Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)

by Jacqui Murray

  FBI Safe House

  “Excuse me, Zeke. The missile began its descent.”

  “Bunker Hill will stop it.”

  “They failed. The Taepodong-II is carrying chaff. It confused Bunker Hill’s only SM-3 and will succeed in doing the same with Japan’s Patriots. We have five minutes before impact with the island."

  The Sea of Japan

  USS Bunker Hill CG 52

  "Sir, a South Korean helo is requesting permission to land.”

  The Captain’s voice came over Net15. “XO?”

  XO’s voice came on. “I-I got a Flash about that—“

  “Pilothouse,” the Captain ordered.

  “Go.” From WEPS, offering to cover her watch as TAO, and she sprinted for the Bridge.

  The Captain shouted from the debris-strewn command post. “What the hell’s wrong, XO?"

  One look at Taggert’s face said something was very-the-hell wrong.

  "I... I... my mother..." He started to cry. "It's not—they said it’s not weaponized."

  A tingle went up Paloma’s neck as the Captain, asked, "What are you talking about?"

  Taggert’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He looked at her, and then at the Bridge’s fax machine. She followed his gaze.

  Why did Command send a picture of her ex-boyfriend to Bunker Hill? She stepped toward it as the Captain asked, "How do you know, Mr. Taggert?"

  “They promised it was fiction, you know, for my fiancée’s story. Nothing else.” He looked like a child who’s been lied to.

  Broken glass crunched behind her.

  "Mr. Taggert.” The voice shouldn’t be anywhere near her ship. “Do you have the codes?"

  XO’s mouth fell open. After a few disjointed starts, he said, "N-no. I-I told you. You’ll destroy the ship and all hands—"

  “The alternative is I will destroy you. Those images Shalimar took? I embedded information about the bribes you received, how you planned to turn your ship over to the enemy. Once some bright intel agent figures out the steganography, this attack will become your doing.”

  “Steg…”

  “The art of hiding electronic data within digital files.”

  Taggert studied his feet. “I can’t do—”

  There was a crack and Taggert folded, head smacking the counter as he collapsed. Anchor laughed as Paloma bent over Taggert. His eyes fluttered, head lolling into the crimson pool spreading under his thorax. She bit back her anger as she put her hand on his wound, trying to staunch the blood. He clutched her uniform.

  "I didn't give him the codes, the backdoor, to the missiles—"

  There was another crack and this time, a hole blossomed over Taggert's left eye. He wilted and went still. Paloma sucked in a breath and blinked back tears, their arguments now inconsequential. He was a damaged man who had reached his limits and tried to solve his problems by making a deal with the devil, but when it came down to it, couldn’t betray the Navy he’d served with distinction for twenty plus years.

  "Why are you here?” She asked Mohammed as she activated the satellite phone Eitan had given her.

  “You and I have unfinished business.”

  “And that required six armed men?” she snapped, hoping Eitan was listening. Then she pasted fear across her face. “I am sorry I ended it between us,” she lied. “It frightened me, getting serious—”

  “I dumped you!” His voice was thick with emotion. “I used you. Nothing else.” Spittle burst from his mouth. “In fact,” and he slapped her. Hard. “I cringed sitting near you, touching you. It made me dirty to talk to you. You will spend the rest of your insignificant life as a whore. I will parcel you out to friends as favors until you are worthless for even that. Then, you die.” Anchor grinned, eyes crazed. He chucked the nearest soldier in the arm, giggled something about the value of white whores. The man responded with a lecherous grin, eyes devouring her body beneath the androgynous Navy uniform.

  She wrung her hands as though upset. “I’ll do anything if you let the crew go.”

  Mohammed laughed, giddy with excitement. "You will anyway, but yes. We can arrange a trade. I want the missile codes. We have them for your premiere nuclear sub, Virginia. I want Bunker Hill’s in return for the lives of your crew.”

  “I have no knowledge of them, Anchor,” which was true. "Sir?" She turned to Captain Pearson.

  "So my weapons can kill innocents?" Anger erupted from the man who convinced newly-minted eighteen-year-olds to face death with pride. “No, LT. This scum gets nothing. Ever."

  Mohammed’s voice: "Oh. Well, I can fix that,” and he shot the Captain.

  Paloma screamed, "You killed the only person who might have them.”

  He gloated. “Tell your president I will trade your sailor’s lives for those codes.”

  By now, Paloma was shaking, tears threatening to overflow, but she raised her chin and looked down her nose at the man who stood there, legs spread, feet duck-toed, chin jutting forward like a boxer who’s forgotten he has a glass jaw.

  It was time for her first blow. "No one’s going to make a trade with you, Anchor."

  “I don’t care.” That wasn’t the response Paloma expected. “Then I will gift your little ship to my father, North Korea’s Wonsu." He scanned the room to be sure the soldiers caught his father’s title. “You have no way out.”

  “Are you really this stupid?” She shook her head disdainfully, goading Anchor. “Half the 7th Fleet is bearing down on this position. Give up, Anchor, before you get yourself and your little friends hurt.”

  His face turned white with rage. “You know nothing.”

  “Try me,” she growled.

  Anchor bit. “As we speak, your nation's capital is under attack."

  Paloma felt her face drain of color, saw Anchor’s glee in her shock, but still sputtered, "Attack DC?" She hoped Eitan heard this.

  Anchor laughed moronically. "Misinformation and misdirection. Every time you thought you understood our goal, we were somewhere else.” He walked up to the splintered Bridge window and pointed northeast to the descending missile silhouetted against the sky. "When my father’s missile hits Japan, your government will send everything in its arsenal to aid the Japanese people.” He was breathless in his excitement. “No one will notice a sub sneaking down the Chesapeake.”

  Despite herself, Paloma was impressed. Clearly, someone smarter than Anchor developed this plan.

  He cathedraled his fingers and tapped his upper lip. “After we destroy your Capitol, America will give us the codes to all its warships to save what remains of the country."

  Paloma shivered. Where was Eitan?

  New York, New York

  FBI Safe House

  "Otto, can you redirect the missile to fall into the Sea of Japan?"

  "Of course. I can tell it to undershoot the intended target by 85.37 miles. I can also, as the failsafe you humans like to employ, tell the weapon to not arm itself."

  "Do it.”

  Otto hummed and then red splashed across his chest monitor. “There’s a problem. This is an archaic missile.” He riffled. “I must go through the North Korean handler.”

  Kali stiffened and her temples throbbed.

  “I tracked the wireless line back to the North Korean headquarters. I’m hacking the firewalls. They are sophisticated for such an old missile. The warhead armed itself. I must send a self-destruct order within the next thirty seconds, but these protocols match nothing I’ve seen."

  Tension soaked Zeke’s voice as he jumped in. “Remember you asked how I solve problems without following rules. Well, there’s always an unexpected twist. Rather than looking for usual or logical, go with your mechanical gut.”

  Otto’s processors burred more loudly than she thought they could. Numbers flew across his screen, all zeros and ones, which meant he didn’t have the nano-second required to translate.

  Eitan looked pale. A ragged fringe of oily hair stuck from under a ‘Go Navy Beat Army’ ball cap. He bounced, lips moving
as he translated. "Otto got in… sent the self-destruct order. … The warhead asked for authentication. Otto... provided it. The missile is destroying itself."

  Otto churbled. "Most pieces should fall into the ocean with some landing on Honshu, Sado-ga-shima, and Tobi-shima. I'm sending an open channel alert to all vessels in the area."

  Kali took a breath, but jerked at a voice behind her.

  “Wow. That was awesome."

  Sean stood in the doorway in his pajamas, hair ruffled, cheeks flushed.

  "Sean!"

  "That's what I want to do, mom. I want to make a difference. Like you did. And Zeke. And Eitan. I want to matter."

  Tears sprang to Kali’s eyes. Didn’t he know how much he mattered to her?

  James broke in. "North Korea is furious, swears we turned a harmless missile into a hailstorm of lethal debris, said our counterattack is why the missile aimed at Yamagata. Japan played back a tape of the North Korean extortion demand. The two nations are negotiating on the next step, which I suspect will rhyme with North Korea promising to leave them alone for a very long time. The press is ready to excoriate us for acting like cowboys on the international stage as soon as ‘all the facts are in’. We told the Japanese Emperor Otto talked the missile out of attacking. He declared him a national hero—and loves the palindrome."

  Kali giggled. Leave it to the Japanese to get that.

  There were congratulatory hoots all around. Kali knew there remained a lot of work to do, but for the first time in ten days, they were a step ahead. So why was Eitan so pale?

  "Eitan. Is Paloma OK?"

  "Bunker Hill has been boarded, probably by terrorists from the helo." Eitan placed a phone on the desk. "This is feed from the satellite phone I gave her before she left."

  "Anchor. We blew up your missile. Give up while you’ve done nothing more serious than murder." Her voice carried none of the stress she must feel. Kali couldn't help but be impressed by this young woman, minutes out of a naval battle the likes of which the US last fought in WWII, her ship boarded, and she maintained the presence of mind to reach out to Eitan. What faith she placed in an odd little man she barely knew. How could she know Eitan regularly performed miracles?

  "What right have you to destroy our weapon, you with your corruption and godlessness? Allah condemns you!” Anchor’s voice carried a desperate edge.

  “Gotcha.” Zeke’s voice. “He admitted the weapon is armed and he’s working with DPRK.”

  "You have six AK 47s pointed at me. How does my corruption and godlessness help now?"

  Mohammed blustered, “Tell your President he must trade or Virginia will destroy Washington!”

  Otto interrupted. “I have a location on Virginia, Zeke. The SOSUS across the Chesapeake reported a contact. I have information from Nasr's computer that applies. He took dozens of pictures of a location named 'Herring Bay'.”

  The paint must have worn off. Kali expected Zeke to reply, but got James instead.

  “Zeke’s gone. He flew out of here. Does anyone know where he went?”

  Sun smiled benignly as an abundance of numbers pulsed across his screen. Iran and North Korea in a complicated dance of deception, a tangled web of lies, not realizing they were puppets. But the puppet master didn’t know Sun had decoded the dance.

  "Excuse me, Kali. Zeke would like me to run a simulation. May I?"

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Wednesday, August 30th, early Evening

  The Chesapeake Bay, Approaching Herring Bay

  “Every available American warship is either protecting her shores or racing to rescue Bunker Hill.” Even the lousy connection didn’t hide the strain in James’s voice.

  “Yeah, it’s a hunch, Bobby, but I’m right.”

  “Duck’s there, isn’t he? And we have a sub and a cruiser patrolling the mouth of the Chesapeake. If Virginia’s going to set a dirty bomb off close enough to reach Washington, it must pass them first.”

  “Except it’s already here.” But Bobby had already disconnected.

  He braced himself as the 108-foot wooden-hulled YP bolted south on the Chesapeake, past O’Neill Island on the right and the private docks that sprinkled the shoreline of Kent Island on the left, toward the location he should have recognized twenty-four days ago—33 44 90—the shallowest spot on the Chesapeake. The SEALs ran simulations here, hypothesizing exactly what Dhiren Barot laid out in his blueprints. These were so top secret only a handful of people outside the Teams knew and none of them thought it would happen.

  Now, he had to do what his Team had never accomplished in practice: stop an attack.

  North Korea had focused the world on the downed missile and Bunker Hill’s plight. That played right into Salah al-Zahrawi’s hands. The man loved misdirection and distraction. With the eyes of the world on the Sea of Japan, al-Zahrawi would even the score with the country that had cost him his reputation and his bankroll.

  It might still work.

  The moment Otto found Virginia, the bits of information playing bumper cars in Rowe’s brain fell into place. He and Duck choppered to USNA’s Farragut Field right off the Chesapeake, a short distance from the YP boats used to teach Naval Academy Midshipmen seafaring skills. A Navy buddy offered the assistance of Mids from the Academy’s sailing team, but Rowe refused. This trip likely would be one-way.

  “Faster, Duck,” Rowe bellowed over the whine of engines strained to the breaking point.

  “I’m maxed. This bouncing baby only goes seventeen knots.”

  In one sense, Rowe wished Virginia was going to attack Washington. Tomahawks would only kill hundreds. No. The terrorists were turning the sub into a dirty bomb. When it blew up, it couldn’t sink deep enough to drown the nuclear explosion so the resulting cloud would kill thousands of civilians and devastate the area surrounding DC for decades.

  Rowe, though, had his own plan, one with pretty much no chance to work but was all he came up with on the twenty-five-minute helo ride down.

  Duck shouted over the engine noise. “Virginia’s reactor is an S9G, built by General Electric. The only way to blow it is with a bomb."

  Rowe grunted. “Which they have several of.” Duck deftly zigged around a fishing boat trolling for blue crab. “What's the sounding here?"

  The rule in a water-based nuclear explosion was ten percent neutralization for every two feet. A twenty-foot depth would defuse the explosion. According to Al-alah’s records, Virginia would maneuver north until it reached Herron Bay, one of the Chesapeake’s shallowest inlets. There it would turn to port and steam full speed into the sloping banks, beaching the sub. When the nuclear reactor blew, it would have nowhere to go but up.

  Rowe needed to stop Virginia before it went aground.

  Duck kept one hand on the wheel and with the other, rolled a bathymetric map out on the deck. "Fifteen meters.”

  “How far to Herring Bay?”

  “Five clicks. What’s your plan?"

  Rowe grinned. "They gotta surface to head inland. When they do, I have a surprise."

  His Naval Academy buddy who arranged for the use of the YP had thrown in a high-powered Hollis H-160 scuba scooter. It would carry Rowe’s equipment with no problem, but the way Rowe intended to run it, would be out of juice in thirty minutes.

  Which meant he had to get as close as possible.

  He stared down river as the YP flew forward. In the distance, the wap-wap of helos echoed as they dropped sonobuoys by the mouth of the Chesapeake.

  Duck said, "God bless those boys who messed with the torpedo tubes. At least we won't get blown out of the water."

  "I hope they got the VLSs, too."

  The YP plunged down the Chesapeake. Rowe used a bullhorn to warn boats off the Bay. The sightseers ignored him, but the fishermen moved toward the docks.

  As soon as the YP reached latitude 38o 44’ 90”, Duck slowed to a stop and Rowe stripped down to his swim trunks, suited up in a rebreather, mask, fins, and a vest with his dive knives and compass, then draped
a chain around his neck attached to his waist with a rope. Called a satchel bomb, it had C4 embedded along its length. Rowe scanned the choppy surface for the sub’s antennae. It should be visible at this depth. He did a grid search, back and forth across the deeper center and then south to the next quadrant. Finally, Virginia showed up, five hundred yards ahead and just past the tip of James Island.

  It had already surfaced.

  Rowe went cold. Was he too late? He stared at the sub’s stubby nose and calculated its position relative to the shore. No. It hadn’t yet turned inland. He tossed the Hollis in the water, took a quick breath from the rebreather and flipped over the side into the Chesapeake. Without a diving suit, the cold water hit him like a bed of nettles. Rowe attached the satchel bomb to his waist so it would trail behind, jumped on the Hollis, and turned it downstream. Within moments, the cigar-shaped body of Virginia loomed into view.

  He leaped from the scooter letting it sink to the silty river bed. He spread his arms and legs like an X and the sub’s nose slammed into his body. Though underway at less than five knots, it still felt like a freight train. His head bounced off the sub as he scrabbled legs and arms around the slick rounded shape and clung with all he was worth until he steadied himself, then started to claw his way up. The sub felt clammy under his skin, the smell of fish, motor oil and waste strong in his nostrils.

  After what felt like hours, he broke through the surface only to be torn loose as a flood of water sluiced from the deck over his body. He grabbed on again, fingers straining to maintain a grip, and then he pulled himself up and over the lip of the deck, the heavy six-foot chain clanging against the sub’s skin. The rough Chesapeake, driven by a brisk wind, threatened his precarious purchase, but he clung until he got his bearings and managed to push to his feet.

  He stumbled, flailed, then steadied himself, flipped his mask and flippers off, and decided what with the slippery deck and chain’s weight, he better crawl the 377 feet.

  Then, he saw the open hatch. Not one of the twelve VLS tubes. He would notice if the sub launched a Tomahawk missile. No, this marked the ingress to the sub’s interior.