by Noah Waters
The ranked personnel in the room took notes as the admiral continued to speak.
“I need this by 1500 hours. There is no one-stop shop for these answers, I realize that. Just do the best you can. Dismissed,” the admiral declared as he urgently stood up to return to the upper floor to monitor live newscasts.
It seemed that the media had more information than even Washington itself, although no one knew if what was being verbally reported was factual—there was no denying the visual. The admiral ascended the spiral staircase and headed toward his office as the petty officer followed along beside him, providing him an abbreviated brief. “Something, sir, has happened in Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania?” The admiral’s confusion grew as he sharply turned his head “What the hell do we have in Pennsylvania?”
“They are saying something about a field, sir.”
“A field?”
The admiral’s hearing was excellent and the constant repetition suggested that he was unable to link the data of the planes hitting infrastructure and a field. Shaking his head, the admiral continued through the door frame to his glass-enclosed office.
The red phone on his desk rang repetitively.
“Percy here.”
“Admiral Percy, this is Jake Smith from budgetary affairs. Congress has given us an open budget under the War Powers Act.”
Percy never thought he would hear those words in his lifetime. An open budget meant Congress had no limits on expenditures; he had funding to do whatever was necessary to secure this port.
“Just be careful. The steps you take today could sink your ship tomorrow,” Jake warned. Percy knew exactly what he meant.
“I understand.” The line on the other end was now dead.
Percy leaned back in his desk to view the large television showing mass panic in the streets of New York City on one screen while his beloved Pentagon, where he had served many years, blazed on the other. A quick glance down onto the watch floor provided him a vision of a stunned crew silently watching their world changing before their eyes. It was apparent his troops were in shock, but at the same time, it meant, for the moment, the seas remained safe.
Before the admiral could leave the door frame, the petty officer who was always watching the admiral’s movements jumped up.
“Sir, do you need something?”
“Find me Commander Dewey.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a quick turn, the petty officer disappeared down the dark corridor. The admiral knew Commander Dewey was the man he needed to accomplish the mission he was about to assign. Dewey was stern, efficient, and nonquestioning; he had always been known to get the mission accomplished no matter how hard the task. Commander Dewey, like Percy, had developed a love of California. He knew her shores like the back of his hand. All of her shipping industries, her commercial assets, and her current legislative affairs had become basic knowledge for him. If the Coast Guard ever had a poster child, it was Commander Dewey.
Dewey’s long-term commitment to the Coast Guard had started as a SAR—Search and Rescue Specialist. Hundreds of hours had been spent in his career boarding unsecured and unsafe vessels in all types of conditions. If anyone knew the risk of a surprise boarding in hazardous conditions with every little quirk that boarding would entail, it would be Dewey. “Just the man I need,” the Admiral spoke under his breath as he watched the flames lick the Pentagon wall.
The television all of a sudden reflected a large image of a man New York knew well—the mayor of New York covered in white ash. His voice attempted to reassure and comfort a nation as it lay wounded and bleeding like a soldier on a battlefield—a leader was still in charge.
“The heart of America is under attack,” the anchor stated. “All of the mayor’s attempts at comfort are being taken in by the American people.”
He has his hands full, Percy found himself thinking out loud. For a few seconds the admiral could relate to the mayor—New York had thousands of questions and the mayor had no answers.
“Good evening, sir,” a deep, baritone voice interrupted Percy’s thoughts. Commander Dewey had never missed a workout in his life—to him it was as important as his faith. His physical form reflected the results. “It’s a sad day, sir.”
“Yes, Commander, I agree. Come in please. We have a mission and it is urgent. I’m selecting you to head it up. Our nation’s assets are at risk of attack from a maritime point of view. We have hundreds of critical infrastructure pieces to protect and only a couple of hundred people to protect it with. I want you to pull together a special operations team. Find anyone we have in the Coast Guard that has law enforcement training, firearms qualifications, and can meet the swim challenge in order to make a risky Jacob’s ladder climb or any type of prior boarding no matter what the weather conditions are.”
“What are we looking for, sir?”
“Anything. The target is ever moving. Hell, we don’t even know the target or the enemy at this point. My fear is that any type of vessel can be used just like one of these damn planes. We also face someone attempting to smuggle a weapon of mass destruction in on any of these ships. It could be hidden in any container coming from anywhere in the world. Why, hell, the ship itself could be used to ram into the Golden Gate causing a complete shutdown in the harbor channel. This would collapse the Western channel’s ability to transport everyday items. We must control to the best of our ability the arrivals and departures of these vessels while on U.S. waterway channels.”
“The team would take some time to pull together, sir.”
“That’s one thing we don’t have the luxury of.”
“Nevertheless, sir, a short, condensed training will take a couple of weeks.”
“Understood.”
“Let’s not waste any time standing here gabbing.” Before the admiral could finish his last word, Dewey had left the room. The greatest task of his military career lay at his feet.
The heel of Commander Dewey’s shoe had not completely disappeared before the petty officer had stepped into the admiral’s sight again. The admiral slowly looked toward him. “Now what? Do you need anything else, Sir?”
“Yes.”
“Who do we have or do we have someone in public affairs?”
“I believe, sir,” the petty officer responded with slight hesitation, “There is a new petty officer who just reported in a couple of days ago. I am not aware of how much experience she may have.”
“Do you think it would be appropriate for her to be brought into this situation under these circumstances?” The slight hesitation in the admiral’s response indicated that he too questioned whether a brand-new public affairs person would be able to handle a stressful situation such as this. All his years of experience had taught him that even under minor emergency situations the media came out like a hungry tiger released from its cage.
“Experience or not, if she is all we have, I want her in my office in the next 3 minutes.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The petty officer turned quickly to seek out the new young lady he had run into just a couple of days before.
The upper floor television was in a continuous loop except it now included three scenes instead of two.
“Turn that up,” the admiral quipped. The anchor’s voice grew louder and the admiral focused solely on what was currently being explained as a possible hijacking event—a small field clearly ablaze in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. As far as the admiral could determine, there was no building and it appeared to him as if a large meteor had struck the ground.
“A hijacking,” the admiral repeated. He had a habit of “parrot talking.” This was his way of confirming to himself what he had heard. A hijacking on all three planes. For what? he thought. Was it an all-out attack to take over the government? Within seconds his thoughts turned toward the possibility of the hijacking of a maritime vessel. Reaching over his large desk, scrambling through loads of paper, he searched for a pencil to jot down a few thoughts for Commander Dewey. Simultan
eously running through his mind were questions. How would you hijack a vessel today? Where would be your boarding point? Better yet, what would your target be? Once boarded, then what?
The admiral’s maritime experience was extensive and he knew that to hijack a sea vessel, one or more persons would have to board to take control of the ship. This would be the helm, the bridge, or the master controls within the engine room. The admiral could feel a rush of blood surging through his veins, and his heart began to pound as he felt an intense heat travel throughout his body. He suddenly realized the crippling effect of panic and fear. He would need a defensive stance to be put into place. He would need not only law enforcement-trained personnel but crew who had some experience in both engine and bridge work. To the best of his knowledge, there were no job descriptions within the Coast Guard that met all these functions within one training group. Without the training, could they still maintain control? Suddenly, he felt dizzy.
“Sir,” the petty officer interrupted. “This is Petty Officer Rachel Booker, our new public affairs petty officer.”
Petty Officer Booker’s face was ashen. To be brought to the admiral’s desk on the first week of your job duties was normally not a good thing. In reality, most petty officers never saw an admiral at all. The combination of the day’s events and standing in front of the Coast Guard’s highest ranking officer had Booker shaking.
“Hello, sir,” she said as she outstretched her trembling hand.
“No time for formalities,” the admiral stated. “You are going to play a very important role in this nation’s security.
“We are going to break you in at rapid pace. I am in the process of creating a team that has specialized personnel able to respond to any type of threat within the assigned region. Today’s events have already caused a lot of questions for our nation, business owners, and seaports. They expect us to have all the answers and even if we don’t—to at least say something intelligent about the issue. You are going to be my face for the nation.”
Booker was stunned. Not only had she been given an assignment by the admiral, but her first assignment was actually going to be in front of live media representing what the admiral was going to do.
“There will be things that when I say, ‘no comment,’ I mean ‘no comment.’ There will be questions you will be unable to answer. Advise media that when we know, they know. Any questions?”
“No, sir.” Booker had regained her composure by the time the admiral had finished speaking. She felt a strong hand slightly push her off to the right side. Commander Dewey politely looked down into the young lady’s soft, bright eyes.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, sir,” was all that Booker could say.
“Admiral, it would appear that the nation is in a large dog fight and I’m not talking with the enemy.”
Percy’s eyebrow raised. “Explain.”
“It would seem, sir, that all military personnel throughout all branches are scrambling to share and use resources, particularly personnel that have been trained in law enforcement. The Transportation Security Agency (TSA) has reactivated an old division called the ‘Air Marshals.’ It would seem the division had been in place for years although over the past two decades its personnel division had been marginalized. The TSA is requesting from us anyone who has a law enforcement background that we can spare to work with them on securing the airways.”
Both of the eyebrows of the admiral were now at high lift. “You mean to tell me that I’m trying to cover one of the largest regions in the country with bare minimum resources and Washington is asking us to give our few precious resources to another agency?”
“Yes, sir,” Dewey replied. “That’s going to hurt.”
The admiral stood up as he chewed on his pencil. “We need to scan all reservists and anyone in the inactive reserve as well for personnel who may be able to fill these billets.” His ear picked up the anchorman’s confirmation that indeed hijackers had taken over the three planes that had caused such devastation. International waters and hijacking had been as common in maritime history as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. In an odd way, this gave the admiral some slight comfort. At least he knew how to prepare and plan for a possible hijacking situation. The real questions remained—who was the enemy and what did they want?
The unknown would drive his defense measures. “Both of you have a lot of work to do.” The admiral turned to Booker and Dewey, “Get going.”
Booker turned so quickly she ran into the commander’s back. The commander with his years of experience recognized her unease. “Do you have any questions?” he asked her.
“No, sir, I’m just a little scared,” her voice a tad shaky.
“Today, we all are,” the commander replied self-assuredly.
Hesitantly, Booker looked up as the commander turned to walk away. “Sir?”
“Yes?” Dewey replied as he looked back over his shoulder.
“If you are looking for people with law enforcement background, someone comes to mind. There was a law enforcement-trained Petty Officer who was my platoon leader at Cape May. He was in excellent shape, provided great leadership, and I believe may have what you are looking for in skill sets.”
“Where is he?”
“He went back home. I believe he is in Cleveland, Ohio.”
Commander Dewey saw the sincerity on Booker’s face. He immediately knew that he had his first recall petty officer. Dewey’s green eyes provided Booker a “yes that will do” without his ever having to say a word. With that, he turned and disappeared down the spiral staircase.
Chapter VI
“OUCH,” SAID CASEY AS HE BUMPED HIS HEAD ON THE STEERING WHEEL AS he took his chamois cloth across the bottom section of the dashboard. The one thing in his life he loved doing for fun was to clean and drive his red convertible Mustang. The wall-to-wall black leather seats shone as did the white-walled tires. The radio hummed to old rock-and-roll tunes.
“I’m getting you ready to showcase.” Casey loved talking to her. The chamois cloth continued gently across the dashboard and down along the wooden panel. On the passenger seat lay his sergeant’s badge and identification from the Cleveland Police Department. “Good thing crimes at a limit today,” Casey explained to “Big Red.” “This gives me an opportunity to get you spic and span.”
“Daddy, Daddy.” Casey knew the sweet sound of both of his girls. Maxie was 6 and Margie, 4. The girls had missed their dad immensely although his trip had only been for 2 weeks. Casey had joined law enforcement because of Cleveland’s high rise in crime. He always wanted a safe neighborhood, a nice house, beautiful children, and a loving wife—his crowning achievements. A crime-free neighborhood was the only thing missing from that equation. Because of gang infiltration, crime was on a steady rise.
“Don’t put your fingers on the car.” Maxie and Margie loved the car. “Big Red” was as much a part of the family as Marx, the Irish setter.
“OK guys, leave Daddy’s car alone. I’m just about finished,” Casey said as the girls and pup gathered round to see their reflections. “Are you guys heading out?” Casey asked.
“We are going to the park,” said Mabel, a fiery redhead with Irish tones. She then reached over to give Casey a hug and a kiss.
“Don’t be out too late—you know crime in the city is bad.”
“We won’t,” Mabel promised with a slight hesitation as traffic was always heavy—a prompt return could never be guaranteed. The girls climbed into the minivan excited about the day’s activities. Marx hopped in the back as well. The girls loved him. The Irish setter had been with the family for years. He was loyal, sweet, and protective. Mabel always felt reassured when Marx tagged along in protective mode, especially when Casey wasn’t present. As Mabel opened the van door to ensure everything was packed for the day’s adventure, she could hear the ringing of the telephone. “Phone,” she hollered up the driveway.
“I can hear,” Casey quickly replied. He was often frustrated when Ma
bel pointed out something that was apparent. She slowly backed out into the roadway and headed off toward the park.
“I’m coming; I’m coming,” Casey’s voice talked to the ringing telephone. “Somebody wants to yak really bad.” Entering the door to the house and hopping over the toys, Casey jerked up the receiver. “Yeah, hello.”
“Is this Petty Officer Casey Maxwell?” Casey was not yet used to his new title. A switch from the Marine Corps to the Coast Guard involved a whole new terminology.
“Yes, this is Petty Officer Casey Maxwell.”
“This is Chief Stanley. I’m calling to advise you that there is an opportunity for which we think you will fit the bill. Have you seen the television this morning? Are you aware this country is under attack?”
Casey had been fiddling with his chamois cloth when the chief’s words brought everything to a halt.
“Attack?” Casey’s voice became intense. Suddenly, he began to scramble for the remote control. Within seconds the flat screen provided images that sent his thoughts into a whirlwind.
“Are you still there, Casey?” the chief asked.
“Yes, Chief, I’m here.”
“We need personnel with law enforcement backgrounds to report to Alameda, California.”
“What’s there?”
“Alameda has a law enforcement training school along with a couple of cutters. It’s D-11. A special team is being gathered there to respond to these attacks.”
How soon?” Casey questioned.
“Immediately.”
Casey was on information overload. His eyes were skimming the television screen to see thousands of people running out of the City of New York.
“My God,” Casey replied. He had no idea from whom these people were running or what had even taken place this morning. His clear, beautiful day had suddenly become a torrent of terror in his mind. Suddenly, Mabel and the children became the forefront of his thoughts. Casey had experience in Desert Storm. His memories of war were brutal and unforgiving. The safety of his family was first and foremost.
