by Noah Waters
Inside the Coast Guard’s headquarters, the scrambling was no different. From the commandant down, decisions were being made on a fast-paced scale. The fax machine hummed without stopping as if singing to a regular tune. The paperwork providing the “OK” to the California Pilots Association had been given. Washington knew there were seven key channels for maritime transportation routes and that vessels from every country sent thousands of supplies a day into the United States. The thought of how they would manage to secure so many vessels was daunting. Top priority would be any nuclear material or weapons of mass destruction of any type. While the primary concern was securing all ports, the idea of the enemy changing strategy was not outside the realm of possibilities. The sinking of a single vessel in any primary channel would cause enormous economic impact, not only for the United States but for foreign trade partners. Vessels could be used to attack critical infrastructure in the same manner as the jets had been used.
There were channels that went past the Sears Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge—any number of Washington, D.C.’s vital American icons. The possibility that a plane could be in the hands of a hijacker who would crash it directly into a fully fueled vessel—cargo or container—caused Washington to cringe. The methods of attack mode seemed endless. It was as if security had never been addressed at all. How did the country as a whole wind up with so many vulnerabilities at one time?
At this particular moment, no intelligence had indicated that such an attack was planned. Defense, defense, defense would be the name of the game. Enormous cash and assets were put in immediate action plans to prevent every possibly scenario. Such an enormous task resulted in an instant strain upon defense resources. Approvals for mission strategies that normally took months, if not years, were approved in minutes. Strategies put into effect, in some cases, without consequences being considered.
It was Washington’s hope that the approval of the Pilots Association plan and the U.S. Sea Marshals would serve as one of the country’s greatest defenses, protecting vital American assets such as food, clothing, and fuel and oil needed for consumers. At no point in the history of the United States had our exposure and total dependency for basic essentials—everything from grocery stores to auto plants in need of steel—been exposed to such danger. Although most Americans had discussed such issues at Jo’s Coffee Shop or Chilies Hamburger Joint, the country had not faced this reality until this minute. Securing the borders without stopping vehicular traffic was a huge concern. The country could not survive without supplies—an attack on the entire economic health and welfare of the American way of life.
The watch floor fax machine tapped steady as Admiral Percy slowly pulled the approval form out along with the confirmation sheet. “We got it,” he yelled. “Notify the Pilots Association immediately.”
The gym was abuzz with young males preparing to be assigned to different quarters; none of them had passed the formulated physical test requirements for the elite unit. In the far corner of the gym, a medium sized 5′ 7″ rather muscular young lady bent over to pick up her seabag. As she leaned forward, her California cut blouse revealed a small proportion of her spine. From a distance, the commander could see a U.S. Marine Corp emblem.
The commander remembered the information from long ago. The emblem represented field training to an extensive expertise of hand-to-hand combat. Dewey had not seen this young lady before so he motioned toward the petty officer first class who was in charge of assembling the new recruits.
“Who’s the young lady in the corner?”
“That, sir, is Petty Officer Short.”
“She comes to us from the Marines?” asked Commander Dewey.
“Yes, she was in the Inactive Ready Reserves. She has a law enforcement background; she scored as a sharpshooter and she matched the males in all her numbers for the PT test.”
“Does she have a first name?”
“Yes, sir, I believe it’s Slade. You’ll notice the SS tattooed on her right arm.”
“Slade Short,” Dewey repeated to himself. No doubt he was pleased that he had a female for his unit.
“How many other female petty officers do we have ready to go?”
“Just her, sir. She is the only one who could pass the Jacob’s ladder test.”
“Just one!”, Commander Dewey’s expression changed to sudden surprise. “We are going to have more than one. Our seafaring vessels always carry women on board—not to mention the possibility of female stowaways and terrorists. If she is out at sea, I need at least one more to be ready to go at any given time.”
“Sir, we have tested every female; our list is exhausted.”
The clanking of the side door of the gym broke Commander Dewey’s concentration.
“Good morning, sir,” Casey spoke with a clear authoritative voice.
“Hello, Casey,” the commander responded.
“How’s the recruiting going?”
“We’re getting there. Yet, I’m frustrated. We don’t seem to have enough women to get this thing going.”
“How many do we have?” Casey questioned even though he figured this was not the best mission for a woman.
“As of today, we have Petty Officer Slade Short.”
“Just one!” Casey’s face too showed surprise.
“Seems the PT test and Jacob’s ladder climb presented a challenge for upper body strength. The worst part is that the test was in a well-lit stable gymnasium. Once we add the elements of speed, weather, and the instability of a moving ship, the risks are even higher—even greater strength will be needed.”
By this time, Casey had approached the front side of the commander. Setting his gym bag down, he had only one thought, Noah.
“Sir, I know of a petty officer who is a deputy sheriff in Mississippi that I promise can pass all your tests. She is Coast Guard Reserve. I believe she is assigned to a port security unit in the Gulf region.”
“Does this petty officer have a name?” Both Dewey’s eyebrows raised.
“Yes, sir, Noah Waters.”
The commander took a seat and started to lean back in his chair. He had little time to consider who he could grab to fulfill the mission’s immediate need so Casey’s presentation of this particular cadet must be seized. Reaching for the telephone, Commander Dewey pressed the speed dial button.
“Gramps, this is Dewey. Make the immediate preparations for Title 10 Orders to be cut for a Petty Officer Noah Waters out of Biloxi, Mississippi. Her unit is PSU 8. Advise the commanding officer under the wartime status of a recall, we will be transferring her to San Francisco immediately. Orders will be cut initially for 1 year. Her report time is as soon as possible. On her arrival, ensure that she qualifies immediately with her handgun and her Jacob’s climb. The U.S. Sea Marshals will be her new home and her new family. Also, Gramps, when she gets here tell her I said, ‘Welcome to California.’”
Chapter XI
RACHEL’S COFFEE TABLE WAS CROWDED WITH SNAPSHOTS SHE HAD TAKEN OF the Alameda base. She knew that being a public relations person under the present conditions would be an extreme challenge. As she hung her photos about in different positions, she tried to make sense of them. Although base activities now moved at rapid pace, Rachel wanted to ensure that she was able to present the current mode of security of the Coast Guard on the West Coast.
As the new team was being developed, Rachel had taken hundreds of photos—of their arrival, their Jacob’s ladder climb, and handgun qualifications. They were people of all sizes, shapes, and complexions—in some cases, they spoke different languages. The new shirts that were being passed to each recruit had an embroidered five-point star. Each individual star tip had a small round ball—an exact replica of the old-fashioned marshal’s badge—like in Western movies. In the center was a circle. Inside the circle were the words, “U. S. Coast Guard” in the upper arch. The lower arch contained the words, “Sea Marshal.”
Rachel knew for the first time in history she would be exposing this team’s efforts to
the rest of the country—this was to be a mission like no other. She felt very privileged to have been chosen to do this. To get it right was not only essential and a part of her internal ethics, but critical to history itself. As she leaned over to frame the last 4 × 6 photo, the telephone rang loudly.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Rach, it’s me.”
Rachel stood straight for a moment—it broke her rhythm. It was Bobby. Bobby Quinn, to be exact—the love of her life. Rachel and Bobby had dated for more than 12 years. A typical California surf boy, Bobby loved three things—the beach, his surfboard, and Rachel. They had considered marriage, but Rachel was not sure. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine what would happen if the Coast Guard sent her to a landlocked unit. No doubt, Bobby would go crazy. Although Bobby had promised he would hang up his board, Rachel could never ask that much from him. Happiness was a critical element; Rachel knew in her heart that Bobby would never be happy away from his sea.
While Rachel had been told by her recruiter that most public relations positions are stable and long term, she couldn’t place 100 percent trust in her recruiter’s promise. This was the key factor in her consistent answer to Bobby, “Let’s wait and see what happens.” During the chaos of the attacks, the start-up of the new unit, seeing Casey again, Bobby had somehow shifted to the back of her mind. His voice was soft, caring, and always warm when he called her name. Hearing his voice planted an immediate picture in Rachel’s mind—Bobby was tan, lean, and cut with soft, sandy blond hair with piercing emerald green eyes. He was enough to make every girl’s heart in California melt.
“I just wanted to see if you’re OK.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Rachel replied. “I’ve been given a new assignment here working directly with the admiral.”
“That is fantastic Rachel, but I always knew you would be the best at what you do. What’s your new assignment?”
“We are developing a new unit to protect critical infrastructure along the coastline of the United States.”
“What will you be doing?” Bobby questioned knowing Rachel could only provide limited answers.
“I will be covering the story from a public relations perspective. Lots of photographs. After all, history is being recorded.”
“Will you be in any danger?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Will you still have time to see me on an occasion?”
Rachel did not reply immediately. Her longing to touch Bobby’s soft hair mixed with her heart’s desire to see him again did not outweigh her responsibility to the admiral.
“We’ll see,” she said.
Bobby sighed. More often than not this was the price he paid for loving Rachel.
“I’ll see you when I see you then,” Bobby replied. The receiver slowly slid down Rachel’s cheek in a parallel line to a small tear, and the click from Bobby’s end was the last sound she heard.
The PSU in Gulf Port, Mississippi, was extremely busy. The unit’s responsibility was primarily to protect American assets on foreign soil or American oil at sea. The PSU normally did not operate within U.S. territory. Yet, the attacks had changed everything. Personnel were being assigned where they were needed. Commander Bill Apple—a rather large man whose full-time position was that of a Tennessee judge—was in charge of the PSU 8. Commander “A” is how he was referred to from all the personnel stationed there. Since the attacks had occurred, the commander had decided that his time would be extended well beyond his normal reserve duties.
Commander Apple’s telephone rang just as he walked through the door wiping the sweat from his brow. “Commander Apple, Port Security Unit.”
“Commander Apple, this is Chief Mulligan from San Francisco’s Alameda base. I’m calling to let you know in advance that there is a Petty Officer Noah Waters who we are cutting orders for. She will be shipped to this location.”
“Noah Waters, Noah Waters.” It was easy to see why Commander Apple could not immediately picture this particular petty officer. In a loud voice, Commander A leaned outside his office door, “Does anybody know a Petty Officer Waters?”
The medic for the Port Security Unit replied, “She just came on board, sir. Her first day is supposed to be next Monday.”
“Looks like that’s going to change,” Commander A shouted. “Can you get her on the phone and tell her to report in immediately?”
The purser without hesitation responded, “Yes, sir.” He searched through a stack of files on Petty Officer Waters’s desk to search for contact data.
The sound of all the honking horns drowned out Noah’s thoughts as she looked up across the sky. The sheriff’s helicopter’s rotary blades were all that she could focus on. Gone with the wind, she thought to herself as she saw the chopper disappear as quickly as it had come.
Beep, beep, beep vibrated the right side of her hip as the radio tone dispatched.
“96.”
“This is 96.”
“Can you report back to the station immediately?”
“Copy.”
“What the hell do they want you back at the station for? All the work is out here on the streets.” J.J. asked.
“Who knows?” Noah just shook her head and proceeded to her patrol car. It looked like J.J. had been right after all. The work had waited for her to come back home.
The silence in the patrol car was comforting. The disappearance of the chaos and the confusion was welcome. Out the front of her windshield, all Noah could see were the beautiful gold shores being kissed by the slow inward-bound salty waves. For a second, today seemed no different than any other day. She savored her thoughts.
The station house was abuzz with activity. Lt. Bisk was bouncing from telephone to telephone as usual. Noah walked through the glass doorway just in time to hear him say, “No problem, sir. I’ll have Noah’s report in as soon as possible. I’ll start the paperwork from this end to have her released from her position here.” Hanging up the telephone, Lt. Bisk had a solemn look. “Am I going somewhere?” Noah questioned.
“It would seem so, Noah. The military has issued your recall orders.”
“Recall, sir?”
“It basically means that we release you from your position here to assist the military. Of course, we will hold your position for you, but because we have no idea how long you will be gone, you will need to turn everything in until your return.”
“Where am I going?”
“To the land of fruits and nuts.”
Noah’s eyebrows tweaked. She was not familiar with this quote. “Fruits and nuts, Lieutenant?”
“You know, vineyards, raisins, and wild people—in other words, California.”
Noah’s immediate thought was Rachel. “California!” her tone pitched upward. “Are we being attacked in California?”
“You know what I know. You have to report in immediately so I suggest we get started.”
“Any particular part?”
“Yes,” Lt. Bisk replied, “San Francisco.”
Noah grew up Cajun—crawfish, cold beer, hot peppers, and gumbo. The thought of California was as strange to her as it would have been for a Californian to be brought to Cajun country. “They probably won’t be able to understand me,” she replied.
Lt. Bisk laughed. “Hell, we can’t understand you. We’ve just gotten used to you and so will they.”
Noah leaned down to sign the release paperwork that Lt. Bisk had placed in front of her.
Miranda came immediately to Noah’s mind. Noah knew that she was in desperate need of her mom being around to take care of her daughter. The time she was going to set aside to spend with her daughter would once again be missed and from Miranda’s point of view—not understood. It was Noah’s hope that Miranda would understand that the nation was calling. Her duty to her country to protect its citizens was essential; if the country fell into enemy hands, not only her daughter’s future, but her grandchildren and their future would be compromised. Still, Miranda would be heartbroken. It seemed the
re was always some reason as to why they could never seem to spend quality time together. Noah knew Miranda would accept that she had to leave, but the sting of the separation would remain.
Phone calls needed to be made and packing needed to be done, but Noah’s date with her destiny would be expedited. As she traveled home, the military movement command center contacted her about the shipping and storage of household goods. In the blink of an eye, the world Noah knew would be changed. The simple life of a sheriff’s deputy, where the clear line between right and wrong was drawn, and wrong was challenged—would soon disappear—terrorism had no boundaries.
A terrorist could never be defined by race or gender or language. A single threat that could destroy multitudes of innocent people had already been experienced. Not knowing where the next attack would come from would cause everyone to be considered suspicious—if their goals were not known. A process for criminals had clearly been defined by a democratic society. Terrorism would be a new introduction to the American judicial system. If terrorists were found, how should they be dealt with and what court system would carry this task out? The questions that filled Noah’s mind were infinite. While she was excited to see what Tall-cake had been up to, she also knew that nothing was normal—for sure.
As military packing personnel packed everything in an expedited manner, Noah prepared to close the door to her apartment. The palm trees swayed and the salty air breezes blew. A sigh was all that could be heard as the truck pulled away with Noah’s entire life—a small stack of boxes.
Chapter XII
THE EARLY OCTOBER SKIES GLOWED PUMPKIN ORANGE AS THE EVENING SUN returned to the ocean’s treasures. The seasons of California were slow to change compared with the rest of the country. The sands and beaches still held a crystal layer of glitter from the summer as the temperature slowly started to drop. Weeks churned away and the media still reported confused and uncorroborated reports about the attacks. The event continued to be covered around the world.
