He froze, mind flitting back to Dinar Hussabi and the promised fishing trip with his parents. Were the hijackers going to escape before the sub blew? Not likely through the Weapons Shipping Hatch, but he checked anyway. When no one exited, he took a quick peek and a fetid sourness assaulted him. He held his nose to stop from sneezing.
And smiled. The crew had broken the CO2 scrubbers, forcing the sub to surface for fresh air. Should he go inside? He had surprise on his side, but he didn’t know where the hostages were. No, better to continue with the plan. He edged onward, shivering in the chill wind, chain clanking behind him only slightly muffled by the C4 that cushioned the metal. No doubt, the noise gave his presence away, so he better hurry.
When he reached the conning tower, he wondered if the terrorists were watching from the Flying Bridge as he scooted along the deck. It didn’t matter. They didn’t have time to stop him. He wrapped his arms around the smooth surface and shimmied up to a standing position. There, he clung, feeling the sub’s power under his feet. Once he found his balance, he moved as fast as the slick deck allowed around the aft hatch—also open and stinking—to his destination.
The propeller.
He spread his stance, bulky satchel bomb in front between his hands, and flung it toward the propeller. If things went according to plan, it would slide down the tail and get sucked into the screw. The goal wasn't to stop the screw—nothing would do that—but foul it. The C4 would destroy the shaft seal and flood the sub. According to Otto's simulation, the sub would sink without killing the crew. But this had to be done in the center of the Bay, in twenty plus feet of water.
His plan had one hinky spot. Once the satchel bomb snagged itself in the screw, Rowe had to set the timer. He needed twelve minutes to escape, but that gave the hijackers enough time to blow the reactor.
Damn. His throw was short. He reeled the bomb in and inched closer to the sub’s tail. Before he could try again, the sub shook like it had been hit by a torpedo. Rowe thrashed as his legs flew out from under him and he landed hard, catching himself from sliding into the water.
"What the—" A Tomahawk exploded from the sub’s VLS tube and threw him back. It rose in a graceful arc, contrail white against the blue sky. "Weren’t they disabled?"
The Tomahawk whistled a high-pitched alarm as it flew for DC. Thousands of people were there including the President and the British Prime Minister unless James had persuaded them to move. Rowe’s stomach heaved as the missile arced downward and disappeared over the horizon with a muted blast. A thick gray cloud mushroomed into the air.
But no explosion. Rowe had no time to celebrate. The hijackers now knew they had only one weapon: the sub itself. As if on cue, Virginia turned to port.
Rowe would have to set the timer to eight minutes.
He wobbled back to his feet, slipped on the slick surface, threw his arms out to balance, and prepared his next toss. Behind him, someone shouted in Farsi. He spread his arms and flung the chain forward. It slipped down the sub's tail and stopped short of the prop. He needed to get closer. He reeled it in quickly as he took two steps forward, ignoring the agitated sounds behind him. Rowe balanced the satchel and threw again, feet sloshing awkwardly on the wet deck. This time, it worked. He set the timer and prepared to free himself and swim to shore.
A hand seized his shoulder. Rowe whipped around, kicking as he spun. When the man stumbled and fell, Rowe slammed his cupped hands over his ears and pulled out, exploding his eardrums. The attacker collapsed into the water, writhing in pain. He snatched the satchel charge like a life preserver and then uttered a wretched cry as the screw pulled him, the chain, and its deadly payload in.
By now, the sub was perpendicular to the shoreline. Rowe pulled the knife from his vest so he could cut the rope around his waist, but got no further. Someone yanked his head back. He glimpsed a leering grin as he dropped to the deck as though off balance, twisted, sweeping the attacker’s feet out from under him. The man fell with a thud and scuttled backward. Rowe tried to follow, but the rope tightened around his waist as the screw pulled it into the blades. He better cut first, fight later.
Six minutes remained.
Again, the man attacked, this time throwing up his forearms like the cowcatcher on a train, trying to knock Rowe backward into the prop. Rowe spun to the side, lost his grip on the knife and heard it rattle across the deck as he whacked the man's elbow down and away, caught his head and rolled him. The man wrenched loose and slammed Rowe to the ground and the screw yanked him into the water. The attacker froze in a half-crouch and then grinned as understanding reached his eyes.
"You will die, infidel," he said in heavily accented English. "A fitting end,” and he laughed like a maniac as he struggled to his feet.
No way would Rowe allow this enemy to finish his deadly work. He pulled his spare knife from his vest and realized he had a choice: Kill the man who intended to murder over a hundred crew members and destroy Rowe’s homeland, or free himself.
A second later, the terrorist fell, the knife lodged deep into his left side, where the heart was.
Rowe checked his watch. Three minutes. The prop screamed as the satchel bomb wrapped tighter and tighter around the screw. Rowe splashed through the water, levered himself up, and searched madly for the knife, hoping to find it tangled in the rope. Finally, he gave up, his body still and eyes shut, as he came to grips with his fate. "I may die, but my country—Kali and Duck—they will live."
He breathed out slowly, forcing his mind to still, trying to remember even one prayer from his childhood. “Our father—"
"Zero.” He barely heard the voice. “Zero! Hold the rope up or I shoot your hand off!"
Duck? He should have been on shore by now, but he sounded like he was right off Rowe’s starboard. And how’d he get a lasso around his neck?
"Duck! Get out of here. It’s about to blow!" Rowe choked out as he gagged on a mouthful of rancid water. Thirty seconds and everything around would be incinerated.
“I mean it, Zero. Get your arm through that loop. You got five seconds!”
A wave of water hit Rowe and he coughed violently, trying to find Duck through his clouded vision. He gripped the housing around the screw, wriggled through the lasso, and held the rope as steady as possible. A 9mm barked. Mind-numbing pain cut through his wrist, followed by a vicious yank and an ear-shattering boom. A wall of water crashed into him and he flew up, over, and lost consciousness.
Chapter Fifty-six
Day Twenty-four, August 30th
USS Bunker Hill, Sea of Japan
Sun stabbed a text message into the satellite phone, and then stared, waiting. Moments later, Paloma spoke softly through the phone’s speaker: “You’re too late, Anchor. Virginia was destroyed—before it attacked Washington. You no longer have leverage to trade for those codes.”
Anchor chortled. “That was Nasr’s plan, not mine. This vessel is a gift to my father. Try to stop me and I will destroy it and everyone aboard. I do not fear death. Give me the armory key, Paloma."
There were footsteps, a loud slap, and a grunt. Mohammed’s voice reverberated in the speaker. "I dislike repeating myself."
"Catch." Paloma's voice.
Mohammed: “Place these everywhere marked on this picture. Kill anyone who gets in your way.”
Paloma’s voice: “That’s C4. You’re placing it in the spots XO marked on the DC plate. You’ll sink the ship!”
Mohammed: "Paloma. Please call your crew up to the Bridge immediately. Mr. Taggert provided me the roster so I will know if someone is missing."
Paloma ordered all crewmembers to convene on the Bridge. As the crew arrived, they were hustled into the helo hanger, the only room large enough to hold everyone.
When the footsteps silenced, Mohammed said, "You are eight short."
"They are dead from the air battle or too injured to move."
“Or hiding,” James’s voice. “I have a hunch Chacone knows.”
"Alright. I believe y
ou. Why would you lie? Erfan. Please bring the officers from the hanger." Footsteps thumped and disappeared.
Five minutes later, the sounds of pushing and shoving as the officers arrived. A few shouted at Mohammed. One begged. Mohammed said nothing, the only sound shrieks, the chatter of machine gun fire, and Mohammed counting, "One, two, three, four..."
Paloma screamed, "Stop! I'll find them! Please!" but the shots continued.
“Six, seven, eight.” The shots ended with ragged breathing. Finally, from Mohammed, "I have a job for you, Paloma, when you recover. Assist me in delivering this ship to my father."
“Anchor. I am a lieutenant. No one will listen to me.”
A crack and a thump echoed through the phone, followed by another and another, and then Paloma's sobs.
"You are now the senior officer.” Anchor’s voice was calm.
Kali heard anguished sobs, choking, hiccupping, and deep breaths as Paloma fought to regain control.
“You will sail this ship to Wonsan Harbor, Captain Chacone. Unless there is another problem I can solve for you?"
There was a sniffle, labored breaths, then, "If those North Korean planes sank us, how would you present us to your father?"
“She’s giving us time to get there and rescue what remains of her crew,” Kali whispered.
Mohammed sighed. "Who would know you would fight so hard? We thought you would surrender after our first air wave, certainly after the second and third, but you kept battling. I had to stop you myself. Alhamdulillah. "
James broke in. “We have five ships closing on Bunker Hill, but North Korea has twice as many coming south and they’re closer. Gen. Soon Young is screaming that Bunker Hill committed an Act of War and if we try to take it back, they’ll sink it."
“America won’t abandon the crew.”
“Bunker Hill is two hundred miles from North Korea and twice as far from our ships. The DPRK has the fourth largest army in the world which is a lot of reasons to take them seriously.”
Kali expected Eitan to be devastated, but he bounced in his chair, eyes focused, hands steady, fingers flying.
Mohammed’s voice came over the phone again. "Tell your friends to stop chasing us or I blow Bunker Hill up."
Kali heard a whisper of movement, then Assalaamu Álaykum.
Otto said, “The man Mr. Mohammed sent to plant the C4 has returned. I believe he finished.”
Sun 's head bobbed. "I promised her." His fingers flew, the keyboard chattered. Kali glimpsed the words "Top Secret" disappear from the monitor. Sun smiled into the miasma, his spirit somewhere no mortal man could follow, where he would do anything—including trade his freedom—to prevent a woman he barely knew and sailors he’d only met once from dying.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Wednesday August 30th, evening
The Sea of Japan, aboard USS Bunker Hill CG 52
Without warning, Nav yelled, "Sub off our port beam, a Romeo class.”
Mohammed smiled. “Our escort has arrived."
The Captain’s Indigo message, Battle Orders giving him authority to attack as needed, passed to the highest ranking officer at his death. Today, that was LT Paloma Chacone.
“Secure for battle!” No way would she allow an enemy sub near her ship.
Mohammed started to object when Nav yelled, "Torpedo in the water! Second torpedo in the water! Inbound port side!"
Mohammed looked stunned. “What? They are here to protect us! Why are they firing?”
Paloma felt like spitting on this stupid man. "Load and fire ASROC!"
"Negative, ma’am. No one’s manning that station."
"Electro, get a Flash message off. Tell Command we have two fish running at us."
“Ma’am, I don’t know how.”
Nav added, “SHF is down anyway.”
Paloma glared at Jane. “Figure it out, Ensign.” She wanted to say, ‘Use Bridge to Bridge,’ to request what coverage the approaching US vessels could provide from three hundred miles, but she couldn’t say any of that with Mohammed listening. Jane would solve it.
"All engines ahead flank! Right full rudder." Modern torpedoes cut through the water faster than Bunker Hill even with all its engines working, but the Romeo had old fish.
The Helmsman responded, “All engines ahead flank. Right full rudder. Aye, ma’am.”
Mohammed yelped, “What are you doing?”
“If we don’t get out of the way of those fish, how will you gift us to your father?”
Mohammed looked confused and Paloma jerked from his grasp. “Let’s hope old torpedoes from an old sub are not only slow, but won’t track us. Helmsman, evasive actions! Launch ADCs!” Acoustic defense countermeasures would create a cacophony of noise every time the ship’s rudder shifted, hopefully confusing the torpedo.
Immediately, Bunker Hill swerved ninety degrees to starboard throwing Mohammed against the console. He scrambled to regain his balance. Paloma never wavered.
"Helmsman. Maintain same degrees off original course." The ship made another violent ninety-degree swing in the opposite direction to create a knuckle.
"Reverse direction!" and Bunker Hill veered seventy-five degrees. This would continue until the torpedo ran out of fuel or found its mark.
As it turned out, the Romeo's fish were no match for modern strategies. One slowed to a halt short of its target. The second swerved to chase something off the ship’s starboard.
“Another torpedo in the water! This one isn’t from the Romeo."
Paloma sighed. “Your Islamic masters turned on you, Ankour.”
Mohammed turned white. “Do something!”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fire Controlman Second Class James Burlowe skulking around the shattered infrastructure of the Bridge Wing, eyes focused on something below. He was missing when she called the crew to the Bridge, assumed dead. She remembered his promise not three hours ago that no one would take his ship.
Nav interrupted her thoughts. "Ma’am. The fish is targeting the Romeo. Lots of cavitation noises. He’s digging big holes in the ocean trying to escape.”
Ten seconds passed, and then an explosion rocked the battered cruiser. Air bubbled to the surface as the Romeo vented to the sea and a sheen of oil spread where the sub had been.
“Direct hit. The Romeo is gone.”
Paloma stood there, confused, trying to figure out what happened, as did Mohammed. Fear flitted across his face replaced by madness.
“It does not matter if you have a friend out there, Paloma.” He fluttered the plunger for the C4 at her. “If they try to take this ship back, I will blow it up. I have no fear of dying. A glorious world awaits me with Allah. Your only hope of survival is if America will trade for you once we reach North Korea.”
Mohammed thought he held all the cards, but Paloma had a plan.
“Helmsman. All engines stop.”
“No,” Mohammed countermanded. “Continue to Wonsan Harbor.” One of Mohammed’s mujahedeen shoved the business end of an AK-47 into her chest. She slapped it away.
“Ankour, we went through a violent air battle and a sub attack. If you want to reach North Korea, we need to make sure the ship will make it.”
Mohammed blinked. “You have five minutes.”
The Helmsman went with two jihadist escorts to check the spaces for seaworthiness. That bought her rescuers five minutes.
But it wouldn’t be enough. There on the horizon were the North Korean ships.
Three minutes later, the engines fell silent.
Mohammed almost wrenched her arm from its socket. “What’s going on?”
Paloma yanked free and rubbed her shoulder as she stared at the dark, powerless console.
“After what we’ve been through, there are any number of reasons we’d stall. I need to send a repair crew to check.”
Burlowe flitted through her peripheral vision again, trying to tell her something. Had he closed the fuel cut off valves outside the main engine room? He gestured in a cir
cle with his finger as a dark figure peeked through the Bridge hatchway. Mohammed was too focused on Paloma to notice.
"I do not believe you, but you cannot escape. My father’s ships are twice as close as your fleet. If America interferes, I blow up Bunker Hill,” and he again waived the plunger that would detonate the C4 stuffed around the ship. He held up one of the ship’s Hydra radios. “This is tied into the ship’s wireless frequency. When I push it, poof! The ship sinks.”
Sweat dimpled his forehead and his eyes were rimmed in red. He squealed with laughter. "From the frying pan into the fire, is this what your countrymen say?" A smile spread across his face. "Now, get those engines running or I start killing sailors."
"Not today, mother fucker. Put your weapon down."
The voice boomed, equal measures commanding and brutal. Paloma jerked. The warrior was massive with broad shoulders, muscles everywhere, and USMC tattooed across his neck. Mohammed spun to face him, hand raised, finger poised.
Four more SEALs appeared out of nowhere with not enough movement to leave a shadow. They arrayed themselves among the ruined consoles, automatic weapons aimed at Mohammed and the remaining mujahid. Paloma saw lumpy human piles where jihadists had stood two minutes earlier. Behind the SEALs, each with a 9 mm aimed at Mohammed, stood Burlowe and Collins. Burlowe’s legs were spread, dark eyes smoldering, cords in his neck drumhead taught, a slight smile on his granite face.
One of the SEALs winked at Paloma before turning a flinty glare back at Mohammed. "Please let me shoot."
Mohammed raised his hand to show the detonator. "I have C4 throughout the ship, placed at the most vulnerable spots. If I push this, we all die, but I have the last laugh."
“What d’you think took us so long to get here?”
Mohammed took one step back and pushed the plunger—
Nothing.
His entire body shook, and then the corners of his mouth pulled up a fraction and he spun. A knife appeared out of nowhere. His arm cocked, ready to pinion her. Six H&K PM7s exploded, cutting him down before his arm began its forward arc, and Mohammed dropped like a house of cards, dead before he hit.
Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2) Page 31
