Then Beaman smelled it. The unmistakable odor of smoke. There was a campfire somewhere nearby. Not a forest fire for sure. There was no wood up here, unless it had been lugged up the mountain.
They dropped to a crouch and crawled around the next bend in the trail. There, on a small narrow shelf ten yards ahead of them, sat a pair of fighters, dressed similarly to the ones Beaman had observed last night. They were huddled around a tiny campfire and appeared to be guarding the entrance to a small cave that opened nearby, leading back into the rock wall of the mountain. The men’s AK-47s were lying within easy reach at their sides.
Beaman and Abdul pulled back, concealing themselves, to wait beyond the bend in the trail.
“Fighters with rifles, way up here. That has to be the party we’re looking to crash,” Beaman said in a whisper, his lips near Abdul’s ear. “Nobody else up here.”
The Pashtun guide nodded.
“More likely the guards working the door for the party. I think the real party might be inside that cave.”
“Okay, any bright ideas on how we find out for sure?” Beaman asked.
“Let’s wait a bit until it gets really dark,” Abdul answered. “Those two are thinking they are up here all by themselves. They are not going to be paying a lot of attention and we can probably get a good bit closer.”
The two settled in, occasionally checking on the guards, waiting for an opportunity to get past them or quietly take them out. This was as close as they had gotten to what might be the elusive Prophet in all the time that they had spent searching, chasing false clues, sleeping amid sheep or in shepherd hovels, resting and eating little. This was not an opportunity they could allow to slip by, no matter how long they had to wait before making a move.
The aroma of roasting meat drifted back to where they lay hidden. Beaman raised his head, frowning. His stomach growled. The guards had chunks of meat on a spit above their campfire. They began singing, horribly off-key, laughing, and picking at each other in anticipation of the food getting done and the relative feast that would follow. Both were totally engrossed in preparing their meal.
Beaman nudged Abdul. It was about as dark as it was going to get.
“I’m going to get closer and see if I can maybe figure out what’s going on in the cave that requires a couple of sentries out here. I don’t see any way to do that with those two having dinner over there, but we have to check it out.”
Abdul nodded. It was so dark, Beaman could not even see the expression on his partner’s face or a nod of agreement with the plan.
The SEAL slithered over the rocks, using only the jet-black night for cover. It took him almost an hour to cover the short distance and get close enough to overhear the campfire conversation. Though the dialect was a bit strange, he could still make out the usual gripes and bitches. But some of their banter was of interest.
“...Nabiin moved....” “...left us behind to clean up...” “The big one is underway.”
Beaman was trying to put all this together while figuring out a way to take out the pair without alerting anyone who might be inside the cave.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He dropped behind a boulder, then watched as Abdul casually sauntered into the camp. What the hell was he doing?
As he entered the small circle of light, the Pashtun calmly said, “Shalom,” in a quiet voice, just above a whisper. “In-sha-Allah.”
The pair seemed stunned for an instant. Then they finally reacted, jumping to their feet, scrambling to grab their assault rifles. But they were no match for Abdul. His kukri flashed like lightning, slashing the first guard’s throat and then disemboweling the second, all in quick, clean, smooth strokes of the deadly fighting knife.
Two trained fighters, taken out in two seconds, silently.
Beaman stood, eyes wide. It was the first time he had seen his partner in action. And he was damned impressed.
Abdul waved impatiently for Beaman to follow him into the cave. Just as they stepped into the mouth of the cavern, the first shot rang out, followed by the low, growling rumble of an AK-47 on full auto.
Beaman instinctively dived to the right, firing in the direction of the muzzle flash. He was rewarded with a scream of agony and the clatter of the rifle falling to the ground. A flashlight pierced the darkness from deeper in the cave. Beaman fired a quick shot a foot to the left of the light, followed by a second shot, this one to the right. Another scream and the flashlight went skidding across the floor, illuminating the room in tumbling light before it died out.
More shots followed, stabbing blindly into the inky darkness.
Beaman was about to conclude that they would fire blindly in the dark at an unknown number of terrorists until they expended all their ammunition. Then they would have to punch and stab their way out in virtual darkness. If a stray round did not take one of them out first.
The overhead lights suddenly flashed on. Beaman took a quick shot at a blurry figure disappearing deeper into the cave. The man tumbled, rolled, and lay there in a heap.
The SEAL twisted at the sound of a footstep to his left. A shot. A muzzle flash. A burning pain lanced through Beaman’s left shoulder, three inches from his neck. Behind the flash, a terrorist stood up, in the same motion drawing another bead on him. Slowed by the pain, the wounded SEAL failed to react quickly enough.
But then, off to his right, there was a sharp muzzle blast. A red dot appeared squarely in the center of the terrorist’s forehead as his head snapped backward by the force of the bullet from Abdul’s 357 Magnum pistol. The fighter was dead before his body slumped to the cave floor.
All was quiet. The gunfight was over. Beaman counted a half dozen terrorists sprawled about on the cave floor. He insisted on completing a search of the cave before he would let Abdul tend to his wounded shoulder.
“I’ve had worse scrapes playing handball,” he growled.
They found only a mound of still-hot ashes that had likely been a pile of papers. Obviously important papers because someone had risked death to destroy them.
Then they found the smashed remains of a laptop computer. They could only hope that the hard drive was intact enough that data could be retrieved. It, too, was clearly of value if it could be deciphered.
Only then did they take time for Abdul to do quick first aid on Beaman’s shoulder wound.
“A little to the right and that bullet would have ricocheted off your hard head,” Abdul told him.
Beaman winced.
“Jesus, Abdul. What you putting on there? Cayenne pepper?”
“Merely antiseptic. We do not need for your wound to become infected, considering the hike we have ahead of us.”
Beaman stood and buttoned up. He moved his arm around in the shoulder socket, his face expressionless.
“Good as new. Let’s call us an Uber and get the hell out of this damn hole in the ground.”
A slight smile played on Abdul’s lips.
“It is true what you SEALs say then. Get comfortable being uncomfortable, right?”
“Damn straight!”
Beaman slid the mangled laptop into his backpack and put the strap over his good shoulder. They stepped outside into the frigid darkness and started the trek back down the peak, bound for the distant extraction point.
No Prophet. But maybe they carried the key to finding the shadowy son of a bitch.
19
Joe Glass watched contentedly as his team put all their experience and training to work. They had slipped in behind the Chinese Yuan submarine and quickly resolved a tracking solution on her. Now they were setting up to do a covert trail eight thousand yards astern of the unsuspecting submarine, ready to trail her as long as necessary.
With all the racket that the other submarine made as it snorkeled across the Indian Ocean, Glass knew that it really was not that much of a challenge to stay with her. But once the Chinese vessel stopped snorkeling, it would be much more difficult to maintain tactical control of the situation. The
waters around them were about to get considerably more crowded and noisy, as well.
LTjg Bob Ronson slightly adjusted the solution for the Yuan. The data seemed to fit a bit higher speed. The other boat had not exactly floorboarded it, but even the smallest change had to be accounted for to make certain Toledo remained in her shadow.
“Officer of the Deck, solution tracking at eight point two knots, best course still three-one-two,” Ronson called out. “Recommend change course to two-nine-five, increase speed to twelve knots.”
Glass sat down next to the young officer and grinned.
“Having fun yet, Mr. Ronson?”
“Yes, sir!” Ronson answered enthusiastically. “I just love it that we are actually doing something. This is a hell of a sight more fun than the attack teacher.”
Glass nodded, recalling his first mission, now almost twenty years ago. It had been fun and terrifying at the same time. But once things were happening, he forgot to be nervous or hesitant. Simply follow the training. Do as he was taught.
Glass was about to share that experience with Ronson but Doc Halliday stepped up, interrupting.
“Skipper, atmospheres are out of spec. CO2 is nearly four percent. Hydrocarbons are out of spec high. And we now have detectable carbon monoxide. We really need to ventilate the ship.”
Glass frowned but nodded. Unless they all manned EABs and sucked rubber, and if they actually wanted to be able to breathe, ventilating was the only choice.
Glass stood and stepped over to where Walt Smith was watching the BQQ-10 sonar display. The Yuan’s track was a clear, bright streak on the screen. Now they were about to conduct an operation that would likely make the streak dimmer and maybe even risk losing their contact with the Chinese submarine altogether.
“How good is your solution, Eng?” Glass asked Smith. “How far out do you think you can hold him?”
Smith looked at the display for a moment.
“Skipper, the solution has been tracking within half a knot speed and a couple of degrees course all watch. He has been most cooperative and has not maneuvered a bit. With this SNR, I reckon we can hold him broadband out to twenty thousand yards pretty easy.”
“Okay. Open out to twenty thousand yards. Stay deep in his baffles. Then let’s go up and ventilate for an hour.”
Based on the signal-to-noise ratio in the area, they were about to pull away to a distance of ten nautical miles. Even then, they would make sure to stay in the other boat’s “baffles,” its “blind spot.” They would go up to periscope depth for an hour and perform a task as old as submarining itself, expelling bad air and taking in fresh air from the surface. Except for damaged or malfunctioning equipment, modern submariners rarely had to be concerned about the air they breathed. It was typically cleaner than what they inhaled back home in the suburbs.
Smith glanced over at the fire control solution and did some quick mental calculations. The easy tail on the Chinese boat had just become considerably more complicated.
“Yes, sir. I’ll slow to two knots and come broad to him. It’ll take an hour or so to open out to twenty thousand yards, but I’ll still be able to hold him on the sphere.”
Glass nodded his approval.
“Makes sense. Give me a call when you get out to twenty thousand yards and have cleared baffles. I’ll be in my stateroom.”
“Will do, Skipper,” Walt Smith responded. “By the way, if you have a few minutes, Chief Gromkowsky has the work plan to fix both scrubbers and number two burner. We aren’t going to be able to fix number one. Both Mr. Ronson and I are on watch, but we have approved the work packages. All we need is for Chief Gromkowsky to go over it with you.”
“Have him bring the package to my stateroom.”
Glass disappeared out the forward control room door only to find Gromkowsky already waiting for him outside the captain’s stateroom.
Joe Glass spent the next hour reviewing the intricacies of the Toledo’s atmosphere control equipment. Chief Gromkowsky’s plan for repairing the complex electronics appeared to be complete and well thought out. The only tricky part was using a red devil blower, normally employed for damage control, as a jury-rigged substitute for the burner’s installed but burnt-out fan.
Glass had just finished signing off on the repair procedures when his phone buzzed. So much for catching a quick nap!
“Captain, Officer of the Deck. I have opened Sierra Three-Five to twenty thousand yards and have completed a careful baffle clear. I hold one sonar contact, Sierra Three-Five. Request permission to come to periscope depth and ventilate.”
“I’ll be right there,” Glass answered.
He stepped out of his stateroom and into the control room. A quick glance at the BQQ-10 display confirmed what Walt Smith had reported.
“Officer of the Deck, proceed to periscope depth.”
“Proceed to periscope depth, aye,” Smith confirmed. The control room fell silent. “Dive, make your depth six-two feet. Raising number two scope.”
Bill Dooley, the chief of the watch, called out, “Speed six,” as Sam Wallich, the diving officer, replied at the same time, “Make my depth six-two feet, aye.”
Walt Smith reached up into the overhead and grabbed the big red ring. A quick jerk counterclockwise and the periscope started rising out of the ’scope well. When the eyepiece and training handles cleared, Smith snapped down the handles and peered through the eyepiece.
Wallich directed the helmsman and the planesman as they flew the big submarine up to periscope depth.
Minutes later the periscope broke the surface and Walt Smith was looking at a bright blue sea. And an even brighter blue sky. There was no sign of any ship or aircraft as far as he could see.
Within minutes, the submarine was ventilating, exchanging the contaminated air with clean outside air. Though no one had really noticed that the air in the ship was getting stale, the salty aroma was wonderfully refreshing.
Glass took a deep draw of the sea air. That was one reason he joined the Navy. The smell of that air and the adventure it promised a young kid.
“Conn, Sonar, lost Sierra Three-Five. Looks like he secured snorkeling.”
Glass closed his eyes and muttered an expletive under his breath. Rotten timing!
Then he ordered, “Mr. Smith, continue ventilating for an hour. Then make best covert speed to the Chinese rendezvous point. We’ll just have to catch him at the other end of his run.”
Ψ
Admiral Tom Donnegan sat back in his squeaky old chair. He stretched his chin toward the ceiling, put both arms above his head, and took deep breaths. Sometimes that relieved the burning in his gut. Not this time.
Dammit, this was getting bad. The wife kept nagging at him about it likely being an ulcer. Probably just too much coffee. Too many of those sugary crullers from the cafeteria. Too little beneficial sleep.
Much worse, though, and he might finally need to break down and see one of those sawbones up at Walter Reed. Last resort, though. He detested modern Navy medicine and avoided it whenever possible. But the discomfort had become a maddening distraction. And with the flare-ups and full-blown catastrophes stacked up on his ancient oak desk, he simply had to be able to give his full attention.
Things were only getting much more complicated. First, TJ Dillon had called out of the blue to warn him about Sam Talbot and an alleged Mossad involvement in the Ocean Mystery mess. So far, that whole line had come up maddeningly empty. His normal Mossad contacts would not even talk to him. And no one seemed to know where Sam Talbot had suddenly disappeared to. Top that off with the fact that nobody appeared to be any closer to finding the lost ship or her crew. The president, the Joint Chiefs, Congress, the United Nations, CNN...hell, even his own wife...were demanding answers. And he had none. Other than that, his belly felt as if he had swallowed a shovel full of hot coals and tried to douse the flames with gasoline.
About the only positive thing lately came when Bill Beaman called in from somewhere in the Pakistani tribal la
nds. He claimed to have nabbed a smashed-up laptop that he had reason to believe belonged to Nabiin, the elusive Prophet. They could only hope they could retrieve something besides Nabiin’s favorite porn sites from the damn thing.
Of course, in the process, Beaman managed to get himself winged. Not only was a wound problematic in that primitive part of the planet but it would necessarily generate ungodly amounts of paperwork because of the former SEAL’s rather fuzzy status in the grand military/intelligence spectrum.
Getting Bill, Abdul Yusufzai, and the laptop out of the Tribal Region without a lot of uncomfortable questions from the Pakistani government had been challenging. The Pakistanis typically took exception to someone dropping into their country, traipsing around sensitive territory, and shooting up a bunch of their citizens.
Fortunately, Beaman and Yusufzai had emerged from the mountains within a few miles of the Afghan border. And, as Donnegan knew he would, Abdul Yusufzai had been resourceful in getting Beaman patched up—at least temporarily—and then transported (aboard a local donkey) to and across the border, all with no snags.
Donnegan shook his head as he considered how the donkey ride across rough country must have felt to Beaman’s wounded shoulder. Wasn’t the first time the old SEAL had been plugged. Or ridden a donkey. And emerged from a tough situation with something of value. Just another reason Donnegan could never allow the guy to get too comfortable down there amid all that seaweed and sand and free-flowing rum. Men like Bill Beaman were hard to find and Admiral Donnegan would never run out of opportunities for him to do his country some good.
A Marine MV-22 Osprey had met the two men as soon as they crossed the border from Pakistan into Afghanistan. Bill Beaman was now recuperating in Kabul, giving the staff at the hospital a hard time about the food in the joint.
The banged-up laptop? Already over at Fort Meade being analyzed. Grabbing the data off the heavily damaged hard drive had been a snap. Things got tougher from there.
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