“He is in a dumpster, with the other refuse,” said Wernher, gesturing in the general direction of a series of trash cans.
“A moment, mein freund,” he said, walking around the side of the warehouse.
Wernher returned in two minutes, wearing his helmet and gloves, the ‘Busa rumbling evilly.
“Umm, don’t you have a car?” said Kevin, a bit nervously.
“Nein. Do not be a vagina! Get on behind me!” commanded Wernher.
“It’s pussy. Don’t be a pussy, is what you meant to say, right?” said Kevin as he swung into the bitch seat behind the Mad German.
Laughing, Wernher twisted the throttle wide open, popping a wheelie, as Kevin clung onto the grab handles for dear life.
He was glad he’d already pissed himself today.
“Yes! That is what I meant to say! Pussy!” yelled Wernher, cackling and throttling the bike up to cruising speed.
In the distance, Kevin heard police sirens as they sped towards the airport.
—————
Two Navy jets sat on the tarmac at Miami International Airport.
“Uh, this is Bravo Delta One - Niner, cleared for takeoff on Runway two-seven, planned ascent to flight level two-five-oh, and heading two seven one, Roger,” said the pilot in the first F-35.
“Delta one-niner, this is Miami Control, you and your flight are cleared. Godspeed and good luck. And thanks for the show!” came the voice over the headset.
Kevin Mitchum was sitting in the rear of a Naval F-35 fighter plane.
The pilot pushed the throttles to get the plane airborne, and as soon as it left the runway, sat it on its tail and pushed the throttles to the wall.
The plane shot straight up, to the cheers of the tower crew.
Kevin tried to keep his nonexistent lunch down and was immensely glad he’d not eaten in two days.
—————
“Uh, can you let me know how you two gentlemen rate such fine treatment from Uncle Sugar’s Naval Aviation Corp?” said the pilot in the second plane.
“Nein,” came Wernher’s reply.
“Beg pardon, sir, are you really a German?” the pilot asked.
“Ja,” was the curt answer.
“Why does your friend smell like piss, sir?” the pilot said.
“Ask him,” came the brusque reply.
Ok, so this guy is a hardass, thought the pilot.
“This might be a bit rough of a flight, sir,” the pilot said.
There was no reply from his passenger.
Well, then, he thought he might show this tightass Kraut a thing or two.
He pulled back on the stick, flipping the plane through an inverted loop, and coming out in an Immelman.
The man in the backseat should be losing his lunch right about now, he thought to himself, smugly.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
He sighed.
The passenger was sleeping.
He pointed his aircraft at Texas and settled in for the long flight to Guam.
The pilot and his wingman would have to conduct six aerial refueling in order to get there within the next twelve hours.
—————
Kevin Mitchum was trying to relax, using his meditative state.
Now that they were at altitude, going Mach 2, it didn’t seem so bad.
At least, if the plane exploded, he’d never know it.
He hoped.
“Don’t grab the ejection seat handles, sir,” said the pilot.
Kevin looked down to see he had them in a death grip.
He gently opened his hands and put them in his lap.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry about the takeoff, sir, we’re in kind of a hurry, sir,” said the pilot, all polite and professional.
“’S’okay, son,” replied Mitchum. “Good flying.”
“Uh, sir, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” asked the pilot.
“Sure, go ahead. I don’t suppose you carry those tiny drink bottles on this thing, like a real airline, do you?” he added, hopefully.
“No, sir, sorry, sir,” came the reply.
“Sir?” the pilot asked.
“Yeah?” said Kevin.
“Why did you smell like piss before we took off?” asked the pilot.
Kevin Mitchum sighed.
It was going to be a long flight.
—————
“Derek, there’s no one here!” said Tony.
An Alpha Team Strike Force had sped to the warehouse area as soon as Derek had been alerted to Jonathon Reighland’s reappearance.
Miami P.D. had been contacted, and Tony given permission to liaise and become OIC once on the scene.
But, they only found a dead man in a dumpster.
Kevin Mitchum had apparently been held there, but he was nowhere to be found.
Only his hat and some cheroots gave any indication he’d even been there.
—————
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Captain Buck Rodgers had his brain trust in his cabin.
Forty hours, they’d been at the bottom of the ocean, waiting.
Time was running out.
They had heard noises against the hull, like scrapings.
The Captain had asked for two volunteers to go outside.
It was basically a suicide mission at this depth.
Four men volunteered.
Rodgers picked his best diver and his newest dive recruit.
Their mission was simple – go outside and see if they could manage to get power to the sail cameras.
The two men put on their deep-diving gear, called JIM suits.
They looked like spacemen.
The airlock cycled, and the two men floated out into the black seas.
Radio communication was out onboard the ship.
The JIM suits could communicate between themselves using hand signals and touching their helmets together.
They carried spare parts and batteries.
Forty-five minutes into the mission, the junior man signaled his JIM suit was malfunctioning.
He made it back into the airlock, but just barely.
Since the electronics were off, all the hatches and airlocks had to be manually actuated.
When the crew finally had the airlock hatches open, he was dead, drowned by the water that had seeped into the suit from a tiny crack in the helmet seal.
The senior man, unaware of the fate of his partner, soldiered on into the darkness.
He followed the hull contour and managed to gain the sail.
Climbing to the access port, he unscrewed the port and removed the battery and com module.
He checked the camera fittings by feel, satisfied they were intact.
Finally, he pressed the test button and was rewarded by green lights.
At least, he knew, the circuitry in the sail was working.
There might still be issues in the pressure hull, but that wasn’t his job.
He began to retrace his way back to the airlock when something bright caught his eye.
The diver spun his JIM suit around, turning his lights onto full, and hoping his cameras were recording the astounding sight.
A Chinese-marked submersible, as big as a supertanker, hovered above them, in the calm waters surrounding the USS Betsy Ross.
The bottom looked as though it had opened bay doors, and he could see racks with mounting catches and winches.
There were also two large bladed arms, one near the bow, and the other amidships.
As he watched in horror, the vessel sank towards them, the arms coming closer.
More mechanical arms swung down and clamped onto the hull near him.
He just avoided being crushed by one arm.
Quickly figuring out the purpose of the vessel, the diver made a short video description of his observations.
He went back to the sail and found the camera bay again.
Inserting a special probe from the JIM suit, he attempted to load th
e file into the ship’s computer network.
The light turned green.
He assumed his message was sent and received.
Then, he moved to where another arm was coming down to clamp onto the hull.
Maneuvering so that his JIM suit was between the arm and the hull of the Betsy Ross, the man began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
He was at “Thy will be done” when the mechanical arm crushed the JIM suit flat against the pressure hull.
—————
“What the fuck was that?” said XO Chastain.
The men sitting in the Captain’s Cabin looked at each other.
All of the men had the tension on their faces.
A hull puncture at this depth was completely fatal to the ship.
The Captain and XO both began the process of preparing to scuttle the ship, should that occur.
The automated self-destruct was non-functional, as all the electronics were fried.
“I am opening my safe to retrieve the detonator, XO,” said the Captain.
He spun a combination lock and opened his safe.
Reaching inside, he pulled out a small box, about the size of a carton of cigarettes.
The submarine had been nudged, hard, by something outside in the deep ocean.
A few minutes later, there was a second nudge.
The Captain opened a small door near the floor.
He pressed some buttons, and it popped open.
Shortly thereafter, a third nudge.
“XO, I am in possession of the key to the self-destruct device. Do you wish to proceed?” asked Captain Rodgers.
Chastain gulped.
“Yes, sir. I have the lockbox key around my neck, as per SOP, Sir,” he replied.
He reached beneath his uniform and pulled out a chain with his ID tags, and a small key.
“Here you are, Sir,” he said, giving it to Rodgers.
The Captain took the key and used it to unlock the lockbox he had taken from his safe.
Then, there was a nudge that felt different than the others, almost as if it did not connect as squarely.
The Captain pulled out a small cylinder, that had a mechanical dial on it.
He set it to one minute.
“Captain, we have visual from the sail, and limited network connectivity. It looks like there’s a message from JIM 1. Shall I play it?” asked the Com Officer.
“Go ahead, Coms,” he said, sliding the cylinder into a prepared space for it in the compartment near the floor.
The message from the diver began to playback, the audio scratchy and buzzy.
“This is Officer James Morton, Senior Diver, USS Betsy Ross, 42-809, reporting the sighting of a large submersible descending onto the pressure hull. It seems designed to hold missiles, there are block and tackle, winches and mechanical arms attached near the bow and amidships. The vessel also has two large bladed arms. Captain, it looks like they mean to cut Betsy apart and take the missiles. I’m going to try to get between the arm coming to attach off the port bow. Wish me luck. It’s been a genuine pleasure serving with you all…tell my wife I love her. Morton, out.”
The men stared at each other, the horror on their faces as they realized what their diver had managed to do.
“Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be …” they heard coming from the speaker.
There was a loud coughing sound, and then dead silence.
“Jesus Christ!” said one of the Officers.
“Morton sacrificed himself to give us some time. Gentlemen, let’s not waste it,” said Rodgers as he safed the detonator.
—————
The two jets touched down on Guam, where Wernher and Kevin were able to quickly take showers, attend to their personal needs, and then gear up.
“Fuckers stole my Kimber!” Kevin fumed.
“Sir, we have a selection of sidearms if you want to take a look,” said a Lieutenant.
He escorted Mitchum to an armory.
Kevin looked around a bit.
“I’ll take these, son!” he said, smiling hugely.
“Yes, sir!” said the armorer.
“Holsters, mags, and gear are next door, Sir!” he added, pointing with his thumb as he began to fill out the paperwork.
—————
“Vas ist das?” asked Wernher.
Kevin Mitchum wore tactical clothing, including a ballistic vest, two bandoliers of shotgun shells, and two leg holsters.
In each one was a .45 caliber H&K Mark 23 SOCOM, complete with the suppressor kits.
Magazines festooned his pouches, and he also carried a large fighting knife.
“SOG Tomcat, pal!”
Pulling it from its sheath, he showed it to Wernher, smiling.
“Tsk. Such a heavy thing,” he replied.
“You are Rambo, nuh?” he said, with a smirk.
“Yeah, well if I’d a had me one of these last week, you’d a found an empty room, buddy!” said Kevin, expertly sheathing the knife without looking.
“Just do not fall overboard, Mr. Mitchum. I am not jumping in the ocean after you,” said Wernher.
Kevin wasn’t sure if he were joking or not.
—————
They were taken to an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, the USS Milius.
Putting out to sea, they set out to the last known coordinates of the USS Betsy Ross, accompanied by three Zumwalt-class destroyers.
A fighter squadron and an AWACS observation plane accompanied the battle group as it departed NB Guam, with another squadron being readied on the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson, staged in the Pacific, off the Philippines, with the full complement of their battle group placed on “ALERT”.
—————
Fifty-six hours after they had been attacked, the submarine crew were desperately trying anything to extend their chances of survival.
The air was becoming stale, so some of the engineers came up with a way to recirculate the air, using sheets from the sleeping quarters, bungee cords, weights, and pulleys.
It provided a rudimentary way to move the air around in the ship and kept a complement of men busy as well.
They had broken out the chemical CO2 absorbers and tried to rinse them in any available water to extend their service life.
The men would survive longer without potable water than they would with non-breathable air, so it seemed a pragmatic trade.
Another group of sailors had managed to harvest the indicator lights from some of the consoles, and hooked them up to a home-made generator, using forks and copper wire to create an armature.
In the flickering light, the men’s spirits were raised a bit.
It was one thing to have a flashlight or bioluminescent torch, but another to see your efforts rewarded by actual lights.
Little victories kept occurring.
Some of the sailors went through the ship, singing and playing instruments, to keep morale up.
They hadn’t been sliced in two, so they counted that as a win.
—————
“Captain, the Chief has an idea,” said the XO.
“Go,” said the Captain.
“Sir, the nuclear reactor scrammed, but I think we can bring it back online, and harvest some power for the weapons,” said the Chief.
“Make it happen, Chief, but let’s get a plan on what comes on, and in what order, Okay?” the Captain responded.
“XO, can we launch any of our missiles?” asked the Captain.
“Aye, sir, but it might be very dangerous,” the XO replied.
“I want you to work out the following problems,” the Captain said.
The two men listened closely.
“I want to know if we can blow the ballast tanks, manually or electrically, and on a definite time schedule. I want to be able to launch four or five of the missiles, using the compressed air ONLY, and not have them armed to detonate. I want to be able to fire torpedoes that will only a
rm after a five-minute delay, and have some way to safe them if they haven’t impacted anything within four minutes and thirty seconds after they arm themselves,” said the Captain.
Boned 3 (Mandarin Connection Book 6) Page 14