All but forgetting about the immediate task at hand, she found herself hanging on for dear life.
By the time Nightwatch finally leveled out and found smooth air again, her nerves were all but shot. She fought the temptation to give up, and resolutely re gripped the screwdriver to get back to work. Except for one stripped screw that needed her every last bit of strength to budge, the rest of her effort went smoothly, and with a great sense of relief, she put the palms of her hands onto the center of the panel and pushed. It opened with a dull pop, and she could barely contain herself to see Red’s smiling face appear in the aperture.
“It’s about time. Commander. What took you so long?” said Red.
Freeman Hollow
Clearing a safe lane for the unit was proving to be a nerveracking, time-consuming process, now that antipersonnel mines had been discovered buried alongside the trip-wire-activated booby traps. This was the first time Thomas had ever seen Army Sappers clear such a field, and he was impressed with their expertise, patience, and thoroughness.
A hand probe had uncovered the first Yugoslavian, pressure activated mine. Thomas was close by as the Sappers carefully extracted the cleverly constructed device, crafted out of molded plastic. Ted Callahan pointed out that this type of mine had no metal content, making it impervious to discovery by a magnetic mine detector. It could be neutralized only by hand, mine plow, or a line charge.
Seven similar mines had since been discovered buried in the track-laden footpath. Instead of digging them up, the Sappers marked them with Cyalume chemical light sticks or chemlites, as they were better known, their wrappers partially torn off in such a manner that only the advancing unit could see them.
Thomas was continuing to travel with the point Sapper unit, with much of their progress measured in mere inches. He had adapted well to his Night Vision Goggles, and was trying his best to ignore the ever-present mosquitoes and other biting pests.
“Special Agent Kellogg,” whispered Sergeant Reed from the head of the formation, “check this out.”
Thomas crawled forward and looked farther down the trail, in the direction that the Sapper instructor was pointing.
“Do you see those cylinder-shaped objects on the left side of the path, some ten yards ahead of us?” Reed questioned.
With the assistance of his NVGs, Thomas spotted what appeared to be a sizable grouping of thick, five-inch-long firecrackers scattered on the ground.
“Are they M80s?” he asked.
“They’re much more lethal than that,” replied Reed.
“Those devils are what we call toe poppers. They’re activated by pressure, and are designed to mutilate by blowing off a foot.”
Thomas made certain to give the toe poppers plenty of leeway when it came time to pass them by. He made it a point to hug the trail’s far right side, a decision that almost had tragic consequences.
“Special Agent, stop in your tracks!” ordered Sergeant Reed, who was now following him.
Thomas had to hear no more to freeze in mid-step. He carefully placed his foot back on what he thought to be solid ground, and the earth gave way, causing him to lose his balance and fall forward into some sort of newly exposed depression. He felt a firm hand grab his shoulder and yank him back on his feet. It was Sergeant Reed who proved to be his savior, and Thomas found himself staring down into a shallow pit filled with a wicked-looking group of very sharp stakes.
“Punji sticks,” said Reed with a grunt.
“And odds are they’re covered with excrement. Somebody out here certainly knows his business. Special Agent. And that means if the VP and his party passed over this trail without triggering any of these pitfalls, you can rest assured that the folks who set them are the ones leading their way.”
Beneath Freeman Hollow
Dick Mariano anxiously paced back and forth like a caged animal.
The other occupants of the subterranean Operations Center were trying their best to give the ex-SEAL a wide berth, ever afraid of further aggravating his rotten mood, and triggering yet another invective-filled outburst.
“Damn it, Richy!” yelled Mariano to his green-faced associate, who was seated at a vacant communications console sorting through an MRE.
“How can you even think of chow at a fucking time like this?”
Richy held back his reply until pulling a miniature bottle of Tabasco sauce out of the plastic packet and downing its contents in a single gulp.
“I was only looking for a pick-me-up. Skipper,” he said, after licking his lips and tossing the packet aside.
“That Cajun rotgut’s gonna eat a hole right through that belly of yours, bro,” Mariano remarked, before venting his rage on the beard-stub bled BDUclad technician responsible for monitoring their SATCOM unit.
“Are you certain that the motherfucking receiver is even working. Chief? Surely we should have heard from that cocksucker Pierce by now.”
The technician somewhat nervously beckoned toward the series of green lights that lit his console, saying, “All systems are up and operational, sir. If you’d like, I can run another systems check.”
“Do it!” ordered Mariano, who looked at Richy and shook his head.
“Ain’t this the ultimate goat fuck? How much longer is that pencil-pushing government asshole going to keep us waiting?
His plane should have landed at Leonard Wood by now, and besides, don’t those flying palaces of theirs have phones in them?
Hell, here we are standing around at ground zero with our dicks in our hands, all primed to pass on the news he’s been waiting for all day, and that motherfucker has forgotten that we even exist. It’s just like fucking “Nam. Those self-important government pricks haven’t changed in the least, and if we didn’t need them for funding, we’d do better to eliminate them all and let the military run the show.”
“How ‘bout the prisoners. Skipper? I still say shoot them, and kick ass getting as far away from this place as possible before those warheads fly,” offered Richy.
“The safest place to ride out that storm is right here, bro. And as for our distinguished prisoners, regardless of what the Speaker has to say, their time’s a-comin’, never fear.”
U.S.S. James K. Polk
“Where in the blazes did that sucker disappear to?” queried Brad Bodzin, in reference to the sonar signature that had unexpectedly faded from their waterfall display.
“Jaffers, run me a quick systems analysis, to see if the problem isn’t with our sensors.”
“My money says it isn’t. Sup. But it’s your call.”
While Jaffers attacked his keyboard, Bodzin addressed the blond-haired sailor seated beside him.
“I hope to God we haven’t lost Sierra Three, Wilford.”
“That we haven’t. Sup,” remarked the easygoing Tampa native while pushing back one of his headphones.
“The signature of our mini-sub is coming in loud and clear. ETA Rhode Island in two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.”
“Sonar, Conn,” a deep, amplified voice broke in over the PA.
“What’s the status of Sierra Seven?”
Bodzin recognized this concerned voice as belonging to the XO, and he answered him as honestly as possible.
“Conn, Sonar.
I can’t really say, sir. We never did have a firm lock on them, and sometime within the last two minutes, our sensors lost them altogether.”
“Sup,” said Wilford, his tone urgent, “I think Sierra Seven could be back.”
“It’s them, all right!” exclaimed Jaffers, a thick white vertical line forming on the right side of his CRT screen.
“Approximate rough range twelve thousand yards, bearing zero-eight-five.”
Bodzin hurriedly addressed his keyboard to isolate this contact on his headphones. And as he was in the process of putting the intercom handset to his lips, a dreaded, growling, buzz-saw whine sounded from the direction of Sierra Seven.
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo in the water!” he shouted into the ha
ndset.
“Sierra Seven has reappeared on bearing zero-eight-five, and sensors indicate a confirmed torpedo launch. Relative rough range is eleven thousand five hundred yards and quickly closing, with Sierra Three a possible target!”
A garbled warning came from Dan Calhoun, courtesy of the Folk’s underwater telephone: “Sierra Three, torpedo continues its approach.
Range down to eleven thousand yards, and we have a definite confirmation that you’re the target!”
From his position in the mini-sub’s copilot seat, Benjamin Kram curtly spoke into his chin mike and acknowledged the transmission, then turned his attention back to isolating the oncoming threat on sonar.
“ETA Rhode Island in two minutes, eleven seconds,” informed the pilot, who was seated to Kram’s immediate right, his hands tightly gripping two black plastic joysticks.
“Can we make it, sir?”
Dozens of gauges and digital readouts were mounted into the cramped bulkhead before them, and Kram isolated the green-tinted CRT screen that monitored the mini-sub’s passive sonar array. He was able to make out both the signature of the advancing torpedo and that of the Polk as it steadily picked up speed, with neither readings lightening his spirits any.
“I’m afraid it’s just not worth chancing. Commander,” replied Kram glumly.
“That torpedo has us in its crosshairs, and we can’t risk drawing it any closer to our boomer. Come around hard on course one-nine-zero, and let’s see if she’s as fast as the contractor says she is.”
With a flick of the left joystick, the pilot was able to guide the mini-sub into a tight turn. Kram felt his restraint harness bite into his shoulders, and he could hear the grinding whirl of the boat’s single-screw, battery-powered propeller bite into the surrounding water. Even with this all-out speed, the digital knot indicator never budged over eight, and with the torpedo coming in at over ten times that speed, the prognosis wasn’t favorable.
“What are you trying to do. Captain, outrun the damn thing?” asked Doug Gilbert from the adjoining passenger module.
The SEAL team leader was seated there alongside a wet suit clad associate. Four additional SEALs sat shoulder to shoulder in rows of two behind them, with a full load of weapons and other equipment stuffed into the cramped, elongated compartment as well.
“Sierra Three, torpedo has broken the ten-thousand-yard threshold,” reported the Folk’s XO, his garbled voice barely recognizable over the mini-sub’s PA speakers.
“Please state your intentions. Over.”
Kram relayed their new course change, and he listened to his XO’s firm reply.
“Sierra Three, we intend to get between you and Sierra Seven. On my mark, please initiate wipe-off procedure. Five. four… three… two… one… Mark!”
Impressed with Dan Calhoun’s bravado and tactical ingenuity, Kram didn’t dare challenge his decision, and he ordered the pilot to immediately deactivate the mini-sub’s power train. As they powered back to zero, the digital knot indicator dropped accordingly, as did the constant whirring grind of the boat’s sole propeller shaft.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” quizzed Gilbert as the mini-sub began silently drifting.
“We’re nothing but a sitting duck out here, and without any propulsion, we don’t stand a chance.”
His fellow SEALs supported him with a chorus of concerned chatter, and Kram interceded to ease their anxieties the best he could.
“Gentlemen, we all knew the great risks we were taking when we started this mission without first addressing the threat of that unidentified submarine out there. Now that it’s taken a cheap potshot at us, the Polk is attempting to readdress the situation by getting between us and the torpedo. By powering down and going silent, we’ve essentially gone invisible to any probing passive sensors, including the sonar that’s directing that wire guided torpedo.”
“If that’s the case, how’s the Jimmy K gonna shake that fish off its tail?” asked one of the SEALs from the back of the passenger module.
Kram replied while worriedly rubbing his forehead.
“I guess we’ll all know the answer to that one about sixty seconds from now.”
Kram reached out to the console and set the digital timer to sixty seconds. He somberly watched the seconds begin counting down, all the while fitting on his headphones to listen to the frantic underwater battle that continued to develop outside their fragile hull.
In the cold depths almost due north of them, a warship he was still personally responsible for was selflessly positioning itself to draw away the ever-approaching torpedo. He knew that it would be the ultimate travesty to end his long career at sea by losing the Polk, and the one hundred and forty-seven men who remained on board, while he cheated death.
“Torpedo has lost us and reacquired the Polk.” informed the pilot, his own gaze locked on the target acquisition sonar.
“I make the new range to target five thousand yards and closing.”
This almost matter-of-fact revelation generated no joyous outburst from the mini-sub’s occupants. In their minds, they collectively knew that though they might be out of harm’s way for the moment, their co-workers on the Polk were now in a relentless race with oblivion.
The deep, guttural roar of the Folk’s nuclear reactor powering up for flank speed sounded in Kram’s headphones. With a distinctive cavitational hiss, the Folk’s propeller could be heard biting into the sea, and he could imagine the huge vessel gathering momentum, the eyes of the control room crew centered on the diving console, frantically urging the knot indicator forward.
“Range to new target, forty-five hundred yards and continuing to close,” came the rote voice of the pilot.
Kram breathlessly listened to the grinding report of the Folk’s noisemakers being launched. These diversionary simulators were designed to divert the torpedo, and the cacophony of sounds that soon met his ears seemed to meld together in a single, macabre symphony.
It was as the digital timer hit the ten-second mark that Kram yanked off his headphones, and he flinched when a rumbling explosion sounded clearly in the distance. The mini-sub’s sonar was rendered all but inoperable by this deafening underwater blast, whose ensuing shock wave tossed the vessel violently from side to side. The lights failed, and in the impenetrable blackness that followed, Benjamin Kram’s thoughts refocused themselves from forlorn mourning to selfish prayers for his own survival.
Chapter 49
Saturday, July 3, 0403 Zulu
Nightwatch 676
“Well, how about it, Jake? Are we going to need that additional pit stop before landing at Andrews?”
The E-4B’s flight engineer held back his answer until he doublechecked his latest fuel calculations.
“Don’t bother with it, Lucky. Even with our brief wire-out, the lack of head winds is gonna put us in a good fifty minutes early.”
Lucky turned to address the officer seated to his left.
“If it’s okay with you. Major, I’d like to abort our last scheduled aerial refueling.”
Owen Lassiter stifled a yawn and unenthusiastically replied, “Very well.”
“I can’t help but wonder what’s going to be waiting for us back in Washington,” offered Jake from his workstation directly behind the copilot.
This remark hit a nerve, and Lassiter readily chimed in.
“One thing you can be certain of is that the President’s death is going to put a damper on the July Fourth festivities. And here Peg’s sister and four kids are visiting from Tacoma, and we planned to take them to the Capitol Mall to enjoy the fireworks and music.”
“Prom the somber mood of the Chairman and his staff of late, I’m just hoping we won’t be at war come the Fourth,” said Lucky.
“Tell me about it,” Jake muttered.
“I heard from a sergeant on Captain Richardson’s staff that FEMA still hasn’t made contact with the VP. Now that’s certainly strange, as was that unscheduled EAM we just finished transmitting. Do yo
u think the rumors are true, and that our Atlantic alert platform was intentionally rammed by a Russian attack sub?”
“That’s enough of your groundless scuttlebutt. Lieutenant,” ordered Lassiter.
“Next you’ll be telling us that Coach really has the Ebola virus.”
“I can personally attest that’s not true,” cut in a familiar deep voice from the back of the flight deck. Fresh from climbing out of the open hatchway on the floor of the upper-deck rest area, Coach nodded in greeting, with Brittany and Red joining him in quick succession.
“Look who’s back from the dead,” Jake fondly greeted him.
“Are you finally feeling better. Coach?” inquired Lucky.
“If I were you. Major, I wouldn’t rush things,” suggested Lassiter.
“As I was telling the boys, I suffered from the runs myself, during my honeymoon. And just when I thought I had them licked, I couldn’t get to that infernal toilet quick enough.”
Coach had all but forgotten the fictitious excuse that the Chairman had circulated to explain his incarceration. Yet before he could set the facts straight, the collision-avoidance radar began loudly chiming. It took only a quick glance at the center console for him to determine that the radar scan was set on maximum range. And it was Lucky who pointed out the two flashing blips visible on the outer perimeter of the blue-tinted radar screen.
“Since they’re coming out of the west, the smart money says they’re ours,” added Lucky.
This fact was verified seconds later, when the intercom filled with the sharp voice of one of these newcomers.
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, this is Eagle One. Good morning. Please be advised that per the express orders of General Lowell Spencer aboard Iron Man One, you’ve been diverted to Langley, and we’ll be accompanying you. Over.”
Nightwatch Page 26
