* * *
The team left the Stellar in resolute quiet. Billy, with Tops at his side, took the lead. He already had a pretty good idea the direction they’d need to follow. Everything around this place was covered in gray, oily soot—including the rooftop they were traversing across. Not only were their own footprints starkly evident, others could be seen as well—those of the Stellar’s remaining crew.
Billy recalled Tops’ background, prior to becoming a Ranger sniper.
“You’re an experienced game hunter … that right, Tops?”
“Yes, sir. Back home in Wy … Wy… Wyoming. Hell, from age t … t … ten on I was hunting … tracking … elk, moose, even wild bison.”
Billy gestured toward the footprints showing ahead: “What do those prints tell you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. There are five different sets of tracks. I’ve isolated those of the two girls—Boomer’s and Mollie’s—which are right here, see?
Both are pretty much identical … same size feet, small … females wearing battle suit footwear. And here’s Rizzo’s; big effing feet—size thirteen. Two others are over here; both full-sized males, wearing battle suits. Their feet are wider than humans’. Might be the two Sahhrain’s; Drom and … um … what’s the other one’s name?”
“That would be Commander Jarial Shakrim,” Billy said. He’d noticed that Tops’ stuttering had pretty much disappeared while talking about tracking—obviously a subject within his comfort zone.
Three different sets of footprints were still missing, if Tops was correct. According to Mollie and Boomer’s video message—retrieved from Mollie’s droid Teardrop—there were three captive Tahli ministry members also along. Since they weren’t on the Stellar, where were they?
“Were there other footprints back at the ship besides these and ours?” Billy asked, coming to a quick halt.
Tops looked back toward the Stellar—his eyes gazing upward, as if trying to recall something. He nodded slowly and smiled. “I didn’t think they were footprints at first, actually. Three probable sets almost undetectable … very faint. I’ve heard stories of early Native Americans—Indians—capable of moving about without leaving tracks. Air-walkers.”
Billy was relieved Tops noticed the tracks of the Tahli ministry members—each a highly trained Kahill Callan Tahli warrior. Had they escaped and killed Hanna and Leon? Or had there been someone else—the real killer, who had released the ministry members? All he could do for now was speculate—but either scenario made his blood boil. “For now, Tops … let’s follow the girls. They’re our priority. Finding them is our mission.”
Chapter 19
Sol System
Planet Earth, Central Valley Scrapyard, San Bernardino, CA
__________________________
Present day …
Jason watched as his father randomly picked a beer bottle from several gathered by his feet, bringing it up to his mouth—tipping it all the way back—only to find it empty. Obviously frustrated, the admiral repeated the same process twice more before finding one still half-full. He gulped the remains down in one long swig. Setting it down, the empty bottle tipped over onto the cement patio and roiled noisily around for several more seconds.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. What would anyone else do wearing your shoes? In the end, you saved both the ship and the crew.”
Dira nodded her head but said nothing.
The admiral huffed, looking disgusted. His eyes met Jason’s: “Have you ever heard of a battleship called the Montana?”
Jason shook his head.
“That’s because she never made it to the U.S. And there isn’t a USS Montana Battleship museum at Norfolk, or at any other damn base.”
Jason was starting to see why, as things turned out, his father had left—ultimately turning his back on both career and family—feeling disgraced. Ashamed, he’d taken the opportunity to start anew—leaving behind the man he felt he was to become the man he later turned into.
Dira said, “Tell us the rest … what happened?”
Summer, 1995 …
It took twenty minutes to bring the shut down engines back online. Just prior to that, Perry reached Admiral Clive McGuffey by radio aboard the Independence. The conversation did not go well. The admiral, furious, relayed that he would divert the Fifth Carrier Group to intersect with them three hours hence. His parting words: “You will not … I repeat … you will not engage the Chinese. Defend yourself, yes, but take no offensive action whatsoever. Is that clear, Captain.”
“Aye, sir … perfectly.”
“One more thing, Captain Reynolds.”
“Sir?”
“Those reporters on board. You will speak with them … explain what occurred. That what they witnessed was simply a terrible war-games accident. They signed documents prior to boarding, from what I understand. Let them know that if they speak of what occurred, in any regard, they could find themselves behind bars the entirety of their remaining lives. You will confiscate all video-tape media and throw their equipment overboard.”
“Overboard?”
“They will be compensated. Do it now, Captain. When we join up, you and I have a lot to talk about. And don’t ever mention that crap of Greco having two hearts … or whatever that shit was about … to anyone again.”
“Aye, sir.”
* * *
Binoculars up to his eyes, Perry scanned the horseshoe-shaped formation around them—one mile out. The Chinese fleet, determined to be the Nanyang Fleet, was apparently on hold—pending a high-level diplomatic resolution. There was no question about which party was at fault here. The only question that remained was would the crew of the Montana be allowed to abandon ship prior to her imminent destruction?
Perry felt sick to his stomach. Above and beyond feeling personally disgraced, his earlier inaction may have also led to the deaths, possibly, of thousands of Chinese sailors, and perhaps thousands of the Montana’s crew. He’d already decided that no matter what happened he would remain behind—go down with the ship. Hell … what was staying alive worth at this point, anyway?
“Lieutenant Madison, the bridge is yours; I need some air. I won’t be far.”
“The bridge is mine,” he acknowledged, holding out a hand for the binoculars.
Perry exited into bright sunlight. Above him, the sky was robin’s-egg blue. Several puffy oblong clouds were the only remnants of the previous evening’s storm. He heard his name called. “Captain Reynolds!” Turning, he caught the silhouette of someone above him on the conning tower. It was Seaman Miller, now hurrying to join up with him.
“How long were you lurking up there, Seaman?” Perry asked.
“Only a few minutes, sir.”
“Uh huh … so what can I do for you?”
“Ms. Hill. She’s been waiting to talk to you.”
“That’s not possible. All news crews were taken off the ship. They should be comfortably settled now on board the French freighter Persévérante.”
“She didn’t go … hid until the freighter’s skiff loaded up and left.”
“Fine. So where is she now?” Perry asked, rubbing the two-day stubble on his chin.
Miller smiled. “In the captain’s quarters, sir … the official quarters. I think she ordered lunch for the two of you.”
“I don’t have time for this … certainly not now.”
“I’m just the messenger, Captain.”
“Come with me then. We need to get her off the ship, and I might need you to physically help me.”
Miller’s eyes grew wide.
“It may not come to that. Let’s go.”
* * *
Terry Hill was, in fact, waiting in the captain’s quarters and seated at a long table. She looked up as they entered the spacious compartment.
“Ms. Hill … Terry, we need to get you off this ship … it’s a dangerous situation out there.”
She looked as calm as a cucumber. Leaning forward, she took a bite of what l
ooked like a BLT sandwich. She held up a French fry, and said to them, “Want to share?”
Seaman Miller sat down next to her, and immediately took her up on her offer to share, by putting two French fries in his mouth. Perry sat across from her and said, “I was needed back on the bridge … five minutes ago.”
“No, actually you aren’t.”
“Come again?”
“Though I’m a woman, I’ve managed to stay relevant, even popular in my field, for five years now. I’ve traveled to virtually every major country on the planet and I’ve met the best and worst of those in power. I’ve made friends, Captain, and I have the ear of the President of the United States.”
Perry let out a breath and prepared to stand. He was exhausted and didn’t have time for any rambling. She placed a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. “As I just said, I have the ear of Bill Clinton.” She momentarily looked past Perry and nodded to whomever stood at the hatch. Standing, she patted Perry’s shoulder and walked over to a coffee table placed between two couches. Picking up the receiver on the phone sitting there, she spoke, “And a good afternoon to you as well, Mr. President. Yes … I know you are busy too, but he is right here.” She held the phone out to Perry, her brows raised. “It’s for you.”
Perry was skeptical—he already knew that she could be a tease from spending several late night forays with her.
“Hello, this is Captain Reynolds.”
The voice was unmistakable. Either that, or he was an incredible impersonator. “Captain Reynolds … thank you for taking my call. First of all, let me assure you that I am the president.” He laughed in that same scratchy voice Bill Clinton was known for. “This phone call, which, by the way, was very difficult to bring about, is secure. What I’m about to tell you is highly classified.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” Perry said, glancing over at Terry, who looked rather pleased with herself.
“You are not … I repeat … not responsible for what transpired aboard that great ship. That was an act of terrorism, which was in the works for over two years. Things could have turned out far worse. We could just as easily be in a state of war with the Chinese now, but fortunately that is not the case. There are individuals out there … hell, even within my own cabinet, I suspect, who are bodied with two hearts. They are some kind of hybrids. Just know we’re weeding them out, I can assure you of that. Don’t talk about this with anyone, Captain. I hope you understand the importance of what I am saying to you?”
“I think I do, sir.”
“That’s good! Unfortunately, that fine vessel of yours will become collateral damage in this. There’s no two ways about it … the Chinese will settle for nothing less.”
“And the crew, Mr. President?”
“Will be allowed off the ship. The Independence, as you know, is en route. Listen … if you are holding some crazy idea about going down with the ship, forget it. As your commanding officer, I order you to depart the Montana along with the rest of your crew. Captain Reynolds, I assure you, I have other plans for you.”
“Yes, sir … I understand,” Perry said, somewhat flustered to be talking to the most powerful person in the free world.
“Good, now let me talk to that pretty young thing again. By the way, what is she wearing?”
“Um … a skirt. It’s maroon.”
“Yeah, I can picture that.”
Chapter 20
Taiwan Strait in the South China Sea
USS Battleship, Montana
__________________________
Summer, 1995 …
After learning what he had, thanks mostly to the President of the United States, that there were other two-hearted, genetically-altered terrorist hybrids—possibly even within the U.S. government itself—the prospect of going down with the ship, the Montana, no longer held appeal. Perry knew, beyond doubt, that Commander Greco, or whatever his real name was, would chalk up his death as a personal victory. Perry was not going to give him that. Not to say he didn’t share some of the responsibility. He did, and he was ashamed of his actions—or, more accurately, his inactions. He’d also reached the conclusion that any future service in the U.S. Navy had come to an end.
Perry, the last to leave the Montana, would also be the last of his crew to board the USS Independence. They were soon transported—via four small gunships, shuttling back and forth—to the ship’s destination, lying close to two miles away. He squared the captain’s hat atop his head and raised his chin, readying himself for what was to come. He expected to be further humiliated—experience self-loathing at a whole new level—as he followed behind Miller with no signs of hesitation. The young seaman insisted on staying with him. Together, they moved toward the next ladder (in the Navy, even staircases are referred to as ladders).
What Perry didn’t expect as he crested the ladder’s top step was the vast array of white nearly filling the expansive carrier deck. Close to three hundred sailors, all in formation and wearing their dress whites, stood at attention. Captain of the Independence, Thom Lorkin, and Admiral Clive McGuffey, commanding officer for the Taiwan Strait war games—and the same admiral Perry had spoken to earlier—were the officers closest to him. Division officers too stood at attention, saluting.
Both Perry and Seaman Miller stood erect and returned their salutes.
Perry’s mind raced. Tempted to look behind himself—make sure someone else wasn’t there receiving this honor—he found, instead, Admiral McGuffey looking directly at him. The admiral smiled as he lowered his hand, stepping forward to greet him with a handshake.
The admiral’s bushy white eyebrows quickly came together. “Don’t push the humility routine, Captain. I received a phone call from our Commander-in-Chief … he let me know about your special relationship and what you uncovered. That terrorist plot in the making. Impressive … impressive work, Captain.”
Perry noticed a medical officer, holding the rank of lieutenant, standing nearby them. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck.
“No one comes on board my ship without being checked out by the doc here. We’ve already found six hybrid crewmembers on the Independence alone. The rest of the fleet is being checked out as we speak. We’ve been infiltrated; if it hadn’t been for you, the end result could have been catastrophic.”
Perry gestured toward Miller. “You can also thank Seaman Miller, for bringing it to my attention in the first place, sir.”
The admiral turned his attention to the young seaman. “Mr. Miller … keep doing good work like that and you’ll be commanding your own ship one of these days.” The admiral shook Miller’s hand and slapped him on the back. “Well done, Seaman.”
The admiral, suddenly stern-faced, and looking all of his sixty-one years, signaled another crewmember. As further commands were passed along those at attention were released to stand at ease.
The admiral and Captain Lorkin joined in with the crews of the Montana and the Independence, now assembling together along the port side of the carrier’s flight deck. Perry and Miller took their place in line. He hadn’t noticed before that behind them was a ship’s band—eight musicians, consisting of five men and three women—playing various horns. They held different stations and ranks. Perry instantly recognized the sorrowful Navy hymn being played: Eternal Father. The crew quieted down—all eyes settled on the far horizon, where the dark silhouette of an Iowa Class battleship, the Montana, sat high and proud on the open sea. Her damaged hull, unseen, was on the far side, so she looked as perfect and glorious as she did the first time Perry saw her, weeks earlier. At the pinnacle of the ship’s conning tower flew a large American flag, whipping and fluttering in a gust of wind coming in the south.
Perry knew the dread he was feeling in that moment, his heaviness of heart, was shared by both crews—now intermingling—of the Montana and the Independence. Also, by the men and women of the Fifth Carrier Group—whose stationary ships floated nearby, waiting for what would come next.
Perry let his gaz
e move to the distant horizon to the right, where another fleet lay anchored—a foreign fleet. He pondered the idea that perhaps those Chinese Nanyang Fleet crewmembers, standing by and awaiting orders—also had heavy hearts about what was to come. He didn’t know.
He saw a series of bright orange tongues of flame as the Chinese struck. The ensuing thunderous sound reached across the open sea several seconds later: Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom … and on and on it went. They were using artillery, not missiles. Fitting, Perry thought. Momentarily, the music behind him faltered but soon started up again—now a bit out of tune.
The first projectile to hit the Montana struck her aft. The helicopter pad exploded in a fountain of metal plating shards and fifty-year-old teak deck. No less than one hundred direct strikes followed thereafter. Soon the ship’s beautiful profile was mangled—distorted beyond recognition. But, as the barrage continued, she did what she was designed to do: remained afloat.
Perry’s anger replaced his sadness. “Enough!”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken, had actually yelled the word aloud.
The admiral turned to look at him.
Perry met his gaze. “She’s our damn ship. Give the order, sir; let’s send her to the bottom. It should be us.”
“That wasn’t our agreement with them, Captain.”
Perry said nothing, keeping his eyes locked on the admiral’s.
With a deep exhale, and a look of resignation, the admiral said, “You’re right! Fuck ’em.” He quickly turned, his hand raised high, and gave a very distinctive hand signal in the direction of the Independence’s conning tower. Four seconds later—coming from an out of direct view USS frigate—three RGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missiles flew directly over their heads. Cruising—parallel to each other—they flew low and steady over the ocean below. None on board held back their cheering—most pumped a fist in the air while some had tears in their eyes.
Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4) Page 11
