Fulcrum: V Plague Book 12

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Fulcrum: V Plague Book 12 Page 22

by Dirk Patton


  Dismissing the bar, even though a frosty cold beverage would have gone down really good at the moment, I signed for Rachel and Tiffany to stay put and keep watch. With Dog following, I climbed the stairs on the front of the stilt building.

  I’d wondered about the reason for the ramp. Mexico didn’t place a high priority on providing accommodations for people with disabilities. A ramp like this in the US wouldn’t even draw attention, but here, now that I thought about it, it was out of place. Especially on a soft sand beach that could never be traversed in a wheelchair.

  Boat motors are heavy, even the small ones. When the lifeguards shut down for the night, they probably brought them inside so they didn’t walk away in the wee hours of the morning. And, I was willing to bet they had some sort of specialized hand truck, with fat tires for the sand, that they would use to wheel them up the ramp and into the security of a locked building.

  I checked over the shuttered openings in the wall and was again reminded that I was in Mexico. The hotel took security seriously. If they didn’t, they’d be buying new motors every couple of weeks. To prevent that, they’d invested in rolling steel shutters that locked into metal frames. The padlocks that were on each end of the hasps were the real deal. Easily as large as my fist with shackles as thick as my thumb. No way was I breaking in with what I had. Taking a look around from my elevated position, I returned to the beach and moved close to Tiffany.

  “Think you could put together another bit of Thermite?” I asked.

  She took a long look around before answering.

  “I can if I have the materials. But I’m not seeing any iron. Everything is either aluminum or stainless steel because of the salt water.”

  I looked around like she had, noticing that anything that wasn’t made of wood was either shiny metal or painted aluminum. It made sense. If it can be helped, you don’t put something that will rust in close proximity to the ocean.

  Dog, standing close by my side, suddenly rumbled out a loud growl. He was facing the hotel, and when I looked, I could make out a female figure standing at the top of a flight of stairs that ran up from the sand. Her long hair blew in the wind, streaming behind her as she watched us.

  Despite standing nearly a hundred yards away, I could make out the swollen belly of pregnancy. We all stood frozen for a couple of heartbeats, perhaps hoping she couldn’t see us in the dark. Then she tilted her head back and screamed into the night.

  37

  The North Carolina hovered in the water, the top of her sail 600 feet beneath the surface of the South Pacific Ocean. Still in deeper water, the boat was loitering in the shipping lanes that approached Sydney Harbour. Captain Talbot was in the control room, but Adrienne had the conn or was in command of the submarine.

  He was prepared to take immediate control if he felt she was making an error that would place the boat in more danger than they were already in. But, he didn’t expect to have to interfere. His XO was every bit as capable as he had ever been when it came to conning a nuclear submarine, and she had earned his trust. But still, he had the ultimate responsibility for the multi-billion-dollar machine and all the lives on board.

  They had been overflown twice in the past hour by Russian aircraft on patrol. Neither had deviated from their pattern, having failed to detect the American submarine that was hiding beneath the thermocline. This was where the surface water, warmed by the sun and of varying salinity, mixed with the cold, more stable water of the depths.

  The deeper water remained a nearly constant temperature year round, the energy of the sun unable to penetrate far enough to affect it. Where the two strata met, they created a band, or layer, in the ocean that was neither as warm as the surface nor as cold as the deeps. This phenomenon was well known to submariners since it effectively reflected sound waves, and it was used to their full advantage to hide from aircraft and surface ships that might be searching for them.

  And this is exactly why Adrienne had parked the North Carolina where she had. At the moment, they were making like a big hole in the water. The boat was rigged for silent running, all non-essential machinery shut down and secured. Personnel that were not actively involved in the operation of the sub were in their bunks. The only way the Russians, or Australians, would detect them is if they had one of their own submarines in the area, beneath the layer.

  Even then, unless someone made a mistake that would create a noise in the water, they wouldn’t be found by anything other than an active sonar ping. As both the skipper and XO knew, there wasn’t a submarine captain in the world stupid enough to be driving around and advertising his position by going active with his sonar. It would only be used once a target had been identified and was being attacked.

  “Conn, sonar,” came a muted voice over a sound powered speaker.

  “Conn, aye,” Adrienne answered.

  “Surface contact. Closing. Bearing two-oh-oh, range 20,000 meters.”

  “Speed?” Adrienne asked.

  “Best guess at this range is 18 knots, ma’am.”

  “Is this our girl?”

  “Still too faint for the computer to confirm, but it definitely sounds right. It’s a big, heavy sucker, and it’s on the right course.”

  “Understood,” she said. “Let me know as soon as you can confirm.”

  “Sonar, aye.”

  Adrienne checked a digital chronometer mounted to a bulkhead, catching her skipper’s eye as she did.

  “The timing is right,” she said to him in a quiet voice.

  He nodded without saying anything. Adrienne reached out and plucked a sound powered phone off its cradle, speaking into it briefly.

  “Good luck, Commander,” she said, returning the handset to its base.

  “SEALs are ready to go on my order, sir,” she said to Talbot without looking at him.

  “Very well, XO.”

  A moment later the sonar operator advised her that the computer had positively identified the surface contact as the Marie Maersk, a very large container ship the Russians had seized from its home port in Denmark. It was designated as contact Alpha. At 1,300 feet in length with a beam of nearly 200 feet, it dwarfed the North Carolina. And was going to provide them with the perfect cover to sail right up to the mouth of Sydney Harbour, undetected.

  The wait for the massive ship to approach felt interminable to Adrienne. Everything was ready to go, she just needed the cover it would provide before she could move her boat again. Finally, it came within a predetermined range. With the sonar operator providing running updates on its position, speed and heading, she ordered the North Carolina to begin ascending.

  The Marie Maersk normally had a draft of 40 feet, but she was heavily laden with supplies and the comforts of home for Russia’s elite who had taken up residence in Australia. With the added weight, the bottom of her keel was fifty feet below the surface.

  Carefully, Adrienne brought the submarine up in the water and slowly added in propulsion until it was pacing the much larger ship. The North Carolina approached Sydney Harbour, directly beneath the keel of the massive container ship. As they progressed, she ordered the boat to stop rising when there was only 30 feet of water separating the top of her sail from the bottom of the Marie Maersk.

  It seemed as if the very atmosphere within the submarine was vibrating from the powerful, bass pulses of the massive propellers. Frequently, the officers and crew cast involuntary glances upwards, as if they could see the hundreds of thousands of tons of steel that floated just over their heads. Despite their unease, the tactic worked.

  The North Carolina was invisible, completely masked by the sounds of the giant ship’s propellers, engines and keel slicing through the ocean. As they drew closer to the coast, another sailor began calling out the depth of the water beneath their keel. Adrienne ordered another adjustment, cutting the range between the two craft to 20 feet. This close together, any error could result in a collision and catastrophic damage to the submarine. The vastly heavier ship probably wouldn’t even
notice.

  “Conn, sonar! New surface contact, bearing one-oh-five, 3,000 meters, on an intercept course. High-speed screws, making 30 knots. Marked as contact Bravo. Contact Alpha is reducing speed.”

  Adrienne acknowledged the report, and as the container ship slowed, she matched its speed. Updates were flowing in regularly now as the submarine continued to slow to stay in its sonar shadow. Bravo approached rapidly, carving a semi-circle until its signature merged with the Marie Maersk.

  Checking a readout, she confirmed that they had slowed to five knots for the ship to take a harbor pilot aboard. The pilot knew the channels and currents in Sydney Harbour like the back of his hand and would take command of the 165,000-ton vessel. He was responsible for safely entering the narrow waters and getting it to the dock.

  “Notify the SEALs they’re GO for lockout!” Adrienne said.

  The order was repeated back to her, then she heard the sailor passing it along over a sound powered phone. Within five minutes, she received confirmation that the team had successfully exited the submarine and deployed their RIBs.

  She’d done her job, now it was up to them. The Marie Maersk would sail right into the harbor with two boats loaded down with SEALs following so close they could reach out and touch the stern hull. It wouldn’t be a smooth ride due to the turbulence in the water from the giant propellers, but they would be all but invisible in the dark.

  Adrienne took half a second to mutter a prayer for the fighting men, then turned her attention back to conning the North Carolina. It was time to move to slightly deeper water while they waited for the men to return with President Barinov.

  38

  Admiral Packard paced on the neatly mown grass that covered the slope, looking up in annoyance as a pair of Marine AH-1 Super Cobra helicopters made another low and slow pass directly overhead. Below him were the blue waters of Pearl Harbor, the USS Arizona memorial gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The water around it held a rainbow sheen from oil that still leaked out of the sunken battleship, even after nearly three-quarters of a century.

  Several senior officers stood around him as he puffed furiously on a cigarette. They were having a meeting, and the Admiral hadn’t been able to take another minute in the confines of his conference room. Though he’d never admit it, he detested the politics and administrative duties that came along with his rank and position. If he had a choice, he’d let someone else take over, and he’d be back on the bridge of a front-line ship in a heartbeat.

  Surrounding the group of officers was a squad of heavily armed Marines. Several times it had been necessary for them to direct personnel in a direction that did not bring them too close. Rumors abounded of the Russians having sent Spetsnaz teams into Hawaii, ahead of the invasion fleet, with the intent of softening up the target by destroying infrastructure and assassinating senior officers.

  Marine Captain Charles Black, who was in command of the squad, was in a foul mood as a result. While there was no solid intelligence to support the rumors, he well knew that this was one of the times that the gossip was based on reality. There was a very real probability there were Russian special operations troops already on the ground.

  Despite his strenuous protests, the Admiral had overruled him and taken the meeting out into the open. In a scramble, Black had put two helos in the air, posted Marine snipers on several rooftops around the area and assigned two additional squads to patrol a broad perimeter. Even with the added protection, he still wasn’t happy. There were just too many places where an assassin could get a shot off at Packard.

  So, he stayed close to the old man. Closer than protocol would dictate for a protection detail, but he didn’t care. He was prepared to throw the Admiral to the ground and cover him with his own body at the slightest indication of trouble.

  The Cobras slowly moved away to make another orbit of the area, and Packard shot an irritated glance at the Marine Captain. Black met his eyes and resisted the temptation to smile. If the Admiral didn’t like the increased security measures, he could damn well stay in his nice, safe office.

  As the roar of the helicopter’s engines and rotors faded, Packard looked around at the assembled officers and resumed speaking.

  “I was asking if we’ve seen any effect on the Russian fleet in response to our broadcasts.”

  “No, sir. Not so far.” One of them answered. “But we’ve only been on station, transmitting the audio and video for less than an hour. I believe we can safely assume the broadcasts are being received, but we are having to rotate amongst several B-2s so the enemy fleet cannot triangulate the signal.”

  “How long do you think it will take for an uprising as a result?” The Admiral speared the man with his eyes.

  “Difficult to say, sir. But something like that takes time to boil over. And, it’s going to depend mostly on the senior NCOs in the fleet. They can’t stop it if the enlisted are truly incensed, but they can slow it down. Conversely, if they’re of the same mind and lead an insurrection, it could begin at any moment. Commander Marx did an excellent job, and I have a hard time imagining it will not inflame the already simmering tensions within their ranks.”

  “What’s the latest estimate on the Russians making landfall?”

  A Marine one-star General stepped forward, preparing to answer Packard’s question. Before any words came out of his mouth, one of the Super Cobras began firing its 20mm Gatling gun. The sound was like the very fabric of the air was being ripped apart, and Captain Black responded immediately, slamming into the Admiral.

  No one heard the shots over the din of the helicopter firing and the shouts of the protection detail as they faced outwards and backed in to place their bodies between the threat and the senior officers they were guarding. The Marine General’s head exploded, a bloody mist spraying the faces of two naval officers standing next to him.

  Admiral Packard grunted in pain as he hit the ground, Black landing on top of him an instant later. He struggled to raise his head, but the younger man was stronger and kept him pinned flat on the grass. It took the Captain several seconds to realize there was blood on his hands, and he couldn’t tell if it was his or the Admiral’s.

  The Super Cobra ceased firing but remained in a hover above a forested hill that overlooked the area. Men were screaming over the radio and Black roared into his to regain control. Soon, an all clear was broadcast by the helicopter pilot. Looking around, the Captain saw that all of the officers were prone on the grass, his squad of Marines in a tight perimeter around the group, each on one knee with their rifles aiming out.

  Just because the sniper had been eliminated didn’t mean there wasn’t another one. Black barked several commands into the radio, a moment later leaping to his feet and bodily lifting the Admiral off the ground. Blood stained Packard’s normally immaculate uniform blouse, but this wasn’t the time or place to assess his injuries.

  With a shouted order, Captain Black charged for the nearest building, one arm around the Admiral. He bore most of the man’s weight as they ran, doing the best he could to shield Packard’s body with his. The two Marines guarding the entrance to the building saw him coming and ran forward, taking up position behind him to protect the Admiral from the possibility of another shooter.

  They charged through the entrance, a few seconds later the remaining officers with the protection detail running in behind them. Black stopped, turning and holding Packard’s shoulders in his hands and bellowed for a medic. He was focused on looking for the source of the blood on the Admiral’s torso and was surprised when the older man pushed his hands away and took a step back.

  “Thank you, Captain. It’s only my arm. I’ll live,” Packard said.

  Black gaped at him, having already arrived at the incorrect conclusion that the Admiral had been shot in the chest or back. Packard looked at him for a beat before extending his right hand.

  “Captain, my sincere apologies for not having heeded your concerns. I’ll not dismiss them again.”

  Still stun
ned, Black stared at the offered hand. Finally, he remembered there was an Admiral standing in front of him, and he took Packard’s hand.

  “No apology necessary, sir,” he said. “I’m just relieved you’re ok.”

  Packard released his hand and turned to look through the heavy, glass doors. The body of the Marine still rested on the pristine lawn, blood staining the front of his sharply creased shirt. His eyes narrowed, and he barely acknowledged a Navy medic that ran up and began cutting away his left sleeve to access the bullet wound.

  “Captain!” Packard barked as the medic began applying a compression bandage. “Do you have enough men to lock down the base and search for any other intruders?”

  “No, sir,” Black immediately answered, shaking his head. “We’re running a skeleton force. I’ve got half a dozen squads at my disposal. Every other man is preparing the defenses on Mt. Kaala. Do you want me to pull some back to secure the base?”

  “Negative,” the Admiral said after a long pause. “Those efforts are more important to our defense. There are obviously advance enemy teams on the ground. We can’t afford to have them running around and creating havoc there, too. Advise the defenders at Mt. Kaala of events so they can take additional precautions.”

  “Yes sir,” Black snapped, turning away to speak into his radio.

  “Admiral, I need to get you to the hospital. The bullet went all the way through, but you still need to be X-rayed and treated.”

  “Belay that, sailor,” Packard said. “Just wrap it tight. And if you’ve got some aspirin, I’d appreciate it.”

  “But, sir…”

  “You heard me.”

  “Aye, aye sir.”

  The medic suppressed a sigh and did as asked. When he had completed his task, a thick, white bandage encased the Admiral’s arm from elbow to shoulder. He dug through his bag and produced a small bottle of Tylenol and handed it to Packard.

 

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