by Bob Mayer
“Hell, yeah, I know about that,” Senator Jordan said.
“I was on the committee that drafted a law over the Joint Chiefs protests to get the Special Operations Command designated a separate entity.”
Maxwell nodded.
“Anyway, there are rumors. About seven or eight years ago, one of the Ranger battalion commanders was causing a lot of trouble. The Rangers were under the Special Operations Command, but they were the darling of the regular Army guys. The Ranger has always been viewed as the ultimate infantryman.
The Army made a big push to get the Ranger regiment out from underneath the Special Operations Command and back-into the regular Army fold, under the 18th Airborne Corps.
The problem was that the battalion commander of the 1st Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia thought they should stay under 1st SO COM command. And he was quite vocal about it despite warnings from his chain of command. He even went so far as to agree to testify before a congressional committee investigating the controversy.
“Two weeks before he was scheduled to testify, he was participating in a joint exercise at Hurlburt Field in Florida.
During a night operation, his helicopter crashed. He and twelve other Rangers were killed. The safety board at Fort Rucker investigated the case as they are required to do. I talked to one of the members of that board. He told me that they couldn’t get access to some of the information they needed to determine cause of crash. They ended up labeling it, like so many other unexplained crashes, as pilot error.
But he told me that what he did see of the crash site showed signs of a midair explosion.”
“You’re saying the battalion commander was killed?”
Jordan demanded.
“It certainly was convenient,” was Maxwell’s summary.
There have been other incidents over the years. Other accidents.
Hell, no one has yet figured out exactly what happened at Desert One, but that certainly cost Carter the presidency. I talked to Charlie Beckwith before he died, and he was bitter. There was something he wouldn’t tell even me. He had those Marine helicopters forced on him by the Joint Chiefs and he indicated there were other things that occurred at the behest of the Joint Chiefs that were not conducive to the success of the mission.”
Maxwell shrugged.
“I can’t prove anything, but there have just been too many coincidences. And there are too many right now.”
Jordan drummed his fingers on the desktop for a few minutes.
“All right, you’ve convinced me that doing nothing isn’t a good idea.
The possibility of a real threat here is just too high. I’ll go to the President with this and inform him of the situation.”
Maxwell had been thinking about this ever since landing.
“Let’s bring General Martin in for a meeting,” he suggested.
“For what purpose?”
“Let’s let him square off with Major Watson. See what happens,” Maxwell said.
“It might be interesting.”
CHAPTER 22
OAHU, HAWAII
5 DECEMBER
2:00 A.M.LOCAL 1100 ZULU
It was a perfect night for lovers on Waikiki but a terrible night for covert operations. The sea was smooth and flat.
The moon was three-quarters full and reflected off the mirror surface, giving forty-two percent illumination. The sound of the minimal surf on the sandy beach was surprisingly loud.
The submarine lay off shore, due south of Fort Kamehameha, over the horizon so the lights on shore couldn’t be seen. It was submerged, lying dead in the water 100 feet down, ten kilometers from the coast.
On the back deck, a hastily welded hatch opened in the hull, leading into the pressurized compartment — the dry deck shelter (DDS)-bolted to the deck. The two men climbing into the DDS wore wet suits and carried their gear in black mesh bags.
They ran through the pre-operations checks on the vehicle cocooned inside the DDS — the Mark IX Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (SDV). The batteries were at full charge, everything was functioning properly. The Mark IX was a long, flattened rectangle with propellers and dive fins at the rear. A little over nineteen feet long, it was only slightly more than six feet wide and drew less than three feet.
The two divers slid inside, closing the hatches behind them. For the trip in they would breathe off air from the tanks on the vehicle and they hooked their breathing gear up appropriately.
The man on the right spoke into the radiophone which was connected by umbilical to the sub.
“Mother, this is Little Bird. We are clear to proceed. Over.”
“Roger, Little Bird. We read all green in here. Over.”
“Flood and release. Over.”
“We’ll be waiting for you. Good hunting. Umbilicals cut and flooding and releasing. Out.”
The radiophone went dead. With a hiss, water began pouring into the DDS. The pilot worked at keeping the SDV at neutral buoyancy as the chamber flooded. Water also flooded into the chambers inside the SDV where the two divers lay on their stomachs peering out the front glass canopy.
Once the chamber was full, the large hatch on the end swung open. The pilot goosed the twin propellers, and the SDV was free of the submarine, clearing the DDS. The pilot controlled the Mark IX using stabilizers, both horizontal and vertical, added to the rear of the propellers.
The second diver was the navigator and he was currently punching in on the waterproof panel in front of him.
“Fixing Doppler,” he announced over the commo link between him and his cohort. The computerized Doppler navigation system was now updated with their current location and would guide them on their journey, greatly simplifying a task that previously was a nightmare in pitch-black seas. The SDV also boasted an obstacle avoidance sonar subsystem (OAS), which provided automatic warning to the pilot of any obstacles in the sub’s path — essential given that they could see little more than an inch out the front window and would be “flying” blind, trusting to the Doppler and their charts for navigation.
“Course set. All clear,” the navigator announced.
The pilot increased power to the propellers and they were moving, heading due north.
“It’s like a shot in the dark, sergeant major,” Vasquez said.
“They’re not going to come paddling through in a canoe.”
“No, they aren’t,” Skibicki agreed.
“But that’s why we got this, Vasquez,” he said slapping the small black box between his legs. They were seated on the breakwater, just to the west of Fort Kamehameha, facing toward the channel leading into Pearl Harbor. A housing area for Hickam Air Force base was just behind them, but all was quiet, the two having crept in just after dark and taking up their position, easily hiding among the rocks whenever the rare Air Patrol car rolled by.
“According to my buddy in Navy Special Ops we can pick up an octopus farting with this bad boy,” Skibicki continued.
“If they come in, we’ll hear them and we’ll be able to track them. We still up with the commander?” he asked, referring to the Satcom radio in the backpack she had carried.
“I got them six by.” Vasquez considered the situation.
“But why tonight? The ceremony isn’t until—”
“Recon,” Skibicki interrupted.
“No man worth his salt would hit a target without taking a look first.”
He glanced out at the dark strip of water through which generations of fighting ships had passed.
“They’ll come.”
“Running clear,” the navigator said.
“I put us at three klicks off coast. Change heading to three-four-five degrees.”
“Three-four-five degrees,” the pilot confirmed, as he manipulated the controls.
“ETA, forty minutes.”
“Roger.”
The SDV slid through the water, the propellers leaving no trace, fifty feet below the surface. As they got closer the navigator directed the pilot up
closer to the surface, at the same time being aware they were getting closer to the coral reefs lying off the shore.
“We have one hundred feet under us,” the navigator announced. Since Oahu was a volcanic island, the hydrography dictated rapid loss of water depth due to the steep slopes.
“Eighty feet.”
“Sixty. We’re near the reefs.”
The pilot slowed their forward speed.
“Forty. I’ve got contact off to the right front. Path still clear.”
The pilot slowed until they were at a crawl.
“Hey, why does the commander—”
“Shh,” Skibicki said, slicing his across his throat.
“I’ve got something.” He listened hard into the headphones.
“Something’s coming underwater. Something small.”
“I’ve got solid contact,” the navigator said.
“Shoreline,” he confirmed.
“New heading, one-one-zero degrees.”
“One-one-zero degrees.” The SDV turned hard right, paralleling the shore to the east.
“What the fuck?” Skibicki muttered. He turned the hydrophone in the water, tracking.
“They’re going east!”
“Not the harbor?” Vasquez asked, shifting her gaze in the indicated direction, even though she knew the vehicle that they were looking for was under water.
“Come on,” Skibicki said, pulling up the cord for the phone.
“We’ve got to follow. Call it in.”
As Skibicki packed up the hydrophone, Vasquez called in the change to their higher commander.
“Easy, easy,” the navigator muttered.
“On my mark. Hold.”
The pilot brought the SDV to a halt, then slowly let them sink down until they rested on the bottom, in-forty feet of water, inside the coral reef off of the edge of Hickam Field, 200 meters off shore. To their front, due east, was the reef runway for Honolulu International Airport.
“Switch to personal air,” the pilot ordered before he shut down the vehicle system.
The two men quickly turned off all the equipment on the SDV. They pushed open their hatches and slid out, pulling their equipment bags with them. Leaving the Mark IX resting on the bottom, they swam forward, toward the shore.
“I’ve lost them,” Skibicki cursed, throwing the headphones down.
“They must have stopped. They’ll be coming in somewhere around here.
Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, pulling out his own set of night vision goggles.
Putting them on, he then checked his MP-5 submachine gun, insuring the safety was on and a round was in the chamber.
He looked over his shoulder. The hangars for the Hawaii Air National Guard abutted the shore, and in the distance the runways of the Air Force base lay straight ahead and those of the international airport were off to the right.
The two swimmers cut smoothly through the warm water, their fins flickering back and forth. The lead man held his computer nav board in his hands, directly under his mask, reading the data off it. There was no visibility and they dared not use lights. He followed the indications on the small glowing screen in front of his face and turned slightly right, his buddy close on his fins.
Skibicki and Vasquez walked past the Hickam Marina, weapons at the ready, eyes open for both the infiltrators and the Air Police. Skibicki saw a dark line ahead, cutting in from the shore — the Kumumau canal and, although he didn’t know the destination, he now knew the route.
It was what he would do.
“Let’s go,” he ordered, sprinting toward the canal.
The two swimmers found the entrance of the canal. It was very shallow, less than eight feet, and they swam just above the bottom. They put their navigation devices away now. There was only one way to go. They followed the’ narrow waterway until it ended, then carefully popped to the surface. They were inside the perimeter of Hickam Air Force Base and the large hangar that housed Air Force One was less than forty feet away.
Caching their swim fins and nav devices, the two men slithered out of the water and began making their way through the six-inch grass toward the back of the hangar.
“There,” Skibicki hissed, spotting the two forms edging over the lip of the canal and melding into the earth. He watched them move toward the hangar, then tapped Vasquez on the shoulder.
“Stay here and keep in commo with the CO.”
He went to his knees, then his stomach and began following the two men.
They were very good, taking their time in the approach, but Ski had done this many times before during his years in Vietnam, and he was better. By the time the two men had reached the dark wall of the hangar, he was less than forty feet behind them.
He paused and watched as they began climbing up the outside wall, using rungs that were welded onto the metal.
Like two dark insects they crept up, then disappeared over the edge of the roof.
Skibicki gave it two minutes, then he followed, grabbing the first rung and scaling the 100-foot wall. When he reached the top rung, he carefully peered over the edge.
The roof of the large hangar was flat, with ventilation ducts spaced every thirty feet. The men were a little over halfway across the roof at one of the ducts.
Skibicki crept over the edge of the roof and made his way to the cover of another duct where he could watch them from a concealed position.
Taking great care, the two men removed the top of the duct noiselessly.
They then took something small and square out of one of the packs they had carried and attached it to the end of a rope. They lowered the object into the duct and Skibicki watched as they maneuvered whatever it was for several minutes, until they seemed satisfied. When the rope came back up, whatever had been on the end was no longer there.
The two men replaced the top of the duct and retraced their steps.
Skibicki held perfectly still in the dark shadows as they passed within ten feet and slipped over the edge of the roof and disappeared.
Skibicki gave it another ten minutes, then moved forward and peered into the duct where they had worked. Directly below was the front, end of Air Force One. On the top of the plane lay the intake for inflight refueling. Skibicki nodded, satisfied that he knew what had happened and made his way back to Vasquez.
“They went back into the canal,” Vasquez reported.
“Give me the handset,” Skibicki ordered.
HONOLULU, HAWAII
5 DECEMBER
8:00 A.M.LOCAL 1800 ZULU
“The Sam Houston is supposed to be out at sea on maneuvers.
It’s under radio silence as per normal operating procedure so we’re not exactly sure where it is,” General Maxwell said.
“So in other words, it could be doing what Major Watson says it’s doing?” Senator Jordan asked.
“Yes, it could,” Maxwell said.
“What about the soldiers parachuting in?”
“The information about the refueling is correct, but I can find no record of a parachute drop or of any missions to this island by a Combat Talon aircraft. The battalion commander for 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group in Okinawa says all his troops are accounted for.”
“What else?” Jordan asked.
“General Martin is waiting down the hall,” Maxwell said.
“And we still have nothing solid,” Jordan said.
“All right, bring General Martin in first and see what he has to say, then we’ll bring the major in and see what they come up with between the two of them” Boomer had spent a restless night — no word on Trace, no word from Skibicki, and he didn’t feel like he had made the best impression yesterday. In fact, somewhere around three in the morning he had seriously begun to believe that he was insane. It was only the hard plastic of Stubbs’s ID card in his pocket that kept him from going over the edge.
He started as the door to the hotel room swung open and Agent Stewart appeared.
“Senator Jordan wants to see you.”
Boomer followed Stewart down the hallway and into the large office suite occupied by the senator. General Maxwell was also there, but Boomer was surprised to see General Martin sitting stiffly in a chair across from the Senator’s desk.
“Major Watson, I believe you know General Martin.”
Boomer snapped to attention and threw a salute in Martin’s direction.
He was irritated to note that Martin didn’t stand up to return the salute, a severe breach of military protocol that only the three military men in the room were aware of. Boomer knew he was in the shit now and following the senator’s gesture, took a seat at the corner of the desk, closest to Martin but facing both men.
“Major Watson, I’ve been telling General Martin that we seem to have a problem with some military maneuvers going on around this island. I’ve had General Maxwell check things out and he has only been able to discover some limited information. I’ve also discussed with General Martin your allegations about your mission into the Ukraine. General Martin denies knowledge of any of these activities.
“I also informed him of your allegation that there is a secret military organization, which you call The Line, which has been active in the politics of this country for over half a century. General Martin says he has no knowledge of such an organization.”
Boomer felt his irritation deepen with the senator’s lawyerly diction.
You didn’t read people their rights on the battlefield — you fought. He kept his peace, waiting to find out where he was in the engagement being sparred in this room.
“I only felt it proper,” Jordan continued, “to have General Martin here to discuss this situation.” The senator looked down at his desktop.
“I have an appointment with the President in an hour and a half. I hope we can resolve this situation now.”
“There is nothing to resolve,” Martin snapped.
“I do not appreciate being called in here and having to listen to some insane story, which—”
“General,” Jordan gently interrupted, “I appreciate your situation, but I do not have the time to follow proper format at the present, and I would like to get this over with.” He shifted his gaze to Boomer.
