Axis of Evil: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction (The Lone Star Series Book 1)

by Bobby Akart

  The OOD gave the commands, and the Lucas eased closer to a parallel position with the FooChow, which was maintaining a steady twelve-knot speed.

  Abbey turned to update Duncan and Park on the situation. “When we first picked up the FooChow on radar, she was well north of established shipping lanes and hugged the territorial waters of Iran approaching Chabahar. We’ve seen this before, and according to our tactical memos from command, that’s a tactic favored by smugglers who are trying to skirt Iran territorial waters but also use them as protection in case we attempt to board them. They can dart into Iranian waters if they think they’ll be intercepted.”

  Duncan took this opportunity to insert himself and Park into any search mission. “As I understand it, Iran has no particular interest in harboring smugglers, but are naturally fiercely protective of their borders. Park and I have been on several VBSS operations in the past. If you don’t care, we’d like to join your teams as they go on board. Park is gettin’ fat and a little rusty. I need to give him something to do.”

  “Hey!” protested Park as Abbey laughed.

  “I noticed he doesn’t join our run,” said Abbey.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your special quality time together,” said Park with a chuckle. Then he leaned in to whisper, “You know, everyone is beginning to talk.”

  Abbey began to laugh, but Duncan moved swiftly to place Park in a playful chokehold. He gently applied pressure to Park’s throat until he held his arms up.

  “Okay, okay. I take it back,” begged Park. “Seriously, Captain, I’m going stir-crazy. Can we join the team for this one?”

  Abbey turned to his OOD. “Lieutenant, what’s the status of your VBSS teams?”

  “Sir, all equipment and comms checks have been performed. The boats are ready and at the rail. VBSS teams Red and Black are manned and ready to deploy on your orders.”

  “Okay,” Abbey responded. “Advise the team leaders that they’ll have two more joining them. Ensign, take these gentlemen to get suited up and issue their weapons of choice. Get them comms as well.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Thanks, Captain,” Duncan and Park said in unison.

  “You’re welcome, gentlemen,” said Abbey as he picked up a headset. “You’ve got time to get ready, and the teams can stand easy for a few minutes. I have to establish comms with the captain of the FooChow and give him the good news.”

  *****

  Prior to Duncan and Park’s arrival on the bridge, the communications officer on deck had tried to raise the captain of the FooChow. They’d failed to respond to several requests, and Abbey had grown weary of the game playing. With his VBSS teams in place, plus two, it was time to get serious.

  Abbey was ready to break the stalemate. He pulled the radio headset over his ears and positioned the microphone in front of his mouth. He began his customary wandering of the bridge, an indication to his crew it was time to get rolling.

  “Gentlemen, it appears the FooChow is experiencing radio difficulties. Perhaps we should provide them a little technical assistance in making the necessary repairs. TAO, this is the captain. Over.”

  A second later, the tactical action officer’s voice came back in his ear. “Captain, this is the TAO. I read you Lima Charlie. Standing by for your orders, sir.”

  “TAO, I need you to lay a five-inch round across the bow of the FooChow.”

  “Roger that, Captain.”

  Abbey patted his OOD on the shoulder and laughed. “Gentlemen, I suggest you put in your hearing protection.”

  The crew scrambled through their coveralls and pulled out the standard-issue orange rubber earplugs that were an essential part of their at-sea uniform.

  A few seconds later, the five-inch gun mount affixed to the deck below them spun ninety degrees toward the bow of the FooChow. The electronics weapons system of the Lucas locked the large-bore cannon on the bow of the Singapore-flagged vessel and tracked it with an eerie, stalking precision.

  As the two ships pitched and rolled along the Gulf of Oman, the cannon continuously made adjustments to compensate for the change in positioning of the target. Without warning, the ninety-four-pound round exploded out of the five-inch barrel with a flash and thunderous retort.

  The shell propelled itself toward the bow of the FooChow, easily breaking the sound barrier. It splashed into the water a second later only fifty yards off the vessel’s bow, throwing up a plume of water that hovered in the air long enough for the ship to sail into it.

  The sea spray was still evident on the horizon when the bridge’s comms came to life. It was the chief communications officer.

  “Captain, I have one rattled sea captain chattering his head off in Arabic. He’s on channel eight, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Apparently the FooChow captain has found a way to fix his batteries. Please put our interpreter on bridge-to-bridge channel eight. Have him respectfully request the FooChow to heave to and drop anchor. Over.”

  “Comms, aye-aye.”

  “OOD, let’s provide some cover for our VBSS teams. All hands on deck. Helmsman, keep a safe distance but close enough to allow our gunners to engage if necessary.”

  Captain Abbey took the binoculars and studied the ship from bow to stern. Now, let’s see what the FooChow is carrying.

  Chapter 13

  November 3

  Aboard the FooChow

  Near Chabahar, Iran

  The Gulf of Oman

  An hour later, Lieutenant Frank Wilson, the Red Team leader, stood on the starboard of the FooChow and looked across the three hundred yards of choppy water that separated the two vessels. He keyed the mic that was built into his headset.

  “Lucas, Red Team leader. Over.”

  “Red Team Leader, this is Lucas. Go ahead. Over.”

  Wilson turned to look towards the bridge of the freighter. Two of his men were holding the crew of the FooChow with their guns held at low ready. Thus far, they’d received no resistance other than some discrepancies in the ship’s manifest.

  “Red Team has secured the bridge and below-deck engineering compartments. We have divided the vessel’s crew between the bridge and the remainder who are assembled on her fantail. Black Team has watch on the stern. Over.”

  “Red Team Leader, do you have a head count? Over.”

  “Nineteen, sir. That is one-nine including captain and crew. Over.”

  Wilson listened for a response and waited nearly a minute before keying his mic once again. The sun was beginning to set over the Strait of Hormuz and he didn’t like being outnumbered on a strange vessel, in the dark, off the coast of Iran.

  “Lucas, Red Team Leader. Copy that? Over.”

  “We did, Red Team Leader. Be advised, vessel’s filed manifest provides for captain and twenty crew members. Repeat. Twenty-one, including the captain. Over.”

  “Roger that, Lucas. The ship’s captain was calm until questioned about his crew. Black Team has conducted its initial sweeps of all spaces except the cargo holds. In progress now, but comms are spotty due to ship’s superstructure. Over.”

  Suddenly, another voice entered the conversation. “Lucas, this is Black Team Leader. Request permission to set ROE to security level two. Over.”

  Under United Nations guidelines and maritime law, when conducting a board and search mission, the U.S. Navy’s VBSS teams were not allowed to conduct body searches of the vessel’s crew unless they exhibited acts of physical aggression. Lack of cooperation and hostile attitudes did not warrant a physical search. As a result, the VBSS teams had to be aware each of the FooChow’s crew could be carrying concealed weapons.

  Captain Abbey responded with a sense of urgency in his voice. “Black Team Leader, do you have an emergency or hostile situation? Over.”

  “Negative, sir. As darkness sets in, it’s difficult to see in the cargo hold, and we have no comms. Over.”

  “Be advised, Black Team Leader, manifest indicates two missing crew members. Repeat. Two unaccounted for
. Over.”

  Again, silence overtook the comms. Both lieutenants in charge of the VBSS teams would be justifiably nervous as the skies grew darker. After several moments, Abbey returned with his orders.

  “Team Leaders, this is Lucas. You have authorization to increase to security level three. Level three is authorized.”

  Level three involved noncompliance after an official request to inspect a ship in sovereign waters. The vessel’s lack of initial responsiveness, the uncooperative nature of the captain, and now the unaccountability of two crew members warranted Abbey’s escalation. Operating with their weapons drawn and pointed at the crew members was inherently more threatening than levels one and two. Circumstances above deck were guaranteed to become tense, but nothing compared to the uncertainty below.

  *****

  Two decks below, deep in the cargo hold, Duncan and Park were not privy to the orders issued by Captain Abbey because their communication devices were not working. Nor were they aware of two missing members of the FooChow crew.

  They moved in tandem through the darkened space, illuminated only by widely spaced fluorescent lights, which flickered constantly. They had just passed through the forward cargo hold and cleared several crew quarters when they reached a series of compartments that rose two levels toward the deck.

  The space was dark and cramped due to the large numbers of shipping containers that provided a maze of narrow walkways created by high walls of corrugated steel.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Park.

  “Something other than these Conex containers,” replied Duncan. “We’ll leave the opening and tagging of the containers for Black Team.”

  With their weapons leading the way, having disregarded the assigned threat level from the moment they went below deck, the two operators methodically walked along the bottom of the cargo hold, looking down every passageway and up towards the deck, which was obscured by a series of large steel doors. Both men had holstered their sidearms and were carrying Mossberg 590A1 Mariner shotguns with short, fourteen-inch barrels. In close-quarters situations like this one, they didn’t need the firepower of an M4, opting instead for the versatility and broad spray pattern of a shotgun.

  A loud clank was heard by both men, causing them to stop and lower themselves into a crouch.

  “Was that ahead of us?” asked Park.

  “Yeah,” Duncan responded as his head swiveled back and forth to get his bearings. “Black Team is still working in the forward cargo area. This is something different.”

  A scraping sound caused Duncan to stop talking. Both men shut off their flashlights.

  “I wish we had our NVGs,” whispered Park, referring to the night-vision goggles they carried in their gear.

  After a moment, their eyes adjusted. They were not completely in the dark, as some ambient light found its way into the massive cargo hold.

  The sound of a man grunting ahead of them told them they were not alone.

  “Come on,” said Duncan. “We can’t clear this using our usual right-left methods. We gotta go high-low, but quickly. There’s somebody trying to get away.”

  “Moving,” said Park as he led the way. He was shorter than Duncan and was adept at running in a low crouch. This would enable Duncan to see over his head as they moved through the narrow passages.

  In perfect unison, Park pushed toward the source of the sound, moving his weapon from side to side in rapid, but precise, arcs. Duncan followed behind, constantly surveying the containers above them, his eyes and weapon scanning the openings between the large metal boxes.

  The clanking sound of metal on metal could be heard thirty feet in front of them. Park began to race toward the sound, causing Duncan to pick up his pace. The men reached an opening that was wider than what they’d seen thus far.

  Duncan took the lead as he moved toward their left. He whispered to Park, “This way. Something’s different.”

  They raced to the end of a Conex container, and a void appeared in the middle of the stacked boxes. A faint light could be seen through the cracks of a container door. In front of it, two chairs and a table sat to the side, completely out of place in these cramped surroundings.

  Muffled voices could be heard, but neither Park nor Duncan could make out the words. Duncan used hand signals to instruct Park to approach from the left while he would move toward the door from the right.

  As they got closer, the whispers intensified, and even a country boy from West Texas could identify it as Asian or, more specifically, Korean. Then the lights went out, and they were in complete darkness.

  Chapter 14

  November 3

  Aboard the FooChow

  Near Chabahar, Iran

  The Gulf of Oman

  Duncan felt his way along the container walls, making his way toward the entrance of the container. Although he couldn’t see Park, he sensed his presence as the two men arrived near the table and chairs simultaneously.

  “Are they hiding, or planning an ambush?” asked Park in a barely audible whisper.

  “If they’re hiding, they’re not doing a very good job of it,” replied Duncan. “They forgot their furniture.”

  “Either way, we gotta decide if we’re gonna bust in there weapons hot,” said Park.

  “We could wait on Black Team,” said Duncan. “Whoever’s in that box is stuck now.”

  Park nudged his partner’s arm with his fist. “I have a better idea. Let’s give them the universal signal for the jig is up. Nothing says hello, how are you like racking a round into a Mossberg. There’s no other sound in the world like that metal on metal.”

  “Agreed. Let’s rack one, pound the sides, and then you holler at them in Korean.”

  “Yeah, we’ll give them a chance,” said Park as he inched closer to the doorway.

  Park slid into position as the two men flanked the entrance to the container. After they pulled the slide on their shotguns, they immediately began to pound the side of the container. The racket they caused could’ve raised the dead. In between the pounding, sounds of screaming and pleas of mercy emanated from the container. Duncan presumed it was Korean because Park began to engage the occupants in conversation.

  Between the shouting and the noise created by the duo, the Black Team was alerted, evidenced by the sound of running feet and shouts of instructions that could be heard from the other side of the cargo hold.

  The lights turned on inside the container, and the doors slowly opened. Two elderly Korean men stepped out with their hands in the air. They were shaking, and one was shedding tears.

  With the doors open, Duncan could see that the two were not a threat, but he had Park order them to the floor nonetheless. Within minutes, three members of Black Team arrived with their weapons drawn and joined Park in holding the stowaways on the floor at gunpoint.

  Duncan entered the forty-foot-long sea container, moving his shotgun from side to side in case he was surprised by a gunman. The container didn’t contain any more stowaways, but it was far from empty.

  “Whoa,” exclaimed Park as he joined Duncan’s side. “What do we have here?”

  Duncan walked through the container and studied the wooden crates holding various parts of a machine or vehicle. Each container was marked in Korean.

  “Park, what does it say?” asked Duncan.

  Park shouldered his weapon and began to walk through the container. At first, he mumbled the words, but the more he read, the louder and more excited he became.

  “Communications antenna. Grapple module. Attitude control. Antenna boom. Solar panels. Ground-link antenna. Internal computer.”

  “C’mon, man. Are you gonna tell me what it says?” insisted Duncan.

  “Dude, I think it’s some kind of spacecraft. Maybe a satellite.”

  Duncan walked through the maze of crates and boxes before marching out of the container. He grabbed one of the Koreans and pulled him to his feet.

  The man held his arms up, pleading for mercy in his native la
nguage. Duncan was being intentionally rough with the older man, shoving him forward toward the first container.

  “What is this for?” he screamed at the old man.

  He responded in Korean, again appearing to plead for mercy.

  “Park, ask him!” shouted Duncan.

  Park and the man began to rapidly converse in Korean. Throughout the brief conversation, the man would look in the direction of Duncan, who provided a death stare in return. The man began to sob and then fell to his knees.

  “What’s his problem?” Duncan asked brusquely.

  “He’s afraid you’ll return him to North Korea,” replied Park.

  “The DPRK?”

  “Yeah. These men are scientists, and this, my friend, is a satellite destined for Tehran. The Iranians are apparently in the satellite business with Pyongyang, and if this guy is telling the truth, they have been for years.”

  Chapter 15

  November 4

  Silent Wings Museum

  Lubbock, Texas

  Major stood toward the rear of the Silent Wings Museum in Lubbock, a facility built in 2002 to honor the former pilots of the U.S. Army and Air Force’s Glider Program utilized in World War II. Their first goal had been to restore the WACO CG-4A glider and display it inside the museum. The facility became an instant local attraction for visitors.

  Major understood politics enough to know that Governor Marion Burnett was about to speak to some of her staunchest supporters. As politics go, Texas was a deep red state, and this part of West Texas was the reddest of the red. In a statewide race, Governor Burnett would focus most of her attention on the parts of the state where so-called independents were abundant, like the counties surrounding large metropolitan areas in Dallas/Fort Worth, Houston, and Austin.

  This trip to Lubbock was about getting out the votes in the final days of the campaign and pocketing a few campaign donations for her trouble. Major had his check in his pocket and looked forward to talking with his old friend.