“Negative, Chris. Tell Engineering to fire up the reactors and back us out of her as quickly as possible. An explosion like the one I’m thinking of would devastate most of Staten Island in a way that would make 9-11 look like a campfire picnic.”
“Aye, aye.” The man behind her said and got in contact with Commander Ted Limoux. “Getting under way as ordered.”
Captain Mitchell heard the overabundance of enthusiasm in the man’s voice—even if he knew that there stood a strong possibility that they would all get killed in the process.
It was at this point that Paul was still talking to you in a low voice.
She stopped him for a second and then asked, “would you mind repeating that? I didn’t quite catch most of what you were telling me.”
Paul nodded and pointed to one monitor in question.
“These look like a series of specialized demolition bombs used by the American military to clear out the hard stuff—really stubborn rubble and other caked on debris. Like what they used in Iraq in 2004 and 2005—during their initial invasion campaign.”
“So what are they doing on my hull? And why didn’t we spot them earlier?”
“The charges were planted along the long axis of the carrier’s hull and were cleverly camouflaged so that they couldn’t be spotted easily from afar—day or night. No one bothered to do a closer inspection until some of our guys were tasked to check the mooring cables attached to the dock—as is standard procedure every 12 hours that we were here. Two of the guys doing line duty used to be bomb-disposal techs in their civilian life before they joined up.” The first officer explained. “That’s how they were able to identify them.”
“Give me a number. How long do you think they’ve been there?” Mitchell wanted to know off the bat.
“Thirty-six hours—give or take. And that’s only if they are live.”
“Who’d be stupid enough to put some duds on my old girl?”
“Anyone with a brain. Or a personal vendetta against the British Navy.”
Aria thought that option over.
“Who would be the question. I doubt it’s anyone local.”
“Muslim extremists?” Paul queried off hand.
“Not their style. From the looks of those charges, I’d say that they’re the work of a consummate professional.”
“Paramilitary groups?”
Aria chuckled. “In New York? I’d admit: There may be some crazies living in the Big Apple, but I don’t think that any such militias would be taking up station in one of the country’s most locked down cities. Especially with all the added police and SWAT presence.”
Now Paul was getting a little desperate.
“Some bad guy with a beef against us particularly?”
“I dunno. Did you recover a ransom note somewhere?” The woman openly joked.
“Nothing that we could find.”
“So it’s no ransom. And no terrorist plot to sink one of Britain’s oldest, commissioned ships.” Aria dismissed easily.
The man ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Okay. So nothing on my list of suspects is currently working. How about we go for broke and think up some real doozies?”
Mariah laughed lightly and smiled. “You’re trying too hard, Paul. You’re a good man and an excellent first mate, but you’ve got a thing or two to learn about due process and procedure.”
“Are we talking about American or English law here?” The other man joked lightly—smiling as he said it.
The woman giggled. “Either one would suffice.”
Paul nodded amicably and then pointed at the screen. “So how do you propose we get those pop rocks off the hull?”
“Very carefully.” Aria said. “Have the bomb disposal units on Deck 3, Section 46 stand by.”
That gave the man some pause. “Pardon my asking, Captain. But did you just say—?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, I did. I’m waiting to hear from Kina in the next minute or so. She should be up and running by now.”
***
It took me roughly six minutes to bring everything up to full power—then I tied in the ship’s Starlight Vision Camera, the IFF, and the four chemical and detection systems as well.
I asked the computer to provide me with a three-dimensional image of the Essex and then had it zero in on the affected areas of the ship: The forward hull on the port side.
I snapped a picture of the carrier—using the Starlight Vision Camera and had the computer run comparisons.
Overlaid, they appeared virtually identical-minus the series of small obstructions planted on the side of the hull.
Which was painted in red.
“Seven charges,” I counted easily—then ran an IFF comparison.
It didn’t take long until the computer gave me the dirt on what I was facing.
“Com-Rex Delta VII-R’s—Series 4-B demolition charges.” I read out loud—thinking of what that meant for the stricken carrier and its doomed crew.
The explosives by themselves wouldn’t pack that much of a punch—if they went off against the ship’s hull. Sure, there would be structural damage, but not near enough to sink the ship in question.
However…
The computer then rotated the image of the carrier around and then dissected it into a series of diagrams—each filled with a cache of information.
I tapped the one side of the carrier—which said: Armaments and fuel storage.
It was right where the bombs were located.
While the armor there was thickened to withstand any type of punishment or strike damage—to minimize the chance for an accidental explosion—all those charges together would finish off the Essex in its entirety.
A blast that large would surely punch a hole in the side of the carrier, ignite the fuel bins and set off the arms lockers all at once.
They wouldn’t stand a chance. I thought to myself and then turned on the ship’s comm.
“Mariah? Are you there?”
“Here. What’s up?”
“I’ve located the bombs.”
“We’re ready to begin dismantling them—as soon as we put some distance between us and the harbor.”
“If I’m right, there won’t be enough time.” I told the woman quickly, flash-feeding my data to the carrier’s CIC computers.
“How would you know?”
“Gut instinct. Whomever is calling the shots must know that you’re on the move.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Give me a few seconds, I’m going to try and jam the frequency that these puppies operate on.”
There was a measure of surprise in the other woman’s voice when she finally spoke.
“You can do that?”
“No promises,” I told her, accessing the bomb specs and having the Peacemaker zero in on a small portion of the trigger guard. Like I thought, it carried a special infrared/thermo capacitator which only accepted input from a specialized mobile detonator or a sat-com uplink.
That was my ticket right there. And I had to make sure that I jammed the frequency carrier so that each of the bombs wouldn’t have a chance to chain react simultaneously should they be triggered.
So if one was crippled, the rest would be as well. I thought with pursed lips as I fed instructions into the mainframe computer and asked it to overwhelm the primary transponder code of the detonator itself.
This would make the bombs think that I was the trigger man and not someone else whom I had an inkling was closer by than he would’ve liked.
NEW PARAMETERS ACCEPTED. The system informed me. TRANSPONDER CODE FREQUENCY CHANGED TO 121.23 GHZ. SAT UPLINK RE-ROUTED TO DEFAULT USER FROM THIS TERMINAL.
I slumped back into my seat in shallow relief. It worked!
Leaning forward, I got in touch with Maria herself.
“You can relax now. I’ve disabled the arming/detonation frequency.”
“We saw that. You’re a miracle worker if we’ve ever seen one. But as a precautionary measure, we�
��re going to go to the east side of the harbor and dock at an abandoned slip and finish getting these things off our hull.”
“Good to hear. I’m going to head out now and see what I can find on my own back at base.” I informed her, engaging the VTOL systems of the Peacemaker herself.
“Be careful. Whomever tried to wreck my boat is mostly likely not going to be too thrilled that their plan failed.”
“Considering what I had to deal with coming in, I’m sure Johnny Bravo is going to have to re-evaluate his plans for world domination after this point.” I told her, maneuvering my bird a bit so it would clear the open mid-ship deck elevator with feet to spare.
“I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes right now.”
I nodded. “True enough. But since Conrad Jones likes to work in the shadows, I’m going to have to do things the old-fashioned way and flush him out again somehow.”
“A job I wouldn’t envy anyone—that’s for sure.”
“Me neither. But what can you do?” I said, adding a little of thrust to the main engines—once I cleared the Essex. Someone below me gave me a salute and a wave and I nodded back before turning my attention to what was happening to me in the front—rather than what was going on in the rear.
“What indeed?” Maria radioed back. “Safe travels, Kina. And thanks for your timely assistance.”
“All part of the service, Captain. Godspeed.” I returned, before signing off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.
Four hours later. 200 miles from Port Morien.
Conrad Jones read the after report from not only the damaged ships in his squadron, but also Dagger Teams One and Two as well and sighed.
Commander Tillman nodded in quiet acknowledgement.
“The gig is up, sir. We lost our only ace in the hole.”
“That’s to be expected.” The other man said with solid conviction.
“But sir, we lost.” Tillman emphasized strongly. “We have nothing left to entice her back with. Even your backup plan won’t work.”
“Ye of little faith…” Jones muttered with a shake of his head. “You don’t think I didn’t spend the last ten years not planning for every contingency—did you? Or have the means to “buy” my own personal squadron of Navy ships through a loan program with the US Navy a few years ago? How do you think you and I hit things off so well in the interim? We both have the same goals, my friend. Losses are to be expected in this line of work. So calm down. We’re not out of this yet.”
“Okay. So were do you want us to go next?”
“Order the surviving ships to the British naval base in Halifax and we‘ll join them there. I’ll call up for reinforcements from merry old London while we‘re there. I still have some ties and a few friends there. People who share in the same dreams as I do. Then we can work on my next phase of the plan.”
“And what would that be?”
“Chinese involvement.” Conrad said, before reaching for his chilled shot glass of gin and tonic.
“There’s rumors flying about that a faction within the government’s R&D section has begun initial development of a jet variation to the Trition-12 Peacemaker—thanks in part to some “friends” within the Pentagon. But they tell me that the process will take some time, so we‘re in no hurry.”
Tillman was surprised by the news. “There’s people inside the Pentagon working for us?”
The other man smiled. “You would be surprised by what you can offer in terms of money and business to a select group of people who view discord and conflict as a means of reaping the whirlwind. Especially in times like these. And the Chinese are just a part of this equation.”
“So we’re going to engineer something different down the line then?” Tillman ventured warily.
Conrad nodded. “Of course. We now have a full profile of the Peacemaker in action—which was my every intent from the start—and then we can “gift” this information to our Chinese business partners in exchange for more funding and support.”
“I take it back: You are good. I thought once half my squadron had been wiped out, that was endgame for us.”
“No endgame. Just a means to an end. And I play for keeps.”
“So what of Ms. Anderson? What about her?”
“She gets to home and reap the rewards of her timely save. Oh, I’m sure the US government will be coming after us in no time—since the cat is out of the bag in that respect—but we still have friends in high places that can offer protection as well as shelter and so this is just a temporary stop for us.”
“And then?”
“We plan for the next leg of our journey. Trust me, Commander: We have a long road ahead of us. So it pays dividends to be patient and see things out through to their natural conclusion.”
“And that will be?”
“War of course. That’s how this business of ours operates. And money is money. Allies are allies. We’re better than good in all respect. So let‘s focus on that instead.”
“I hope your right. I really do.”
Conrad smiled then. “When have I ever been wrong, Commander?” He said, before taking a sip from his glass. “When have I ever been wrong?”
***
May.
Two weeks later.
Vergennes.
I sat next to Bart’s bed, waiting for him to wake up. Things had been unduly crazy since the incident with the HMS Essex and I had to spend much of the past fourteen days in contact with the Pentagon, the FBI, the CIA, and representatives from the Office of The President, the Select Arms Services Committee (Senate), House Intelligence, and about three meetings with the guys over at the Skunks Works Facility in Rosenberg, Nevada—handling all kinds of classified information and giving hours of testimony to the government over what happened in the past week.
It had been a near thing. But apparently, the world had been saved through a fluke of luck and the security of two nations had been restored because of me.
I even had a personal invitation to meet the Queen at Buckingham Palace in a month—thanks to Bart’s parents—and that was a meeting I wasn’t about to pass up. I was going to go in style and Bart was coming with me.
Or so I hoped anyways.
I kept stroking his arm lightly, feeling his strong pulse beneath my fingertips and thinking that everything was all right with the world for the time being.
Shelly indicated to me that Bart had been placed in a light coma right after surgery to aid the healing process, but he was well enough now so that he could be brought out of it.
I even got to watch everyone do their thing so that the next six hours would happen under my watch and that there was nothing to impede my big moment.
I was a nervous wreck from the start. I didn’t know what I was going to say or do the moment he opened his eyes. I just had this feeling that things were going to be all right.
So when he finally opened his eyes, the first thing out of his mouth was the sound of my name being called. Sleepily. Drowsily.
“I’m here.” I told him. “I’m here.”
“W-what happened?” He asked of me, once I moved around what few IV lines were still attached to him. His catheter bag had been removed the night before and I was sure that he would need to pee in no time.
I was just glad that he was finally awake and talking to me.
“Long story, my prince. Long story. Best told over some breakfast. Would you like some?” I said, bringing up a doggie bag that I had made at my place a few hours earlier.
“I’m afraid it’s cold. But it’s the best sausage and gravy on a biscuit that you’ll ever have on such short notice.”
Bart nodded, though he looked a bit dazed and confused by what was going on. “I’ll take it. I’m so hungry. I could probably eat some of Lisa’s cooking right now and not bat an eye.”
I grinned.
“I’m sure she would like that.” I said, getting his tray arm up and the small tray table connected. There was an empty plate which the morning staff gave
me, along with some clean utensils, and I went about the business of being a proper host and future girlfriend to him.
“There we go.” I said, kissing him lightly on the forehead in passing. “Now you can eat.”
Bart nodded in passing, having been raised to a sitting position.
“Almost forgot.” I said, pressing a button on the TV box remote next to the bed. And the flat screen across the room switched on and showed CNN.
On it, they were looping last week’s testimony that I gave to the Senate Arms Committee and the title bar blared: INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT AVERTED BY VERMONT COURIER PILOT.
Bart stared at the screen for a second and looked at me and I shrugged noncommittally.
“It’s been a long two weeks, Your Highness.”
“I can imagine. And Conrad? What about him?”
“No one knows. But the government promised me that a search would be undertaken at some point, so that means, he’s out of my hair—and life—for the time being.”
The prince nodded in relief. “And what about me?”
“What about you?”
Bart went quiet for a moment and then said, “I’m not sure. I just imagined that I would be taken back and away from you.”
My heart leaped a bit upon hearing that coming from him.
“Well, your government did have plans to fetch a new courier, but I told them flat out that I would be the one to ferry you home.”
“But what about you?” He asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…you. Us. I mean…” he trailed off for a second. “Or maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me while I was under. I don‘t remember a lot. Just a few things. Things I probably imagined.” He sighed after that, before digging into the doggie bag I provided for him with his good hand and came up with three made-from-scratch biscuits and a round, sealed container of homemade Vermont style sausage gravy.
“But I guess I’m just hoping for too much.”
I looked at him strangely for a second. Then it hit me. “Are you saying that you love me, Bart?”
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