Lt. Commander Mollie Sanders

by Miller, Mitchell R.

  Blapp! Blapp! Blapp! Her eyes jerked to the instruments. Her tracking screen showed a blip arrowing toward them.

  Mollie spoke through the tube to Surfer: “Surfer, I have a missile launch, 14 miles, bearing one-zero-zero. Do you have that on your mission profile?”

  Surfer’s answer came flaring back at her: “Is there a glitch in your system, Little Miss Perfect?”

  Mollie toggled her radio.

  “Dagger Control, this is Dagger 1. Did you fire another missile. Over.”

  The answer came through the com: “Negative, Dagger 1. Our weapons are tight. Mission profile completed.”

  Mollie’s fingers flew on her instrument panel.

  “Surfer, missile now 12 miles out. This is not part of the test. I say again, this is not part of the test. The signature does not match the assigned frequency.”

  On the com Surfer said: “Is it tracking us?”

  “Break left and descent to 14,000. Course 270.”

  The plane banked away and dove. But Mollie’s screen showed the missile changing course to meet their course!

  “It’s tracking us, Surfer! Prepare to engage N-LAR. This is not a drill. We must engage.”

  “This is a joke, right? You’re just getting back at me?”

  “No joke. Come to 180, prepare for N-LAR firing.”

  Her hands flicked over her switches.

  “Dagger Control, this is Dagger 1. We have incoming missile 8 miles out. Engaging with N-LAR.”

  “Dagger 1, Graceland,” the CAG now said over the com. “You have what?”

  “Incoming missile. Hostile. Not part of the test. Engaging now.”

  Her eyes flicked to her screen. “Surfer, head 090, climb to 16,000.”

  “Dagger 1, do not engage N-LAR. I say again, do not engage N-LAR. Break off, break off. Get the hell out of there!”

  Surfer’s response was to roll the plane around and point straight down. Headed for the aircraft carrier while trying to lose the missile.

  Mollie’s scope showed the missile still tracking and getting closer!

  The altimeter unwound at an incredible pace. Only a few hundred feet to the water … it was coming up quickly.

  The missile arrowed straight down too.

  The fighter pulled out of the dive on full afterburner.

  The missile kept on coming! It pulled out even lower over the ocean. Flying through the whitecaps. Then lifted its nose to close on the fighter.

  The missile threat warnings shrieked in Mollie’s ears. Her scope showed the missile very close!

  Surfer’s voice came over the tube as he spoke to the CAG: “We may have to punch out, Graceland. I can’t shake it. Brace yourself, Gearhead. Yevtenko now!

  Mollie grabbed hold as Surfer pulled straight back on the stick, cutting the throttles to minimum.

  The fighter pulled straight up and the missile shot by!

  Stall warnings blared. The plane tried to fly upward with no power!

  The sky spun around Mollie’s head as Surfer rolled the aircraft 180 degrees and pushed the stick down and rammed the throttles forward.

  The fighter fell down from its balanced-on-its-tail attitude. It was pointed in exactly the opposite direction at full throttle!

  The plane and the missile got farther and farther apart.

  Mollie watched her scope. The missile disappeared.

  “It splashed! It’s gone!” she said.

  She exhaled, then said, “That was damn good flying, hotshot.”

  She switched to her Southern Belle voice: “Maybe I’ll let you bring me a mint julep when we get back to Tara, Mr. Tarleton.”

  From the tube came Surfer’s voice, devoid of his macho pose. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Fired from some atoll or ship somewhere below us,” Mollie said as she watched her screen.

  Moments later the plane screamed in to land on the carrier. Its tailhook caught the arresting wire.

  The engines wound down as Surfer taxied to a parking space.

  For a moment Mollie stared down at her BlackBerry. What was really going on?

  The canopies on both cockpits popped open as the ground crew hooked ladders on the cockpits.

  The CAG strode up to the plane as Mollie and Surfer climbed out of their cockpits.

  “What the hell went on up there?”

  Surfer shrugged, looked at Mollie.

  “Didn’t have the right signature, sir,” Mollie said. “Definitely not one of ours.”

  “You’re not shitting me?”

  “No, sir. Bona fide missile,” she said. “Showed up clearly on the detection panel – with the wrong signature.”

  “Terrorists?” the CAG said.

  “Something like that,” Mollie said.

  “Oh, shit. Bloody hell will break out over this,” the CAG said.

  “I have an idea, sir,” she said. “I’d like to test it out before saying anything.”

  Surfer shook his head, leaving the CAG to nod his agreement to Mollie’s request.

  Mollie watched Surfer walk off.

  He can really fly, she thought. But what was his story?

  **

  1400 hours

  Seated at a computer terminal in the intelligence center, Mollie searched the ship’s databanks. Her hands flew across the keyboard and the screen filled with projected shipping lanes.

  A young man in civilian clothes entered the room. He looked at Mollie’s screen, then said to her, “Are you checked out on these?”

  “Yup.”

  The man shook his head. “This system is state of the art. Nimitz is the first to have it. How could you …”

  “I designed it.”

  The man opened his mouth, then shut it. After another moment he said, “What are you looking for?”

  Mollie smiled. She knew her answer would shake him up even more.

  “Pornography.”

  “What?!”

  “I can’t define it but I know it when I see it.”

  The man looked so confused that Mollie relented. “I think the tangos – terrorists – who fired the missile might be on a ship out there.”

  The man wheeled around and fled the room as Mollie’s fingers continued to fly over the keyboard. Somewhere out there on the open sea was the answer she sought.

  CHAPTER II – PORT OF LOS ANGELES

  Los Angeles

  The tangle of freeways threads through and rings the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles. East from Santa Monica at the ocean past Westwood, West LA, the surrounded city that is Beverly Hills, Miracle Mile, Koreatown, all the way east to the actual downtown with its skyscrapers, Staples Center, Gehry-designed Disney Hall, and urban blight and then beyond to Boyle Heights and heading out to Palm Springs. And on the southern rim of the basin that is Los Angeles, going north from the port of San Pedro past the oil pumps near Los Angeles International Airport that keep rhythm alongside freeways that dash or crawl north to the San Fernando Valley and beyond to Antelope Valley and other points farther north on the way to Santa Barbara and ultimately San Francisco.

  This huge area has as many neighborhoods and as many people speaking as many languages as can be imagined. Which is why looking for one person or a group of people camouflaged by normal Los Angles life is like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  **

  April 17

  2 p.m.

  In a nondescript ethnic neighborhood of Los Angeles – one of those neighborhoods that people don’t know about unless they actually live there – a small mosque nestled among the California bungalows and stucco apartment buildings.

  In the house next door to the mosque Omar alBaghadi sat at a shabby wooden desk in a small room filled floor-to-ceiling with bookcases. His fingers traced the Arabic words in the volume before him as he read.

  A beep sounded.

  He moved aside the volume he had been reading, revealing a sleek laptop computer. He lifted the screen, clicked on the incoming message.

  The Ara
bic message read: MISSILE TESTED IN PACIFIC. TARGETED JET EVADED ATTACK.

  Omar closed the laptop screen without replying to the message. He glanced at the wall calendar hanging on the closed door of the room.

  A date was circled in red. He allowed himself a small smile, then returned to his reading.

  **

  Aboard the USS Nimitz, Pacific Ocean

  April 17

  1530 hours

  Mollie again stood next to the CAG. This time he looked at a printout on his desk.

  She leaned over and indicated a spot on the map. “No islands or atolls within launching range.”

  “Subs?”

  “Not unless ONI, NSA, the CIA, CINCPAC, and our own little flotilla of submariners all got confused. I’ve plotted all possible suspect ships from Asia headed for the west coast of the U.S.”

  The CAG drummed his fingers on the printout. “Coast Guard provided you with data?”

  Mollie smiled. “All ships that were supposedly cleared for U.S. customs before leaving Asia under the new compliance system.”

  Now the CAG smiled. “And where did you get the rest of the data?”

  Mollie straightened her spine before she replied. “National technical means, sir.”

  “You have direct access to satellite data?”

  “We geeks stick together, sir.”

  The CAG stared in her eyes. “And you found?”

  “Three cargo vessels that would have been in range to fire on us today.”

  The CAG didn’t reply immediately. Mollie knew he was accessing the dangers of jumping to conclusions. “That your theory?” he said.

  Mollie didn’t hesitate to give her opinion. She never had. “I suggest we alert the battle group destroyers. Send them out to board each ship.”

  “And if nothing is found?”

  “Better nothing found after a search than no search and the weapons are still there.”

  The CAG stood. “I’ll go see the admiral.” He stopped with his hand on the latch of his door. “You’re sure?”

  Mollie nodded. “Unless somebody has an undetectable ship or sub, sir.”

  The CAG shuddered, then nodded and left his office.

  Mollie gathered up the printout. She had no worries that she was wrong. Something or somebody out there had targeted Surfer’s plane for a kill.

  **

  Port of San Pedro

  3:30 p.m.

  The giant container cranes rolled above the huge ships being offloaded. The cranes picked up containers like matchsticks.

  The port stretched for acres – and was open like a sieve to any attack.

  A solitary small boat splashed through the gentle swell of the harbor. It could be a pleasure boat from Malibu or even Catalina.

  Suddenly two Middle Eastern men appeared on deck and dove over the sides into the water – just as the boat approached an ultra-oil tanker.

  The small boat slammed into the side of the tanker – which exploded in a fireball!

  Klaxons blared out over the harbor. Onshore emergency vehicles raced towards the explosion.

  A Coast Guard ship maneuvered close to the burning wreckage. Coast Guard Commander Sunil Jaiswal used a bullhorn to hail the burning vessel as smoke engulfed him.

  **

  Aboard the USS Nimitz, Pacific Ocean

  1800 hours

  Wearing an exercise bra top and matching shorts, Mollie worked out on a Nautilus machine in the onboard exercise facilities – a small room crammed with exercise equipment. She knew her well-defined muscles stood out as she pumped her arms.

  The pilot with the Southern accent entered the room and strode up to Mollie. “Hear our boy took you for a rollercoaster ride. You’re back-seating a real cowboy.”

  Mollie grinned. As if she didn’t already know that. Then she saw Surfer was right behind this pilot.

  “You’re not jealous, are you, Ashley Wilkes?” she said to Banger.

  Surfer stopped in front of her. “We’ve got orders. We’re to pack our bags and be on the flight deck at 2300.”

  Now Mollie stopped pumping her arms. “Where’re we going?”

  “Stateside!”

  Both pilots fled the room before Mollie could respond. What the hell?

  **

  2300 hours

  Kevin stood with his new back-seater on the flight desk next to the CAG while the flight deck operations commenced. The lights on the flight deck shone almost as bright as day.

  The CAG turned to the woman. “Gearhead, you were right. One of the boats boarded by our destroyers had a shitpot of SAMs.”

  Kevin felt anger boiling inside of him. Of course the woman would be right!

  “Where was the ship headed?” she asked.

  “Los Angeles.”

  She nodded. “So that’s taken care of.”

  “That particular event.”

  Kevin looked at the CAG. What was he getting at?

  “Something’s happened stateside?” she asked.

  “A tanker exploded in San Pedro harbor. Fortunately it was built to the new standards. Double-hulled, multiple independent tanks, advanced fire-suppression equipment ...”

  The boom of a plane taking off caused the CAG to pause momentarily.

  “…. the emergency response team contained the blaze. The ship is repairable,” the CAG said.

  “Casualties?” Kevin asked.

  “Nine crew, three response team members.”

  “Accidental” the woman asked.

  “Preliminary investigation suggests from the sea – small boat rammed into the side of the ship.”

  “Shit! In San Pedro?” Kevin said.

  “Where the ship that fired on us was headed,” the woman said. “Could be a dress rehearsal. Checking the stage for launching the big performance.”

  Again the CAG nodded. “That’s what the big domes in Washington say.”

  “What’s our role in this?” she asked.

  “Your work at STORC was considered valuable. You’ve been assigned temporary duty to the Coast Guard in LA. They’re way understaffed for the intelligence effort needed.”

  “What’s she supposed to do?” Kevin asked.

  “Find the sons of bitches before they blow up Los Angeles!” the CAG said.

  Kevin stared at the CAG. “And what about me? I’m just a simple …” – he glanced momentarily at the woman – “flying truck driver.”

  The CAG smiled. “She’s your back-seater. Without her you don’t have a crew. You can help in this search. Get on the COD and go.”

  Oh shit! Off flight status and stuck working with this woman! “CAG, don’t you have anything else for me to do shipboard? Head inspection officer? Clean the erasers in the briefing room?”

  The CAG did not smile at this. “You’re on orders, Mister. Go!”

  Kevin and the woman saluted the CAG, grabbed their seabags and ran to the Carrier Onboard Delivery (COD).

  The COD aircraft – a turboprop plane – took off and headed into the wild blue yonder.

  **

  Onboard the COD

  2310 hours

  Mollie sat across from Surfer in fold-down passenger seats – this was no luxury airliner. She could feel his anger although he had as yet said nothing.

  Now he turned his eyes upon her and raised his voice to be heard over the props. “This is one of those really, really idiotic military moves. What the hell are we supposed to be doing?”

  Mollie smiled. “I’m supposed to be thinking some naval-type thoughts that might help Homeland Security find these bastards. You’re supposed to be helping me.”

  “Excuuuuuuuuse me, Wonder Woman. How many ships use that port every day? To say nothing of tugs, yardboats, fuelers, pleasure boats, jet skis, and every other damn thing that floats. How is even your giant brain going to pick a needle out of that haystack?”

  Well said. It was a hell of a long shot that they could find the perpetrators.

  Now she glared back at him. “There may not be a
snowball’s chance in hell that we can stop whatever is about to happen. But we sure as hell have to try.”

  **

  Los Angeles

  11:30 p.m.

  The street in front of the small mosque was quiet. Nobody was around to notice the two Middle Eastern men who jumped ship in the San Pedro Harbor right before the tanker exploded.

  The men glanced around at the quiet street, then entered the house where Omar stood at the open door.

  Without speaking the men followed Omar to the small room at the end of the hall. Omar ushered them in, then gestured at the wall calendar with its red circled date and the maps laid out on the desk.

  **

  North Island Naval Air Station, San Diego

  April 18

  0430 hours

  Mollie watched out the window as the COD landed on the field and taxied to a hangar. She glanced at Kevin, who had slept the entire flight.

  “Let’s go, cowboy. It’s show time,” she said to him as she grabbed her seabag.

  He glared at her, then grabbed his own seabag and followed her out of the COD.

  They descended the fold-down stairs, where a young woman in a spotless white uniform awaited them.

  “Ensign Yolanda Perez,” the young woman said.

  “Lt. Commander Mollie Sanders.”

  For a moment Surfer hesitated. Was he calculating how it was now two women to one man? Mollie wondered.

  “Lt. Commander Kevin Witlow,” he said.

  “My orders are to drive you immediately to the San Pedro Coast Guard station.”

  “No time to eat?” Surfer asked.

  “Box meals in the car,” Perez said.

  Mollie followed the woman as she led them towards a military car parked outside the hangar.

  “From the mess hall?” Surfer asked.

  Mollie grimaced. Naturally he’d be concerned about his chow.

  “From Starbucks. They serve breakfast now.”

  Mollie smiled. How appropriate. Then she and Surfer got into the back seat of a Navy car while Perez got in the front with the enlisted man driver.

  **

  Mollie watched the landscape out the window with one eye as she worked on her BlackBerry. The freeway had been running well this early in the morning. She knew they had to be making good time.