The old man ambled toward the hulking superstructure in front of them. Sean would have liked to talk with him longer. He knew a lot.
Sean headed toward the cheerful group of friends and family, dressed casually, all-weather jackets slung over their arms. Some carried chairs and blankets. Many had slathered on sunscreen. All were excited to see an American warship at work.
He found Anchor in the sign-in line dressed like a model from a sailing magazine—white cargo pants, blue polo, white ball cap, fake Rolex, and a gold chain around his neck. Paloma stood beside him, elegant in summer whites, hat—cover, they called it—perched atop a tidily combed bun, and a light touch of make-up. She was more beautiful than anyone Sean had ever seen.
"Hey, Anchor. Thanks for inviting me, Paloma. This is my dream, yeah, touring a warship."
Paloma popped a Bunker Hill cap on his head. “You’ll be happy to have this later.” She smiled as she spoke which made him feel queasy and warm inside. His mouth hung open and he slammed it shut. He stepped back and made a circling motion with his hand.
"Let’s get a group snapshot,” and flipped open his phone. It looked normal enough, but Sean had enhanced it to take hi-res digital photos that immediately uploaded to his DropBox account. Anchor smiled woodenly. Done, Sean pretended to study it while uploading it to his cloud account.
"Can I watch them throw the ropes off, when the ship leaves the dock?"
Paloma gave him a funny look, "Sea and Anchor duty. Sure.” Once on deck, Paloma began an informal tour.
"The crest of Bunker Hill honors our roots. Colonists were formidable opponents at Bunker Hill. The redoubts they built are symbolized by the scarlet hill and battlements. The muskets with bayonets recall their weapons and the powder horn refers to the New Englander's dogged stand against superior forces, never capitulating even when ammunition ran out. The anchor is symbolic of maritime traditions and excellence of achievement."
“Wow.” Sean felt awed. Anchor looked bored.
Paloma continued, "Cruisers have been around longer than any other class of warship save battleships. Today, their primary duty is to protect the carrier and bombard shore armaments."
Anchor perked up. "So, uh, tell me about her insides." Finding out about Bunker Hill’s capabilities might explain Anchor’s interest.
Paloma smiled. "For an affordable $1 billion, Bunker Hill provides more bang for the buck than any other warship. To start with, it has four GE LM2500 Gas Turbine engines that kick out 80,000 horsepower."
“Crummy mileage, huh?" Sean joked.
Paloma laughed. "But we can go six thousand nautical miles on a tank of fuel."
"I heard a cruiser can go thirty knots per hour,” Anchor said.
Paloma’s eyes narrowed. "That is the speed we admit to."
The man grinned as though Paloma had told a joke. "Do you keep guns onboard?"
"Do you mean are our sailors armed?” She shook her head. “Navy regs prohibit the carrying of firearms while onboard except by watchstanders, but we have well-stocked weapons stations and an armory. All 360 crew members are trained to use them."
Paloma’s face said she caught the same thing. No man so proud of his military background would say thirty knots per hour. Knots were a unit of speed per hour, making thirty knots sufficient. And he should know ropes were called lines, and guns weapons.
As she continued the tour, the ship cast off and moved out of the dock. "Fore and aft we have VLS tubes, Vertical Launch Systems. They are a firing solution for anti-aircraft/anti-ship missiles, Tomahawks, and rocket-assisted torpedoes.”
“What’s loaded now?” Anchor asked, fumbling with his smartphone.
Paloma seemed to consider her reply. “Only the captain and WEPS know the exact loadout. Let’s go to the Bridge as the ship moves out to sea.”
As they passed through the Bridge doors, they heard, 'Very well... Very well..."
"That's the Conning Officer confirming course instructions with Nav—the Navigator."
“Officer of the Deck based upon an excellent visual fix at time 0900, Navigation holds you fifteen yards right of track and correcting. Nearest aid to navigation is buoy seven fifty yards off the starboard bow. Nearest hazard to navigation is shoal water fifty yards off the port beam. Fathom reads forty feet beneath the keel which concurs with charted depth. Navigation recommends marking turn, next course 230.”
"OOD."
"Left full rudder, steady course 230.”
Helm: “Left full rudder, steady course 230, aye, sir."
"My rudder is left 30 degrees, coming to course 230.”
Conn: "Very well.”
Helm: “Conning officer, steady on course 230; checking course 218, sir.”
"Very well."
Sean said, “All that to complete a turn? Wow.”
As Bunker Hill approached the National Cemetery on the starboard side, the ship slowed and a whistle blew. Every sailor on deck snapped to formation.
Paloma murmured, "We venerate those who gave everything for the country." She pointed to a group of three headstones. "Those honor the three tin cans—destroyers—that held off the Japanese Navy during the WWII Battle of Surinam. What those sailors did remains the Navy’s definition of heroism."
Sean smiled. "I read about them in Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors. Yeah. Great book."
Anchor glared at Sean and scooted closer to Paloma. "You are so smart, sweetheart." He put an arm around Paloma which she shrugged off.
"No PDA on the Bridge, civilian."
"Oh. Anyway, how’s the cruiser defend a carrier?"
"With what’s called the Aegis Weapons System, the most sophisticated defensive and offensive system in the world."
Sean had spent hours reading the Navy background material on Aegis and visiting the manufacturer’s—Lockheed Martin’s—website. Anchor apparently hadn’t.
"What's Aegis?"
"Aegis enables synchronized defense against air, land, and sea attacks. Bunker Hill's hull-mounted SPY Phased Array provides 360-degree coverage at all times. It can track 256 objects simultaneously."
"256!” Anchor stuck his hand in his phone pocket. “Say you're attacked by dozens of planes, each with dozens of bombs. How does Aegis stop that much fire power?"
Paloma blinked. "I’ll show you.”
She led her group down a flight of stairs Sean calculated at a steep seventy degrees and toward a hatch aft and right. "We’re headed for CIC—Combat Information Center, but Combat for short—the heart of our defensive and offensive capabilities. There, you’ll get an idea of Aegis’ power which should resolve your question. We scrubbed it, but still no cameras, cell phones, or recording devices are allowed."
Sean stepped carefully over the four-inch raised hatchway into a room stuffed wall-to-wall with computers, each manned by a serious-looking watchstander. As Sean gaped in awe, Anchor shrieked and landed face down on the deck. Sean helped the red-faced man to his feet.
Paloma stifled a laugh. "No embarrassment, Anchor. Kneeknockers—the bottom of the watertight doorframe—face plant us all at least once." She gestured across the room and grinned at Sean. "A geek's dream, huh?”
Sean bobbed his head. “It makes me want to join the Navy.”
As Paloma explained the room’s activity, Anchor swiveled in a circle to take in all the consoles. Sean was alarmed, but Paloma merely continued her tour.
"These watchstanders process the tactical representation. That group over there," and she pointed to the row furthest from Combat’s entrance, "is called Air Alley. They identify air traffic within range of the ship and combat airborne threats.” She beckoned one the watchstanders. “This is Petty Officer Williams, the man responsible for Air Alley.”
As Williams explained procedures to a rapt Anchor, Sean sidled up to Paloma. “You see him taking pictures?”
She smiled. “Who could miss it? No worries. Nothing electronic works in this room except our stuff. Same with the ones he tried to take on the Bridge.”
When Williams finished up, Paloma said, “Let’s get coffee in the wardroom?”
They thanked the watchstanders and descended another cramped set of stairs, through more doglegged pways, to a narrow, rectangular room, walls lined with counters, center a Formica cafeteria table. Paloma motioned them to sit while she poured coffee.
"This is officer country. No enlisted allowed. Here, we let our hair down."
The Captain greeted Paloma and introduced himself to Anchor and Sean. His bearing radiated a fierce, uncompromising intelligence weathered by the confidence that came from making the right decisions often. He made small talk for a few minutes, glanced at Sean and left.
"What’d I do?"
Paloma laughed. "You're in his chair." She pointed to the inscription on the back.
Sean leaped to his feet. "You should have told me!"
"Sit. It’s not a big deal or he would have said something. He’s not shy."
Before Sean could say more, Anchor started. “I do not believe you can accurately target two hundred bad guys from that small room. You say that to scare your enemies."
Paloma flushed, but smiled sweetly, “We're variously tasked with launching missile attacks, stalking submarines, protecting aircraft carriers, stopping drug traffickers, and carrying out relief missions. If required, we can shoot a cruise missile through the porthole of a ship.” To Anchor’s gaping mouth, she nodded. “Yeah, we're that good."
Anchor’s fists balled and his face turned red. "You think you are gods, your strength inviolable." His voice had become strident. Several officers glared and left.
Paloma’s eyes flattened. She forced a smile, "No Cruiser has been in battle since WWII so the effectiveness of these weapons is theoretic."
A lone, slow applause echoed from an alcove of overstuffed chairs. "That’s the way to do it, Chacone,” in the same tone he might say, ‘I found a dead rat in the kitchen’.
Sean jerked. He recognized that voice from the tapes as the man who had been talking to Mohammed. He glanced at the name tag. Kevin Taggert, Executive Officer. His posture, confrontational stance, and scowl said he grabbed respect rather than earned it. Beside him stood a woman who might have stepped off the pages of Penthouse. She wore tight beige cotton pants no panty line and a loose cotton top striped with shades of blue and red. She had a long, alabaster neck, skin like porcelain, and blue eyes big enough to fall into.
Paloma blushed. "XO, Sir. These are my friends, Anchor Mohammed," Anchor bumped his chin up, eyes on Taggert’s date, "and Sean Delamagente." Sean nodded, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets, and wondered why Anchor and Taggert pretended not to know each other.
"This is my fiancée, Shalimar. She’s a writer," and Taggert wrapped a beefy arm around her slender bronzed shoulders. She tilted into his shoulder, eyes on Sean. Taggert smirked. Testosterone oozed from him like body odor, or—Sean sniffed shallowly—it was body odor.
"Come on, baby.” He pulled Shalimar closer and they sauntered off.
"XO Kevin Taggert. He never misses an opportunity to call me out in public, always trying to prove he's better, smarter, and handsomer than everyone around him. Let's go or we’ll miss the Steel Beach picnic."
The Steel Beach picnic turned out to be a buffet lunch on deck complete with barbecued hamburgers, chips, beans, potato salad, brownies, chocolate chip cookies, canned music and good cheer as everyone chatted and basked in the warm California sun. Sean collected his meal and joined Paloma at the only three seats left—the stationary bikes. They balanced their plates on the screens, tucked drinks into the curve of the arm rests, and ate as they talked to the family of the old man Sean met when he arrived. When he asked how a stationary bike worked, Sean pretended to reach across Anchor to point and knocked Anchor's phone over.
"Oh, man, sorry," and he leaped down, retrieved the phone, and sneaked a peek at the number. "An iPhone. Yeah. I wish I could afford one. Is it from your company?"
Before Anchor could snap back an answer, his phone rang, the number popping up on the screen with the international prefix 850.
North Korea.
“Give me my phone,” and he yanked it away before Sean could memorize the rest of the number. "Father!... Yes, our friend will arrive on schedule.... No, I was unable to. … Oh, thank you for arranging the ride. I am looking forward to it... Soon, yes. Excuse me?" Anchor’s gaze hopped to Sean. "Yes, I do... Thank you.”
After lunch, Bunker Hill demo’d the deck guns. The five-inch 54 cal boomed with delicious authority, but the 50 cal shoot was canceled for what XO called 'technical difficulties'.
Anchor snickered. "I guess the volunteer army needs new volunteers."
Paloma retorted, "We're about to dock. Anything either of you would like to see before we wrap it up?"
"I have a few places.” Anchor proffered a list and Sean’s photographic memory took a snapshot. Sean would run it by Eitan.
Paloma’s forehead wrinkled. “XO has the same list. Did you get it from him?"
"Never mind. We should go." His voice trailed off.
As Sean drove home, he mulled over the day. The tension between Anchor and Paloma finally boiled over as they pulled into the dock. Paloma accused him of hiding something and he told her to mind her own business. Sean’s car was blocked by several other families, so he didn’t get to follow Anchor as he’d planned. Instead, he stopped to pick up snacks at the corner store, parked the car back in the manager’s spot, and sprinted to his apartment, eager to get Eitan’s take on everything.
His door was open. He flipped the light switch, but nothing happened so he stepped in slowly and let his eyes adjust to the dim.
"Man."
Every piece of electronic equipment was smashed, furniture turned over, food dumped randomly. Only the eel remained unaffected. The three-foot baby swam serenely back and forth in its massive tank.
“I got lucky.” He pressed his face against the glass tank. "Hey, Itui. Everything’s OK."
The fish latched onto him with her luminous unblinking eye. Sean smiled. The most important piece in the apartment and the thieves missed it.
Sean didn’t care about the equipment and his computer’s nine-digit encryption made it unhackable in the ten hours he’d been gone. He sent a command to wipe the drives. Anything of importance was stored online. What bothered him was the empty desk drawer. After ten minutes kicking through the detritus of what had been his apartment, he had to admit the only paper file he owned was missing. Why would someone want it?
His thoughts were interrupted when pain knifed through his head. As he lost consciousness, his brain went on autopilot. He connected Anchor's call from his father to another conversation… Taggert’s voice… His mind flipped everything into place until Sean knew why Anchor needed those six locations. I have to call Eitan... And he passed out.
Chapter Twenty-five
Day Ten, Wednesday, August 16th, 1 am
Columbia University Office of Kali Delamagente
After Zeke rushed off, Kali gave up sleep and went to her office. Since the funeral was today, she wouldn’t see him most of the morning.
“Otto, how did you find Virginia?”
“When Virginia launched torpedoes, my sensors tracked the variance in acoustics.”
No matter how silent Virginia’s passage, Otto would pick up the difference between the ocean with a sub and without. Kali started at Virginia’s last known location—the Caribbean—and extended out. Any sounds, Otto would compare to an immense database of audio files identified as typical to a Virginia-class submarine. Since nothing in nature compared to the mechanical sound of torpedo doors opening or weapons launching, the ID was easy.
Kali had a hunch. “Would you compare time-frame of data to what it should sound like without a submarine and identify discrepancies.”
Otto hummed through data for three minutes. “There is a disruption in the surrounding magnetic fluxes that, although does not negate the degaussing, provides an obvious senso
ry digital image. It is unusual. I wouldn’t expect it to accompany a submarine.”
“Find the change in the data for the area.” Otto would use the same model astrologists use to find new planets, by noting deviations in gravitation pull. If America’s warships could find the variances Otto identified, they could find Virginia.
“Can you identify what is causing it?”
Otto churbled. “I will require more information.”
“It must be the paint. They didn’t apply it to the inside of the torpedo tubes. Why would they? A torpedo pretty well gives their location away.”
"Hey, babe." Fatigue shrouded Zeke’s voice.
"You look tired,” despite a new black pinstripe suit, paisley tie, white silk shirt, shining patent wingtips. “And…un-Zekelike.”
"You look gorgeous."
“I have news—" Before she could continue, James marched in.
“I brought lunch,” and he dropped a pink donut box on the table. His clothing was impeccable, but a deep dent scarred his forehead. Kali helped herself to a Styrofoam cup of donut holes. Zeke and James each took frosted buttermilk. Donuts had been Zeke and Kali’s first commonality, a year ago when they hated each other.
"USS Chancellorsville has two SH ASW 60Bs—anti-submarine warfare helos searching from Virginia’s last known position.” James’s voice sounded as defeated as Kali had ever heard.
“Thanks for inviting me, SA James.”
Kali and Zeke both jerked toward the door and then to James. “Special Agent Haster,” they said together.
“I didn’t expect you,” from Zeke.
“Didn’t want you, either,” Kali muttered under her breath.
Haster’s funeral dress included rolled up sleeves and a tie stuffed into his pocket. "Oliver Najafian, a man we believe connected to the hijackings, died last night. He was a lab assistant for Dr. Penbury at Imperial College London."
Kali blanched. "Dr. John Penbury?"
Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2) Page 15
