Silent Waters

by Jan Coffey

  McCann put an arm across the man’s chest and began towing him through the control room toward the bridge access ladder. The forward escape hatch was wrecked. He’d have to carry Brody up through the sail to the bridge. It was going to be a tough climb.

  As he went, he continued to look for Amy. By the periscope platform, he lost his footing and went under, dragging Brody with him. Regaining his feet, he came up and heard Brody coughing and sputtering. At least he was still alive, McCann thought.

  But what about Amy.

  “Amy! Amy!”

  It took some effort to lift Brody’s body over his shoulder. It took even more to climb the ladder up through the narrow trunk that led to the bridge. At the top, he felt himself getting weak as he tried to open the hatch with one hand. The shoulder he’d been shot in was starting to go numb, and he was losing feeling in his hand and arm.

  Finally, the hatch opened and, as McCann pushed it up, light streamed in.

  Time was of the essence. Wherever Amy was, he had to find her soon. McCann carried Brody’s body up until the young man was clear of the hatch, and then he rolled him onto the decking topside.

  Leaving him there, McCann slid back down the ladder, entering the water again. The light from above improved visibility, but not the scene itself. The water had risen so high that he now had to swim. He saw no sign of Amy in what was left of the control room. He considered the direction of the blast and where the water might have carried her. He turned and looked past the helm. The communication shack was just forward of the control room. He took a deep breath and swam in that direction.

  The door to the radio room was hanging at an angle, half torn from its hinge, and one of the helmsman’s chairs was against it. The room was filling with water. He inhaled and dove, entering the radio room where the bottom of the door allowed him access.

  Coming to the surface inside, McCann saw her.

  She had a terrible cut on her forehead, and her mouth was barely above the water. He shouted to her but he didn’t think she heard him. She seemed to be in a daze, but still conscious enough to keep fighting for her life. She was a scrapper.

  McCann tried to get past the communications panels, but he had little success. Taking in another gulp of air and going down, he braced himself between a bulkhead and a panel and shoved. Slowly, the panel began to move, and then righted itself. He came up gasping, and pulled himself toward her. He was able to get in far enough to take hold of her hand.

  “Amy!” he shouted. “We have to go under to get out.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Trust me.”

  She didn’t understand him, and she fought him as he pulled her around one of the panels. She went under once and then she was beside him in the cramped space. The water was rising quickly now. There were barely two or three inches of air left near the overhead. McCann’s face was right next to hers.

  “Amy,” he said as he wrapped an arm tightly around her waist.

  She stared ahead, her chin starting to drop into the water. Her eyes were closing.

  “Hold your breath,” he ordered before taking her under.

  She fought him but it was a half-hearted attempt. He held onto her, pulling her behind him through the door and then up. They both broke the surface, sputtering. They were between two frames in the overhead.

  They’d have to swim underwater again to reach the ladder to the bridge, where he’d left Brody at the open hatch. He took her face in his hand.

  “Amy!”

  Her eyes flickered open, but she was slipping away.

  “Take another deep breath. Do you hear me? Do it now!”

  Pulling her down, McCann kicked hard to move the two of them. His lungs burned. Amy was limp as a rag doll in his grip.

  He pushed up past the periscope tower and found the ladder. Driving himself with the last of his strength, he pulled them both up into the trunk to where the water ended. He was able to take his first gulp of air and looked at her. She wasn’t breathing.

  He pressed her back against the side of the trunk, expelling water from her stomach and lungs. Wedging her body, he tipped her head back and sealed her mouth with his. He breathed air into her lungs.

  “Please Amy,” he told her when he stopped for air. “Don’t give up now.”

  He repeated the action, over and over. Nothing. Then suddenly, she sputtered and coughed. She was breathing.

  McCann had never felt relief of this magnitude. She continued to cough. She was still not totally conscious, but he was happy to have her breathing.

  “We’re getting you out of here,” he whispered in her ear.

  Using his good arm, he held her against his side. He tried to manage the ladder with the other one. He looked upward toward the opening at the top.

  “Dammit.” Brody’s foot had been visible when McCann went back for Amy. It was gone.

  Just as McCann was debating what to do, a shadow moved over the hatch. He looked up.

  “Let me give you a hand with her, Commander.”

  McCann had never been so happy to see a Navy SEAL.

  “Be very careful with her,” he ordered as he lifted Amy up.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 52

  Pentagon

  3:18 p.m.

  The only place Sarah wanted to be right now was on a helicopter heading toward Long Island Sound, where they were in the process of rescuing any survivors on the damaged sub. She hoped and prayed that Darius had made it through alive.

  The last communication with Hartford had been through the message that Darius had sent. He’d mentioned a deep sea rescue vehicle that he thought had been used to spirit the hijackers away from the sub. Right now, she and Dunn had to collect and analyze all the new data flooding in, in addition to overseeing the teams of investigators that were being sent to every inlet, every boat, every rickety dock along the coastline of Connecticut and New York that could harbor such a vehicle.

  The map grids that sectioned off the coast were being studied and analyzed. The federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies had been called and assigned to search specific locations. Satellite photos of the area were continuously being piped to the command center at the Pentagon. The movement of all non-military vessels, be they ships or boats or trucks along the coast roads, continued to be restricted and monitored. Every government and research facility on the East Coast that had possession of a submersible vessel was contacted for its status.

  She wanted to be there at the site. More than anything they could find on shore, Sarah believed the forensic evidence gathered from Hartford would provide the keys to the identities of the hijackers.

  First thing, the submarine had to be kept afloat and eventually towed ashore. She didn’t know when that would be happening.

  Bruce got off the phone, and Sarah went to him. Admiral Meisner entered the conference room and joined them.

  “Did you get word of the action?” the admiral asked Bruce.

  “Just now,” he replied, turning to Sarah. “Four torpedoes were fired at Hartford by USS Pittsburgh. Immediately after launching the weapons, they received a communication from McCann via a SLOT buoy that he and two others were still aboard and that the hijackers had escaped. We received the same information. The C.O. of Pittsburgh immediately began electronic detonation efforts on the torpedoes. Three of them were successfully destroyed before they made contact. McCann initiated emergency blow procedures in an effort to escape the torpedoes. The last one hit Hartford beneath the torpedo racks in the forward compartment, breaching the hull just as the submarine reached the surface.”

  “We don’t know yet what caused the last explosion,” Meisner said to her.

  “I was just talking to Captain Whiting, aboard Pittsburgh,” Dunn cut in.

  “What did he say?” Sarah asked.

  “He says the SEALs just boarding Hartford have communicated to them that the explosive may have been triggered by a timed device left by the hijackers. The rescue crews are about t
o go in, but the forward end is flooded, so the going is slow. And there’s the additional concern that there may be more explosives planted on board.”

  “Any sign of survivors?” she asked.

  Bruce shook his head. “Not yet, but they’re not giving up hope.”

  “How is the sub staying afloat?” she asked.

  Meisner answered. “Pittsburgh reported that they believe the forward and aft ballast tanks, as well as the engine room and the reactor compartment are still intact. The air inside them is keeping the vessel afloat, though it’s riding very low in the water.”

  Bruce concurred. “Whiting says that from what he can tell, the breech in the hull is by the forward escape truck, where the DSRV—or whatever it was they used—must have hooked up. His guess is that the explosive was planted to make sure nothing would remain of the control room.”

  “Or anyone aboard,” Sarah added.

  “If McCann hadn’t gotten that sub to the surface,” the admiral said grimly, “Hartford would have taken the blast at six hundred feet below the surface.”

  “With the added pressure down there, the sub would have broke in two and sunk to the bottom.”

  “So much for collecting any evidence,” Sarah said.

  “Well, we might still be able to gather evidence now. They may have left something down there that they didn’t think we’d get our hands on,” Meisner said. “I don’t believe they ever counted on McCann being able to pull off what he did.”

  Sarah was greatly relieved that Admiral Meisner was referring to Darius as a hero and not as the one who engineered the hijacking. She hoped this sentiment was held throughout the Pentagon. If he could now just pull himself through this last hurdle…and survive.

  Bruce turned to Meisner. “To bring you up to date on what we spoke about before, I’ve already sent a plane to bring Captain Barnhardt back from his trip. Two operatives have gone to Johns Hopkins to speak to Captain Erensen.”

  “Good. We need to follow up on every avenue.” The admiral nodded. “When you talked to Captain Whiting, did you discuss possible perpetrators?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “And?”

  “His initial remarks were, and I quote, ‘no fucking foreign terrorist could have pulled a job like this.’”

  “Why?”

  “It’s his position that no living terrorist sub driver has ever had a sub in Long Island Sound. There is no way anyone but one of our own could have maneuvered that sub through those waters the way he did.”

  “We’ve been building a case that argues some of the crew members might have cooperated with the hijackers,” Sarah reminded them.

  Bruce lowered his voice. “But no one aboard besides McCann had that kind of know-how.”

  “If it wasn’t McCann, then it had to be a foreigner working with the crew still on board.”

  “The ranking officer was Lieutenant Paul Cavallaro, and Whiting is certain he could not have handled the sub like that.” Dunn shook his head. “Whiting also believes that the probability that the crew was working with the hijackers adds to the argument that those behind it are home grown. It’s almost an impossibility that any sailor in the submarine service would sell his soul to any foreign terrorist. According to Whiting, it’s completely absurd to think that nine members of the same crew would.”

  “That puts a new twist on things.” Meisner sat on the corner of the conference table, crossing his arms as he contemplated everything he’d been told. “From now on, you’ll keep all your findings between us. Access to anything you learn is hereby restricted to me and the half dozen people going up the ladder from me to the President. This includes whatever you discover on Hartford. Is that clear?”

  “What if there are survivors?” Bruce asked.

  The admiral considered that. “Including information about them. No one is to know. Not even their families. An extra night won’t kill anyone. There’s no telling what they might have seen. And if someone expected them to be dead, they might just come after them to finish the job.”

  Sarah thought of Darius’s parents and Amy Russell’s children and how much difference a night would make. But she kept it to herself. There was no point in arguing when they didn’t even know if any of them had survived the two explosions.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” Meisner asked them.

  Bruce looked at Sarah. “We need to fly to Connecticut. If there are any survivors, we need to be there for the debriefing. Otherwise, we should be there for the recovery of Hartford.”

  “Are you okay with that, Lieutenant?” Meisner asked Sarah.

  Once again, Bruce Dunn had known exactly what she’d been looking for.

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 53

  Newport, RI

  5:05 p.m.

  John Penn pushed his son’s wheelchair along the paved path toward the lawns that overlooked the Cliff Walk and Atlantic Ocean. Three secret service agents trailed them.

  “Nice to have the rain finally stop, don’t you think?” he asked Owen.

  The young man gave him a thumbs up response.

  “Tell me if you get cold.”

  The nineteen-year-old tapped the arm of his wheelchair. John knew that meant, ‘Okay.’

  Owen’s speech was still indistinct. He wasn’t able to pronounce certain vowels, and words tended to run into one another. He hadn’t regained the complete use of his vocal cords after the accident and the tracheotomy, but he could talk. Yet he only chose to exercise that ability with his family.

  They were at the end of the campaign, and John now realized how much he missed his privacy. He regretted the discomfort he caused his son, his wife, and his daughter by putting them in the public eye, twenty-four seven.

  Owen, though, was the one he felt sorry for most. Anna and Aileen were outspoken and could hand out two jabs for every one that came their way, but Owen had fewer resources to defend himself. He’d been limited to the bed and this wheelchair since he was sixteen. Two weeks after his birthday, he’d been a passenger in a car driven by one of his friends. Speeding, poor road conditions, lack of experience. They could have blamed it on a dozen things. The end result was that the driver had been killed instantly, and Aileen and John had to wait months before knowing if their child was going to make it through.

  And Owen had made it. But the extent of his progress continued to be a big unknown. He had the use of both hands, although he lacked many motor skills. He could eat and drink and breathe without any apparatus. John was certain that Owen’s mind was sharper than the rest of the Penn family combined.

  As a family, they had come to peace with Owen’s condition. He was alive and that was the most important thing to all of them.

  John had been too caught up in the whirlwind of the campaign and how far ahead he was in the polls to take the time to reassess the pros and cons of what he was doing to his family. Today had been an eye-opener. He wasn’t sure anymore which would be the worse fate, losing this election or winning it.

  Owen made a motion with his hand, and John looked to their right.

  Anthony McCarthy was coming their way, and from the look on the man’s face and the length of his strides, John decided his campaign manager must be pissed off. The senator shook his head. He could only imagine what this was about.

  McCarthy joined them where the two paths merged some twenty yards ahead. McCarthy and Owen exchanged a handshake.

  “I’ve arranged a news conference for six o’clock. You should be inside, Senator, preparing.”

  “I don’t have to prepare anything, because there isn’t going to be a news conference.”

  “I knew it,” McCarthy said with a heavy sigh. “John, don’t do this to me.”

  The senator was getting to know this routine. Temper followed by the laying on of guilt. The second tactic always worked better on him than the first.

  He didn’t even look at his manager. “We agreed about this yesterday, Anthony. No. I
n fact, I think it was last week. No more campaigning. I’m spending the evening with my family. That’s all there is to it.”

  “A week ago, even yesterday, you were light years ahead of Hawkins in the polls. Right now, with what’s happened, it’s suddenly a dead heat. He’s had ample opportunities to be in front of television screens today, tooting his own horn.”

  “He’s been doing his job as the president,” Penn corrected.

  “He’s been taking credit for it, too. Now it’s time for you to go out there and remind the American people that the end results wouldn’t have been any different if you were the one in office. The armed forces were the ones who got the job done. No personal glory belongs to Hawkins.”

  Penn moved Owen’s chair next to a bench so that his son was facing them. “I would never stand at a podium and tell the American people a blatant lie. And that would be a lie. The end result would have been different if I were the one calling the shots.”

  McCarthy brought a hand to his forehead. “You would never admit that you were planning to meet the hijackers’ demands.”

  “I wouldn’t say that because it isn’t true,” Penn said, bristling. “What I wouldn’t have done was to go in front of everyone and say that the crisis was over when those hijackers are still running free somewhere. This thing is far from over, but Hawkins is using the retaking of the submarine to swing votes. The problem is that he has jumped the gun. How can he know that the hijacking wasn’t the first step in a multi-pronged attack strategy? That a runaway oil tanker in the Midwest won’t barrel into a government building. Or that some kind of missile isn’t being aimed this minute at the Golden Gate Bridge. Or any of a dozen other possible disasters. He can’t know, and he’s irresponsible for telling Americans that they are safe.”

  “These are the concerns he’ll bring up on Wednesday, the day after the election,” McCarthy reminded him. “Right now, there’s only one thing on Hawkins’s mind and that is winning votes.”