by Carl Bowen
The pirate Cross had been chasing clung to a metal ladder on the side of the moving ship. He was desperately trying to clamber aboard with one wounded arm. Cross had no time to consider his options. In one deft movement, he dropped his nearly empty M4 on the catwalk and drew his SIG P226 from his holster.
Picking up speed, Cross dashed down the length of the dock. Running at a full sprint, he leapt just as the boat’s pilot gunned the engine.
Cross’s outstretched arm caught one of the rungs of the ladder as the boat pulled away. He tightened his grip and looked up to see the wounded pirate disappear over the edge of the boat, onto the deck.
Cross struggled upward after him. He climbed one-handed, his pistol pointed up in case the pirate popped over the side with a weapon. Cross made it up near the deck just as the boat was clearing the cave.
When Cross reached the top, he glanced over the edge. There he saw not only the pirate he’d been chasing, but another one who had gone unaccounted for during their initial recon sweep.
The second pirate stood waiting for Cross with a grim smile — and a loaded AK-47.
“Drop the pistol,” the wounded pirate said in thickly accented English.
Cross slowly raised the pistol, then tossed it over his shoulder into the sea. As he did, he made sure that his thumb brushed past the inside of his earphone.
“All right,” Cross said, speaking slowly. “I’m climbing up onboard. Don’t shoot me.”
“Not yet,” the pirate agreed with an amused smirk. He kept his gun trained on Cross as he slowly climbed over the edge and onto the deck. Now that he wasn’t running for his life, the pirate sounded almost jovial — if a little winded. “Not until I’ve properly punished you for what you have done to —”
“Okay,” Cross said, looking the armed pirate in the eyes. “Now shoot.”
The gunman frowned in confusion. He glanced at the wounded man beside him. A small red light shone brightly on the gunman’s forehead.
A moment later, the pirate crumpled to the deck like an empty sack.
“Thank you,” Cross said.
“Sir,” Yamashita said through Cross’s earpiece. His tone was as calm and unemotional as ever.
Cross walked over and picked up the dead man’s rifle as the second pirate gaped at him shock. “Now,” Cross told him, “why don’t you introduce me to your pilot?”
* * *
An hour later, the morning sun was inching its way above the horizon. Everyone from the island was boarded onto the pirates’ mother ship. The seven pirates who had survived the raid, including the boat’s pilot, were zip-cuffed and bound together on the aft deck. The World Food Program hostages, Staff Sergeant Brighton, Second Lieutenant Larssen, and Alan Smithee’s cameraman were all below deck either eating in the galley or recovering in the pirates’ quarters.
Alan Smithee, heavily bandaged, paced the deck while staring out at the gray waves of the Indian Ocean. He loudly bemoaned the loss of his cameras, and remarked to anyone within hearing distance about his new big-budget action film that would tell the story of his capture and rescue.
Cross had taken the helm of the ship. He steered it out to sea to link up with one of the Navy’s warships on patrol in the area. He reasoned that would be faster than waiting for command to send someone to pick everyone up as he’d originally planned.
Chief Walker had been on the radio since the ship left dock, reporting in and arranging the rendezvous. After the last outgoing transmission, for fifteen minutes, Walker didn’t say a word to Cross. Neither did he leave, though, which implied he had something on his mind.
After another ten minutes of silence, Walker finally spoke up. “I have to admit,” he said. “You ran a good, clean op, despite how little we knew before we touched ground. No team casualties, all hostages accounted for . . . I’m impressed.”
Cross took a moment to gather his thoughts. He kept his gaze straight ahead, away from Walker. “Golly, thanks, Chief,” he said, faking a tone of childlike wonder. “That makes it all worthwhile.”
Then Cross looked at Walker and grinned. The Chief relaxed a little but still did a fine job of looking annoyed. Walker turned on his heel and left the wheelhouse grumbling in Spanish, “Ese idiota. ¿Por qué intentarlo?”
Walker slammed the door. Only then did Cross permit himself a soft chuckle at his second-in-command’s expense. All things considered, though, Walker was right. Things had gone well. But Cross knew it wasn’t always going to be that way. Sometimes the bad guys won, despite the good guys doing everything right.
But for now, Cross was content in the knowledge that he’d done well. There was no doubt in Cross’s mind that the feeling wouldn’t last long, but it would do for now.
“Until the next one,” Cross said softly. “Hoorah.”
CLASSIFIED
MISSION DEBRIEFING
OPERATION
PRIMARY OBJECTIVES
- Secure hostages and transport them to safety
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Neutralize all enemy combatants while minimizing loss of life
- Identify possible leads in preventing future attacks by pirates
STATUS
3/3 COMPLETE
CROSS, RYAN
RANK: Lieutenant Commander
BRANCH: Navy SEAL
PSYCH PROFILE: Cross is the team leader of Shadow Squadron. Control oriented and loyal, Cross insisted on hand-picking each member of his squad.
The mission went smoothly. All hostages were recovered without harm, all hostiles were neutralized with minimal force, and steps are being taken to ensure that these self-proclaimed “Sea Demons” remain landlocked for the foreseeable future.
All in all, I’d say Shadow Squadron’s inaugural mission was a complete and total success.
- Lieutenant Commander Ryan Cross
CLASSIFIED
MISSION BRIEFING
OPERATION
A Chinese oil rig platform in Cuban waters has been hijacked by unknown forces, and they’ve taken the workers hostage. The Cuban military is on its way, and they have no concern for the lives of anyone on board. The Chinese military will intervene in short order, as well.
In order to avoid a messy international incident. we need to get in, get the hostages, neutralize the hostiles, and get out. Fast.
- Chief Petty Officer Alonso Walker
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE
- Secure the oil rig platform and transport hostages to safety
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Minimize damage done to Hardwall mercenaries
- Avoid contact with the Cuban and Chinese forces
MISSION TWO
BLACK ANCHOR
The black salt water engulfed Chief Petty Officer Alonso Walker on all sides. He was in his element — both literally and figuratively. As a child, Walker had believed that the black depths of the ocean were filled with giant monsters like the Kraken, the Leviathan, and Moby Dick. But now, as an adult, Walker knew there were few creatures in the sea more dangerous than himself. After all, he had been an elite career soldier of the US Navy.
Now he was second-in-command of Shadow Squadron. His present state had been a long time in the making. After coasting through twelve years of school with near-perfect grades, Walker shocked his friends and family by enlisting in the Navy the day after graduation.
From the beginning, Walker had his sights set on joining the legendary SEALs. After a grueling trip through the SEAL training program, he’d earned himself a place on Team Two based out of Little Creek, Virginia. He served with distinction through multiple tours, climbing up the ranks and piling up the medals. And making the world a better, safer place in the best way he knew how.
In time, his skillful and honorable service caught the Joint Special Operations Command’s attention. Officers there selected Walker for inclusion in Shadow Squadron. For several
years now, he’d traveled throughout the world to perform top secret black ops against nothing less than the forces of evil. Walker was probably too old to think of his job in such corny terms, but in his heart he still believed in the righteousness of the work he did. And he believed that if his friends and family back home knew about the work he did, they’d be quite proud of him.
But if they saw him here and now, floating in these frigid, black waters, Walker wondered if his loved ones would be worried about him.
Walker was in the early stages of a mission, floating alongside the mighty USS Georgia. It loomed in the water like one of the imaginary monsters of Walker’s childhood. But here in the otherwise empty darkness, Walker found the sub’s presence to be comforting, not frightening.
Sucking recycled air through his rebreather, Walker kick-stroked to the rear of the bullet-shaped dry deck shelter near the Georgia. The DDS’s circular rear hatch stood open. At the moment, four of his teammates were carefully sliding a black, torpedo-shaped vessel out into the ocean.
The vessel was a swimmer delivery vehicle, though SEALs like Walker preferred to think of them as SEAL delivery vehicles. It served as an open submersible that could carry up to eight soldiers undetected. The SDV could travel distances greater than any person could reasonably be expected to swim, especially in frigid ocean waters. Walker had trained on SDVs for as long as he’d been a SEAL, and he and his fellow SDV soldiers secretly considered themselves to be a cut above even their “vanilla” SEAL brethren.
While Walker was no slouch at land navigation or airborne insertion, he was most at home in the water. He’d worked hard to see that every man on Shadow Squadron — especially those who’d come from the Army, Marines, and Air Force — completed their combat swimmer training with only the highest marks. He was still undoubtedly the best and most experienced combat swimmer on the unit, but he had total faith in his men’s capabilities beneath the waves.
Of course, they weren’t really his men, he had to admit. The JSOC had seen fit to recruit and saddle him with a new commanding officer: Lieutenant Commander Ryan Cross.
It rankled Walker. Cross hadn’t been in the Navy as long as he had. Cross hadn’t been a SEAL as long as he had. Cross had combat experience, but not as much as Walker had. And worst of all, Cross wasn’t even an SDV SEAL — he was pure “vanilla” SEAL. Before being recruited into Shadow Squadron, Cross had done more mountaineering and arctic survival training than SDV training.
So why did the JSOC put this man in charge of Shadow Squadron? Walker wondered.
On the positive side, Cross did run a clean op. Shadow Squadron hadn’t lost a single man — so far. They’d faced pirates off the Somali coast, accomplishing their mission with slick professionalism and impressive flexibility. Walker worried, though, that their early successes might go to Cross’s head.
Cross had come to Shadow Squadron with a reputation as a hero and a natural leader. In Walker’s experience, that almost always went hand in hand with stubbornness and over-confidence. So far, the lieutenant commander listened to input, and he suffered disagreement pretty well, but he was quick to halt discussion when he felt his point had been proven.
True, Walker probably could argue with his CO a little less, but the man just seemed too smug. It was hard not to want to put him in his place once in a while. But Commander Cross was right more often than he was wrong. That only made him all the more annoying.
Thankfully, Walker’s sense of professionalism ensured that he put his feelings aside when the team was in the field. The men needed to see unity in their ranks. If he, the second-in-command, was always second-guessing and arguing with Cross, it would unsettle the others. A lack of focus would likely end up getting someone killed. So no matter what he thought of Lieutenant Commander Cross personally, Walker knew he wouldn’t be able to continue his service with another man’s death on his conscience.
But that didn’t mean Walker had to keep his opinions to himself before Shadow Squadron’s missions got underway . . .
* * *
Earlier that day, at dawn, Cross gathered his eight-man Shadow Squadron unit in the base ready room. The smell of fresh coffee hung thick in the air as all the other well-groomed men wearing camouflage fatigues shook off the morning weariness.
Cross, on the other hand, seemed to have plenty of energy. It was just one more reason for Walker to dislike him: Cross was a morning person.
“We’ve got another situation,” Cross said energetically. He tapped on the computer-operated whiteboard on the wall and synced up with the room’s tablet computer. “And this one hits pretty close to home.”
That got the men’s attention. Ever since the events of 9/11, the fear of further terrorist action on American soil had loomed large over the nation. None were more sensitive to the terrorist threat than those in the military.
Cross brought up a satellite map of the Gulf of Mexico, focusing on its eastern half. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the problems brewing in the waters just off Cuba,” he said.
Walker knew what Cross was referring to, but a quick glance at the other men made it clear that they didn’t.
Staff Sergeant Edgar Brighton raised his hand. “Sorry, Commander,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “I get all my news from Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.”
A few chuckles came from the other men. Walker glared at the young man, shaming Brighton and silencing the others. Walker thought that Brighton’s class clown act was getting a little old. It was unbecoming conduct for an elite soldier.
“Sorry, Chief Walker,” Brighton mumbled, having the decency to at least look embarrassed. He turned back to face Cross. “All the same, I’m still not quite sure what you’re referring to, sir.”
“It’s all right,” Cross said, taking it far too easy on Brighton for Walker’s tastes.
Walker frowned. If Cross doesn’t start making an example out of Brighton, Walker thought, the other men will start thinking it’s okay to be so casual.
Cross tapped and swiped on the tablet computer, bringing up an overlay on the whiteboard. Green and yellow zones showed up surrounding the coasts of the United States and Cuba. A blue zone appeared over the coast of Mexico. A roughly triangular gap appeared in the Gulf where the three zones didn’t quite reach one another.
“For a few years now,” Cross said, “the Chinese government has been negotiating with what’s left of the Castro regime in Cuba for rights to drill for oil and natural gas in Cuba’s territorial waters. Last month, Cuba agreed, and China set up its Hēi Máo gas and oil platform in the eastern Gulf of Mexico.”
“Hēi Máo means Black Anchor in the Chinese language,” Walker added.
Cross nodded, then tapped his tablet again. A red dot appeared in the northwestern part of the yellow zone with the words Black Anchor above it. Cross pointed at the red dot that was right next to the triangular gap. “It’s Cuba’s right to choose who they share their resources with, but their zone is right next to our country’s zone,” he said. “For some folks in Congress, having the Chinese float a GOPLAT in the Gulf at all makes them . . . uneasy.”
That’s an understatement, Walker thought. There was an awful lot of oil and natural gas buried beneath the Gulf of Mexico, but not every source was partitioned neatly. Quite often, more than one country had access to a reserve, causing tension between nations. Even worse, sometimes oil sources overlapped boundaries. That was a negotiations nightmare for all the countries involved.
“I can’t say I’m too thrilled about the situation either, Commander,” Walker said.
“Normally, this sort of thing is handled by the suits in Washington,” Cross said, “But then yesterday, something happened.”
With another swipe across his tablet, the red dot on the whiteboard drifted northward. When the red dot crossed into the triangular region on the map, it vanished. “Yesterday the Black Anchor drifted into this
doughnut hole here, then went dark.”
A glance around gave Walker the impression that Cross’s supposedly dramatic comment had just left the men even more confused.
Walker stood up, taking it upon himself to clarify the situation. “The ‘doughnut hole’ is the spot between where the exclusive economic zones offshore of the United Stats, Mexico, and Cuba don’t quite meet up together,” he explained. “Arguing over ownership of the doughnut hole has been relatively quiet until China and Cuba started fighting over it recently.”
“So how did this GOPLAT get installed there?” Brighton asked.
“It’s not a fixed platform,” Walker answered before Cross could. “It’s a floating oil rig. It’s supposed to be held in place by a set of anchors, but if the anchors are up, it can move around freely. That’s part of the reason Congress put so much pressure on the president to raise a fuss when the Chinese put the Black Anchor where they did. They figured it was just a matter of time before the platform ‘accidentally’ ended up in the doughnut hole. Looks like Congress was right.”
“Sounds like the president has a doughnut hole in his head,” Brighton joked.
“That’s your government you’re talking about,” Walker said sharply. “Show some respect.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Brighton said. He looked at Cross, as if seeking support but Walker was pleased to see that Cross looked rather peeved at the young man, as well.
Brighton sat up straight. He added, “So when you say this thing went dark, Commander, I’m guessing it didn’t really disappear.”
“Nope,” Cross said, changing the whiteboard display once more. It now showed an ocean-level view of the Chinese GOPLAT, as seen from several miles away. A set of map coordinates and a time stamp from the previous day appeared in the corner of the screen. The platform looked like an array of metal scaffoldings with a huge crane on top. “We know exactly where it is — that isn’t the problem. The Black Anchor radioed for resupply early last week, but ever since the resupply vessel came and went, all communication ceased.”
