When The Crescent Moon had reached a point one hundred nautical miles west of Sri Lanka and two hundred nautical miles east of the small island of Mal’e, part of the island nation of the Maldives, Captain Hodson called for battle stations.
“Distance to target?” Captain Hodson shouted.
“Eight thousand yards,” the XO replied. “He’s turned towards us.”
“It looks like he’s trying to outrun the storm. Bring us to all ahead full and close the gap to three thousand yards,” Hodson commanded.
“All ahead full, closing to three thousand yards, aye,” the XO replied, and the helmsman steered the boat toward their unwitting prey.
“Load tubes one and two,” Captain Hodson ordered.
“Loading tubes one and two,” the XO replied.
Several minutes passed as the sub closed the distance between themselves and their target.
“Range?” Hodson called out as he checked the chart on the map table for the third time.
“Range, five thousand yards and closing,” the XO answered.
“Bring us to periscope depth and then up periscope,” Captain Hodson ordered and the XO repeated.
The scope quickly rose through the deck as the boat rose through the water to periscope depth. Using 80x magnification and the night vision feature on the scope, Captain Hodson could just make out the running lights of the ship. Between the torrential rain, sea spray, and the thirty to forty foot rollers, identification was extremely difficult. Hodson took his time confirming it was The Crescent Moon. In the end, he relied upon the ship’s outline and the vague, faded lettering on the bow.
“Any contacts other than the target?” the captain inquired after three or four minutes.
“Negative. No other contacts,” the radar man replied.
The target’s range?” the captain called out.
“Three thousand yards and holding,” the XO replied.
“Commence jamming,” Captain Hodson ordered.
“Jamming commenced,” the XO stated, flicking several switches on the console next to him.
“Bring us in close. Make our range a thousand yards. The seas are pretty rough up there. It’ll be easier to get a lock at that range,” Captain Hodson ordered.
“Aye, Captain. Closing to a thousand yards,” the XO replied.
On board The Crescent Moon, the bridge crew failed to notice that the radio had suddenly been overwhelmed by an extreme amount of static. Their attention was focused on the failure of all of the navigational equipment. The radar had suddenly winked off in mid-sweep, and the GPS was registering gibberish.
The freighter’s captain, sensing the growing concern among his crew, ordered men to the front lookout stations. He also ordered the four, two thousand watt floodlights on the front of the superstructure to be turned on and pointed towards the bow. He was hoping the lights would ward off any oncoming vessels before they collided in the pea soup murk.
“Chief, I need the navigation equipment fixed immediately,” the captain ordered.
“What about the storm? To go on the roof at this time is suicide,” the chief engineer lamented.
“To not have any of our navigational equipment operational is suicide. Now go and repair them before I throw you overboard myself,” the captain snarled.
Reluctantly, the chief engineer put on his raincoat, grabbed his tool kit, and left the bridge. As he stepped through the hatchway into the howling gale, he continued to bitch to himself that the captain was trying to kill him. In a storm like this, it was extremely dangerous to be exposed on deck, but he had no choice. All of the connection boxes and fuses for the various antennas and dish arrays were on the roof of the superstructure. There he’d be exposed to the full force of the wind. If a large wave were to break over the ship, the jolt from the impact could fling him overboard as if he were a scrap of paper in a high wind. The engineer knew he’d be lucky if he lived long enough to even reach the boxes, let alone work on them.
The captain stepped to the windows of the bridge, ordered the bridge lights dimmed and grabbed his night-vision binoculars. He focused directly ahead as they plowed through the storm-tossed seas, unable to slow their speed, for they were barely keeping ahead of the worst part of the storm. To reduce speed meant endangering the ship even more.
Captain Hodson of the Rip Tide stood patiently, waiting for The Crescent Moon to sail into the crosshairs on his scope. When the scope finally pinged signaling that the target was locked, the attack began.
“Fire one!” he ordered.
“Fire one!” the XO repeated.
“Fire two! The captain ordered.
“Fire two!” the XO repeated.
The torpedoes were Russian Mark 50s, purchased at the shipyard where the refits had been done. They leapt from the nose of the sub and quickly reached their one hundred twenty knot attack speed, crossing the thousand or so yards in less than a minute. No one onboard The Crescent Moon noticed the small, telltale, underwater contrails racing towards the ship from broadsides. They were too busy watching the forward horizon for possible collisions.
The torpedoes struck the ship’s hull fifty feet and two seconds apart. The ship was rocked by the impact and broke in two within seconds. The ship’s radio man, after picking himself up off the deck, immediately began trying to send an SOS but was unable to broadcast due to interference. His last thought was that it must have been the storm. The chief engineer, as he had predicted, was indeed flung overboard, but not by the waves—instead he was blasted by the shockwaves from the twin torpedoes.
The captain of The Crescent Moon, upon dragging himself to his feet, leaned forward at a steep angle against the ship’s command console. He stood staring dumbfounded through the shattered windows of the bridge. He was unable to comprehend what had taken place. The crew tried in vain to escape the rapidly sinking ship, hoping to reach the life boats before they were sucked down with the ship. The captain, though, just stared at the raising sea, glued in place by terror and his own incomprehension.
Captain Hodson watched through the periscope as twin pillars of flames shot skyward casting an eerie yellow-green glow across the water. Moments later, he watched the stern pitch upward as a large wave overtook the mortally wounded vessel. The wave’s fury vanquished the flames almost as quickly as they had erupted.
Within moments, the stern vanished into the sea as a fifty foot wave sent it plummeting into the ocean’s depths. The bow of the ship sagged toward the missing stern, and the sea rushed in, causing the bow section to stand on its end. It slowly slid into the sea, following its other half to a watery grave. It was all over in less than five minutes.
After several minutes of cheers and backslapping, the Rip Tide returned to its cruising depth of three hundred fifty feet, without looking for survivors. The radio man forwarded the mission accomplished signal to the boss as they took up their patrol again.
Their mission was to wait in ambush for another Libyan, Iranian or North Korean freighter to cross the Indian Ocean. Their tour of duty would be a long and tedious wait as they had to remain undetected by at least ten different navies that routinely crisscrossed the Indian Ocean and its adjoining seaways.
It took ten days before anyone noticed The Crescent Moon had failed to reach port or contact its owners. Search and rescue was called for and quickly relayed the message to any and all ships traversing the central Indian Ocean. Unlike search and rescue in the United States, Northern Europe and the Far East, search and rescue in the remote Indian Ocean consists of vessels keeping a sharp eye out while traversing the shipping lanes as part of their normal travels. No trace of the ship was ever found.
The Libyan government, a known sponsor of terrorism and the owner of the ship, wrote it off as a disaster at sea—just another casualty of the cyclone named Emad. They collected the insurance check from Lloyd’s of London without a second thought.
The captain and crew of the Rip Tide took great pride in the fact that they had taken the first shot in
the new war against terrorism. The XO sarcastically coined the phrase ‘The shot not heard round the world!’ which was quickly painted on the bulkhead under the boat’s name. It became their official motto.
CHAPTER FOUR
President Alan Starks burst into the Oval Office like a whirlwind. He had both a photographer and biographer in tow tonight. The biographer was asking questions as the photographer busied himself snapping pictures of the president in front of different paintings or pieces of furniture.
President Starks was in his mid-fifties, and his political experience was limited to having served as city councilman for two terms, one term as a state representative and almost half a term as the junior senator from the State of New Jersey. Prior to his political service, President Starks had been an attorney who practiced personal injury law. He was rich and articulate, with a fresh face and attitude for Washington. He was also wickedly smart if you believed the media, which spent its time lately fawning over the man as if he was some sort of rock star.
Jason Combs, Starks’ Chief of Staff, and Roger Bascome, the Director of the NSA, were both personal friends of President Starks. They sat quietly watching the spectacle before them. It wasn’t the first time the president had arrived for their nightly briefing with a photographer in tow, but the biographer, that was something new.
Jason Combs had started working for the president when he was the new junior senator from New Jersey, after honing his skills the previous eight years working for various senators and congressmen. He had been the driving force behind the scenes of Starks’ presidential run, encouraging him to run for president soon after taking national office. If it hadn’t been for Comb’s college friendship with a man named Hassam Saud, Starks’ campaign would have fallen short, and someone else would be in the Oval Office now.
Roger Bascome was a political hack of the highest order, who had befriended Starks when he first came to Washington. He was good at helping Starks get things done because, as the old saying goes, he knew where the bodies were buried.
Starks broke convention and always took his daily briefings (and just about every other meeting) in the Oval Office rather than in the president’s working office a few stories below—the office most presidents had used for day-to-day business since the nineteen fifties. Starks wanted everyone who met with him, even staff, to be reminded that he was the President of the United States, the most powerful man on the planet. He liked to make the senators and members of Congress stand or sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk, the legs of which he’d purposely had shortened by the White House’s maintenance staff. When anyone sat those chairs, they had to look up at him. He’d explained to Combs this was a trick that executives had been using for years to intimidate rivals and employees alike.
After a couple dozen pictures had been taken and several dozen questions answered, the president finally rushed the photographer and biographer out of the room. He then settled into one of the two rocking chairs sitting in front of the fireplace. He chose to meet with Combs and Bascome there in the somewhat less formal living room setting because they were part of his inner circle, and he wanted them to feel special. They were the only ones, besides the large campaign contributors, allowed to sit in the living room.
“Okay, gentlemen, let’s hit the highlights. The first lady is waiting in the residence, and I need to get up there ASAP. What have you got for me, Jason?” the president asked.
“Yes, sir. The Israelis are willing to proceed based on the letter we sent. They have acknowledged in writing that we have asked for their assistance in the Ashrawl situation. They understand that we are not particular whether he’s captured or killed. In fact, they’ve noted that we have mentioned we would prefer that he not survive. They also understand that we will not be criticizing them or allowing the UN to do any investigation of the incident. We will veto any effort to investigate or to officially criticize them. In addition, they will not publicize the reason for the attack other than the prevention of future terror attacks,” Combs finished.
“Yeah, that will work. Where to do we stand with the vote on health care?”
“We’ve got more votes than we need to shove it through. Of course, there isn’t a single Republican voting for it, but that’s no different than when Obama first passed it. The changes and restructuring in this version should provide a far stronger legal position for the dismissal of the lawsuits by the states, though.”
“Excellent. What about the new environmental regulations the EPA has just released? Do we have enough votes to make it law if we have to?”
“Ah…no, sir. That’s why we had the EPA write the new regulations,” Combs reminded the president.
“Don’t patronize me! You forget who you were talking to?” the president snapped at Combs causing Bascome to smirk.
“No, sir, I apologize if I did, sir. I didn’t realize I had,” Combs apologized awkwardly, and again Bascome smirked at him.
“We’ve only managed to get forty votes,” Combs continued. “Most of the senators not voting with us claim they are doing so because they felt their constituents would run them out of town on a rail if they did. They claim it’s tantamount to political suicide for them to back us. We’ve decided to have the EPA institute the new regulations for cleaner gasoline and refining processes on their own. This helps keep our base happy thus helping your approval numbers, while providing cover for the members of Congress running for reelection.”
“Yes, the EPA is the perfect cover for my environmental agenda. I can point at them and say, ‘I didn’t do it.’ Then I can turn around and say, ‘Look, the EPA, under my administration, instituted the needed regulations.’ It’s a win/win for me.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” Combs agreed. “On another subject, Texas is asking for financial help with the cleanup in Houston and San Antonio. Most of the companies that were involved with the oil fires have declared bankruptcy. The insurance companies are balking at paying out, saying it was an act of war. The State of Texas is filing lawsuits against everyone involved, but even if they managed to win every case, the amount will only add up to about three billion dollars due to litigation limits in Texas. The losses so far have been estimated at close to forty billion.”
“Texas’s Governor, Betty Sue Wilcox, is a Republican, is she not?” the president inquired. Combs nodded in the affirmative. “I’m not feeling very generous toward the opposition lately. They are fighting everything I propose. Has she been very vocal about me and my policies?”
“No, sir,” Combs replied. “She has been extremely quiet on that front. She’s been quite vocal in regards to the environmental regulations and how the EPA has been reinterpreting them. Her big issue is the water quality regulations the EPA have been reinterpreting,” Combs shared.
“That’s too bad,” Starks frowned. “Roger, what do you think? Should I open the treasury to help in the cleanup effort? Of course, it would be based upon their continuing with the court cases, and any awards would have to be used to repay the federal government,” the president stated.
“Normally, I’d say no way. They need to have a ‘Come to Jesus’ moment down there and get in line with the rest of the country. However, this was a terrible disaster with more than fifteen hundred private homes destroyed, as well as hundreds of corporate properties. I see this as a golden opportunity to create the type of goodwill among the voters of Texas that only taxpayer money can buy. With a fifty billion dollar aid package, you should be buying enough good will that, come the next election, Texas should be solidly in your camp. You only need a swing of about five percent of the vote to put Texas in the win column next time around.”
“So you think by sending federal aid, I’ll be encouraging the people of Texas to vote for me,” the president reiterated.
“Yes, sir, I do,” Bascome stated firmly
“Okay, Jason, let’s give old Betty Sue ten billion to start the cleanup. Don’t give it to her all at once, though. We’ll keep an eye on her to be s
ure she tows the line and says what we want, when we want. Got that?”
“Yes, sir, we’ll fund the cleanup, providing that the lawsuits name the federal government as beneficiary of any and all awards. Plus, we’ll be doling the money out over time. I’ll claim it’s a budget issue, and we’ll keep sending money every ninety days or so, as long as she minds her manners. Is that correct?” Jason reiterated, confirming he had it right.
The president didn’t answer him. Instead he turned to Bascome and asked, “Roger, what do we have on Steven Howard?”
“Absolutely nothing. The man is so clean, he makes Mother Theresa look dirty. In researching the guy, my team failed to find anything negative other than he is extremely rich. No IRS errors or questionable deductions. No old girlfriends he jilted after getting laid. No rumors of wild partying, nothing.”
“Jesus, is he the second coming or something? Find some dirt or make it up. I don’t care which. We have got to shut that asshole up. The Republicans are starting to quote him. Plus, he’s got a better approval rating than I have, and I can’t have that. Christ, make something up and plant evidence if you have to, but get something and fast. We’ve got six months until the mid-term elections.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it,” Bascome replied.
“What about our gas deals with Mexico and Venezuela? When will the first shipments arrive?” the president asked Bascome who was working with the Departments of State and Commerce to get the deals done.
“That, I’m afraid, is anybody’s guess. Kruise claims that he is being told by his engineers that they have a capacity problem and that they will begin refining gas to meet our requirements in about a month, provided they can fix their problems. He claims that we’ll receive the full output of both of their Gulf Coast refineries at that time.
Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Page 3
