by JE Gurley
“Do we have a location?”
“Navy’s Cyclops reconnaissance satellite picked up a black object on the surface north of Enderbury Island. It’s size, shape and spotty radar image indicates a Kaiju, so they’re assuming that’s it.”
“So we ferry to the Mississippi on the Osprey. What’s the plan after that? I would kind of like to know since I’m supposed to be leading this mission.” Walker’s tone left no doubt about his feelings on his omission in any change of plans.
McGregor shifted uncomfortably under Walker’s glare. He didn’t like being in the middle of a tug of war. It was an untenable position. “That’s the catch, sir. Washington decided international cooperation was called for. They hastily organized a combined task force of U.S., Australian, and British forces after the subs disappeared. They’re still hammering out the details even as we speak. Just between you and me, Major Walker, I think this is a shitty way to run a war.”
“You and me both.” He turned on his heel and stalked off toward the waiting Osprey. “Let’s get this Bizarro Circus on the road, Captain.” He paused. “Who came up with the designation Fire Team Bravo?”
“Don’t know, sir. It was listed as such in my orders.”
As he climbed into the Osprey, Walker wondered why not Fire Team Alpha? The military liked things neat, orderly, and as numerically ordered as possible. Why go for the next designation?
* * * *
Saturday, Dec.16, 0930 hours 80 Miles north of Kiritimati Island –
The V-22 Osprey could transport twenty-four men, but the nine of them were sitting in the cramped, metal fold-down seats in the six-foot-wide cargo space just behind the cockpit. Their pile of gear filled the space between the rows of seats. Three 800-gallon auxiliary fuel bladders needed for the return flight filled the remainder of the twenty-four-foot-long cargo space, loaded on pallets through the folding rear hatch. There had been no time to set up an in-flight refueling, and the extra fuel doubled the Osprey’s thousand-mile range, allowing it to return to Wheeler Airfield. Most of the long flight had been devoted to weapons checks, weapons cleaning, and catching a few winks before they reached their destination. It was unlikely they would have an opportunity later.
During the last leg of the trip to Kiritimati Island, Walker tried to learn a little something about Captain McGregor, his new second-in-command. He had worked with Costas for so long that they operated as a closely-knit team. Sometimes he thought the big, burly sergeant could read his mind. McGregor undoubtedly had the same tight relationship with his S.E.A.L. fire team. Now, Walker had to relay orders through McGregor until he learned something about the men assigned him. He had no problem with Navy S.E.A.L. training or in their abilities. He had worked with S.E.A.L.S in Iraq and had found them to be equal to any task. The differences between S.E.A.L. training and Army Special Forces training were slight, but those few differences could cause major rifts during a firefight, and men could die.
Walker knew how McGregor must feel. He had successfully led his team for several months. Now, thrust into a subordinate position and working with a commanding officer he did not know, he could be harboring some resentment. The longstanding Army-Navy rivalry didn’t help matters. They had no time to feel each other out. They both had to hit the ground running.
He wasn’t sure how easily Costas would accept the situation. His outspoken sergeant’s disregard for authority was the main reason he was still a sergeant, although he had reluctantly accepted a promotion from Sergeant to First Sergeant for his effort in the Nusku mission, but only after Walker explained about the extra three-thousand dollars a year in pay – booze money, Costas called it.
“Captain, I hear you and your men were the first team inside Girra after Langston stopped the Kaiju. What did you think?”
McGregor took a long moment to consider his answer. “I think these alien bastards are some vicious mothers. To them, everything is food for something else. The concept of using your enemy to fuel your attack creatures is goddamned sick. I don’t believe they consider this a war as we do. To them, it’s just exterminating the indigenous population of vermin to claim the planet as their own.” The edges of his mouth curved up in a slight smile. “They might have a higher opinion of us now.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Walker said. “Before, we were fighting organic exterminator units – planet cleaners. Now, we may be facing their military might.”
“Hey,” Costas piped up, “how did you like those Ticks?” His eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator shades, but Walker suspected they had a typical Costas mischievous twinkle.
McGregor frowned. “I didn’t like them at all. They left me with a nasty scar on my right leg and three weeks in the base hospital from a goddamned allergic reaction to the venom.”
“You should have seen them before the Kaijus went immobile. Hundreds of them coming at us like Nips in a massed kamikaze charge.”
Walker shook his head. “Japanese, Costas, not Nips. How many times do I have to warn you about racial slurs?”
“Well, I got over the towel-head Arab thing, didn’t I?”
“It took you two years.”
Costas turned to the man next to him, Private Watts, a slim, dark-haired boy who looked eighteen, but had the hard eyes of someone much older. “I took one of the Ticks home with me as a pet. Trained it to sit up and roll over.”
“What do you feed it?” Watts asked, half-believing Costas.
“Privates’ privates.” Costas’ loud guffaw could be heard throughout the plane over the roar of the twin Rolls Royce AE 1107C engines.
The young private grinned.
McGregor looked at Walker, and then glanced away. After a few seconds, he turned back to face him. “You’re a Black Muslim, right?”
Walker smiled. He had been expecting the question in some form or the other the entire trip, certain McGregor had read his FITREP file, just as he had read McGregor’s on the flight from Fort Irwin. “No, not a Black Muslim. That’s Louis Farrakhan’s Nation of Islam or York’s slightly more bizarre Nuwaubian Nation with its ties to Egypt and ancient aliens, among a few others. I’m a follower of the true Islam faith as taught by the prophet Mohammed, and before you ask, no, I don’t like what’s happened to Islam by the radical mullahs. To me, Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance, not one of conversion by the sword.”
McGregor nodded. “My parents were members of the Kirk, the Church of Scotland, but they brought me up Roman Catholic when we moved to the U.S. That’s when I was young. I guess I’m more of an agnostic now.” He paused. “With the aliens, the Kaiju, and all, it’s kind of hard to put any faith in a religion that preaches that mankind is made in God’s image and that we are his chosen people.”
“That’s the Jews, Captain,” Costas said. “The rest of us heathens are just trying to get by best we can.”
Walker threw Costas a dirty look, but he shrugged it off.
“I need religion to stay focused, Captain. Faith is a personal thing, but I feel we’re all a little less human if we don’t have faith in something.”
Costas refused to remain out of the conversation. He grinned and said, “I got faith in this.” He patted the M107 SASR 50 BMG lying on the seat beside him. “And this.” He grabbed his crotch. “In this life you gotta be good with both.”
“Then you should become a Muslim,” Walker said. “Remember, a devout Muslim receives seventy-two houris and an eternal erection when we reach Jannah.” Walker said it with a grin. Even as a devout Muslim, he had a little trouble believing that particular tenet of his religion. It equated women as chattel, and as an African-American, he had a particular dislike for the concept of owning people. It wasn’t his idea of Paradise.
Costas, who had questioned Walker at length many times over the years about his religious beliefs, snorted in derision. “Paradise? Virgins? Now, if it was seventy-two licentious ladies of the night, I might be interested. I ain’t got time to break in a bevy of amateurs. Besides, if an erect
ion lasts more than four hours, you should call your doctor.”
The last statement elicited a chuckled from Private Watts. Specialist Perez’s face turned bright red, but Walker caught a brief smile.
McGregor jerked his thumb at Costas. “Is your sergeant always like this?”
“Our sergeant,” Walker reminded him. “No, sometimes he’s a real pain in the ass, but you can’t find a better man in a fight.”
McGregor looked doubtful, but said, “I hope so. I think we’ll need him.”
One of the flight engineers signaled for Walker’s attention. “Fifteen minutes, majorMajor.”
Walker glanced at his wrist comp – 0930 hours. It had automatically changed the date to Saturday when they crossed the International Date Line. Nothing looked any different outside; still the flat expanse of sea he had been staring at for four hours except for a small smudge on the horizon, Kiritimati – Christmas Island. The Osprey banked sharply to the left and began circling an empty patch of ocean that looked like every other square mile of ocean. Two minutes later, the faded black, rounded bow of a nuclear submarine broke the surface, followed by the sleek conning tower.
He frowned when he saw the bright white mini-sub secured with six tie-down straps near the sub’s stern atop one of the sub’s two aft lockout hatches. Walker recognized it as a DSRV, a Deep Sea Rescue Vehicle, used to rescue trapped sailors, but this one was not U.S. Navy. It was British. He scowled at the presence of the unwieldy rescue vehicle. Capable of only a snails pace speed of four knots, the mini-sub was a lousy choice for a delivery vehicle for his fire team, especially one painted bright white. They might as well have painted a big red target on the side. He was beginning to think the brass was determined to sabotage his mission.
As soon as the sub leveled off, four sailors popped out of a hatch just aft of the conning tower. The Osprey slowed, as the twin nacelles with their thirty-eight-feet diameter rotors began converting for a vertical landing. They stopped and locked at 88 degrees. The Osprey dropped like a rock until the pilot pulled up and leveled the aircraft fifty feet above the sub’s deck.
“We’re landing on that?” Specialist Perez asked. “Can the pilot land between the conning tower and the DSRV?”
The curvature of the hull greatly reduced the width of the submarine’s thirty-four-foot beam, leaving a narrow level area that ran the length of the stern.
“No, son, we’re jumping,” Costas said.
The pilot expertly lowered the Osprey until it hovered ten feet above the deck, just clearing the DSRV, and held it steady. With the forward cargo door of the Osprey open, members of the team unloaded gear and dropped it to the waiting sailors, who promptly passed it down the sub’s open hatch. Walker led the way, sliding down the ropes the short distance to the deck. He slammed into it a bit harder than he intended as the sub rode the waves, but he recovered quickly and stepped back to make room for the others.
“This way, sir,” one of the sailors, a young female yeoman, said.
Walker climbed down the hatch ladder into the engine room. A clear plastic sleeve prevented seawater from ruining delicate electronics gear during rough seas. He expected the loud roar of diesel engines, the clatter of pistons, and the hiss of escaping steam. Instead, it was eerily quiet, especially after the deafening roar of the V-22’s engines drumming in his ears for four hours. The sub’s S9G reactor below his feet provided power for the twin 30,000 horsepower turbines that, in turn, powered the sub’s stealth pump-jet propulsor, replacing the usual screw-type propeller. In an emergency, the auxiliary diesel engines could take over.
Costas noticed the bright red and yellow radiation hazard placard on the bulkhead and quickly cupped his hands around his crotch. “Is this the reactor? Do I need a tin foil cup to protect my boys?”
The yeoman laughed and handed him a radiation dosimeter badge. “Pin this to your clothing. If it reaches 50 rads, you might want to check on that aluminum foil jock strap. We’ll stow your gear in the missile room, forward, sir,” she said to Walker. “We set up sleeping quarters for you and your men in the forward torpedo room.”
“We won’t be sleeping, yeoman. We’ll stay with our gear. I need to see your captain.”
She smiled and nodded. “Commander Murdock asked me to bring you to him as soon as you were aboard.”
“Certainly, yeoman.”
“Great,” Costas grumbled, “stuck in a radioactive sardine can with a bunch of Navy boys. What a way to spend Christmas.” Costas turned to the yeoman and grinned broadly. “Meaning no disrespect, ma’am. Present company is a welcomed exception.”
“Play nice, sergeant,” Walker warned.
The yeoman grinned. “No problem, Captain. In the Navy, we eat wolves like the sergeant for breakfast. There are one-hundred-thirty-two men aboard this boat, and we’ve been at sea for four months. Ask any of them why they leave me alone.”
This drew a chuckle from Electronics Specialist M. Perez, earning a hot glare from Costas. “You think that’s funny, soldier?”
Perez reached up a slender, long - fingered hand and removed the cap covering a head of curly red hair. “Kind of, Sergeant.”
Costas’ jaw dropped. “On my saintly mother’s grave,” he coughed. “You’re a dame.”
She shook her head until the hair fell just above her shoulders. “I’m a Navy S.E.A.L., Sergeant, and if you don’t close your gaping mouth, I’ll close it for you.”
Costas’ mouth snapped shut like a Venus flytrap around a bug. “I’ll be damned. We’ve been coeded.”
“No doubt about that first part, Costas,” Walker said.
Actually, Walker was as surprised as Costas to find a female S.E.A.L. on his fire team. He knew the Navy had graduated quite a few, but he had never met one. Most S.E.A.L. teams were reluctant to include a female, a misogynistic holdover from the ‘men are men and women stay home’ days. He had traded rounds with enough female ISIS fighters to ignore the weak female label. He knew the S.E.A.L.S would not graduate anyone who could not cut the mustard, regardless of sex.
Walker waited for McGregor. “See that the men are situated in the missile room. I’m going forward to see if the captain knows what the hell is going on.”
During the four-hour flight, the only message they had received were the coordinates for the rendezvous with the USS Mississippi. He needed current Intel. It troubled him that McGregor seemed to know more about the operation than he did. He was not going to sacrifice his men while the brass in Washington dickered over coffee and doughnuts about whose penis was the biggest.
It was SOP to maintain the lights at a low level in a sub at sea to accommodate off-duty crewmembers sleeping in their berthing racks, the tiny eleven-square-foot cubicles lining the corridors. Behind the drawn blue curtains, the only privacy available, he heard snores and muted snatches of music leaking from headphones plugged into the ships entertainment system. He went down two flights of stairs and entered the control room.
The sub’s nerve center looked more like a control room for a factory or a hydroelectric power plant. Crewmen in blue, one-piece overalls sat behind high-tech consoles or stood beside banks of dials with clipboards jotting down readings. Only the two control yokes manned by two drivers, previously known as , betrayed it as the heart of a fast attack nuclear submarine. There was no periscope. A photonics mast in the conning tower, or Sail in the U.S. Navy and Fin in European boats, fitted with advanced video cameras and filters, relayed images to the control room monitors via fiber optic cables. This ensured the integrity of the hull and eliminated the need for the Mississippi’s control room to be located directly beneath the Sail. It was located forward and near the sub’s widest point to for more room.
Commander Murdock looked too young to skipper a nuclear submarine. With his bright-blue eyes, wavy sandy-colored hair, dimpled cheeks, and solid-framed athletic build, he looked more like a tennis pro than a man with his finger on a nuclear trigger. At thirty-one, he was young for a commander, well below the ave
rage age of a boat captain. The silver oak leaves on his epaulets were a match for Walker’s and looked just as new.
“Welcome aboard, Major Walker,” he said as Walker entered the control room. “I hope your gear is stowed and your team is situated. We’re getting under way in five minutes. I don’t like sitting on the surface.” He turned and scanned a clipboard handed him by the sonar officer. He signed his initials and faced Walker. “If you heard about the Colorado, you’ll know why I’m a bit jumpy.” He shook his head. “One-hundred-thirty-five men and women down into to the briny deep. It sounds poetic, but it’s a damned disaster.”
“I heard about the Colorado and the Essex, but that’s about all I know. I’ve been hustled from transport to transport since I left Fort Irwin ten hours ago. I still don’t know the details of my mission. Do you?”
Murdock picked up a manila envelope lying on a table and handed it to Walker. The look of sympathy he offered Walker told him the news was not good. “The details are in here. In short, my orders are to approach the Kaiju to what they term ‘an acceptable distance’ and drop your team in the water. We’re not to surface. Large swarms of Wasps have been attacking the small islands of the Kiribati chain. Malden Island got hit just under an hour ago. We flew a recon drone over the island. I watched people dying real time until a Wasp deliberately collided with the drone and crashed it. It was a slaughter. As far as I can tell, there were no survivors on the island. You can view the video if you like. Just tell my executive officer.” He nodded to the XO, a short, dark-complexioned man leaning over a chart table.
“Lieutenant Commander Dobbs will assist you in every way possible.” Murdock checked his watch. “I estimate we rendezvous with the Kaiju in one-hour-forty-five minutes. If you want some sack time, I suggest you grab it now. I’ll get your crew as close as I possibly can, but I won’t risk my boat. An acceptable distance, my ass,” he snarled. “USPACOM is leaving it up to me. They’re afraid to pull the trigger on another boat.”