by Noah Waters
“Petty Officer Maxwell, we will provide you with an airplane ticket from Cleveland to San Francisco and we will send a Petty Officer to pick you up. You will be departing tomorrow no later than 5:00 P.M. Bring everything in your seabag to last. You may be staying for quite a while.” With that the chief hung up. Casey stood stunned. Simultaneously, he reached down for his cell phone to call Mabel and the kids. Their safety was something he had to ensure.
“Hello,” a happy voice answered on the other end. Casey could hear Maxie and Margie singing in the background.
“Mabel, bring the children back to the house immediately.”
“Why?” her happy tone suddenly changed.
“The country’s under attack.”
“Are you serious?” Mabel knew better than to question Casey as Casey was never a joker.
“By whom?”
“Now is not the time. I have already received orders to report to duty.”
Mabel had been married to Casey for many years and she knew when he said to her that the military called that he was serious.
“Where are you going?”
“California.”
“Is California under attack?”
“I don’t know. One thing for sure, New York and Washington are. I am to leave tomorrow.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.” Mabel already knew the answer to that question. It was the wife and mother in her that somehow always had to ask anyway. Casey closed the cell phone, turned up the volume on the television, and proceeded to search for the seabag that he too had not yet unpacked.
Chapter VII
THE GYM FLOOR IN THE OLD ALAMEDA GYMNASIUM WAS COVERED WITH SAFETY mats as dozens of recalled personnel from around the country stood in line to attempt a go at the Jacob’s ladder climb. There were several training instructors in various performances Commander Dewey could see from the corner where he stood.
“How’s it going?”
The gym instructor, with a hesitant voice replied “We are scrambling. These are the law enforcement personnel that still remain in house and we’re testing them to see where their abilities for upper body strength stand. The pushup section is proceeding fairly well. Most of our guys are getting there. The Jacob’s ladder, however, is another story. It takes coordination, strength and stability. The big issue here is we’re not moving forward quickly enough. In a normal state of operations, a boarding is usually at a time when a vessel has been brought to a halt, not still moving. The Coast Guard can not bring commerce to a standstill in order to accomplish this mission according to the commandant’s briefing from the president. Therefore, all preparations must be geared toward a moving target. While vessels could be brought down in nautical speed, a dead standstill is now not an option. This is going to make for a highly dangerous boarding, sir.”
“I know,” Dewey replied. “If the petty officers make what we call a jump on a moving target, there is a possibility that if they miss and fall between the target and the platform of the carrier vessel, they may not be able to escape the 40-foot or wider draft of the carrier’s propeller. We can say we did everything we could to save them, but in reality, they will be like a piece of fruit thrown into a blender.”
“I know that too,” Dewey confirmed. “How is the swimming test proceeding?”
“So far, it is slow. To be able to swim simultaneous laps in an Olympic-sized pool in full gear and with a float coat on is presenting us with an intense challenge.”
“I knew that it would be, but it’s the only test we could think of that would give us some sort of simulation results if the boarding officer falls directly between the carrier and the target. It will take every ounce of strength our people have to ascend to the top of the water against the strong gravitational pull of the propulsion system. Just outside of London, a pilot was made into mincemeat recently when he could not escape.”
“I understand,” the instructor advised with disgust as he pictured the poor Englishman. “The risks here are high. The consequences of a lack of action when our nation is under attack are even higher. It is my hope that we can find a solid set of personnel to meet these unconventional demands.”
Before Commander Dewey could finish his last word, a small-framed 24-year-old female petty officer lost her grip in midclimb of the Jacob’s ladder and spiraled downward into the safety net. The commander dipped his head and rubbed his eye. The intensity, strain, and lack of positive results were starting to show.
Chapter VIII
PETTY OFFICER BOOKER SCRAMBLED AS SHE SEARCHED FRANTICALLY IN HER desk seeking the itinerary for Casey’s arrival. Commander Dewey had given her the privilege of picking Casey up at the airport as he was her recommendation for the team. She was excited about Casey’s arrival in California, even under the horrific circumstances. Rachel knew that if anyone could master the challenges at hand it would be Casey. Casey’s voice to Rachel often thundered with the clarity that presented command leadership. Leadership was something truly needed on these critical missions that Washington had now assigned to D-11.
The command watch floor was abuzz like normal or at least what the new normal was since the towers had collapsed. Finally locating and grabbing the itinerary from the bottom drawer, scrolling down with her finger—the arrival time was 1300 hours. It was currently 11:04.
“Geez.” A quick hop up from the chair for her purse and jacket, she frantically ran toward her parked vehicle as if her life depended on it. The traffic in California was always horrific this time of day with people going to the airport during lunch break. It always seemed to her that those folks who broke for lunch, all broke at the same time.
The Bay Bridge was jammed bumper to bumper and the fact that she was in a government vehicle seemed to make little difference. Rachel approached the bridge traffic slowly and finally came to a halt. There was nothing she could do now but wait and fiddle with the radio. The radio on every channel discussed the same terrifying disaster of the September 11 attacks over and over again.
“Enough for now,” she said with slight disgust as she reached to turn the radio off. Her mind suddenly compared her helplessness to aid those in New York with her ability to arrive at the airport on time. There was nothing that could be done. The helplessness made her think how the passengers were totally dependent on the hijackers’ intent. She began to shake. How helpless they must have felt also.
Casey reached in his bag to take out his black Oakley shades. The California sun outside the airplane window was furiously bright. The pilot’s overhead announcement advised that landing would occur in approximately 10 minutes. Casey had no idea what to expect from his new assignment. His anger raged like a wood-burning fire in a painfully cold environment. The fact that anyone could turn the United States into such a victim all in one day was an overwhelming thought. What did Washington know that they were not telling the rest of the world? Did they have any clue that this was about to happen? Better yet, did they have a plan of any kind to prevent it from happening again? The questions were tumbling in circles in Casey’s head. His marine training earlier had prepared him for anything, yet he never dreamed anything of this magnitude would happen on home soil. His Coast Guard leadership experience would now be put to good use. He couldn’t wait to get started. Casey, too, was excited to see Rachel Booker again. He had been a fan of Rachel’s back at Cape May—her silly wild-colored clothes, cute smile, sharp tongue, and her ever-present wit.
His thoughts would often drift back to slower times when Rachel would wander about the grounds in crazy mismatched clothes, laughing and smiling as if the military experience was no different from the catwalk of high-fashion society in San Francisco. He couldn’t possibly imagine how she could be responding to a war when she had never experienced combat or extensive-threat training. Yet, deep inside he knew that when called to action, she could be counted on 100 percent. If anyone could cover this story, she could. The familiarity of Rachel gave Casey some comfort—he would n
ot be a stranger to everyone at Alameda.
Casey’s thoughts were interrupted as he felt a slight bounce when the military plane’s wheels finally touched the ground. The reverse throttle of the engines had engaged and he could feel the sudden slow down of the high-speed bullet he was riding. A flashback caused Casey to envision the impact of the jet plane hitting the towers. He shook his head left and right attempting to throw the image of violence and death from his mind.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to San Francisco, California. There are new security measures being put into place as we speak. Please be patient, and we hope you enjoyed your flight.” Casey’s anger grew deep in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t wait to use all his assets and skills to help make this right. Rachel now stood at the end of the arrival corridor jumping up and down attempting to see over anyone who was over 5′ 5″ tall. She was accustomed to her shortness, but it often played havoc with her vision in a crowd of people.
As the passengers proceeded through the roped line, she finally saw Casey emerge looking solemn and stealthy.
“Casey, Casey, over here.” As Casey crossed the line, Rachel quickly gave him a great bear hug. “I left Cape May and went home and look what happened. Isn’t it terrible?”
“I’m not quite sure terrible covers it. I’m not sure anything covers it.”
“Commander Dewey can’t wait to meet you.”
Rachel’s voice was intent. “They are putting together a team—a team of law enforcement reservists from around the country. They are going to call them U.S. Sea Marshals.”
“What’s their purpose?”
“I’m not really sure of everything. I just know their goal is to board all incoming international vessels if they are considered a threat. The commander hasn’t released all the details, but they are having problems with people who can qualify on the range and using the Jacob’s ladder boarding process.” Rachel stopped talking long enough to put her shades back on.
“Hmm, basically a special team of boarding officers.” Casey’s thoughts shifted to the fact that he might wind up back on the water. His gut tightened. His anger, however, overcame his fear and the thought of water disappeared immediately.
As Rachel proceeded to enter the driver’s side, Casey slung his seabag into the trunk. “Can you drive this thing?” Teasing Rachel was something he did on a regular basis.
“You bet,” she said with a spring in her step. “Hang on and buckle up for the ride.”
As Casey slid into the passenger side, reaching for the buckle, his mind went blank. Silence for the first time befell the large blazer. As Rachel headed out toward the Alameda base station, Casey knew only one thing for certain, the unknown was something he was about to face head-on—unknown enemy, unknown target, and unknown strategy.
Admiral Percy scanned the thousands of e-mails he was receiving every hour, attempting to keep up with everything that was happening on the watch floor as well as around the country—by telephonic, video, news media, and through verbal updates. The raw data at this point was almost totally overwhelming. The information was not only coming in faster than it could be comprehended, but the admiral had a tremendous amount of concern over the accuracy of the reporting. Not one for jumping on every actionable report until its accuracy had been verified, he suddenly faced making decisions without even a 50 percent confirmation; Washington itself seemed to be in a frantic mode of desperation seeking answers when not all the questions were known.
“Admiral,” master chief interrupted the admiral’s e-mail review.
“Yes, master chief.”
“A video conference is being set up for you, sir, with a variety of maritime officials. It is expected to occur at 1330.”
“Thank you, master chief.”
The admiral had put out the word that his special team of U.S. Sea Marshals would be in need of a method of transportation to and from these vessels at different points of boarding. Although the Coast Guard had vessels of its own, its resources were being utilized 100 percent. Sea Marshals would need some sort of dependable transportation to and from pickup and departure points; those arrangements would have to be made very quickly.
The admiral was very familiar with the California Pilots Association. This association was the home of the pilots who guided each maritime vessel through U.S. waterway channels and piloted it safely to docks like an airline pilot would land a plane on an airport runway. The two pilot job descriptions—both airline and maritime—were very similar. Both plane and ship had to be boarded and pilots had to be trained in extensive maneuvers for both landing and guiding capabilities. While airplane pilots landed on runway strips guided with instrumentation, maritime pilots used channel markers, instrumentation, and knowledge of the sea.
The big difference between the two was, no doubt, the boarding of the vessel itself. An airplane on any runway was on safe, stable ground. The boarding procedures usually consisted of simply walking from the airport entry tunnel through a small oval open doorway that allowed passengers or the pilot to secure their position in a timely manner. The boarding of a vessel, especially one that was moving, was an entirely different experience. The swells of the sea should be at peak position of rise and fall upon which will allow the pilot vessel to get close enough to allow the pilot to jump onto the Jacob’s ladder and ascend to the top of the ship. No doubt wind, rain, and weather in general, enhanced danger factors. Propeller drafts were instantaneous death for those who released their grip. The powerful pull, the razor-edge blades, and the engine’s deafening roar would all play a role in distributing a human carcass out to sea, like pebbles of sand scattered upon an endless beach. No mistakes could be made. Error indicator—subzero.
The condition of the visiting vessels were key factors as well. While international vessels from various locations offered a large variety of how well the ships themselves had been taken care of, more often than not, the conditions of the Jacob’s ladders were like an old tin can that had been exposed to various rain storms and tons of salt—often rusted, unraveling and with broken boards for foot placement. Cruise ships offered their own special variety of challenging entry positions. This required the skill of timing and Mother Nature’s allowance. The timing of the swells would have to be exact with the timing of the jump itself. The jump would have to occur at maximum peak vessel rise before the side of the cruise ship lower deck would be opened, allowing a direct jump to occur.
California pilots were considered to be the best pilots in the world. Admiral Percy was convinced that these gentlemen would be the perfect choice to escort his team to and from these vessels.
“Admiral Percy, it’s time,” the master chief leaned his bald head forward into the admiral’s office.
The swivel chair made an abrupt turn as the admiral got up and grabbed papers, determined to get arrangements made as quickly as possible.
Chapter IX
“COME ON, COME ON,” THE LADY WAS TALKING TO THE GAS PUMP ITSELF. THE honking of the horns from a long line of cars was all anyone could hear. She could hardly hear her own thoughts.
“Come on, lady, we don’t have all day,” a gentleman behind was crying out loudly.
“I’m having to wait for it to work,” she responded.
The attacks themselves had created a panic among individual cities and a rush on basic essentials such as fuel, food items, and storage supplies. The Mississippi heat was intensifying short tempers in an already chaotic situation. J.J.’s patrol car swerved into the 7-Eleven parking lot. The sheriff had given specific orders to monitor all basic essential stations such as banks, grocery stores, gas stations, and the beach front. While the beach front was not a basic essential, it always seemed to be a gathering point for the locals when anything catastrophic occurred.
“10–23,” J.J. spoke into the microphone.
The dispatcher responded, “10–23, on scene.”
As J.J. stepped from the patrol car, he could see the customers stressed to the max from the heat
and the long line. The manager proceeded to frantically run directly to the patrol car waving both arms. J.J. could make out from his poor English that he had lost control of the fuel line.
“This is crazy. This is crazy. They have all gone nuts,” the manager yelled out loud.
The gentleman behind the lady who was fueling up had now left his vehicle and proceeded to his trunk. While cursing and turning the key, he reached in to remove what appeared to be a baseball bat. J.J.’s instincts tightened. His lapel microphone clicked.
“Dispatch, I’m gonna need some help.”
“Copy. Be advised all crews are on other calls. As soon as someone clears they will be en route.”
The ringing of the telephone interrupted Noah’s realm of thought. Quickly jerking the receiver, she found herself saying yes instead of her casual hello.
“Can you get 10–8 immediately?”
The dispatcher was asking Noah to return to duty for backup support.
“Yes.”
Noah had a good idea that everyone was panicking and usually in catastrophic times, law enforcement was the first to be called to restore some degree of calm. Scrambling to put on her uniform as quickly as possible, securing her bulletproof vest, she reached over to the corner to pick up her ever-constant companion, a fully loaded shotgun, alternating slug, and buckshot to provide maximum capacity and effectiveness, along with three fully loaded 18-round law enforcement clips that accompanied her Glock 40. Once secured around her waist, the pistol was locked into position—a round had been chambered, the baton and mace slid into appropriate compartments for quick response if needed. Stooping down with a slow professional expertise, she rolled her right leg cuff upward to her midcalf. The small black pouch she secured around her tiny ankle. This was Noah’s most prized protective weapon. From the drawer she pulled a titanium laser-guided custom-made H and K 9 mm. Once securely fastened in place, Noah proceeded to return her cuff to a normal position and secured both sides of her pants with a tie-down. The black steel-toed boots slid on like gloves. As she stood up, each button slid through a hole in a precisely timed sequence. The gold badge always shone, providing its mirror image along the walls of the room—a rainbow image that reflected the shield of protection for the American people.
