’s reply. “There have been several incidents which defy our attempts at classification. And that’s just in the navy’s jurisdiction, don’t forget.”

  “Yes, yes,” the president agreed, “confirmed incidents. And that’s not even accounting for civilian losses, and attacks on other nations’ militaries. I can’t believe that we’re the only ones suffering these attacks.”

  “Certainly not,” General Brewer, a US SOCOM (Special Operations Command) commander spoke up. “The Russians lost a carrier three years ago, and that submarine the year before. We’re pretty sure the story they sold to the public about reactor malfunctions is a cover. While we’re almost certainly losing more ships, it’s most likely because we’ve got a lot more to lose. Reports from land units are more spotty, but it’s clear that something strange is happening there too. I lost a team last month in Brazil, and all that was left of them was their gear and kit. The rescue team didn’t find any sign of their bodies, even though we dropped on their position less than six hours after the mayday call. The scene looked like something out a movie, and it wasn’t one of the happy ones.”

  “Keeping this quiet is rapidly becoming a larger strain than we’re prepared to handle.”

  The group turned to look at the one man other than the president who wasn’t in uniform, many of them paling slightly at the thought of the public finding out about a problem they couldn’t yet explain, let alone resolve.

  Eric Durance, the CIA’s case officer for the incidents, met their gaze with an even look.

  “We might have a better chance at keeping a lid on things if we could get some reliable intelligence on the situation,” General Cullen, military liaison to the White House, growled at the CIA man.

  “I’m sure we would,” Eric replied in the same calm tone he’d used earlier, “but whatever is behind these incidents doesn’t use electronic communication, which basically cripples ninety percent of my surveillance capability. We don’t all get multitrillion dollar budgets, General.”

  “Enough.”

  The single word from the president quieted the table as he looked up from the file he had been skimming.

  “I think you’re all missing something important here,” he said tiredly.

  The table’s focus was unwaveringly on him as everyone began to rack their minds for what they might have missed that would have caught their president’s attention.

  “These events seem to be on the rise,” he said after a moment. “Over the past decade, we’ve seen at least a twenty percent increase each year.”

  “It’s been more like thirty most years, sir,” Eric Durance said wearily. “On average, at least. In reality, the increase is speeding up. This year was an almost fifty percent over last year, so we might be looking at the start of a geometric escalation.”

  That was a bomb he’d been saving for another time, but the president’s words had given him the opening he needed to be taken seriously, and Durance wasn’t the sort to waste opportunities.

  “If that’s true, we won’t be able to keep this quiet for more than another five years, and we’d better have some answers for the public,” he said, finishing off what his previous bomb had left standing.

  The table descended into chaos as the generals and admirals began to argue over what could be done. It was all a joke in Durance’s opinion, since a military response wasn’t terribly useful when you didn’t know what the hell you were shooting at, where it was, what it wanted, or basically anything else about the enemy.

  The president let them go on for a few minutes, then slapped his hand down on the table.

  “Enough!”

  They quieted down, sitting back as they returned their attention to the commander-in-chief.

  “Does anyone here have a plan of action that might stand a chance in hell of doing something other than losing us more men and women?”

  The assembled men looked at each other furtively, and no one answered, not until Karson quietly cleared his throat.

  As one the table looked at the most junior man there, their expressions ranging from incredulous surprise to near malicious disapproval. The president, however, just nodded. “I’m listening, Admiral.”

>   “The first confirmed case was ten years ago,” Karson said, taking a deep breath as he mustered his courage. “The USS Fitzgerald was lost in the South China Sea, leaving only a handful of survivors. The initial investigation took over a year, and wasn’t really bumped up to this department for three years. Most of the survivors went with the official story, which was that there was a training accident and a fire on board the ship.”

  “We’re aware of this.”

  “Yes, sir.” Karson looked down at the table, avoiding the censorious gaze of the vice admiral on the other side of it. “The Fitzgerald was in that area on a retrieval mission, picking up a SEAL team that was coming back from a penetration of Chinese territory. Only two of the men survived, although they did achieve their mission of extracting the agent we’d flipped.”

  Karson took out a folder and tossed it open onto the table.

  “Meet one Harold Masters, team name ‘Hawk.’ He was an up-and-coming lieutenant in the Teams before that mission, on a fast track to command his own squad. He refused to go with the official story, except in public. In his reports he stated categorically, time and again, that his team had been attacked by something resembling a giant squid.”

  Karson looked up at the assembled men, his eyes landing on Durance. “The CIA handler who was overseeing the extraction recommended that he be silenced before his ravings could spill over into other operations. Masters’s security clearance was revoked, and he chose to retire rather than being drummed out on a dishonorable.”

  “What does this have to do with anything, Karson?” Durance asked.

  “Look at what he’s been doing since that mission,” Karson said quietly, pushing a folder toward the other man. “We keep tabs on people like him, in case they need to be reminded of their confidentiality agreements. He hasn’t. However, he has been doing a lot of research since then.”

  “Old copies of the Bible, Talmud, and Koran?” Durance asked, looking over the report. “Prophecy texts from 100 BC? Books on mysticism, new-age bullshit, and so-called cryptozoology? He’s a nut.”