Lt. Commander Mollie Sanders

by Miller, Mitchell R.

He looked down at his legs. A bullet had gone in and out his pants leg. He stuck his finger through the hole and wriggled it.

  “You think this is fun?” Kevin asked her.

  Gearhead grinned. “WETSU, baby, WETSU.”

  “WETSU?”

  “We Eat This Shit Up.”

  He watched her check her ammo and grenades. Kevin hesitated, then did the same.

  “All right,” she said. “We should be only two decks below the bridge. Shoot up a couple of grenades ...”

  Kevin looked at the compartment’s ladders – they went both up and down.

  Then he said, “I think that’s a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ll be waiting for us. That’s the most logical place to attack. So that’s the place they’ll defend.”

  Kevin could visualize the gears turning in Gearhead’s head.

  “And your idea is …,” she said.

  “Yes to the grenades. They’ll open up on us. We fire back a couple of rounds. They think we’re regrouping. We drop down to the engine room. Overpower the guards down there. They should be the second team, I bet.”

  Gearhead opened her mouth, closed it.

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” she said. “How the hell did a plane driver ever think of it?”

  “Saw it on television,” he said.

  She pulled two grenades from her vest and loaded one into her grenade launcher, sticking the other into a pocket.

  Then she stepped to the ladder, motioned Kevin to follow. They sighted their weapons upward.

  Gearhead nodded, then fired her grenade launcher. Kevin fired a few short bursts from his M-16. Before he’d finished, Gearhead had loaded the second grenade and fired again.

  The grenades went off – the noise deafening. As the noise died down, screams were heard. Return fire erupted from the upper deck.

  Kevin and Gearhead scooted back. The terrorists’ fire ceased. Kevin and Gearhead spun back to the ladder, fired off a long burst each, then ducked over to the down ladder.

  Kevin dropped a hand grenade down the slot. As soon as the ricochets died, they slid down the ladder.

  They could hear firing above as they raced down through the ship. So far, the terrorists hadn’t caught on to their plan, Kevin thought.

  Kevin and Gearhead raced farther and farther downward, the noise of the engine growing louder and louder.

  Finally they were on the deck immediately above the engine room – the noise incredibly loud. There they stopped and cautiously peered down into the compartment.

  Kevin spotted two terrorists with AK-47s guarding the engine room. The bodies of the regular crew lay where they’d been shot.

  Another two terrorists worked the controls at one end of the compartment. All the gauges were in the red zone. The body of what must have been the Chief Engineer lay sprawled across a console.

  Gearhead eased partway down the ladder, braced herself into a firing position. She signaled Kevin, then flipped the selector switch to semiautomatic.

  Kevin watched her get a good sight picture of one terrorist at the controls. She took a breath, let it out halfway, squeezed the trigger. Twice. Damn she was good – double tap to the head!

  She swung her rifle to the right. Repeated the shot. Two down.

  The terrorists guarding the room swung toward the control consoles and blazed away in Kevin and Gearhead’s general direction.

  Kevin fired shots in their direction before following Gearhead as she dropped through the ladder and hit the deck of the engine room while the tangos did their “spray-and-pray.”

  Gearhead signaled Kevin to go to the right. They low-crawled apart to obtain better fields of fire.

  Down a line of engines, Kevin spotted the legs of someone moving stealthily through the engine room. Shit! He couldn’t see the person’s full length. Was this a terrorist or a crew member trying to escape the shooting?

  Then Kevin saw the banana-shaped magazine of an AK-47. Kevin opened fire on the tango, short bursts of auto-fire. The tango screamed as the bullets ripped his body apart. Three tangos down!

  But, damn it! Kevin’s fire had revealed his position to the remaining terrorist, who wormed his way around a corner and opened fire. The slugs slammed into Kevin’s flak jacket, knocking him over.

  As Kevin slumped onto the floor he saw that Gearhead had a right angle on the terrorist. She put two rounds in him, right through the temple. Blood and brains spattered the wall behind the dead man.

  Gearhead rushed over to Kevin.

  “Damn that smarts,” he said.

  “Are you …?”

  “Just get this tub stopped!”

  As Kevin remained slumped on the floor, he saw Gearhead race to the console. He watched her keying in all kinds of things with no effect.

  “Shit! They’ve got some kind of an override program running.”

  Gearhead kept trying to override.

  Finally she said, “When all else fails, reboot!”

  A few seconds later Gearhead laughed. “Yes!”

  At that moment a squad of Marines charged down the ladder. Kevin saw a tall lieutenant call out: “U.S. Marines! Nobody move!”

  Gearhead yelled back: “The Navy’s already secured this place. I need a corpsman right here – I’ve got a man down.”

  Before he blacked out, Kevin realized that the boys back on the carrier would never let him hear the end of this. He’d been saved by a woman.

  CHAPTER VIII – END GAME

  April 20

  1409 hours

  Returned to their temporary work space, Mollie backed off from standing over Surfer. In her right hand she held an icepack, which Surfer had shoved away when she had tried to press it to his forehead. On the Phicol he had assured the corpsman that he was fine, just needed help getting to his feet.

  His glare of “get away from me” reassured her that he was back to his normal self. As she turned towards her own computer station, Jaiswal entered the room. “One of our experts has just identified the payload on the Phicol,” he said. “A dirty bomb big enough to kill a large percentage of the population of LA. And we picked up the men put overboard before you boarded her.”

  Surfer got to his feet – Mollie caught the slightest wobble as he did so. “What about the tanker?” Surfer asked. “What was it doing off course.”

  “Not sure yet. We boarded it, and now we’re detaining it outside the harbor for questioning.”

  Mollie leaned over Ensign Perez’s shoulder, studying something on her computer screen.

  Then Mollie turned to Jaiswal. “We still have two teams on the cleric?”

  Jaiswal nodded.

  “Arrest him now.”

  **

  1530 hours

  Mollie and Amir stood facing the cleric seated in the interrogation room. “Your plan has been thwarted,” Mollie said. “We have intercepted the ship.” She nodded at Amir, who translated her words.

  The cleric replied in Arabic. “He says, ‘In’shallah, such is God’s will,’” Amir translated into English.

  The cleric spoke again. Amir translated: “But there are many paths to Allah.”

  Mollie looked into the cleric’s face. Total fury and total victory combined in his return look.

  She signaled Amir to follow her now!

  Mollie strode from the interrogation room. In the hall she passed Thurman, and she motioned him to follow her into the temporary work space.

  The moment Mollie entered the room, followed by Amir and Thurman, she shouted to Jaiswal, Surfer and Perez – “There’s another attack underway!”

  For a moment no one responded. Then Surfer said, “How can you be sure.”

  “The cleric just told me.”

  Perez looked the question.

  “He spoke of many paths to Allah. He’s calm, not at all dejected that his plan has been prevented. The Phicol was only the opening gambit.”

  Perez stood. “We’re getting cell phones from the men put off t
he ship as well as the dead terrorists on board. I’ll have more calls to trace.”

  **

  1540 hours

  Yolanda Perez studied the computer screen in front of her displaying a map of the western United States. She keyed in a command and the sites of military bases and government installations overlaid the map.

  To Yolanda it seemed logical that enemies would target military and government installations. Although her Mexican parents had gotten U.S. green cards in an amnesty program, and Yolanda herself had been born in Los Angeles, she still thought of herself as a new citizen of the United States. And, to her, government installations represented that citizenship – that ability to say “I am an American.” Wouldn’t the bad guys want to destroy that?

  Next Yolanda charted a route along the western coast of the United States southward from Alaska to Los Angeles. This was the path the Phicol had taken from Asia as it approached San Pedro.

  She stared at this route for a few seconds, at the military installations on the west coast, then jumped up from her seat.

  “Commander Sanders, I’ve plotted the path the containership took from Asia. It passed off the coast of Alaska!”

  The lieutenant commander looked up at Yolanda. “What about Alaska?”

  “The main test site for the anti-missile defense system is in Alaska. They’re getting ready for another test. They would never expect a ground attack.”

  Yolanda saw Commander Witlow get up from his seat and walk towards Commander Sanders.

  “You’re figuring the ship left off some tangos?” Sanders asked.

  “We have all the men who were on the ship as it entered the harbor in custody or in the morgue,” Yolanda said. “But the crew manifest listed 15 more men.”

  “Good work!” Sanders said. “Go get Commander Jaiswal and Amir.”

  Yolanda hurried from the room holding back a grin. Yes! She had made a significant contribution to the team – and to her beloved country.

  **

  1547 hours

  “Even if you are right,” Jaiswal said to Mollie, “the men could have been dropped off anywhere.”

  He pointed to the large map of the West Coast pinned to the wall behind Mollie.

  “We have a sub base off Seattle, for example – the attack may have already happened and we just don’t know it.”

  Mollie shook her head. “No, the way the cleric was talking about the second path, I’m sure this attack is meant to be second. He wasn’t expecting us to know about it. But he was confident it would occur. So I say tomorrow.”

  “Again with the 1,000-year-old poem,” Surfer said.

  “Why not later today?” Perez asked.

  “Because he wouldn’t want to rain on his own parade,” Mollie said. “He’d want the horror of each event to have full news coverage.”

  “This isn’t a Coast Guard mission,” Jaiswal said.

  Mollie again looked at the map. “Nimitz is in San Diego now, isn’t she? We’ll get our aircraft ferried from there. Perez will coordinate intel from here. With tanker support, Surfer and I can be there in three hours.”

  “And do what?” Surfer asked.

  “Whatever is needed. We’ll know it when we see it.”

  “How about letting our fingers do the walking?” Surfer said. He pointed to the landline phone.

  Mollie picked it up, held it out to him. “You spend the next three hours on the phone working your way up the chain of command until you find somebody who can do something. Or we can go do it ourselves.”

  Surfer shoved the phone back at her. “Get on the damn phone to one of your sources. Maybe they can get through.”

  Mollie shook her head at him. Then she punched in a number simultaneously while reaching into her pocket for a notebook.

  “What?” Surfer asked.

  “Two good ideas in one day?”

  She spoke into the phone. “This is Dagger 1. Go scramble.”

  She flipped through the notebook, pinned down a page with a finger.

  “Scramble code India 7 Foxtrot.”

  She flipped again for a few pages.

  “I authenticate Uniform-Whiskey-Delta. Get me Dagger Control.”

  She spun back-and-forth in her chair.

  “It’s Dagger 1, LCDR Sanders, sir.” She paused.

  “We have reason to believe a terrorist attack is underway, or will be underway soon, at the anti-missile test site in Alaska. Can you try getting through to them? I’ll wait, sir.”

  Mollie looked around at the circle of faces watching her – Surfer, Jaiswal, Perez, and Amir. She nodded at them all.

  “WHAT! Excuse me, sir. Yes, sir.”

  She paused again.

  “Sir, request permission to conduct anti-terrorist training exercise in Alaska.” She listened, then said, “Enroute and in Alaska. Release of Commander Witlow’s F-18 from Nimitz, ferry up here, tankering enroute, and weapons free.”

  Mollie wrote in her notebook.

  “We’ll contact you when we enter Alaska ATC. And thank you, sir!”

  She hung up and turned to Surfer. “Aurora Borealis – Northern Lights – are interfering with commo. They’re got no communication with Alaska.”

  “Shit!” Surfer said.

  “We’ve got to get going to Point Huneme NAS. The plane’ll be there when we arrive. Tankering will be arranged. Weapons loaded but not free. We’ll have to call in. Best I could do. Let’s GO!”

  Surfer didn’t move. “Commander Sanders, may I see you in private?”

  Mollie nodded, following Surfer towards the now-empty interrogation room. He flung the door open, Mollie strode in behind him.

  “A – Either we are going on a wild goose chase that will cost the Navy a bundle. Or B – We are going on an authentic mission that should be planned by someone much more senior than you.”

  Mollie glared at him. “This is my mission! I figured it out!”

  Surfer glared back at her.

  “With some help,” she added.

  “You were right about the Phicol being the attack vehicle. That doesn’t mean you always score 100 percent.”

  Mollie nodded. “Okay, think of it as a training mission for a possible scenario. If we’re wrong, we will have had more crisis training. If we’re right …”

  Mollie didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

  Surfer shrugged. She looked him in the eyes. Okay, she realized, he had to get his anger off his chest. Now he was onboard.

  **

  1732 hours

  Kevin blasted his plane through the air. He ran his finger down the checklist strapped to his knee, then punched in a frequency on his radio.

  “Nightbird Roller, this is Dagger 1,” he said into the com. “Nightbird Roller, this is Dagger 1. I got a thirsty bird here. Do you copy?”

  Over the com came the somewhat clipped answer on encrypted single-sideband radio. “Dagger 1, Nightbird. We have you. Steer 350, descent to Angels 36. Rendezvous in 1-5 mikes. RV speed 330 knots. We are illuminating. Hi-test or regular?”

  Kevin hit a button and his screen changed to a GPS-type screen. The outline of the westernmost parts of the coastline were visible on the right side of the screen.

  A few airline tracks hugged the coast. A single dot was off-center on the screen.

  Kevin banked the fighter slightly and the dot centered as the tracks overlapped.

  “Nightbird, Dagger 1 copies 350, descending to Angels 36, RV in 15 mikes, 330 knots. Highest octane JP-5 you got. Don’t suppose I could get someone to wash the windshield, do you?”

  “Sorry, self-service only. See you in a few.”

  Kevin closed the F-18 in on the tanker’s fuel boom. The fuel hose flailed wildly. Kevin yelled into the com: “Settle that damn hose down!”

  The boom operator answered on the com: “Sorry, sir! A little turbulence. I’ve got it now. Just a sec. Okay, okay, that’s got it.”

  The hose settled down. Kevin brought the fighter closer, closer – BANG, the nozzle hit hi
s probe and went flying off.

  “Dammit! I’m skosh fuel here. How about getting some adult supervision on the nozzle?”

  A different, older voice came over the radio. “Dagger 1, this is Nightbird Actual. Turn to 270. We’ll turn into the wind. That should stabilize the nozzle. And Dagger? Don’t you ever criticize one of my people over the air again, or I’ll take off your backside in strips, got it?”

  “Yes sir! Got it, sir! Won’t happen again, sir!”

  “Alright, let’s take this nice and easy.”

  The two planes slowly changed course, the nozzle settling down.

  The boom operator on the com said: “10 feet. Six feet. A little down. Three feet.”

  A CLANK! As the probe slid home.

  “Got it, Dagger! Pumping now!” the boom operator said.

  **

  In the backseat Mollie had been silent while Surfer was busy with Nightbird getting the plane refueled. She’d been busy herself thinking about when they’d been shot at off the Nimitz.

  She flicked on her intercom to Surfer. “Surfer, how many flights were there off Nimitz the day we got shot at?”

  Surfer replied over the com: “Hell, I don’t know. Dozens, why?”

  “How many operating at the same time as we were?”

  “They were running CAP, some training flight … probably between six and 12 or 15. Again, why?”

  “How did somebody know to target us with that SAM?”

  “They could’ve just been waiting to take a pot shot at an American plane.”

  “In the whole wide ocean, out of a dozen flights off just our carrier, they just happened to pick the one testing the anti-missile laser.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We need to change course right now. We’re going inland, away from the airline corridors.”

  In her cockpit Mollie keyed into a datapad. Her screen lit up with charts showing the coast along with the course and position of airline traffic in the area.

  Mollie sketched a course way off the beaten path, pounding her keypad. It showed they had enough fuel.

  She spoke into her radio: “Sea-Tac Control, this is Navy Flight 755, request re-route Port Hardy-Teslin-Gultana.”