by Noah Waters
Today, however, Noah was unsure of just who the enemy was. No matter, her skills and insights would be the same against an enemy of any kind in the streets or against the nation. She slung her patrol bag over her right shoulder as she hurried to the Crown Vic that proudly bore her name. The radio hummed with constant dispatches throughout the city—disturbance calls. Domestic disputes seemed to be the ticket of the day. Noah advised dispatch that she was ready to receive her first call. By the time she had released the microphone switch, J.J. could be heard desperately requesting backup. Until now, the dispatcher had been unable to provide backup. Noah immediately replied, “I’m en route to back up J.J.” Noah did not hesitate.
The angry customer raised the oak bat way above his head and proceeded to march toward the car in front of him. J.J.’s constant cry of “put the bat down, put the bat down” could hardly be heard over the constant honking of the horns from angry customers. The store manager’s panic was certainly not assisting J.J. to get the situation under control. Sirens could be heard throughout the city as this was not the only gas station that was having problems.
J.J. and Noah could hear the dispatcher’s urgent attempt to organize and prioritize her response to the calls. Someone had just run out of a grocery store with a full cart of food—unpaid. This was the kind of action that was normally seen throughout a hurricane threat, and the attacks had increased the public’s anxiety. The fear of the unknown had crept upon the Mississippi coastline just as it had crawled across the lawn of the Pentagon. News anchors were covering a large variety of events as they occurred in relation to the attacks and the approaching storm. Noah had never seen anything like it. With ease and precision, she steered her Crown Vic around the long line of vehicles awaiting gasoline. In the distance she could see J.J. She could also see the gentleman with his bat still in hand. It seemed as if he were moving at the pace of a wild bull, swinging the bat in all directions. Noah knew immediately that she had to do something.
Distracting the man from his anger was essential. Noah then reached down to hit the ear-piercing audible whelp siren that caused him to turn his attention directly toward her. This provided J.J. with an opportunity to take control. Noah stepped from the car, hand on weapon, and turned on the loudspeaker.
“Put your hands up and drop the weapon,” commanded the voice. The bat bounced up and down on the concrete walkway as the man dropped the bat with the sudden realization of just how far his anger had gone. Before he could move, he found himself facing a brick wall as J.J.’s patience had run out. Noah gave specific directions to the multitude of customers awaiting fuel. The honking stopped.
“You’ll proceed in an orderly fashion. Any violence may result in a possible arrest. Disorderly conduct will not be tolerated.”
The frantic manager had fallen silent. J.J. slowly walked the gentleman to the back of the patrol car, breathing a sigh of relief that backup had finally arrived.
“What the hell is wrong with these people?” J.J. questioned Noah as he proceeded past her with the prisoner on the way to his vehicle.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” said the manager as he ran to Noah to shake her hand.
“Let’s get these people in and out,” was all she had to reply.
“I’m almost out of fuel, but I’m afraid to tell them,” he said.
“We will handle that situation when we get there.” Noah’s voice was now being drowned out from the helicopter that loomed overhead. It was the sheriff himself. In a steady position, the chopper hovered in one spot to ensure that the two officers had everything under control.
“Just like always. Better late, than never,” J.J. had commented in a disgruntled tone on his way back to the front of the gas line. As serious as the situation was, Noah couldn’t help but laugh.
Chapter X
“GET UP THAT LADDER GIRL, GO, GO.”
As Commander Dewey stood several feet from the Jacob’s ladder, he could see the intensity showing in the Coast Guard training instructor’s face. It was obvious, although depressing to the commander that the final cadre would not have enough upper body strength to pull off the qualification requirement for the Jacob’s ladder climb. This would be the greatest task for boarding a vessel. Even under the best of circumstances—with the vessel brought to a complete halt—climbing the Jacob’s ladder would require a certain amount of expertise and skill. It reminded Dewey of a carnival game where the mission was to dunk a ball into a goal while being able to maintain a steady balance of a Jacob’s ladder placed in a horizontal position. More often than not, the contestant would never make it beyond the fourth or fifth rung. The ladder would quickly tilt to the left or right giving way to a complete rotation. This would cause a complete loss of balance, leaving not only a disappointed contestant, but a mission unaccomplished.
The commander’s years at sea had introduced him to a wonderful lady. While she provided him peace of mind and often contentment in a tumultuous world, she could be temperamental, harsh, and violent to the extreme. Mother Nature would make no allowances for mistakes. On any given day, the seas could be as calm as the colors of a gold sunset and, within moments, turn into raging red roaring waters. These young Coast Guard members had never been exposed to Mother Nature’s anger. The combination of unknown threat and their inexperience on a specific plan of operations caused the commander extreme concern. Pulling up a chair, he sat face in hands as the sweat rolled down his cheeks like the evening tide rolling toward the shore.
“How many do we have that’re ready?”
The trainer’s reply was quick, “About 20, sir.”
The commander’s target goal which had been assigned by the admiral—approximately 50 or more. The numbers were far too low and the tension, far too high.
Rachel mumbled under her breath as she normally did, “You can never find a parking space on this base. There are too many people and once you have the patrol boats in the water, there is never enough ground for parking markers.”
“So this is home,” Casey replied.
Rachel finally spotted an empty space over by an old oak tree. As Casey unfastened his seat belt, he could see a large, old white-painted building directly in front of him. The building looked like it had seen many years of seafaring operations come and go. The building’s white paint showed chipping as if the sea itself had lapped against her structure. Standing side by side now, Rachel looked extremely small against Casey’s rather large muscular frame.
“Well,” she sighed, “this is where the birth of the U.S. Sea Marshals is taking place. It is our main operations center. The building isn’t much to look at, but at least we have our own location. Let’s go meet some of the folks.” Casey’s long stride caused Rachel to take double-time steps to keep up with his pace.
Casey couldn’t help but think that the building reminded him of an old church, which might have been used for sailors so long ago. The door creaked and moaned as if it took all the effort one had to open it. Standing in the foyer, Casey took in an unusual sight. There were multiple cubes in all directions. There were petty officers, chiefs, master chiefs, and lieutenants running about. There was a large whiteboard that hovered in the center of what appeared to Casey to be a large open-spaced warehouse used for briefings. Casey’s ears picked up various radio communications from what appeared to be a dispatch control center somewhere behind a cube wall.
The phone rang as an elderly looking master chief scribbled notes on a white board. Rachel shuffled papers and leaned in toward Casey to whisper. “Let me introduce you to master chief Kelly Mulligan. We all call him Gramps.”
Casey’s eyes looked at master chief Mulligan—a plump, heavy-lined face outlined with gray sprigs of hair and thick black-rimmed glasses.
“I can see why,” Casey replied.
“Gramps is the best in the business. He helps us with everything we need from housing to uniform allowances and most important, he makes all the vessel-boarding assignments. From what I understand, the teams
are made of two members.”
“Just two?” Casey questioned quickly.
“That is what I understand,” Rachel replied. “It’s around the clock. All different times of day and night no matter what the weather.” Steadily walking forward, Rachel picked up a serious tone after clearing her throat. “Master chief Mulligan, meet Petty Officer Casey Maxwell.”
“Welcome aboard,” Gramps replied to Casey without even looking up.
“Master chief Mulligan.” The phone was now attached to Gramps’s ear as the speaker spoke loudly.
“Yes, sir. We have approximately 12-to-14 boardings today alone,” Gramps emphasized. “I am preparing the daily duty roster as we speak. How much longer before new crews can come on board?”
“We are required to give each team a minimum of 8 hours of sleep between boardings and I am afraid we won’t be able to make that quota with so few team members.”
Gramps kept his voice firm. “Yes sir, I understand,” and within seconds the receiver had returned to its base.
Looking up through coke-bottle-thick glasses, Gramps’s eyes now focused solely on Casey Maxwell. “Looking at you—the physical requirements shouldn’t be a problem. You need to pass the PT components, which will include climbing the Jacob’s ladder, a pistol qualifications course, and a basic run.”
“Yes, master chief.” Casey was listening to every word. “Do I look like an officer, son?”
“No, master chief.”
“Then relax. We don’t have time to go through a lot of formalities in today’s situation.” The master chief had now taken off his glasses and placed them on his lap, which had plenty of room.
“Rachel will see to it that all of your formalities are taken care of. Rachel knows where you will bunk and where you can get your gear; I will be in touch as to when your first boarding will be. This, of course will be totally dependent upon the final results of all tests I just went over.”
“Thank you, master chief.” Casey reached out to shake his hand.
In a shy voice, Rachel reached in and said, “See you later, Gramps.”
“Get out of here, girl, and take Thunderdome with ya.”
The IT expert was steadily beating on the video conference machine. “Must be a lousy connection here somewhere.” The intensity of getting everything ready for Admiral Percy’s conference was like an oven being pushed to bake at a higher degree of temperature than 550 degrees. Within seconds of his last strike, the petty officer and CEO appeared on the screen.
“Good morning, Admiral.”
“Good morning, Mr. Duncan. Did you receive my fax?”
“Yes,” Mr. Duncan responded. “I just want to be very clear Admiral that I understand exactly what you expect the Pilots Association to do so there are no mistakes. We, of course, like the rest of the country, want to do everything possible so that such an attack never occurs on U.S. soil again, and if we can play any role in this effort we would certainly be proud to do so. Of course, there will be fees involved for such things as fuel and other essentials.”
“I understand,” Percy replied. “Of course all of this will have to be approved by Washington.”
“The Pilot boats will transport these special operations officers to and from these international vessels so they can board along with our regular docking pilots. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” Percy continued. “We call these officers U.S. Sea Marshals. They are a cross mix of law enforcement specialists from across the country made up entirely of reservists along with some of our regular investigators.”
“I am assuming that the Coast Guard will ensure the adequate boarding training and protocol of these officers prior to being dispatched to seas.”
“Absolutely,” Percy replied.
“How much advance time will you give us before these officers will be needed to accompany any given pilot?”
“That is the tricky part.” The admiral’s eyebrow raised. “This information is intelligence-driven, therefore Washington controls it. We are attempting to set up a structure in which the information is provided in advance as far as possible to allow us enough time to pick the target vessel before it enters U.S. waterways. This will give us a prep time of several hours that will allow for team assignment and the transportation from land to sea and from port side to boarding destination. In some cases, however, the threat recognition may not come with any advance notice. In that instance, we will manage to send out a team using our own vessels to meet the pilot out at sea. Please keep in mind, Mr. Duncan, this is an ever-flowing process. At this point in time anything is a target and all vessels are suspicious and need to be addressed by the U.S. Coast Guard.”
“I understand. We have a deal then Admiral Percy.”
“I will notify you once Washington has approved.”
“Thank you, Admiral. As always, it is a pleasure to do business with the Coast Guard and in this case the Pilots Association, like the rest of the country, wants to take some form of action.”
“Thank you for that,” Admiral Percy replied.
Casey looked upward at the high condo towers of Jack London Square. “Impressive.”
“Wait until you see the inside,” Rachel said.
Proceeding through the dark half-moon-shaped corridor, Casey could see the light in the courtyard filled with beautiful greenery, a waterfall, and chirping birds.
“Come on,” Rachel said, pushing the elevator button. “Most of our guys are on different floors.” Within moments they reached their destination. Entering the hallway, Rachel began to describe everything. “It has a kitchen, living room, large TV, bedroom, and a bath. The kitchen is fully loaded with everything you could possibly need. There are plenty of sheets, towels, and basic necessities.”
“2B,” Casey blurted out as he looked at the key in the palm of his hand. “This is going to be facing the interstate. A lovely view of traffic,” Casey replied sarcastically. Inserting the key and pushing open the door, Casey was surprised. He had never known the military to supply quarters like this.
“Wow!”
“Yeah, I told you were going to like the inside.”
“Are you sure we are in the right place?”
“Yeah, rumor has it that the military had to grab immediate housing facilities in order to provide the team’s close proximity to departure points. It is definitely not the Marine Corps’s bunks.”
By this time, Casey had strode across the living room to pull back the red, velvet-lined curtains that exposed the clover-leafed interstate ramp hustling and bustling with the bumper-to-bumper traffic of California. It reminded him of an ant colony marching toward an unknown destination. Stepping out onto the patio and taking a deep breath, he could smell a familiar odor—it was the salty sea. It was close by. He knew the waterways extended like fingers all throughout the state of California. Every nook and cranny could be touched by one of the channels’ fingertips. It is a lot of area to protect, Casey’s thoughts had transferred to actual cynicism.
“I hope we have enough people to do this right.” As Casey looked down, he discovered that Rachel had gone.
“See you later” was all he heard as she bounced out the doorway.
“Yep, see ya later.” Casey’s attention turned back toward the sun-drenched beltway continuing on in uninterrupted fashion.
The news anchors were now broadcasting across the country that possible terrorist hijackers had managed to take control of American airliners. Were these normal hijackers or tourists on suicide missions or was it a specific country stabbing the United States in its side with a Spartan sword to get her to retaliate? The questions seemed never ending. The posturing was occurring everywhere. It was apparent as the clock ticked that the evidence was starting to slowly paint a picture of what might really have happened.
There were broadcast of loved ones receiving multiple phone calls from various relatives, friends, and spouses aboard the jet airliners. Messages of, “We’re being hijacked—someone has taken over the plane
, and men with bombs” came from a variety of sources. The reports were coming in faster than they could be compiled or analyzed. The FBI was throwing every possible resource around the world at the problem. The same could be said for the Pentagon, the CIA, the DIA and any other three-lettered agency. Not only had the infrastructure taken a massive blow, our weakness was exposed. The decapitation of the head of the government was a theory that seemed to be growing stronger.
Congress, with all haste reviewed current statutes on the congressional books regarding what authorities each federal agency could put in action. Each agency started reviewing any and every threat that the country had ever received over the past 20 years. Mountains of data buried not only each agency but the government as a whole. It was clear that the country’s first and foremost response should be an immediate defensive stance. Jet fighters swarmed the air like bumblebees during cherry blossom time. Ground-to-air missiles were placed along the country’s most historic treasures such as the White House grounds and the Washington Monument; D.C.’s precious assets were for the first time in many decades hidden throughout concealed areas—underground compartments that smelled musty from age and non use. Golden magnificent doors with knobs as large as 6 feet in diameter were pushed closed by multiple guards in order to protect irreplaceable assets. The U.S. Constitution slowly sank deep into the earth in order to safe guard democracy.
The protection of assets, history, and vital information would be necessary for future generations to reestablish a democratic society. The Smithsonian also secured thousands upon thousands of precious museum pieces. Taken from the showroom floor were items such as Lincoln’s Bible, Dorothy’s red ruby slippers—representations of America’s generations. Each item was handled with care and gently placed in covered containers. Jefferson’s Monument watched over every detail of precaution being taken.
