Pulse

by Jeremy Robinson

  As the team gathered their shed clothing and followed him to the hangar, Rook added, “I swear, we better find King’s buddy soon or there is going to be hell to pay.”

  21

  Over the South Atlantic

  Six hours after leaving the Pope, traveling at Mach 2—1,522 miles per hour—the Crescent closed to within twenty miles of the USS Grant. The Crescent, named for its half-moon shape, was the world’s first stealth transport plane, and while it had the potential to hold several tons of equipment, it had been converted to be used for special ops covert insertions. Small quarters with bunks could hold sixty troops, but right now, the only passengers were the five members of the Chess Team, the Crescents most frequent fliers.

  The trip had been made in silence as the team slept in their personal quarters. Missions often lasted for several days and sleep was always in short order. The six-hour flight from North Carolina to Tristan da Cunha, while aggravating for King, was a blessing as the team got, in military terms, a full night’s sleep. All slept fully clothed, with their gear stowed next to the bunks, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

  The pilot’s voice over the intercom provided the team’s wake-up call. “Rise and shine, Delta. We are approaching the LZ and are descending for your jump.”

  High altitude low opening, or HALO, jumps were the norm for the team’s aerial insertions, but they were landing on friendly territory while the sun still hung on the horizon. More than that, if they failed to land on the deck of the USS Grant, a cold dip in the ocean would greet them. While they typically relied on stealth to stay out of trouble, this time it was all about aim.

  With their parachutes checked and double checked already, they strapped the packs to their backs as they exited their bunk rooms and moved to the Crescent’s rear loading bay. Rook rubbed his eyes as he stepped in line behind Queen.

  “Aww, the little guy still sleepy?” Queen said with a grin.

  Knight chuckled as he got in line behind Rook.

  “Hard to sleep with you grinding up against me,” Rook said, slowly gyrating his hips.

  Queen laughed and tightened the straps across her chest, accentuating the point by showing off the feminine curves hidden beneath the black jumpsuits they all wore. “Boy, if you had me, you’d still be dead to the world tired.”

  Before Rook could reply, the red light above the red hatch turned green. He lowered his goggles into place and took hold of the railing that led to the rear hatch. A moment later, the hatch opened. A torrent of air whipped through the cabin and pulled at their bodies. The team held tight as the door opened fully. The view through the back became solid blue as the endless ocean below reflected the darkening blue sky above. The USS Grant could not be seen, but it waited for them directly below.

  King raised his hand, snapping the team to attention. His next hand signal would have them all jumping out five thousand feet over the ocean. He moved toward the rear of the plane, holding the railing as he leaned out, looking into the blue abyss. The first of the ships in the USS Grants battle group came into view. They were to jump just after passing the carrier itself, angling toward the ship’s massive deck. The carrier came into view, surrounded by what looked like a fleet of skyscrapers laid on their sides. Five destroyers, two Aegis guided-missile cruisers, three guided-missile destroyers, and two supply ships hemmed in the USS Grant, which dwarfed the other ships. Unseen, two Los Angeles-class attack submarines patrolled the frigid waters below the battle group. King had been aboard several different carriers over the years, but had never looked down on one from above. The sheer size of the ships combined with enough firepower to level most of the world’s nations humbled him as he gazed down.

  What amazed him most was that Deep Blue had managed to re-task several hundred billion dollars’ worth of navy assets in the time it took most people to send an e-mail. And all of it was here for them. King shook his head. Deep Blue either had a massive amount of dirt on people in power or knew how to play the military-political game better than anyone else. King decided it was the latter. Named for the chess-playing computer capable of beating the world’s masters, Deep Blue had proven himself deserving of the name.

  The massive carrier sat still in the ocean, displacing a hundred thousand tons of water and waiting to receive them. After just passing the carrier’s bow, King closed his fist and jumped. One by one, the team followed, throwing themselves from the back of the Crescent without a second thought.

  Knight, the last one to jump, met the open air with a smile. He loved the sense of freedom jumping gave him. In the distance he could make out the speck of Inaccessible Island, which hid them from any eyes on Tristan da Cunha and would obscure their approach. With arms outstretched, Knight followed the diagonal trail of the Chess Team led by King. Like a group of small planes they steered their bodies through the whipping winds toward the deck of the USS Grant.

  The Grants 1,092-foot-long flight deck made an easy target, but sixteen F/A-18 Hornets locked in place provided enough obstacles to make a precision landing, dead center, important. Slamming into the side of a forty-one-million-dollar war machine was never a good idea. Not only could you do millions of dollars in damage, but colliding with a wing after a 5,000-foot drop could take a head clean off. Adjusting his fall, Knight twisted and lined up directly behind Rook’s feet. Straight ahead and below he could see the rest of the team. As they closed in on the deck, Knight took hold of his ripcord and watched King’s hands.

  Six hundred feet from the deck of the Grant, seconds from impact and moving at terminal velocity, King made three quick jerking motions with his hand. At once, the team deployed their chutes. With a snap, the descent slowed only four hundred feet from their target. They coasted in a straight line, past the back of the ship, then swung around the bridge and headed for the main deck. The team landed as though choreographed, one at a time, pulling in their chutes quickly before a stiff breeze pulled them from the deck.

  Crew with brightly colored jumpsuits—green, purple, blue, and brown, each color designating their specific jobs on the flight deck—ran out and helped collect the chutes of the most unusual deck landing any had seen. They were used to catching roaring jets, not a five-man special ops team.

  A tall man with eyes as blue as the surrounding ocean and wearing a bright white officer’s uniform approached King with a grin. King took note of the eagle insignia on the man’s collar and the four yellow bars and single gold star on his shoulder. He offered a salute, that as a Delta operative he rarely had to do, but when in Rome...or on a Navy carrier...it was always nice to show the respect expected. “Captain Savile.”

  The captain returned the salute and smiled. “That was the damndest thing I’ve ever seen. What the hell was that bird you jumped from?”

  “You might have a higher pay grade, Captain, but I’m afraid I get to keep a few secrets.”

  Savile laughed. “Well, considering the ship you’re standing on doesn’t officially exist, I won’t tell anyone I saw your stealth transport if you don’t tell anyone about my next generation supercarrier.”

  “Deal.”

  After the team finished freeing themselves from their parachute harnesses, Savile motioned for them to follow him. “We’ve got cabins squared away for you if you need some—”

  “No need,” King said. “We need to hit the island before nightfall.”

  Savile looked at the sun, just about to dip below the arc of blue ocean. “Better double-time it, then. The shorelines around these islands are deadly to approach during daylight and suicidal at night.”

  “Suicidal missions are what we do,” Queen said as Savile opened a hatch.

  Savile turned around and looked each of them in the eye. At that moment he realized his five guests had probably seen more action and taken more lives than the ships in the battlegroup and thousands of souls manning them combined—real soldiers—the kind he enjoyed working with.

  22

  USS Grant, South Atlantic

  “Y
ou look like a seventies porn star,” Rook said as he gave King a once-over.

  King smiled as he looked in the bathroom mirror. The thick black mustache pasted on his top lip, combined with his messy hair; loose, white button-down shirt; and pleated khaki pants was enough to make him laugh, despite the grim situation. He looked ridiculous, though entirely convincing for his role. “I am but a French sailor,” he said with a thick French accent. “I am traveling the world with ma petite cochonne.”

  The gray steel door clunked open and Queen entered the cold utilitarian bathroom without a knock. Dressing and undressing in front of each other was part of the job. “Your little pig, huh?”

  King grinned as he saw Queen’s outfit, equally humorous, though much more flattering.

  “Wow,” Rook whispered when he saw her short shorts, sandaled feet, and poofy, white half-shirt that did little to conceal the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her long legs, stomach, and arms still held the tan she got during her time on Ocracoke Island and accentuated her toned muscles.

  Looking in the mirror next to King, she pouted her red lips and batted her eyelashes. She looked at Rook and with an equally thick French accent said, “Oh ma puce, you will burn holes in my blouse if you continue to stare at me with those devilish eyes. Then...I will have to rip them out.” She waggled a finger at him. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  The door opened. Knight stuck his head in, smiled at their outfits, and said, “Your yacht is incoming. Time to go.”

  Queen followed him out the door.

  “What the hell is ‘ma puce’?” Rook asked.

  “My flea,” King said with a grin. “It’s a term of endearment.”

  “Term of endearment, my ass,” Rook said as King left the bathroom. He hastily applied a layer of black face paint. “Ma puce, huh?” He smiled. “I could live with that.”

  It was only twenty minutes after their arrival, and the sun was nearly below the horizon. Daylight would only last for another hour as the last of the sun’s rays reflected off the atmosphere. The team waited on deck, King and Queen dressed for a private cruise and Knight, Rook, and Bishop clad, head to toe, in black wet suits. Supplies and weapons for King and Queen would be stowed away on their yacht once it arrived, but the other three carried their armaments and supplies on their backs, chests, and over their shoulders. They looked ready to wage war.

  Savile stood with them, waiting for the arrival of the vessels the team would take to shore. Seeing King and Queen dressed in their disguises made him grin. He’d heard that Delta often wore disguises, but never pictured them like this.

  A chopping in the distance drew their attention.

  “You got to be shitting me,” Rook said with a shake of his head and a grin.

  A slate gray, heavy-lifting CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter pounded into the air above the Grant. But it wasn’t the chopper’s grasshopper-like cockpit or massive whipping blades that surprised the group, it was the unusual cargo that hung on steel cables beneath the bird: a forty-five-foot dual-hulled catamaran. The pristine yacht gleamed white and bore the name Mercury. The Sea Stallion lowered the yacht to the water below the deck of the unmoving USS Grant, in the process bringing the cockpit of the helicopter level with the deck. When the cables went slack, the pilot grinned, saluted, then cut the yacht loose. The freed yacht bounced in the high swells but had no trouble staying perfectly upright, thanks to its extremely stable double-hull design.

  After the copter peeled away the group approached the deck edge and peered down at the yacht bobbing in the water. “Where did you find a yacht out here?” Knight asked.

  “As far as I know,” Savile said, “someone on your end tracked the thing using its GPS unit. Had a couple of helos intercept and...requisition the ship. I was told the owners were paid twice its value, but they were none too pleased to have their cruise interrupted.”

  King shook his head, amazed at the resources being pulled together at the last minute. “Deep Blue.” He said it lightly, but Savile overheard.

  He snapped his head toward King. Deep Blue’s call sign had become near legendary in the past few years as he worked behind the scenes and shifted military units across the globe like they were his own personal chess pieces on a world-sized board. “Deep Blue, huh?”

  King nodded.

  “Suez canal. Two years ago.”

  King met his eyes. “You were on the Halsey?”

  “Hell, was that you five?”

  Five grins answered the question. “I’ll be damned. You guys saved more than five thousand souls that day. Like lightning from the sky.” He shook King’s hand.

  Savile remembered the day well. As captain of the newly commissioned destroyer, the USS Halsey, he had been ordered to the gulf, along with the rest of his battlegroup, by way of the Suez Canal. As the canal passes through Egypt, whose relations with the U.S. and her allies is at times strained, the passage of any U.S. military must be completed without incident. Any military action taken in the canal could easily be seen as an act of war. The problem created is that any ship passing through the canal is essentially a sitting duck. Savile found out later that the CIA had picked up chatter about an attack at the canal, something similar to the attack on the USS Cole off the coast of Yemen. But the powers that be decided to keep quiet about the threat. Issuing a warning might make sailors jumpy enough to take potshots at the wrong people and set off an international incident.

  So when five motorboats powered through the canal, making for the port hull of the Halsey, Savile could do nothing but keep watch and hope they were just trying to get a good look at one of the world’s most powerful ships. When the five boats passed through the invisible border that marked the point where they could normally open fire, he became worried. Even more so when, despite his warnings via a loudspeaker, the boats continued in a straight line. They nearly sank the USS Cole with one boat. This was five. Savile shook his head, realizing what was about to happen, but then someone shouted “Look in the sky!” like some scene right out of a Superman movie.

  Savile stepped out of the bridge and saw five black specks flying in at a sharp angle, one behind each of the approaching motorboats. Looking through a pair of binoculars he saw that the five figures were dressed, head to toe, in black and bore no insignias or flags. They swept in, with fabric stretched tight between their outstretched arms and legs, gliding more than falling. At first he feared they were part of a two-pronged attack, but quickly realized that even the most well-funded terrorist organization could never pull off a stunt like that. His suspicions were confirmed when, just ahead of the five approaching boats, the five-man team popped their chutes and immediately opened fire with silenced weapons. In under thirty seconds the five motor-boats were disabled and taking on water. The attack had been averted in near silence, leaving only a few pissed-off terrorists trying to tread water as evidence. The five-man team hit the water, disappeared from view with their chutes, and never resurfaced.

  “Hate to break up the reunion,” Rook said, “but where is our boat?”

  Savile pointed to a small black zodiac tied to the Grant. Rook glanced at the small boat, which looked beyond insignificant next to the Grant and Mercury, then back at the yacht, then at King and Queen. “Bastids.”

  Twenty minutes later, Rook clung to the side of the zodiac as a stream of muttered curses flew from his mouth with every lurch up and over a wave. From the deck of the USS Grant, the ocean had looked calm, but upon launching they had discovered six-foot swells and a stiff breeze brought on by the cooling night air. Bishop piloted the eight-foot inflatable boat while Rook provided a counterbalance to Bishop at the bow. Knight, whose smaller stature made him the most likely to be catapulted from the inflatable, sat low at the center, gripping a plastic handhold.

  Darkness had consumed the ocean as they rounded Inaccessible Island and made a straight shot for the back side of Tristan da Cunha. This helped conceal their approach, but also made each wave a nasty surprise.

  The zodia
c bounced, catching air as Bishop kept the throttle opened up, and careened into the next wave head on. Frigid water cascaded over the front of the boat, soaking Rook and spraying the other two.

  Though the circumstances were uncomfortable and the ride perilous, all three maintained calm. As they approached the island, even Rook’s muttering ceased. The mission had commenced and each man knew the life and death of the others depended on their professionalism.

  The zodiac sprung up again, but not from a wave. The contact was solid and dead center. Knight bounced into the air as though he’d just landed on a trampoline. He landed next to the now immobile boat. If not for the ocean floor being five feet beneath he would have had to shed his gear or drown. Without a word he began slogging toward shore as waves pounded his back and threatened to smash his body against the rocky coastline.

  Rook and Bishop slid out of the ruined boat into the cold water.

  “On three,” Rook said.

  Bishop nodded as Rook began counting. On three they hefted the zodiac off the rock and let it sink beneath the waves, erasing all trace of their incursion to Tristan da Cunha.

  “All clear,” Knight said from shore. They met on a rocky crag.

  Bishop motioned to Knight. “Took a heavy hit. Any damage?”

  Knight shook his head. “It’ll bruise. I’ll be fine.”

  After shedding their wet suits and changing into dry, jet black fatigues, they donned night vision goggles and, though exhausted and beaten from their oversea insertion, began the long rocky trek toward the small forest that lined the base of Tristan da Cunha’s volcano. After setting up camp, their mission would begin in earnest.

  23

  Cow Bay, Tristan da Cunha

  The ride aboard the Mercury felt closer to a pleasure cruise, which was the intention of the double-hulled catamaran’s designers. It cut through the surface, completely stable. Moving at a steady, casual pace propelled by the ships two outboard engines, King steered toward the small harbor of Cow Bay, the only official and safe way to land at the island. With the surrounding waters lit by four halogen bulbs, he easily avoided the rocky shoreline and made a swooping arc around and between two jetties that protected the harbor from the constant assault of ocean waves.