“Mr. Johnson, I most certainly don’t approve of your methods and your blatant disregard for military property and lives. You clearly had this all planned out, so you did not need to launch a second nuclear missile at the fleet. As many as ten thousand people will die needlessly.”
“Sista, ten thousand is nothing. I released the Contagion in Mexico knowing full well that if the vice president didn’t give up his private stash of the antidote, everybody on the planet would die. That’s how many people I will kill to protect my president. Seven billion.
“It’s ironic really. In the movies, there’s always a lone hero or a small team who saves the president from countless hordes of terrorist attackers. Now, here, in real life, it is a terrorist and his team protecting the president from her own military.”
Four minutes, thirty-six seconds.
Carl added. “Commander, we’re empty of missiles, right?”
She nodded.
“And the guns fire tracer rounds that can be seen from a satellite?”
She nodded again.
“Then let’s keep up the illusion that we’re fighting to the last bullet.”
Eckels nodded. “Combat, weapons free. Engage computer auto-fire as soon as any target is in range. Empty all ammunition bunkers.”
“Weapons free, aye, Commander.”
Come on, Aaron. Where are you?
The thought had just tumbled through his brain when a klaxon blared throughout the room.
“Conn, Sonar! Danger close!”
Chapter 44
Carl heard a tremendous scraping sound like someone was ripping open the wall behind him. He knew it was McGrath’s submarine surfacing right next to the destroyer. Hence the list, so the destroyer’s deck would be on the level with the conning tower of the sub.
Commander Eckels shouted over the noise, “Lieutenant, shut off that klaxon!”
In the sudden silence Carl said, “Commander, get all your people topside and onto that sub!” He glanced at the tactical display for the last time. Four minutes, two seconds until the ship killers hit the ship. “Our ride leaves in exactly three minutes, forty-five seconds. Madam President, if you will accompany me topside.”
Commander Eckels made the announcement over the ship’s intercom to abandon ship. Carl led the president out of the CIC, half-leaning against the bulkhead to stay upright against the severe pitch of the deck. They made slow progress down dangerously tilting ladders, but two and a half minutes later, the commander, Carl, and Lieutenant Hawkins stood at the coaming rail just about level with the top of the conning tower of the sub and watched the president being escorted through the sub’s hatch.
“Now I understand why you detonated charges on my ship and wanted it to list.” She looked up at the thick cloud of smoke roiling ten feet over their heads, masking their exodus from the eyes of any orbiting satellites. She turned her gaze back onto Carl, and he saw a renewed respect in her eyes like he’d seen in many of his opponents. “Good execution, Captain.” She nodded at the sub. “Now get off my ship, Mister.”
Carl understood. Commander Eckels had to be the last soul off the ship. After all, the president was safe on the sub, so Carl’s mission on the destroyer was complete. He relinquished command of the ship simply by following her order. A sailor in a dark blue uniform stood on the sub’s conning tower and reached out a hand, which Carl grabbed to make the two-foot leap.
Hawkins hesitated, looking back toward the bow of the ship. The trapped damage control team had been freed and all but one marine and one mercenary were on the sub. Corporal Inajosa was still nowhere to be seen. Merc Twelve was missing too.
Eckels bellowed. “You too, Lieutenant!”
“Commander, my corporal—”
“She’s well trained, Lieutenant, and she knows how much time she has. Now move it!”
The lieutenant followed her instructions and made the leap to the conning tower, as did Commander Eckels. They disappeared down the hatch. Over the creaking and grinding of metal on the dying destroyer, Carl heard a squawk from the sub’s intercom about being out of time. He knew they had less than thirty seconds before the first ship killer impacted the destroyer. There was an extremely high likelihood that the sub would be damaged by the blast if any part of it remained above the surface.
He gave the USS Kestrel Andrus one final look, surveying its damage. She was a mess from the fantail to amidships. Even the bow had taken some damage. He turned toward the hatch as the sailor made the all-clear-up-top call.
Dive! Dive! Dive!
A tap on Carl’s left shoulder made him look up and see the sailor pointing to the front of the destroyer. Two figures in black combat armor moved slowly along the coaming, the corporal nearly carrying the limping mercenary.
The ten feet of conning tower above the water’s surface diminished rapidly, and Carl knew the stragglers had zero chance of miraculously covering fifty feet of mangled deck in time.
Merc Twelve and Corporal Inajosa stopped and stared at him.
Carl did the only thing he could under the circumstances of their certain death, even as surface waves lapped at the top of the conning tower. He stood ramrod straight and saluted them, then he and the sailor dropped through the hatch and it slammed shut behind them just as the top slid beneath the waves. Five seconds later, a series of tremendous explosions echoed through the sub’s hull, but the vessel was already leaving the area at flank speed and an ever-increasing dive angle.
The hatch at the bottom of the conning tower dropped into the back of the conn, or the control room of the sub, where the command staff directed the operation of the vessel.
A short, wiry man of about forty-five or so greeted Carl when his feet hit the deck. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Johnson. I’m Captain Julius Manford. Director McGrath has asked me to extend his gratitude for rescuing the president. I’m told her medical condition requires her to be sequestered in our SCIF, which we’ve modified to prevent leakage of the radioactive signature of the isotope in her blood.”
Carl removed his battle helmet and looked around the room at the dozen or so faces gawking at him. Must be weird collaborating with the American Terrorist, he thought, then simply nodded. “You have a bunk for me then?”
“Ensign Reynolds will show you to your room.”
A slender woman in a dark blue navy utility uniform stepped smartly up next to him.
“And, Mr. Johnson,” the captain continued. “If you’ll relinquish your weapons to the Master Chief.”
A burly redhead strode up beside the ensign. “Yes, sir, we cannot have any accidental discharges especially from armor-piercing ordnance aboard a submarine.”
Carl nodded and carefully checked his PDW. “Safety is on,” he said. He popped out the mag and cleared the breech, then handed the assault rifle to the navy man. With his helmet in one hand, he unbuckled his utility belt, laden with two more handguns, multiple grenades and magazines, and two combat knives, and handed the whole get-up over. Then he followed the young female officer out of the conn, through an oval bulkhead door, and down a short corridor. The first room on the right was simply labeled Captain. There was no name on the label, but then everyone on the boat would know who the captain was. Reynolds stopped by the second room, named Two, no doubt, Carl thought, for the second in command, whoever that might happen to be.
Efficient, Carl thought. If an officer gets reassigned, there’s no need to change the nameplate on the room. “Damn,” he whispered as he saw the tiny officer’s room. “You folks live cramped up like this for months at a time?”
“Sir, this is an executive room for the command staff. Under water, this is darn good living.”
She ended the statement with an upbeat tone, almost a chuckle that Carl found a bit informal coming from a naval officer in the presence of a terrorist. When he looked at her standing in the doorway, though, he saw a mixture of fear and awe…and eagerness.
“You have a question, Ensign?”
She glanced to her left a
nd right as if involved in a conspiracy, then leaned forward and whispered, “The director said you’re an officer?”
He nodded as he tore loose various Velcro straps and peeled out of his armor. “US Air Force, way back almost thirty years ago, when I was your age.” Christ, was I ever that young?
“Why did you…?”
“Why did I become a terrorist?”
“Why did you save the president?”
Carl got out of his armor gear and boots and stood in his skintight full-length athletic undergarments and socks. He got a whiff of his own body odor and remembered he’d been running on adrenaline for almost three days straight. He was tired and hungry, and he needed a long, hot shower.
“That story, Ensign, will no doubt be classified way above your pay grade. But I can tell you this. It was the right thing to do. President Shirley Mallory is a good human, and she deserves to live, which is more than I can say about the people trying to kill her.”
“Yes, sir.” Her posture told him she was ready to get back to her post.
“Can I trouble you for some clean clothes and a towel for a shower and maybe an MRE?”
“The officer’s latrine and shower is down the hall. I’ll bring you a deck uniform. But we don’t have MREs, sir. I’ll bring you some food from the galley.” She left before Carl could thank her, but she left the door open, obviously intending to return within a minute or two.
He sat on the bunk, reviewing all the new faces that would forever play across the movie screen of his mind, faces that would forever torment him for the decisions he’d made. Corporal Inajosa was there now, as were Mercs Twelve, Three, Thirteen, the helicopter pilots, and now dozens of young navy pilots. Nancy Palmer was there along with her support crew, whose names he did not know, heroes who had made the ultimate sacrifice, making sure the president got out of DC alive. Mark was always there.
Carl felt fatigued deep in his bones, then suddenly became aware of a loud banging noise. His eyes flashed open painfully, not because his eyes hurt, but because the effort to reenter consciousness from such a deep and mind-numbing sleep physically hurt. He looked around the tiny room and realized the overhead light was off when it had been on a moment ago. The desk lamp was on, though it had been off before. A pile of neatly folded clothes and a tray of food occupied the top of the desk. He was lying down. The door was closed and being subjected to an insistent pounding.
“Yes, what is it? Come in.”
Carl found the strength to force himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The door opened and the young ensign—Reynolds, he recalled—peeked her head in.
“Sir, are you okay?”
“Um, yeah, I, uh…What do you mean?”
“I’ve been knocking for almost a minute. I was about to go get the—”
“I’m fine, Ensign. What’s the matter?”
“President Mallory is ready for you.”
“Ready for me?” Carl muttered the words because he was having trouble concentrating through the fog that still had its tentacles wrapped around his brain.
“Yes, sir. She wants to see you in the SCIF.”
“I must have fallen asleep for a minute.”
“Sir, it’s been ten hours since I left your clothes and food on the desk.” She pointed across the small room.
“Ten hours? Okay, I’ll get dressed.”
“Yes, sir. Um, and about that shower, sir…” She gave it a California question mark, that uptick of the voice at the end that made it sound like a question when it really wasn’t.
“Yeah.” Carl snatched a biscuit from the tray and then grabbed the blue deck uniform—navy blue cargo pants and button-down utility shirt, black boxers and T-shirt, and black socks to go with the nonskid deck shoes. So many years ago when he’d joined the air force, the military underwear had all been white. How times have changed.
He slid through the doorway beside Reynolds and headed up the hall, stuffing the biscuit into his mouth on the move. It was cold and dry, but he was so hungry it tasted magnificent.
“Sir!” He turned, and the ensign thumbed over shoulder to the opposite end of the hall. “That way to the latrine and shower. Last door on the left before the next bulkhead door.”
The fog around his brain suddenly lifted and he remembered where he was and what the next step was in the plan. The president still wasn’t truly safe until the Kolls had been dealt with and their corporate cabal neutralized.
Carl had one final task to complete, then he could retire from his American Terrorist persona.
Chapter 45
Grainger Koll was watching the naval battle on his forty-inch HD desktop monitor for the umpteenth time when his brother entered his office. It had been two days since Hollis had arrived at the island. The door was open to the much larger control room that served as the nerve center—the brain—of the underground island bunker. His office measured roughly twenty feet square and was Spartan in appearance. The walls were bare gray concrete, completely unadorned with any kind of art or decoration, and the floor was equally minimalist. The only furniture in the room was the desk with its accompanying plain black leather chair, a corner bookshelf, and the small conference table with four chairs. The room lacked personality, like its current occupant, he figured many might say.
“How’s the arm?” Grainger said.
Hollis nudged the sling holding his left arm across his chest. His shirtsleeve was cut off at the shoulder and his upper arm was wrapped in fresh gauze. “Still hurts like hell, but the meds help.” He looked at Grainger’s monitor as the final moments of the battle played out.
Multiple submarine-launched cruise missiles, ship killers, impacted the USS Kestrel Andrus within a time span of only ten seconds. The first missile ripped the heart out of the listing ship with a tremendous detonation that broke its spine and lifted its bow and fantail completely out of the water. The rest of the missiles merely hit the remaining huge fragments of the dying ship.
From the perspective of the satellite holding in a geostationary orbit a few hundred miles above the ocean, the blast waves of the missile impacts could be seen sweeping outward away from the stricken vessel slowly, it seemed, though they both knew that wave of super-condensed air was moving faster than the speed of sound.
“It’s not like Carl Johnson to go down with the ship,” Grainger said rubbing his chin.
“They had time to get off the ship, but he’d know they could never escape the blast wave of those missiles.” Hollis nodded at the monitor. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to wring that fucker’s neck for shoving his knife in my arm.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Hollis waved his good hand at the monitor. “The only way he could possibly have escaped that blast is—” He stopped in midsentence and stared at the monitor for a few seconds longer, then turned his gaze on his brother. “No way! No fucking way he has enough money to buy—”
“A submarine hidden under all that smoke.” Grainger nodded. “Aaron McGrath wouldn’t have to buy one.” He paced his office once. “I never figured in a million years those two could ever actually work together, but they are.”
“I know.” Hollis examined the monitor as the last moments of the ship looped again. “Look at all the damage to the aft part of the ship, but it’s not listing aft. And the smoke is coming from the starboard side of the ship, but it’s listing to port. Fuck! It’s a ruse!”
“He did get off.” Grainger pressed a button on his keyboard, then said, “Do we have an infrared channel on our Pacific satellite?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well?”
“We’re getting something strange in here, Mr. Koll. There’s an incoming signal being broadcast to us, but it’s a carrier signal only. No audio or video channel.” There was a pause, then the voice said, “Um, you’d better get in here, sir.”
Grainger looked at his brother, then hurried into the command center. He stopped in midstride. He’d half-expected this, but still the i
mage took his breath away, though he tried not to show his shock.
◆◆◆
The knock on the door of the command stateroom brought Admiral Montmarkle rather violently out of an unexpectedly deep and disturbing sleep. She lay on her back without a blanket or bed sheet, the way she always preferred. Always fully dressed, she could be awake and alert by the time she pivoted on her butt and her feet hit the deck. This time, though, she was a bit slow in reacting. She sensed the person had been knocking for some time.
She opened the door to see Yeoman Bracker standing there, impeccably dressed in his military whites. She subconsciously straightened her own blouse, not wanting to be out-dressed by anyone serving under her. It was tough with the yeoman, though. His uniform was always flawless, and he was always perfectly groomed.
“Ma’am, you have an eyes-only video communiqué holding on Channel One.”
Eyes-only meant she had to get her rotating cipher code from her locker to decrypt the call. Such a call could only come from a higher authority, and there were precious few in the US Navy who fit that description. That could only mean one thing. She was being reassigned, likely early-retired for her bungling of the American Terrorist incident.
“Thank you, Yeoman.” She almost asked who was calling, but that would be reckless. The yeoman had a high security clearance—a requirement to serve as an assistant to a flag officer—but he would not be privy to eyes-only, above-top-secret information.
She closed the door and stood there for a moment. Bungling? She leaned against the door and snorted contempt at herself. That word hardly even began to describe the level of incompetence her superiors would judge of her. She had competed against the most capable male officers her entire career, some at the same time, and had risen above them all.
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