by Tony Bulmer
“Keeping busy Admiral.”
“Of course you are, damn you. I haven’t heard from you in six-‐months at least. I assume you have been faithfully brown-‐nosing your political masters in a manner that precludes association with your oldest and dearest friends?”
Jack Senegar slid a wooden case onto the Admirals leather-‐topped desk. “I brought you Scotch, Bill, the 69 Macallan.”
“If it you are trying to curry favor with single malt Speyside Scotch Jack, you have obviously come to the right place. Question is—will you be asking the kind of favor I will be willing to grant?”
The Admiral stepped forward now and grasped Jack Senegar’s hand in a vise grip, then slapped him heartily on the shoulder, “Have a seat Jack, you look like you could use it. The Admiral moved behind his desk, and lowered himself into a worn looking leather club chair. He regarded Jack steadily, with a dark, unsettling stare. Jack had seen that look before, the same deadly intensity, the same steadfast determination and ruthless will to succeed. There was no doubt about it—Karyn Kane was her father’s daughter all right.
“I am working a level-‐nine operation Bill. So far over the rim, this meeting never happened. You understand me?”
The Admiral sucked air, like he was preparing for an attack then nodded slowly. “Oh, I understand all right Jack. Time was, back in the day, when men of principle could come together, make plans to keep this beautiful country of ours on a
path to greatness—but those times are gone now Jack, you of all people should know that.”
“I am going to need DEVGRU.” The Admiral narrowed his eyes then nodded once again. “If it is the SEALS you are wanting Laddie, you will need a gilt edged executive order, or a fully autographed
congressional directive, approved by Special Operations Command. I don’t suppose you have either of those things, do you Jack, tucked away in that fancy Brookes Brothers suit you are wearing?”
“I got the green-‐light from the big man, but there is no paper trail on this one Bill. We need plausible deniability at a level above and beyond anything we have worked before.”
“And you are coming to me for this Jack? With all your war on terror dollars, you are coming to me? I cannot say that I am not flattered, because I am—a man of your reputation. But I would have thought that your people were more than adequately prepared for any scenario that might possibly arise to challenge the political and military integrity of this great nation of ours.”
“We are working a home game Bill— outside elements are involved, but we have to strangle this one off from the inside.”
“ Outside elements,” thundered the Admiral. “What kind of outside elements?”
A libertarian cadre of industrialists; they call themselves Humanisitans. We have traced their funding to the Chinese. The Humanistians have infiltrated the frame work of Federal government, it is too early to say how deep the rot goes, but my intelligence has revealed a high level of
penetration.”
“Damn communists, we should have taken
them out years ago. Those Kimchi munching sons
of bitches are taking over the world on the sly.
Everything you see, every where you look, it’s all
Chinese, Jack. Is it any wonder the goddamn
economy is in the tank? Those spineless sea
monkeys in Washington are too busy playing nose
flute sonatas with chairman Mao’s little pals to give
a damn about America.”
Jack Senegar, watched non-‐committal, as
the Admiral bounced his white knuckled fists off
the leather desktop. Jack’s eyes wandered across
the desk and noticed for the first time, that the
Admiral had an un-‐holstered Colt 1911 resting next
to his right hand. It appeared to be loaded. At
length, as the Admiral’s ire subsided, Senegar said
quietly, “We have a lead into this nasty little
conspiracy.”
“So what are you waiting for man, strike
hard and deep—cut to the very heart of the
disease.”
Senegar gave the Admiral a tight look, “If
only it were that simple. There is political
involvement. The governor of Hawaii murdered,
along with a prominent senator, the chairman of
the Congressional House Committee on Oversight
and Government Reform.
“You’re talking about that southern-‐fried
son of a bitch Tex Johnston. His greedy little face
has been plastered all over the news. You ask me,
he looks like just the kind of weasel-‐faced traitor
who’d sell his own mother to those commie-‐loving
Chinese.”
“We believe that the Senator was being
subjected to biographical leverage.”
“Biographical leverage, Senegar? I
understand that is a fancy-‐suited DC term for good
old fashioned blackmail, am I right?”
Senegar gave the Admiral a pained look. He
paused, long enough to gather his words and said,
“This is an unpleasant business Admiral, there is
no-‐doubt about it. But I am afraid it gets worse,
much worse.”
“I have sailed the world more times than a
Panamanian Tramp steamer. There is nothing that
can shock or surprise me anymore, Jack.”
“This nest of conspiracy originates from the
Island of Oahu, Hawaii. We believe that local law
enforcement and elements within the Federal
Bureau of Investigation are conspiring with a
billionaire Industrialist name of Deng Tao.” “Conspiring? To do what exactly?
Overthrow the government—from a picture
postcard holiday destination two thousand miles
from anywhere? Those Kimchi lovers may think
they are plenty smart Senegar, but they haven’t got
a chance in hell of taking over the civilized world
from the cocktail capital of the South Pacific.” The
Admiral paused then said, “ Wait a hot minute
Laddie. The FBI? You wouldn’t be trying to suck me
into an inter-‐agency death match would you?
Because the United States Navy punches
heavyweight contests only. If you pantywaist
pseudo-‐civilians want to bitch-‐slap each other in
the Washington Mall, I will buy a ticket for ringside,
just don’t ask me to join the fight card, or the
National Security Council will be sending me my
early retirement papers faster than you can say
congressional inquiry.”
“We believe the conspirators are looking to
create an event to rival that of 9-‐11 or Pearl
Harbor.”
“Are you trying to tell me those commie
sons of bitches are g
oing to make a move on the
Pacific Fleet? They haven’t got the cojones comrade.
They even think about making a move on the
United States, and we will turn that bicycle
peddling commie paradise of theirs into a glass
lake.”
Jack Senegar drew a breath, his face
doubling down on this dangerous news. “The
attack, when it comes, will be asymmetrical—likely
targets include the national power grid and
command and control computer systems.” “We got ourselves back up generators
Senegar and electronic countermeasures too. Or
perhaps the Central Intelligence Agency thinks that
the modern Navy still sails around in seven-‐sheet
schooners?”
“I wouldn’t be here if that was the case Bill.
Fact is, our position in the world economy is
vulnerable right now. If our enemies subvert our
infrastructure, and disrupt the way our great
country does business, they will use the vacuum of
confusion to sweep in; supersede our political and
financial position and relegate our influence as a
world power.”
“There won’t be any relegating the United
States of America, not on my watch—let’s be clear
about that,” growled the Admiral. “But I am
guessing you got people working on this already,
am I right Laddie?”
“As you know, our role is strictly limited by
congressional oversight and the laws of the United
States…”
“Screw the congress, Senegar. If I had my
way I would horsewhip those bellyaching traitors
the length of Pennsylvania Avenue and back again,
as a prelude to showing them my true displeasure.” Jack Senegar allowed himself the faintest of
smiles. The Admiral was a dangerous man, even
more dangerous given his idiosyncratic political
views. Senegar had no doubt that the Admiral
would make good his threats to punish the
pampered politicians and lawmakers, if he were
given half a chance. But the Admiral was a man of
discipline—a great patriot too. His rise to the very
pinnacle of The United States Navy had been no
accident. Great nation states always seek to divert
their strongest and most dangerous lunatics to
positions of high office. Looking at the Admiral
now, as he sat in his battered leather club chair,
Senegar could easily imagine the old coot holding
court in the Whitehouse one day. No doubt some
would say that Admiral Kane was too old. That he
had passed the point in life that he could lead the
greatest country on earth. But, Jack Senegar knew
that wasn’t true. Admiral William Arthur Kane or
“the Wacker” as he was known in the ranks, was a
ruthless, beady-‐eyed leader, with boundless
energy. Never had there been a greater friend or
more dangerous enemy to any man and should this
stalwart of the seas ever set his sights on
Washington, he would inevitably take it by storm,
just as his great military and political hero Dwight
D. Eisenhower had before him. Jack pursed his lips,
thinking for a long time, before saying at last, “I
have the girl working on this. You know that don’t you?”
“Of course. I can read you like a three frame funny Laddie. How is she?”
“I am worried about her.”
“You should be Jack. She has killed a lot of people. That kind of burden takes its toll. No matter how hard the exterior, the psychological fall out is cumulative.”
Jack Senegar nodded quietly, the old bastard talking about his own daughter now, like she was just another asset, a military chattel with a service curve and planned trajectory of obsolescence. “She wanted out. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Nonsense Laddie. That little girl of mine loves killing people. If she wasn’t doing it for her country, she would probably take it up as a hobby,” said the Admiral cheerfully.
“That’s my worry.”
“You worry too much Jack. The time for concern is the day she comes gunning for you.”
“Maybe she’ll come for you?”
The Admiral laughed, but it was a laugh without humor. Jack noticed the old man’s eyes run lovingly over the Colt 1911 that lay ready on the desk, “Anyone ever comes gunning for me Jack, they will wish they hadn’t.”
Jack Senegar nodded, “That’s what I figured. So I can rely on your support?’”
“Non sibi sed patriae Jack. If I say yes, does that mean we can crack open that bottle of Speyside Single Malt?”
“You got glasses in that fat desk of yours?”
“I think you know the answer to that one too, don’t you Laddie?
24
The Pacific Holding the heavy caliber automatic with an urgency that showed he knew how to use it, Heung hovered in the gantry doorway. “I will be taking over the ship now Captain, you will obey my orders without question, if you do so you will after a short period of inconvenience be allowed to go about your business.”
Captain Pedro Álvares, gave Heung an icy look. “I don’t know what you are planning to achieve by this kind of foolishness, but the Federal government takes a very dim view indeed of piracy and kidnapping.”
There was a loud, explosive pop and a metallic clatter, Heung took a quick glance sideways out the window, seeing that the crew of the Wonsungi had fired a grappling hook across the narrow divide between the two ships and were making ready to board. Heung quickly refocused on the task in hand. “There will be people coming aboard, when they arrive you will avert your eyes. You will say and do nothing. If you obey my commands, you will not be harmed, of that you have my word.”
“No matter what they are paying you for this Heung it won’t be enough for you to run and hide. Our people will track you to the ends of the earth and when they find you, the inside of a jail cell will be your only pay off.”
“Payment? You think I am doing this for
money? You have no idea what you are dealing
with here do you Álvares?”
“Damn straight. I know treachery when I
look it in the eyes Heung. You have been a part of
this crew eighteen months at least. We took you in
as part of our team, treated you as one of our own
and now you turn on us like some kind of mad-‐dog
radical—who the hell are you man?” Álvares was
the last man on his feet now, everyone else
including and Kellerman had fallen to their knees,
as directed, with their hands on their heads.
Meanwhile, the thin-‐faced men from the
Wonsungi
were clambering aboard like monkeys. What was it
that Buchanan had said about monkeys? Álvares
felt a sudden surge of adrenaline amp through him.
Buchanan had vanished. The big-‐lug had melted
away like an ocean spirit, leaving just the faint
aroma of Cuban cigars lingering in the air. The pirates were swarming aboard now, all
armed with AK-‐47s and bandoliers of ammunition,
along with heavy vests that looked like they
contained explosives. Soon they would be in
control, and they would be free to kill at their
leisure. They would hold the ship for ransom, or
perhaps some even darker purpose.
The moment had to be now. If he didn’t
make his move, the ship would be overwhelmed.
Álvares knew that his instincts had been right. His
sea senses had warned him of impending calamity,
but he had refused to listen. There was no question,
the fates were out of alignment and now, only a
miracle could intervene to save them.
Álvares cursed silently. Only yesterday he
had thought himself too old for this game of the sea,
and now today, those feelings were confirmed. All those years before the mast, kicking ass with the Navy and the merchant marine, chasing around the world a dozen times or more, following every warzone and calamity before they tore into the news and now, after all these years, his career was going to end like this—disgrace—his command overrun by malnourished radicals, looking to hold the US Government to hostage. This could not be allowed to happen. He could not let it happen. The Nautilus belonged to him, and only him. It was his solemn duty to ensure the integrity of his
command.
The plan formed on the quick euphoria of the moment. If Buchanan was loose, they could join forces, cut down to the L/E locker and break out the weapons: M16s and Remington M870 shotguns. Together they could put up a fight and hold the reputation of their ship against these terrorist hijackers.