by Gordon Ryan
“Scott told me about your divorce. I’m sorry, Pug, truly sorry.”
“No sorrier than I am, Mr. President. But as I say, it was my own fault. It’s almost like I had two angels on my shoulder, one saying ‘be a good person,’ and the other one saying, ‘kick his ass. Kill him.’”
“From your job description, I’d say you need to listen to both voices.” The president paused for a moment and then spoke more softly. “I’ve always cared about your family, Pug, and I know that you were aware of how close I became to your father.”
President Snow stood up, followed by Pug, preparatory to ending the meeting. “I’m truly glad that you’re going to remain with Trojan. I need someone I can fully trust in that position. The advice I seek must come from a trusted source, someone without a personal agenda.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I sense you have a deeper conflict than we have time to discuss today. Perhaps we can remedy that over dinner some evening. Helen will demand a reunion.”
Snow started toward the door. “Are you eligible to retire from the Corps?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got just over twenty year’s service, but haven’t thought about retirement yet.”
“Good. You’ve made exemplary progress. A one-star general with barely twenty years is unusual, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been fortunate to work with good men . . . and good women, especially President Prescott. They deserve the accolade, not me.”
Snow rose again and both men walked toward the doorway. The president wrapped his arm around Pug’s shoulder and then turned him so they were facing head on. “I think we’ll see one another more frequently if this all comes off as I would like. Please give our regards to your parents. Helen will be thrilled to see that you’ve come back into our lives. She was the primary culprit in getting your brother together with our daughter. Had you been a few years older, I think she’d have chosen you,” Snow chuckled.
“Megan got the best Connor when she got Scott,” Pug replied.
“He’s a good man. When we all settle in, we’d love to have you over for dinner with both Scott and Megan. He’s taken very good care of our daughter and produced some beautiful grandchildren.”
“Scott is a good man, Mr. President. Much more like our father … and he’s home every night,” Pug said.
“Don’t let your confusion overwhelm you, Pug. Those two angels on your shoulder may indeed have a singular purpose. Will you be in town for the immediate future?”
“No, sir. I actually have a field trip coming up shortly. I should be gone a week, perhaps two.”
“A field trip. Is that with a briefcase or a weapon?”
Pug smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes both, sir.”
“It’s very good to see you again, Pug. Take care on your field trip, and I’ll talk with you again when you get back. Leave those two reports you mentioned with Dixie. I’ll find some time to review them before you return.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Chapter 9
South Pacific Ocean
Timor Sea
March
The Timor Sea, the body of water separating North Australia from Indonesia, was generally peaceful during the summer months. Cameron Rossiter, trim and fit with a yachtsman’s tanned complexion, manned the helm as Rainbow Blue sailed gracefully through light swells under clear skies. A twelve-meter craft, she’d been built to his specific criteria two years earlier. She had the finest navigational equipment available, including a Global Positioning Satellite system. Referred to as GPS, it was designed to work with a co-coordinated system of military satellites in geo-synchronous orbit. Blue water sailors saw it as the most significant invention since the compass.
Given the vagaries of South Pacific weather, Rossiter had also ordered exceptionally sensitive radar, capable of detecting the smallest squall. Capped off with state-of-the-art automated gear, including self-furling sails, Rainbow Blue was designed to enable a one-man crew—although she could hold six—to sail her around the world if desired, racing downwind across the wave tops at speeds up to eighteen knots, and averaging six to eight. After making separate trips to various islands in the Solomons, weathering a force three South Pacific gale during the second trip, the solo skipper was justifiably proud of the sleek yacht’s ability.
Five days out of Darwin on a pleasure cruise in the Timor Sea, Cameron Sterling Rossiter, a captain in the Australian Special Air Service Brigade, was sailing alone and enjoying the solitude. Recently returned after a two-year secondment to the 22nd Regiment in England, Rossiter was finally taking a long overdue break. A radio transmission the previous evening had changed his plans considerably and he was now en route to new coordinates, sent from SAS headquarters at Campbell Barracks, Perth.
One hundred and eighty nautical miles northwest of Darwin, Australia, USS Abraham Lincoln, CVN 72, and her carrier battle group were on course for deployment in the Persian Gulf. Eighteen hours earlier, Lincoln had received orders to divert sixty-two nautical miles south of her intended line of transit and rendezvous with an Australian submarine.
The newest members of Lincoln’s complement were General Pádraig Connor and Sergeant Major Carlos Castro, USMC, and two unidentified men who accompanied them. The two unknown men were bearded and disheveled, indicating to the Lincoln deck crew that they were not military. Probably oil rig workers, one U.S. Navy deck crew yellow-shirt surmised. He was wrong.
The four men had arrived on the daily COD flight, this one returning from Darwin with necessary supplies and the ‘pony,’ or mail, in transit. Following a change of clothes and storage of some of their personal gear which they would retrieve on their return, Pug, Carlos, and their two companions were lifted off the Lincoln’s deck on an MH-60R Seahawk and flown about a mile off the port bow to a waiting submarine. It was the closest a foreign—in this case, Allied—submarine had ever gotten to the Lincoln, according to her log book. After both ships had received orders to coordinate the rendezvous, with mutual agreement, HMAS Rankin had played cat-and-mouse with the Lincoln’s screening vessels for the past twenty-four hours, with neither side scoring a “kill.”
Hovering above the sleek vessel, one by one, encompassed in a rescue strop, each with a small bag of personal and operational gear strapped to his leg, the four transferees exited the open doorway of the Seahawk and were slowly winched onto the stern deck of HMAS Rankin, an Australian Collins-class, diesel-powered submarine, where they were met by two crew members who stabilized the twisting cable, grounding the static electricity, and unhooked them from the harness. The second crewman escorted them through the sail and within eight minutes, all four were inside the submarine with the Seahawk en route back to the Lincoln. In sixty seconds, the Rankin disappeared beneath the waves.
The two ‘civilians’ immediately went aft, apparently familiar with the submarine. Carlos Castro followed and was shown his quarters. In deference to his flag rank, Pug was met by the executive officer and brought to the captain’s small private quarters, where they had a perfunctory chat before Pug went forward for a quick meal, joined by Carlos.
The first visual confirmation that Rainbow Blue had reached the proper GPS coordinates was the rippling water behind the periscope, some three hundred meters to the west, off her port beam. In a flurry of compressed air and frothing water, her dark sail bracketed against the fiery globe that was resting on the horizon, the diesel-powered Australian submarine, HMAS Rankin, SSG 78, commissioned in 2003, broke the surface, ending the solitude that draws so many yachtsmen to blue water.
Cameron Rossiter lowered the sail, cranked Rainbow Blue’s small maneuvering engine to life, and made for the submarine. By the time he was leeward of the stealthy vessel, gentle swells nudging his craft against the much larger hull, three male and one female seamen were on deck in blue jumpsuits, dropping protective side buoys and casting mooring lines to Rossiter.
“Captain Rossiter?” a full-bearded man called down.
; “That’s right.”
“Sir, I’m Chief Hensley. Are you prepared to take passengers?”
“Send them over, Chief.”
Four men stood behind Chief Hensley on Rankin, each clad in a black jumpsuit. When the yacht was secured, they moved to Rankin’s aft deck, where they tossed several dark green sea bags onto Rainbow Blue. Two of the men Rossiter recognized as members of his Offshore Assault Team.
“Permission to come aboard,” the unknown, taller man said in an American accent.
“Granted,” Rossiter replied, holding tight to the mooring ropes. One by one, the men clutched the Jacob’s Ladder and climbed down onto the wooden deck of the yacht.
Immediately the four men were on board, the Chief of the Boat barked orders at the other three seaman on the deck of HMAS Rankin. They struggled with two large, rubberized containers as they lowered them over the side of the submarine and onto the yacht. Rossiter’s two team members took charge and began to tie them down.
“That’ll do it, General,” the older Australian seaman shouted down to the deck of Rainbow Blue. The chief’s face bristled with a full-grown neatly trimmed beard and he had a salty edge to his voice. “That’s the full kit.”
“Right, Chief. Thanks for your hospitality. See you in two days,” Connor replied, giving a loose salute.
“Too right, sir. All the best,” the chief replied. Just as quickly as they had appeared, the seamen loosed the mooring lines and dropped through the open hatch on Rankin’s aft deck. Rainbow Blue began to drift away from the hull of the submarine. Rossiter moved to the helm, increased RPMs to the small engine, and motored away from the larger vessel. In less than sixty seconds, the only sign of HMAS Rankin was concentric whirls on the ocean’s surface. The five men on board Rainbow Blue were suddenly alone on the vast ocean, the lower edge of the sun just beginning to disappear beneath the waves.
“Sergeant Macintosh, you and Corporal Jenkins stow your gear in the forward hold,” Rossiter directed, cutting the engine and moving to unfurl the mainsail.
The four new passengers went below while the sail took wind. Rossiter brought the yacht about and settled into a port tack, heading north-northwest. In a few moments, the American returned on deck and moved aft, taking a seat on the high port side railing.
“You’d be Captain Rossiter, I believe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m Brigadier General Pug Connor, American Marines. We turned up some information on the primary subject of our mission, and Whitehall requested your SAS boys to make the insertion. At my request, they invited me and Mr. Castro along for the ride.”
Cameron nodded. “Good to have you with us, General. Been on a yacht before?”
Pug nodded. “I know a jib from a spinnaker.” He smiled. “I’ve sailed East Coast intramural competition and crewed twice on the Sydney to Hobart with some of my Kiwi cousins, but that was a few years ago.”
“An old salt, eh? I’m coming over on starboard tack, General. Stand by.” Cameron stomped his foot on the deck to alert the men below, and then heeled the yacht sharply. The boom swung to the port side of the vessel. Pug ducked beneath the boom and shifted his position to the starboard high side railing. They were quiet for several moments while Rainbow Blue settled into her new course.
“You have New Zealand family, you said, General?” Cameron asked.
“My parents live there, and some extended family. My father was born in New Zealand. Captain, we’ll make this much less formal if you call me Pug and I call you Cameron. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes, sir. So, you’ve lived in both America and New Zealand?”
“In my early years.” Pug watched the sea for several moments as Cameron brought the yacht through a quick secession of waves. “Have you been briefed on the mission?” Pug asked.
Cameron shook his head. “Limited briefing, I’m afraid. I was already at sea on a short holiday. I was informed by radio of the coordinates for the rendezvous and to expect passengers. I know nothing about the target.”
“Then I’ll fill you in on the important pieces. You know the two men below, right?”
“Yes, sir, Sean Macintosh and Graham Jenkins. Both are squad leaders from my Offshore Assault Team.”
“So I understand,” Pug said. “I’ve worked with other SAS teams before, when I was serving as a Marine Force Recon company commander. First class troops, always ready. We haven’t decided if this is a snatch or an elimination. We’re headed for East Timor. These are the coordinates.” He handed Rossiter a slip of paper. “Two of your other lads are already ashore near the pickup point. They flew commercial to Dili, separately over several days, using full passport and customs control, just like tourists, with false identities, of course, and arriving from separate origins. Let me make my position clear, Cameron. I’m just along for the ride and have no command responsibilities to this team or for the ground squad —you’re in command here. If we determine to snatch the target, then I’ll assume responsibility for him.”
“That’ll be fine, Pug. You probably know the SAS are a rather informal lot, officers and men. I mean, at least at the lower ranks.”
“Understood. Okay, here’s the plan. My other team member, Carlos Castro, will make the actual insertion to the suspect residence. Carlos is deputy director of my office, and a retired Marine Corps Sergeant Major, a very experienced Recon Marine. With everything going well, he’ll make the entry tomorrow night, decide the disposition, and, at his discretion, eliminate the man or deliver the target to us on shore. In that case, he’ll return to your yacht and we’ll transport him to the sub. How long will it take us to get to the northeast coast of Timor?”
“About eighteen to twenty hours, unless we have a wind shift for or against.”
“Just before dusk tomorrow, then. That’s plenty of time to prepare. Let’s get Macintosh up on deck and he can brief you on your shore team.” Pug stepped to the cabin entrance and leaned in. “Carlos, Sergeant Macintosh, could you come on deck a moment?”
Macintosh appeared several seconds later, followed by Jenkins and Carlos. Both Aussies stepped aft and sat on the railing. Carlos stood besides Pug, slightly spreading his legs to maintain balance. Full dark had settled over the ocean and the night was silent, broken only by the soft lapping of the waves against Rainbow Blue’s bow as she cut through the rippled water. Ambient light came from the sky and the muted running lights of the yacht.
“Never get a full holiday, right, sir?” Macintosh asked, grinning.
“The life of a trooper, I suppose,” Cameron responded.
Pug spoke up. “Sergeant, I’ve told Captain Rossiter that you would brief him on the land phase of the operation. His message to meet the Rankin was brief and not informative.”
“Right, General. Wilson and Gunner went ashore a couple days ago. They’ve recce’d the place, gave us a sat com call this afternoon on the sub, and said it looks like there are three people holed up in a remote beachfront cabin about four miles from a small village called Tutuala on the eastern tip of the island. The team’s got an LUP,” he said, referring to a laying up position from which they could observe without being seen, “on a rise about two hundred meters from the cabin. The general said he would coordinate the insertion once we came aboard. When Carlos goes in, Gunner will watch his back and keep the path to the beach clear. The cabin’s about a hundred meters from the spot of water where we’ll beach. If there’s any trouble, or if someone tries to follow Carlos when he leaves, Gunner will top ‘em. If it’s all gone to hell, our boys will come back in the Zodiac. Then it’s just back to the yacht, slip away, and meet up with the Rankin again. They’ll take it from there, sir. That’s about it.”
Pug smiled at the casual way in which Macintosh had described the operation, including the possible necessity of killing Wolff’s companions.
“What about the kit, Sean?” Cameron asked.
“Basics. We’ve got four M-4s, didn’t see a need for the 203s on this insertion
. We’ve got the Zod for the run to the beach, two re-breathing kits, masks and flippers if we need ’em. That’s about it.”
“Thank you, Sean. Go below and catch some shut-eye. You’ll need it tomorrow.”
Both Australian SAS operatives quickly dropped below the deck and left Cameron, Pug, and Carlos topside. “What’s the American interest in this, Pug? Was this guy involved in the KLM hijacking?” Cameron asked, turning toward Pug.
“I don’t think so. We’re just looking for information primarily.” Pug nodded toward Castro.“Cameron, let me introduce Carlos Castro.” Pug motioned for Carlos to take a seat on the railing. “As I said, he’s deputy director of our office. We’re essentially a domestic. . . well, primarily domestic,” he said, waving his arm outward toward the expanse of the ocean, “anti-terrorism task force within the Homeland Security Department. My source for this operation seems to have been spot-on about this guy. If we can convince the man to talk, he knows quite a lot about terrorist weapons acquisition, and, more to the point, about the buyers. He’s been selling to anyone with money for several years, working both sides of the fence and double-crossing most of them along the way. Your Australian SIS intelligence reports show a rapid increase in Indonesian terror cells. This guy just might have something to do with it.”
“We’re glad to help, General. I’ve worked with the whole team, including the ground crew. They’re experienced operators. Good lads,” Cameron said, nodding toward the cabin.
