by Robert Lance
“Aye Aye, ma’am.”
She pointed at Gates and Fitzgerald and said, “You two will have to work the haul lines. Take your time with it.”
The blackout curtain went up fast and without any snags. The team assembled at the sandbar waiting to examine their work. They flashed their work lights on the curtain. It looked like a giant mural. Shades of off-black design made it appear as a solid natural wall.
Perrotte said. “That should please Alamo when he gets here.”
Heather said, “Trust me, he’ll find something wrong with it. I couldn’t have done it without your help. Thank you. Now we can get some real work done.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the days that followed, the forward operating base was beginning to take shape underground. SEAL Team Four had constructed a rigid floating dock out to the sand bar and beyond. They had brought in an electric generator and work lights. All the supplies they worked with were high tech modular construction materials that snapped together. Perry commented the Grotto was becoming the biggest Legos project on the planet.
The latest addition under construction was a floating fuel cell to accommodate two thousand gallons of fuel. Getting forty fuel cells into the grotto wasn’t a problem. Each cell was a flat bundle, approximately four feet in length with attaching collars and super rugged nonskid bases. It was a matter of using an air compressor to inflate them. After the tenth cell was inflated, the team realized they had a problem. The cells were so buoyant they became unmanageable, and the current of the river was taking them out into the inlet. The plastic rodeo began as the men tried to manhandle the fifty gallon jugs while treading water. It was like catching ping pong balls in a wind tunnel. What started out as fun was becoming a struggle as the cells were pushing past the curtain and out into the inlet.
About that time, Master Chief Gregory happened to come to the dock and immediately uncorked. “You god dam Morons! Stop that tank. Do not let them get away.”
Fitzgerald yelled back. “We are trying. They’re just too fuckin’ big.”
“Make them smaller.”
“How?”
“Use your imagination, shit for brains.”
Fitzgerald was frustrated as the cell he was trying to secure bobbed and drifted in the current. Gregory’s yelling didn’t help. The cell got completely away from Fitzgerald. He power-stroked to catch-up. BANG, BANG, BANG. Fitzgerald heard a pop and hiss. Then more Bangs. He realized that Gregory had filled the big plastic bob with a dozen shots not two feet from him.
Fitzgerald yelled at Gregory. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Making it smaller, dick head.” Gregory went on shooting until he ran out of ammunition. He wasn’t finished. He grabbed a knife and tossed it at Fitzgerald. Get your ass out there and cut the shit out of em. Don’t come back unless you can account for ten plastic carcasses. You heard me. Go get em’ killer… Fuckin’ numb nuts, at least we know the pet rock sensors work.”
Three of the cells had managed to get into the inlet. One made it out to sea which Fitzgerald caught and deflated. He got a workout dragging a heavy water filled bag back to shore, cursing Gregory the entire time. He was determined to have words with the Master Chief the minute he got out of the water, but the dwarf must have had business elsewhere. The rest of the team were on the dock shredding plastic jugs. They were in a sullen mood as well. Fitzgerald pulled himself up on the dock looking evil and ready for a brawl.
“Did any of you see that? The dwarf took shots not two feet from my head. He could have killed me.”
Gates said, “I’m certain the intention was there. That came out in the lecture that you missed. It was a short lecture.”
Fitzgerald asked, “What did he have to say?”
“Read the fuckin’ instructions.”
Perrotte had a packing container in his hands and read aloud the big warning label. “DO NOT INFLATE.” He flipped the label like a Frisbee in Fitzgerald’s direction. “Master Chief has a point. If a Chinese patrol boat picked up the fuel cells, and it is obvious what they are, they could back track ‘SAT’ images, and it would be a bread crumb trail leading them right back here. Give us a hand cutting these last ones up so we can get rid of the evidence before Alamo gets wind of it.”
“Are Chinese space optics that good?” Perry asked.
“Good enough to read the warning label we missed.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lieutenant Commander Alamo Jones encountered one road block after another. The prototype “Ghost” was chained to the floor of a C-17, sitting on the tarmac at Andersen Air Force Base, on the island of Guam. The plane, and its cargo, wasn’t going anywhere. The Ghost didn’t have a military specification number, nor an identification code that permitted shipment. It wasn’t in the inventory of authorized military hardware, and therefore, the Navy Supply Corps commander at the naval base refused to transfer the strange craft to the loading docks. Technically, the secret craft was private property belonging to a civilian manufacturer. Transporting it was illegal. The admiral in charge declared the Ghost contraband.
Alamo needed to keep the access of his top secret mission compartmentalized and limited. He found a loophole to put the Ghost on an air shipment manifest. The Air Force allowed the personal household goods of key personnel stationed overseas permission to ship personal property by air. Alamo had simply arranged the Ghost to be shipped as household goods to Puerto Princesa, thereby avoiding delay and red tape. It backfired when the Philippines declined to let the C-17 to land. Now he was buried in red tape and up to his neck in admirals and generals with third degree burns up their ass.
Alamo found himself sitting at the end of a mahogany conference room table large enough for a soccer game. At the opposing end, an admiral and general were going at it with goalies kicking the ball back and forth.
The Air Force general saw the smoke screen for what it was. “Lieutenant Commander Jones, I’m supposed to believe the department of Defense authorized a Lieutenant Commander to ship a yacht, armed to the teeth, as household goods? If this is a part of some clandestine operation, I would have been informed. My C-17 is not in the charter business for the Navy’s pleasure.”
“It is now, general. My mission is SAP/SCI, and you aren’t on the access list.”
The admiral didn’t like the insubordinate tone of a mere Lieutenant Commander lecturing an Air Force general, and she said, “There is a chain of command, Lieutenant Commander. You’re out of order… your command structure doesn’t seem to recognize that fact. We’re all on the same team, but you don’t even have credentials or the rank to disrupt what we’re trying to accomplish out here.”
“Ma’am, I understand the meaning of chain of command. The definition of chain is restraint. SEAL Team Four doesn’t twiddle their thumbs waiting for permission from people like you to lab test piss and screen shit.”
“Lieutenant Commander Jones! You’re on the verge of an admiral’s mast. I’m tempted to refer this incident to the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations.”
“You do that, and you’ll be pounding pork chops in the galley for the rest of your career. Ma’am, before you say another word we need to clear the room.” Alamo’s face was as blank as the back of a shovel. The general saw an opportunity to walk the plank backwards. He smirked, shuffled his feet, and high tailed it out of the room with his soccer team on his heels.
The admiral blushed with embarrassment, and the medals on her chest were vibrating like the paint shaker at Home Depot. The snap of the bolt on the door was her signal to go ballistic. “Stand at attention!” Her spleen ruptured, and she cranked out a shrill litany that could melt paint. Her diction and vocabulary blew past the contents of Webster’s dictionary. Alamo let her blow.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” She screamed.
He said. “This is not going to look good on the after action report I send to the SECDEF.”
“How dare you?”
“If you have a secure line,
I’ll let you take it up with him.” Alamo was as cool as Tony Bennett on stage. “The next link in my chain of command is Derek Fremd, the SECDEF himself.”
The woman deflated with a look of confusion. “I don’t believe you.”
“Let’s find a secure line. Look Admiral, this isn’t your fault, but it could be.”
She nodded at a communication station behind her. Alamo dialed the phone and waited for the encrypted verification while staring down a disbelieving Navy admiral.
The phone was answered, and Alamo began speaking informally. “Lieutenant Commander Jones. Yes sir, I know what time it is. I’m sorry to disturb your sleep, but we’ve got a problem.”
Alamo explained the situation. It took a few minutes. He watched the perspiration begin to bead on the admiral’s forehead and noticed wet spots under her arms.
Alamo responded to something said, “Derek, who’s running interference at your end? You need to get out ahead of the storm and fix this down line.” There was a brief pause. “Yeah, let me make this clear. It is your fucking fault, and you had plenty of time to sweep the deck before we landed.”
Alamo nodded, and then winked at the admiral. “I’ve got an admiral eating my ass raw, and you need to speak to her. Before I let you go, it’s not her fault, and make sure she gets access…ASAP.” Alamo pulled the phone away, and whispered. “I forgot your name.”
She blurted out, “Nancy Buchanan…Admiral Buchanan.”
Alamo spoke into the phone. “Sir, I have Admiral Buchanan on the line.” He handed the bewildered woman the phone. Had a Navy Lieutenant Commander just cussed out the Secretary of Defense? She eyed him from the same perspective as she would a kidnapper.
The C-17 with the hybrid fast boat in the cargo bay sat on the tarmac. Alamo would have to wait until dark to move his mysterious craft to be loaded on a Navy LSD. He declined a secure cordon that the general ordered. “I don’t need to solicit a photo op with cops posing for a satellite picture post card,” he told the Captain from the Air Police. “Keep this ramp closed so I don’t have to kill any curious airmen.”
Alamo used the time to confer with the contractors assembled for the mission. He discovered that the Navy didn’t have a soul who was remotely familiar with the Ghost. During trials, Navy procurement specialists had observed, which was why submarines had five hundred dollar toilet seats that no one could use. The Ghost had a crew of three, the pilot, weapons officer, and an engineering technician. Two working engineers were along to maintain the craft and work out any kinks that might arise. All of them were former Navy specialists and jumped at the chance to see their first-born child go into action, not withstanding the generous pay incentive that would allow them to retire to a manse on a hill.
Alamo used his time productively to grill the contractors. He learned from the weapons officer that the Ghost had an array of weapons that could be configured to the specifics of mission requirements. The weapons bay could be configured with two Vulcan twenty mil cannons, two rocket pods with smart warheads, Spike and Griffin missiles, and could launch drones to patrol in front of the craft. The weapons officer informed Alamo he had plenty of firepower on board, and it was a matter of resupplying spent munitions. He gave Alamo a quick tour and explained how the weapons linked to the command and control module.
The command and control central module was similar to a state of the art jet fighter cockpit. The system navigation platform allowed for world wide navigation and could be controlled remotely, or linked to the forward looking radar. The central bay could carry a variety of payloads, including eighteen fully equipped SEALs. There was a galley and sleeping quarters for long deployments. The center module had dive doors to allow submersible operations.
Unique to the craft were two hydrofoils of tubular buoyant hulls attached to pylons. Each had a gas turbine power plant that produced super-cavitation propulsion that could attain speeds in excess of forty knots. At slow speeds, the pylons lowered and the craft could patrol in water depths of three feet. In the submersible mode, the pylons folded and deflated, allowing the entire structure to sink below the surface. The main turbines shut down, and two electric motors propelled the craft at a speed of three knots. A snorkel and antennas allowed the craft to remain underwater, completely undetectable, and remain in contact with shore or ship. The craft had a patrol range of four hundred miles, and combat range of one hundred fifty miles.
The entire structure was built with super stealth material that gave it a viper starship appearance. Alamo was eager to get his bad assed toy to work. It was the exact vehicle he needed to carry out his mission. He was so enthralled with learning about the Ghost that darkness took him by surprise. It was time to move it from Andersen to the naval yard where it could be loaded into the bay of a Navy Landing Ship Dock or LSD, where the crew could assemble the Ghost while underway and launch it into the open sea. It would take twenty-four hours to assemble, but the voyage to rendezvous with the WESTPAC carrier fleet was five days at sea.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Roberto was leaned over the bar with his head resting in his hands, watching CNN on the TV, when the SEALs arrived. Perrotte greeted him. “Cheer up Roberto. It can’t be all that bad.” Roberto was the self appointed ex-officio Bill O’Riley blathering openly about his opinion of the worthless dogma using up air time. Roberto was like half of America’s hard working people, fed up with the media’s hysterical harping on and on about little shit that didn’t matter and ignoring the bullet aimed directly at the heart of America. The life expectancy of the story of China bullying in the South China Sea was three news cycles. However, the president bullying the Chinese ambassador had accelerated to illegal water boarding and beyond. According to all the pundits it would take decades to repair the gaff committed by the thug sitting in the White House.
Roberto was seething. “Our politicians are leaning toward sharing our islands with China. We have many Chinese in our Philippines. They are good people, but Chinese are stingy and share nothing. Roberto knows this very well.”
Roberto was a right wing nationalist bigot and the mayor of Sabang. Ted said, “The media believes the country should be run by public opinion polls. Don’t pay attention to the polls, Roberto.”
“It is hard to listen to your blabber mouth narcissist telling our people we need to share. I’m afraid your president will listen to them.”
Ted understood Roberto’s sentiment, but knew the Philippine government had their hands full controlling the territory they owned. The southern islands were overrun with Islamic terrorist and the central islands had pockets of militant communists running amok. Ted didn’t express his thoughts to Roberto. He was distracted by Domino leading the daytime crew through the door of the restaurant. Two grunts with jar head haircuts stood out despite the Metallica and Star Trek tees. The other woman with Domino wore a tank top that would have been provocative if she had tits. They marched directly to the Snake Pit bar and Domino said to no one in particular, “Mind if we join the snake eaters club?” Snake eaters was a derogatory term generally applied to special ops personnel.
“How are things at the Pentagon?” Fitzgerald was referring to the Field Command and Control center.
“You’re not supposed to ask.”
“You’re not supposed to be talking to us. If the dwarf catches you fraternizing with the unclean, we’ll all be called before the mast.”
Domino chuckled. “That’s what we call Gregory. Actually, we call him Grumpy behind his back.” She waved her hand dismissively. “We’d like to take a ride in the clown car. What do you say we grab some beers and troll down the beach?”
The four men looked at each other. Perrotte spoke for them. “Better not. The keys are in it. Don’t get it wet and…Try not to get a DWI.”
While the enlisted men hustled Roberto for beers, Ted asked Domino, “How’s LT treating you?”
“You mean Lieutenant Cummins? She’s a den mother. We like her, but she sticks to herself.” Domino furrowed her bro
w. “Why is she barracked in that shack up the hill instead of down here in officers’ quarters?”
Ted shrugged. “Maybe she’s anti-social.”
“Bullshit. That woman has a lot of party in her. Domino knows when a woman has her fangs out.” She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned. “Watch yourself around her, Perrotte.”
Ted immediately became defensive. “The rules of engagement don’t allow enlisted and officers to frolic.”
“Bullshit. The fan club isn’t exclusive to us peons, Perrotte. The scuttle butt is she has the hots for someone. All bets are on Alamo Jones, but I think not.”
“He’s taken.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m in the intel business, and I so know Alamo’s reputation.”
“What else do you know?”
“Enough to tell you to stay out of Lieutenant Commander Jones’ line of fire. Gotta go. Thanks for letting us borrow the clown car.”
Heather emerged from the Pentagon ignoring the Snake Pit where the SEALs were ogling her. Perry called out, “Hey, LT, I have a beer with your name on it.”
She was getting on her bicycle, but paused. She had made herself scarce to avoid her transparent feelings for Ted. Avoiding him could have unintended perceptions, like she was intentionally avoiding him. She parked the bike and sauntered to the Snake Pit. She addressed them, asking. “How goes it in the grotto?”
Gates said, “The curtain fell down. We’re hoping you and Perrotte can fix it.”
She couldn’t help but smile.
Fitzgerald said, “Have a seat LT. All that’s left to do is run a fuel hose from the trail head to the grotto. Got any new scoop?”
She eased onto a bar stool next to Perry. She looked at the beer he was holding. “How did you get Miller Lite?”
“The dwarf has a very big procurement system at his disposal. He likes me.”