Ancients: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Yes, sir, that is the plan.”

  The president felt in control for the first time in days. He nodded his thanks to all in the room.

  “Gentlemen, with the exception of Dr. Compton, you are excused.”

  The secretary of state along with the directors of the FBI and the CIA stood and left the room, excited to be moving against the man who might have been responsible for the American lives that had been lost.

  When the door closed, the president half slid down into the sofa. He rubbed his hands over his face and then looked at Niles. “This job really sucks, bookworm.”

  “You’re the one who wanted it. By the way, thanks for giving Colonel Collins a blank check as far as Hawaii goes.”

  The president raised his chin once and then let it fall again to his chest. Then he half smiled.

  “You may have saved our bacon, Niles. Tell your people … tell them—”

  “You can tell them when this thing is over, Mr. President. All they have done is what they’ve been doing for a hundred years.”

  “I just hope I can face them and others when this is over. As of right now, I’m responsible for getting a lot of American boys getting killed.”

  Niles leaned forward and looked at his friend. “That’s not true.” He looked at his watch. “The man responsible is just about to realize that it’s he who’s not the secret any longer.”

  5708 LAKESHORE DRIVE

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  The Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) of the FBI was in position. As Agent in Charge George Weston watched the thermal monitor from the large house across the street, he was confused as to what he was looking at.

  “Walk-in freezer?” he asked the technician sitting at the bank of monitors.

  “Probably; by far the largest one I’ve ever seen. Then again, look at the house—who has that much money?”

  “Evidently this Bozo does. Anything changed in the last two minutes?”

  “No. We still have three hot bodies in the room the house specs say is the den, and three in the kitchen.”

  The AIC was worried about the room that the thermal scan was picking up, shading it a solid blue on the monitor. The warm bodies were easy to discern, but if someone was in that cold room, his team would not know it until they broke in.

  “Is there any movement at all from the warm bodies in the den and kitchen?”

  “None.”

  The AIC raised his walkie-talkie. “Red One, are the sniffers picking up anything?” he asked. He watched the monitor that showed the green night-vision image of the HRT Red One unit, whose job it was to check for minute traces of explosive materials by using the “sniffer,” a small portable computer that smelled the interior air that escapes around windowsills and doorways. They were able to get so close because, surprisingly, the arrogant Mr. Tomlinson had no security grid around the house.

  “Negative. Clean, cool air only; no nitrates are indicated and no chemical trace other than household deodorant and disinfectant are evident,” the field tech answered.

  He made his decision even as his eyes moved to the cold spot in the house.

  “Okay, advance technical units move away. Strike team, we’re a go in two minutes, on my order and by the book.”

  He did not need a response from the HRT as he saw that they were moving into position. His eyes moved to the cold spot and he frowned. He then forced his eyes away and saw the window, door, and upstairs teams reach their IPs.

  “Stand by … Move, move, move!” he said into his radio.

  As the command team watched from across the street, the first team used a ram to break through the thick double doors and then a flash-bang grenade flew inside, and then smoke canisters quickly followed. The flash and boom echoed loudly even from across the way as agents dressed in black charged through the door just as more smashed through the front and back windows. Up on the roof of the three-story house, a rappeling unit jumped from the expensively shingled roof and smashed through the upstairs windows.

  Two full detachments of HRTs, one from Chicago and the other from Kansas City—a full twenty heavily armored and armed men—were inside the large residence in less than thirty seconds.

  As he watched through the window, forsaking the monitors, Weston saw more flash-bang grenades go off. He was relieved when there was no initial gunfire coming from the large mansion. Maybe this traitorous bastard Tomlinson will go down without a fight, Weston thought.

  “Down, down, down on the fucking floor,” came the shouts over the open microphones of the assault element. “One, study is secure. Kitchen is secure; five men and one woman in custody.”

  “Is Tomlinson one of them?” he asked, looking at the monitor that showed the cold room on the thermal camera.

  “One, Tomlinson is—”

  Suddenly and without warning, the Tudor mansion disintegrated. The explosion was so powerful that the entire HRT assault element vanished in a microsecond. The explosion ripped through the mansion and blew outward toward the surrounding homes.

  Weston was killed a split second after he saw the thermals on the cold room suddenly go red. The house they had borrowed for a command post blew apart and collapsed. The two houses in the back and two on the sides of the Tomlinson residence blew inward and started burning. All told, with the sacrificial lambs the Coalition had left inside the house along with the twenty assault members of two HRT units and fifteen other FBI agents and Chicago police officers, forty-one died in the explosion.

  After Tomlinson and the other Coalition members had left the house on Lakeshore Drive, a Coalition courier had delivered a special package to the huge walk-in freezer in the kitchen. This package was protected behind freezing temperatures and a tight seal, so that nothing the FBI had in their bag of tricks could detect it. One hundred seventy-five-pound boxes of C-4 exploded with the flick of a switch twenty miles away at O’Hare International.

  Tomlinson tossed the long-range remote to the steward and looked away. He reached for his drink as the Boeing 777 started its takeoff roll. As the large plane lifted off and started its turn north over the lake, everyone on-board was looking out the right-side windows of the aircraft. In the distance, they saw the small, brightly colored cloud rising above the rooftops of the very rich neighborhood they had recently left.

  Dame Lilith was the first to turn away from the scene, and she looked at Tomlinson. He calmly took a sip of his drink, stretched out on the long leather couch of the richly appointed aircraft, and then looked over at her.

  “How long until our teams can be in action in Ethiopia after we receive the plate map from Dahlia?” he asked as he placed his drink on the long table in front of the couch.

  “Six hours,” she answered.

  “Good,” he said as he smiled at Dame Lilith. “All in all, even with the loss of my home, it has not been an entirely unsatisfactory day.”

  11

  PEARL HARBOR

  HAWAII

  Inside the solemn enclosure of the USS Arizona memorial, Jack was listening closely, but that didn’t stop his inner furnace from burning hotly as he stood beside the eighteen U.S. Navy divers. The meeting of the National Parks Service, the Mobile Diving and Salvage Unit—or, as Carl Everett had introduced them, the “Mudzoos”—and the eight-man U.S. Navy SEAL Team Four, which had flown out with Collins and Everett from Coronado, California, had been in progress since the sun set low in the Pacific.

  They were listening to the special assistant to the secretary of the interior talk about the remains of the crew onboard the USS Arizona. The secretary finished and then a park ranger took over the briefing. So far, everyone in the group was going, with the exception of Jack, the assistant secretary, and two other park rangers. This exclusion was not sitting too well with the colonel.

  “By the time you enter the water, it’ll be full dark. Keep in mind, we have mapped where we believe most of the old ordnance is, but there are always surprises inside the old girl. It’s as if she still thinks she’s fighting
the war,” the park ranger giving the briefing looked at the faces around him, “and she has every right to think that way. She’s earned it.”

  The divers and SEALs nodded in understanding. Jack could see the respect that everyone in the room had for the Arizona. It was as if she were a sick woman and everyone was there to take care of her. They also knew what was at stake, and the respect they had shown thus far belied the fact that they knew, no matter what, that plate had to come to the surface. When the president orders something done, you do it.

  “Why was the captain’s safe never opened before? It’s my understanding that the National Parks Service has made several forays into the cabin,” Everett asked as he zipped up his wet suit.

  “Because of respect and privacy, it’s that plain and simple. The captain was the only one with his personal safe’s combination, thus the items inside are his own. We had no right to enter it. Captain Everett, you and these men have to get a clear understanding of what we have here. This warship is still on the rolls of the United States Navy, she is alive and you will respect her as a fighting combatant,” ordered Richard Chavez, head ranger of the memorial. “Believe me, if it’s in our country’s best interest, the old girl will give up her secrets willingly. Ghastly, but that’s the way it is.”

  Again the men nodded in understanding. They all knew that military battle sights had a way of causing deep, soul-searching experiences, and none of them came close to scoffing at the idea of the Arizona being haunted.

  “Okay,” one of the salvage divers said. “SEALs are outside, conducting security sweeps. When we dive, they will relieve the UDT already providing security. The eight-man Underwater Demolition Team will then board the memorial platform and await demolition orders if needed. Let us hope that is not where we’re headed.”

  “The Mudzoos will then try to cut the safe open and remove the item in question,” Everett said, taking over the secure portion of the briefing. He looked at the schematic of the Arizona laid out before them. “Now, we will execute the dive through this gangway here,” he said, pointing to a starboard stairwell. “That will lead us down to the second deck closest to the bridge. I’ll carry the DET cord and two quarter-pound charges of C-4; if it’s not enough we can always send up for more—let’s just hope we don’t have to use it down there. Now, Ranger Chavez, the length of the companionway isn’t that far?”

  “Right,” answered Chavez. “Thirty-five feet to the captain’s stateroom.”

  Everett was satisfied and he looked at his dive team. “Ready?” he asked, looking at his watch.

  Heads nodded around the large table. Everett then turned to Jack. “Hopefully, we’ll be right back, boss.”

  Collins nodded, accepting Carl’s decision that, with his limited dive experience, he could cause more harm than good. Jack knew that he was right.

  Everett turned to Ranger Chavez. “Permission to board the Arizona?” he asked officially.

  “Permission granted, Captain.”

  The SEALs and Mudzoos came to attention and then moved to the memorial’s railing. For the first time in more than sixty years, American sailors would board the Arizona.

  Dahlia watched from across the harbor. The powerful night-vision binoculars she used allowed her to see clearly the eight navy SEALs, two National Park rangers, and eleven navy salvage divers slide over the side of the memorial. The SEALs were clearly identifiable by their plain black wet suits and the arms they carried. She adjusted her view and saw four men watching the divers from above, on the observation deck of the memorial.

  She lowered her binoculars and brought up a small electronic-file device. She hit Saved and several pictures started flicking across the small screen. She finally came to the image she wanted and looked closely at it, then looked at the lone figure standing in the open on the memorial.

  “Damn,” she said, recognizing Colonel Jack Collins immediately.

  It was now obvious to her that he was responsible for the navy having beaten her team here. He must be in custody of the two Ancients, she thought. Regardless, she decided that the strike element she had assembled should be sufficient and was satisfied that they could retrieve the plate map, so she raised her radio.

  “Recovery One, you are go for incursion.”

  She lowered the radio, raised her binoculars, and watched a fifty-man team slide away from the much smaller memorial for the USS Utah, a former battleship turned target ship used in the training of the newer, faster, Pennsylvania Class Battlewagons of the 1930s. The Utah, also sunk on December 7, 1941, was lying on her side on the bottom of Pearl not far from the Arizona. She provided the perfect location for the attacking force to enter the murky waters unseen.

  The fifty-man assault-and-recovery element were excellent divers. All were former naval men from various countries. Their pay for this mission would be quite enough to retire and live a life of luxury. They would earn it.

  As she trailed her team, she was happy to see no trace of them as they swam south from the Utah. They were using special rebreather units that allowed no telltale air bubbles to escape the completely closed-loop systems. Dahlia then moved her glasses to watch a special three-man team on Ford Island, not far from the Arizona. The image was in a sickly green ambient light, but she was clearly able to see one man as he reached for his radio. She smiled as she heard three distinct clicks transmitted. The three men had successfully severed the electrical cable that supplied power to the underwater sound and laser-fence security system guarding the Arizona from treasure hunters and souvenir seekers.

  “Now, bring me my retirement,” she said as she adjusted her view to the memorial; she was satisfied as she watched the four men remaining on the observation deck.

  Except for the pain-in-the-ass Colonel Collins, whom she knew to be one of the most formidable men she had ever seen, the men did not look like much of a threat. She and her small five-man team should have no trouble removing them from the surface equation.

  Jack Collins looked at the names of the dead on the memorial and thought about how they had died. A surprise it had been, sudden and unexpected. Jack had always hoped never to lose anything as valuable as his men’s lives in battle, but he was also wise enough to know that was one wish never granted to a leader. All one could do was be vigilant and try never to be surprised as the brave men on the Arizona had been. He turned away from the names and looked out on the harbor lights and Honolulu glimmering in the distance.

  He raised his radio and depressed the Send button three times. Then he heard a return three clicks and was satisfied that his own surprise was ready.

  Everett was the fifth in line as they passed over the Arizona’s forward number-one turret. Although he had expected to see it, the scene was still something out of a ghostly dream as the handheld lights they used played over the rifled barrels. Marine growth had done nothing to diminish the menacing opening where at one time, long ago, one-and-a-half-ton shells had exploded out of the massive guns.

  As they approached the starboard gangway next to the old bridge tower that navy salvagers had cut away almost sixty-five years before, the water seemed to become even blacker, giving every man on the excursion the chills.

  The eight SEALs relieved the UDT element and Everett watched as they slowly made their way to the surface. The SEALs, armed with UPPs (underwater-pressurized projectiles) took up station patrolling the waters outside the great warship. The weapons they carried were multibarreled spear guns that could rapid-fire fifteen ten-inch-long darts at anything threatening the team.

  Even in her deteriorating condition, the Arizona was still something to behold. Her dark skin was alive with marine life, and as he slid a hand along her starboard railing, Carl knew that she was truly still alive in more ways than one. With well over three-quarters of her crew still inside, how could she be anything else.

  In the blackness of the harbor waters, a gaping maw slowly came into view in the dim lights ahead, and the gangway quickly followed that. The steel steps that
led belowdecks were still intact and, if it had not been for the rust, looked as if men had used them just that morning.

  The lead ranger went in first after attaching a nylon cord to the railing. The others followed slowly at five-foot intervals. Everett felt the minute pressure build as they descended into the darkness that led to the second deck of one of the most famous ships in history.

  As they traveled down the passage, Ranger Chavez dropped a small dive marker about fifteen feet in and then turned to face the men following him. The Mudzoos knew what was happening, but Carl was curious as the yellow-green dye marker rose into the water of the passageway as if it were a ghost. Someone tapped Everett from behind. A navy salvage man had seen the questioning look on his face, so he had written something on his plastic board with grease pencil.

  “Arizona crewman in the silt,” it said.

  Everett personally could have gone all night without knowing that, but he knew that they had to be warned, so as not to disturb the area. He knew why diving on the Arizona was limited to personnel of the U.S. Navy and the National Parks Service only.

  As he passed over the yellow-green marker, out of respect, he looked straight ahead and not down at the thick bed of silt where one of the Arizona’s boys lay. Carl was then startled when he looked ahead of him and saw at least twenty more of the markers rising like small ghostly signals. He realized then that they were inside a most hallowed place.

  Ahead, Everett knew, the rest of the Arizona crew lay where they had fallen at battle stations and awaited the arrival of their brothers of the modern U.S. Navy.

  A thousand yards from the stern of the Arizona, the Coalition assault team split into two groups. They would strike the old ship from two sides. One team of twenty-five would follow the Americans inside and strike there, and the other element would hit the SEAL security team in the waters surrounding the dead battleship. Then they would wait and take anyone who might escape the bowels of the vessel. The few men left on the memorial were not their concern. They would hit and hit hard and be away before the Pearl Harbor U.S. Marine contingent could react.