Everett watched as the captain’s cabin finally came into view. It had seemed like a mile when it had been only thirty-five feet of dark passageway. The door to the cabin was wide open, and as they watched, a small blue-finned fish swam out as if curious at his nighttime company.
As the only diver who new approximately what it was they were searching for, Carl would be one of only six allowed into the cabin of Franklin Van Valkenburg, who had been the commander of the USS Arizona.
As the initial team entered the cabin, Everett was shocked to see that the closet with the remains of uniforms still hanging. The sea had not eaten them as it had so many of the other things onboard. Carl hoped that the sea life had left them in respect to the ship’s captain.
Everett continued looking around as the others went to the main bulkhead that separated the cabin from the next space. As he looked over the stateroom, he saw the phone off its hook, and then before he knew it two more yellow dye markers rose from the deck; two more bodies here. Who were they? It was a known fact that the captain had made it to his command bridge, had been seen there moments before the destruction of his ship. Therefore, who these men could have been was a mystery.
The rest of the captain’s cabin was losing its fight with the waters of the harbor. The rich paneling that had covered the steel-encased room was all but gone.
Everett recalled that Martha and Carmichael had said that Van Valkenburg had been one of them. However, unlike Martha and Carmichael, he had done his duty to the human race, as well as to Keeler’s brother.
A bright light suddenly filled the dark cabin. Carl had to turn away as the cutting torch flared brightly as the Mudzoos went to work on the small safe.
As he looked away, he saw the round porthole, one of the only ones he had observed not covered by a protective steel hatching. A form suddenly crossed the murky glass. It was only momentary, but he was sure that it was someone in the water outside the hull. He turned back to the cutting, unnerved by the dark figure he had seen outside the porthole. Then he reassured himself that it must have been one of the SEALs in the water. However, he could not help but have a momentary SEAL-trained reaction that something was not right about the blurry figure he had seen, and that something kept playing on the fringes of his mind.
The battle outside the Arizona started before SEAL Team Four knew it was upon them. The black-suited and -helmeted assault element of the Coalition fired their first volley from thirty yards away through the darkness of the harbor. Before the SEALs could respond, three of their team were down. There had been no warning from above by the rangers monitoring the laser fence that guarded the site.
The team leader, a chief petty officer named “Breeches” Jones, was a wily veteran of many Persian Gulf excursions. The one thing that no SEAL team had ever done in their storied history was fight an actual undersea battle. He quickly saw the dark figures ahead of him branch out as his remaining four men returned fire at the advancing group. He raised his M1A1-56 dart rifle and rapidly fired six of the tungsten steel projectiles at the closest of the attackers. Two of the darts struck home and the dark-suited figures became still and started to sink.
The chief then saw at least twenty more bad guys swim out of the murk toward the outnumbered SEALs. The attackers were armed with the same weapons the SEALs had, and Jones saw that his only choice was to make for the superstructure of the Arizona and swim over to the protection of the far side. He saw two of his men break over the top. Then they quickly returned and were waving him back. The route was cut off by more attackers.
Suddenly, the routine security operation had turned into a life-or-death struggle and Jones’s team was losing.
Inside the captain’s cabin, Everett was still thinking about the figure he had seen through the porthole. Then what he had seen finally dawned on him. No, not what he had seen, but what he had failed to see. He would regret not acting fast enough for years afterward. There had not been any air bubbles trailing behind the blurred figure he had briefly viewed. Everyone on the dive was using standard diving equipment because when you were diving on a dangerous wreck, air bubbles could be used to let a team member know that you were in trouble. Just as he started to move and warn his companions, the safe door popped free of its hinges.
As Everett moved forward quickly to let the salvage divers know they were not alone, two of the deadly darts struck one of the navy divers from the companionway. Carl made it to the four other men and started pushing them in the opposite direction; he was gesturing and waving them away when three more darts sliced their way through the water and struck three of the salvage divers.
The remaining team members needed no more coaxing to turn and swim to the passage opposite the main companionway. Everett, thinking about what he was there for, quickly reached into the open safe and felt around until he pulled out an old plastic-covered map and chart case. He hurriedly dropped them into the silt and then felt around the safe again. He felt something spongy at first and then underneath it was hard and rectangular. He pulled it free just as a steel dart pinged off the door frame of the safe. He did not stop to see who had almost killed him; instead, he kicked out with his fins and made to follow the rest.
The attackers charged the captain’s cabin in pursuit. One diver saw the map case lying half buried in the silt. He reached down, claimed the case, and then kicked his fins to follow his team.
Jack had seen the UDT team away for a well-deserved rest and was walking along the memorial deck when he suddenly saw emergency flares start to glow below the waterline. Bright yellow dye markers then started reaching the surface. He did not hesitate as he reached for his radio and depressed the Talk key; this time the signal was two short and one long. At that moment, he heard sharp cracks start peppering the concrete memorial. Small-caliber silenced rounds started chewing up the radio, map table, and other equipment. Two bullets struck the assistant interior secretary and he fell dead three feet from Jack as he hit the wooden deck.
“Are you armed?” he called out to two prone park rangers.
“No!” one said as he covered his head.
“Great!” Collins said under his breath as he pulled a 9-millimeter automatic from his coat. Only five minutes before, the UDT had left the memorial for to take a break.
Before they knew what was happening, a rubber Zodiac assault boat with its loud outboard motor bumped the memorial and three men poked their heads through the slats, giving them a good view of the interior. One of these smashed the tinted glass and started to climb in. Collins took quick aim and fired one round. His aim was true and the attacker’s head jerked back, then the man fell backward through the slatted opening.
“You two, get to the far end and into the water and get the hell out!”
The two park rangers rose. One fell immediately as five bullets stitched his backside. He fell into the other man and they both went down. Jack started to crawl in the prone position toward the fallen men as twenty more rounds plunked into the wooden flooring beside his head. He rolled quickly and on instinct let loose three rounds in the direction of the gunfire, and an attacker in black Nomex clothing fell from the side of the memorial.
Just as Collins turned back to the rangers, he saw three of the attackers rise from the opposite side and step onto the platform. He aimed and fired, striking the first man in the groin, doubling him over. Then one of the other two emptied a magazine of bullets into the ranger who was lying helpless at their feet.
“Damn,” Jack said as he started to roll on the hard deck, turning over and over, giving very little for anyone to aim at until his body slammed against the harbor-side wall of the white-painted memorial. He turned and fired five times into the thirty-foot-high window and watched as the tinted glass exploded inward. Then, with three shots over his shoulder, Jack rolled into the oil-laced water of the harbor.
The memorial had been lost to the enemy just as the upper deck of the Arizona had been quickly overwhelmed.
The five remaining SEALs dive
d into the first opening they could, the empty barbette of number-three gun mount. The gaping hole was where one of the fourteen-inch mounts had been located. It had been removed shortly after the attack on December 7, then relocated to the coastal defense battery on Oahu. As the five SEALs dived quickly into the interior, twenty of the deadly darts pierced the dark waters behind them, striking the rusting steel of the number-three barbette.
Everett and the navy salvage team swam quickly down the emergency passageway of number-two deck. At every opening they passed there had been at least a two-man team waiting for them with deadly and accurate fire from the outside. It was clear to the trailing Everett that there were far more bad guys than good. They had lost three of the navy salvage men and Ranger Chavez in the first of these unexpected assaults without any return fire. Everett concluded that the SEALs outside were either dead or fighting for their lives just as he and his men were.
Carl used his dive knife to bang on the steel bulkhead until the men ahead of him stopped and turned. They had been heading for the stern companionway that led to the open water of the harbor, where he knew that attackers were waiting to ambush them. To punctuate this thought, four men in the same-style wet suits as Everett’s team were wearing came bursting into the hatchway from above. The men started to scatter until they realized that this was what was left of the SEALs’ security element.
Everett waved everyone over to the open hatch, which had been frozen in that position since 1941. The chief and the remaining SEALs turned and started pumping darts into the massive barbette opening of number-three gun mount to cover the salvage team as they entered the hatch.
Carl was the last to enter the hatch following the SEALs. He stuffed the plate map into the back of his weight belt so that he could pull himself into the hatch. Just as his fins disappeared through the opening, ten darts ricocheted off the steel around the hatchway. One of the deadly projectiles hit his right fin and pierced it, knocking him sideways. Everett’s luck was holding as he went deeper into the darkness of the Arizona.
As the survivors dived into the real heart of the ship, the attacking Coalition force hesitated only moments before following. Soon the entire force of forty-two men entered the bowels of the ship in pursuit.
The great gray lady was crewing live Americans once again, but she was old and tired and very near collapse as the remaining men swam for their lives into her darkened belly.
Jack dived under the concrete memorial and came up under her frame to catch a breath. He held his Beretta up out of the water, ejected the nearly spent clip, and silently slipped in one of his spares. He shook his head in anger after losing another three people to the Coalition.
He heard loud talking as more men entered the memorial from the harbor side. Where in the hell had they come from? The afternoon search of the harbor had been thorough; they had made sure that all the tourists had exited the area and there were no surprises awaiting the dive team.
As Jack moved from frame strut to frame strut, he heard equipment smashing and men walking overhead. He spit out some of the foul-tasting water, then froze when he heard a woman’s voice.
“I am speaking to Colonel Collins. I know you are the military officer that was at the warehouse in New York and Mr. Keeler’s offices in Boston.”
Jack did not move. The gentle lapping of the water underneath the memorial masked his breathing, but he was still prepared to dive deep if bullets started punching their way through from the deck above.
“I know that your facility at Nellis has Ms. Laughlin and Mr. Rothman under quarantine. They tell the wildest and most fanciful stories, don’t they? They really are quite insane, you know. It must be the inbreeding.”
Jack’s eyes followed the voice through the decking above his head. The woman was moving left to right and coming very close to the spot where he had rolled into the water.
“I must tell you, and whatever entity you work for, that you have caused me concern here. This was supposed to be a no-violence endeavor. Your interference will just be the cause of more deaths.”
Jack thought he had a good spot where he could shoot through the deck and hit the woman, but then he decided to hold his fire. He wanted her alive because now he knew that she was at least culpable in the murders of his people.
“We will get to the two Ancients eventually, Colonel. It’s just as the message I instructed be left for you in New York stated: You’re not that secret anymore.”
Jack closed his eyes in anger as he heard her arrogant chuckle.
The dive team, or what was left of them, was hold up in the ship’s number-three galley. They had lost one more SEAL and another three salvage divers on their way in. Everett and the rest of the team were fast running out of darts, just as the enemy seemed to have an endless supply.
Carl took a quick head count and saw that they were down to two SEALs and five unarmed navy divers, plus himself and one park ranger. They had their backs up against a solid steel bulkhead behind good protection; a large cast-iron stove was stopping most of the tungsten darts. Now they would be picked off one at a time or they would run out of oxygen. Neither fate suited him all that much.
Growing angry at the no-win scenario, Carl reached for his plastic writing board and quickly wrote, “What is above the galley?” He quickly showed the board to the others.
The park ranger quickly wrote, “Number eight antiaircraft mount.”
Carl pointed to a large hole in the steel ceiling of the galley. What he was indicating was the hole that the 776-pound aerial bomb dropped by a Japanese pilot over sixty years before had made in its plunge into the forward magazine for number-two gun mount. As they looked upward, they could see the open water through two decks.
Carl used his thumb and index finger to mimic a gun, asking for the two remaining SEALs to cover him.
The chief held his board up and quickly wrote, “No way, there are at least thirty to forty attackers in the galley and companionway!”
Everett looked at the jagged hole again. He thought he could squeeze through. He handed the bronze plate he had removed from the safe to the park ranger and then quickly started to remove his tanks. The others looked at him as if he were nuts. The SEALs turned and fired off a few darts and then reloaded their last tube of ammo. Before Everett removed his mouthpiece for the last time, he wrote on his board, “If I’m lucky, you’ll hear three taps when I get there—get everyone inside the big ovens and cover up!”
With one last look at the incredulous faces of the salvage team, Everett started taking deep breaths. Then he removed his mouthpiece and tapped the chief on the shoulder. The two SEALs popped up and started pumping darts into the darkness of the mess area, not really knowing if they would hit anything. The idea was to keep their enemies’ heads down until the former SEAL followed through with his crazy plan.
Everett held on to a flashlight as he pushed up hard with his legs. His body left the deck and he almost made it into the large hole in one fell swoop, but his shoulder hit one of the jagged edges and his momentum stopped cold. He felt a dart plunge into his neoprene wet suit and lodge in the soft folds of his side; luckily, it was only skin it caught. He adjusted his angle and kicked with his fins, and the dart in his left side hit the opening on the way through. The sudden flare of pain almost caused him to expel the precious air he had stored up in his lungs. Nevertheless, he kicked once more and he was through.
Carl shone his light around. He was in a small crawl space between decks and he hurriedly looked around for the ladder he hoped led out to the antiaircraft mount. He suddenly saw it about six feet away. It went upward and in the opposite direction; and went down toward what he was hoping to find. He just hoped he remembered the schematic correctly.
As he descended into the hold, his captured breath was expanding in his chest. Carl eased up and forced himself to slow, lowering his blood pressure intentionally and allowing small amounts of air to escape his lungs. As he used a handrail to guide him, he saw ahead through the
light a small hatchway that was bent almost double, but still open. That had to be the small locker that served the number-eight gun mount. He just hoped that salvagers had left what was stored there intact as too dangerous to be moved. As he held the sides of the hatchway, he pulled himself into the armored locker.
The eeriness he felt inside was palpable. He shone the light on the deck and saw the bubblelike rise of steel where the explosion below had buckled the deck above. The forces involved had been so tremendous that the armor decking had separated into layers.
Carl looked around. Time was running out as his lungs were starting to ache as he continued to expel air a small amount at a time. Still he did not see anything that he needed. The armory looked to be empty. Then he saw them. They were in the silt of sixty-five years’ accumulation, buried like the men around them, and were like skeletal fingers poking from a grave.
Before he could reach even for one, he started to grow dizzy. He shook his head and looked around him. Calmly and orderly he checked every upper corner of the locker. Finally, he saw something that could help him. There, hanging from the ceiling, was a vent cover. It was off and it angled downward. He just prayed his luck held. He kicked to the vent and tore the remaining small rivets free, then stuck his mask up and inside. He worked his way up and then the large ventilation shaft angled back and out of the locker. Where it angled, he found what he desperately needed: air. Air that had been trapped long ago and could not escape due to the particular curvature of the vent.
Ancients: An Event Group Thriller Page 27