“I’m afraid that’s a negative, sir,” the young man said firmly. “Do I have your permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Free as a bird.”
“We’re professionals, specially trained for this work. Whatever it is that you do, sir, I am sure you are equally capable at your job. But this situation calls for a very specific set of skills and your involvement will only prove a hindrance.”
Sandor smiled. “So you’re telling me I might screw this up for you, is that it, lieutenant?”
The young man allowed himself the faintest grin. “That would be affirmative, sir. You will almost certainly screw this up for us.”
Sandor sat back on the hard bench. “Well I guess you told me,” he said.
“The last thing we need is to have to worry about you down there, sir.”
Sandor nodded.
“Sir, as I understand it, our first task is to determine if there is radioactivity on these AUVs.”
“That’s correct.”
“If we find that they are hot, we will need to disable the vehicles and disarm the weapons. If they are not, we’ll need to clear out so we can destroy both submersibles. Either way, time will be precious. I meant no offense.”
“None taken. I’ll stay aboard and monitor your actions.”
“That would be excellent,” the young man said, breathing a visible sigh of relief.
“There’s another four-man team meeting you below.”
“Roger that, we’ve been fully briefed.”
The copilot turned to the five men in the rear compartment. “There it is,” Jake told them, pointing off the starboard side at the destroyer.
The Seahawk banked slightly, coming astern of the Burgwyn. They listened on the radio hookup as the skipper barked out instructions. The destroyer was now running alongside the two AUVs, which were just below the water level. Sandor stared out through the torrential rain and dark sky, peering down into the even darker sea. He could not see a thing.
The captain on the Burgwyn reported that the four SEALs onboard were in the process of dropping two high-speed launches into the Gulf. Unfortunately, the sea was already rolling with twenty-foot swells and chops at least half that size. The four men aboard the Sea-hawk with Sandor would be lowered into the Gulf on ropes operated by automatic winches, two men to be picked up on one launch and two by the other. Each team would then be assigned to one of the AUVs.
The captain of the Burgwyn said, “The launches are fully equipped, including remote radioactive sensors.”
“Excellent,” Sandor replied into his microphone, then turned to the lieutenant, who was working with his men to strap on their oxygen tanks and hook onto the winch lines. “You guys ready?”
Just as the lieutenant gave him the thumbs-up, a powerful wind shear caused the helicopter to lurch hard to the side, causing all five men to stumble across the small compartment.
When they righted themselves, Sandor got up and placed his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. “You all return here in one piece,” he said, “I’ll dry you off myself.”
The lieutenant nodded, then told Sandor to operate the winch mechanism on high speed. “Our best chance is to get in the water as quickly as we can.”
“Done.”
The copilot looked back at them again. “Ready?”
“Take her down,” the lieutenant said.
The most dangerous part of their trip was about to come. With the Seahawk rocking unsteadily the pilot needed to bring them as close to sea level as possible, not wanting the four men swinging violently back and forth in the air and suffering injuries before they even hit the water. Martindale maneuvered as best he could, barely able to see the two small launches below them as the copilot suddenly yelled, “Go, go, go.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the four young men stepped up to the open hatch and jumped into what appeared to be a bottomless sky. Sandor sent them down as quickly as the system would allow, watching as one after another unsnapped his harness and fell into the angry sea.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE DEPUTY DIRECTOR’S team had a man in custody, which was at least something to take from the Mayflower hotel debacle. His agent had shot the assassin in the legs and arm, then prevented him from taking his own life. With time at a premium two agents had already begun interrogating the shooter as they rode together in the back of the ambulance that was carrying them to the Agency’s clinic.
In great pain and having suffered a considerable loss of blood, he was now being pumped with morphine. There was little chance the man was going to be able to withhold much.
The problem was that he did not seem to know anything.
He told them his name was Ashraf and that he took his orders from a handler in Washington who in turn reported to Ali Vahidi. Vahidi was known to work with the IRGC and Al Qaeda. Unfortunately, his affiliation with the Saudi Arabian diplomatic corps gave him immunity, a political invention that drove Jordan Sandor to distraction.
It would be helpful if this Iranian killer would implicate Vahidi in a terrorist plot—that would remove Vahidi from his diplomatic protection—but Byrnes knew the coerced confession of a murderer was not going to be much help on that score. If all else failed they could bring Vahidi in for questioning, but the only thing that would net them was another battle with the weak sisters on Capitol Hill who were afraid of antagonizing their Saudi ally.
With an ally like that …, Byrnes said to himself, then dismissed the thought.
Ashraf gave the location where he and his comrades met, but Byrnes realized news of this shooting would already have been passed along. The address would be as worthless as the mention of Vahidi, who would have already ordered his crew to clean up their cell and move on.
Nevertheless, Byrnes dispatched a team to check it out, amusing himself with the notion that if they found Vahidi there he might hold him until Sandor returned.
Otherwise, it appeared that the man they had in custody was a low-level zealot who had been ordered to eliminate Jaber, his wife along with him, and then to join his fellow martyrs on the road to Paradise.
As Byrnes contemplated all of this on the ride back to his office, it occurred to him that Jaber had apparently died for nothing, and it surprised Byrnes that he felt a pang of sympathy for the man. After all, Jaber had engineered the deaths of countless people, pursued an evil war in the name of a distorted vision of his god, then sought sanctuary for fear of his life. But in the end, he was willing to face inevitable death to make amends with his wife.
Given the opportunity, even the worst of people can surprise you and as Byrnes had experienced before, when one comes to know an enemy it invariably alters your view of that person forever. It introduces a human element that cannot be ignored.
Back in his office he reached Sandor through a satellite link and received an update on what was going on in the Gulf.
“Unfortunately we still have no lead on the truck,” Sandor told him.
“Then get out of there and head back to Houston.”
“I’ve got eight Navy SEALs in the drink right now,” Sandor protested.
“Fine. And when they complete their mission they’ll be picked up by the Navy, not some helicopter being bounced around in the middle of a hurricane.”
“True,” Sandor reluctantly agreed. He then switched back to the radio, tying into communication with the captain of the Burgwyn. “How are they doing?” he asked.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
GULF OF MEXICO, SOUTH OF GALVESTON BAY
ALL EIGHT SEALs had successfully found their way to the two Navy launches. Four men boarded each boat and they were now running just above the two AUVs as they pursued their deadly course toward Galveston Bay.
The sea was a combination of swells, chops, and waves that constantly pushed the two small pursuit crafts off course. The winds were intensifying and, for the first time, the helicopter pilot advised Sandor that they would have to seek landfall b
efore conditions worsened.
Sandor did not divulge the order from Byrnes that he was to return to Baytown. “Hang on just a minute,” he told Martindale. Then, speaking into his microphone to the captain, he asked, “Have they set up the remote detectors yet?”
“Almost done,” the captain reported.
The SEALs were using two systems to determine whether there was radioactive material aboard the AUVs. The first was a remote laser-guided Geiger counter, not the most reliable approach in these climatic conditions. The second was a new device that used gallium arsenide to detect neutron emissions. That device, referred to as a GA, is small, uses very little power, and is fairly stable. The problem is that it requires actual contact to work, meaning that they would have to be attached to the hulls of the submarines.
The two teams, designated Red and Blue, were each outfitted with sets of both types of detection equipment. The voice of the Red Team leader came crackling through the headphones, saying, “So far we are negative on both vessels based on these laser readings. Repeat, negative on both.”
“How close have you come?” the captain inquired.
“Hard to say, sir, the sonar reading is jumping all over the place. We’re getting hell knocked out of us down here.”
Just then a huge swell crashed across his bow, almost capsizing the small craft.
“Can you get close enough to attach the GA device?” the captain asked.
“Affirmative,” the team leader reported with a confidence not justified by the difficulties they faced.
In order to fasten the GA devices to the hulls they would have to race their speedboats ahead of the subs, then each would send a twoman team into the open sea, all four secured to their pursuit crafts by a long, braided nylon rope attached to the stern. With the launches staying in motion at a slower speed, they would allow the subs to catch up with them and, as they passed, the men in the sea would attach these small instruments to the outside skin of the AUVs with a water-resistant adhesive already affixed to the back of the device. The good news was that the reading on the GA would be almost instantaneous and reliable, but the bad news was twofold. First, a miss would cost them valuable time, since they would have to bring the men back aboard the launches and then repeat the process. Second, after the men in the water were done, the draft of the rear-powered submarines might draw them toward the propellers, tearing them to shreds.
“Do it,” the captain ordered.
————
Both launches took off at once, riding over the large surges that slapped at them, often tossing their small pursuit vessels into the air, the engines spinning uselessly in space as they were slowed and thrown off course. But in a few minutes their sonar indicated that they had managed to outrun the AUVs. The Burgwyn kept apace.
Without delay, two SEALs from each launch flipped over the side, tethered to their boats, disappearing from view into the murky darkness of the roiling sea.
Their headpieces were fitted with halogen lights, but the beams were useless in these conditions except perhaps for the ability to spot each other. When they hit the water they did not swim, they merely stayed submerged, allowing the nylon ropes that had become their lifelines to reach full length and begin to drag them forward as their boats slowed.
In less than a minute they could make out the oncoming subs. The Red Team was too far astern, so those two men began paddling furiously to put themselves in the path of the AUV. The other two were soon staring directly at the nose of a small craft as it churned toward them. Only one of them had to succeed, and each knew his role, one to the port side, one to the starboard.
The AUVs were about thirty feet long and moved with remarkable stealth, running almost silently as they relentlessly followed their programmed paths through the sea.
As the subs drew nearer, one of the men spoke into his microphone. “Blue Team here, we need more speed,” he said, “three more knots, and pronto.”
In a moment, all four men felt a slight tug on their lines as their movement increased, nearly at the same rate as the subs’.
The men on the Red Team, who had been too far away, had pulled closer, and one of them was near enough that he managed to slap the GA device toward the rear of the AUV, then flipped backward, barely clearing the propeller. “Red Team done!” he shouted into his microphone. “Red Team done!”
The SEALs on the Blue Team each had a good position, and both men were able to paste a GA sensor onto the hull. Then, just as one of them reported, “Blue Team done, Blue Team done,” his rope was caught in the propeller. Before he could be dragged into the lethal path of the swiftly turning screw, the cord was severed, and he was set adrift.
On the launches, as soon as they heard that the GAs were in place, they began reading the monitors. Then the SOS came.
“Blue Team, one man cut loose, repeat, Blue Team, man cut loose.”
The other three men were being pulled back to the launches, their teammates aboard the launches drawing in their cords hand over hand. The Burgwyn, which had kept a safe distance, was shining all of its spotlights on the two pursuit crafts during the mission. As soon as the distress call was sent they began sweeping the area with high-powered beams, searching for the lost man.
Tossed about in the inky water, the abandoned SEAL had immediately surfaced and ignited his flare. Even with his electronic chem-lite shining into the darkness and his homing beacon working, the movements of the sea and the darkness of the sky made it impossible for the crew of the Burgwyn to spot him. Added to the problem of identifying his position was the time it would take for a destroyer the size of the Burgwyn to come about. The distance between the SEAL and his mates had vastly increased in just these few moments and the danger that he would be lost was rapidly increasing.
Meanwhile, the captain aboard the Burgwyn called for the monitor readings.
The Red Team leader called in. “All readings are negative. That’s negative for any radioactivity.”
“Blue Team, report in,” the captain ordered.
“We confirm sir. Two devices report no radioactivity.”
“Please reconfirm those readings,” the captain ordered.
“Reconfirming, sir, there is no reading of radioactivity on either craft.”
Meanwhile, the small pursuit boats were turning course as the SEALs struggled to get a visual on their missing teammate. Much smaller and more agile than the large destroyer, they were taking a two-flank approach in estimating the winds and currents and, with the readings on his homing beacon, they hoped to narrow the search area.
Sandor heard everything. “Captain, this is Sandor. I’m heading back. After you pick up your men, do whatever you need to destroy those subs.”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Remember, they may not be carrying anything nuclear, but we have no idea on the total payload.”
“We know what we’ve got to do,” the captain said, his voice betraying the obvious concern—he needed to pull his men out of the water before he could take out the AUVs, but time was indeed growing short. “We’ll stand back, then launch our torpedoes.”
“Sir, this is Red Team leader,” came a voice from below. “We copy that, sir. You do whatever has to be done, but we’re all staying down here until we find him, sir.”
“That’s affirmative from Blue Team,” another voice promptly added.
“You listen up,” the captain snapped, “you’ve got exactly ninety seconds to locate him and then you all return to the Burgwyn, and that is an order, son.”
No one spoke as the seconds ticked by, the two launches frantically negotiating the stormy sea, the large spotlights from the destroyer sweeping the water like huge klieg lights. Sandor had Martindale throw the forward searchlights on, but from this high, through the stormy sky, they were little help.
Sandor told Martindale not to leave the scene while the man remained missing. Everyone fought against time and the weather, the two launches circling in a deliberate pattern that canvas
sed the area in the hope of picking up a signal.
And then, suddenly, a glimmer could be seen about a hundred yards from the Red Team boat, the beacon bobbing up and down on the chops and swells like a drunken buoy.
“We see him,” Red Team reported. “We’ve got him.”
Sandor blew out a full lungful of air, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Marty, it’s time to go find out where they really sent those nukes.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO
AS TOM MARTINDALE piloted the Seahawk back to the mainland he was becoming increasingly concerned about the accelerating winds that buffeted his craft, sending it back and forth like some airborne rocking horse.
“I’m not one to leave a party early,” he said into his microphone, “but we’re getting our asses kicked up here.”
The copilot said, “Roger that.”
Sandor had moved to the jump seat right behind them. “How are we on fuel?”
“Depends how far you want to go,” Martindale replied with a chuckle, just before another gust sent the chopper reeling. “Shit, that felt like a hundred-mile-an-hour crosswind.”
“Can this thing take a hundred-mile crosswind?”
Martindale laughed again. “Hell no.”
Sandor steadied himself, then said, “I’d like to reach one of these refineries, and it’ll be a whole lot better if we don’t have to stop. Can we make it?”
“Depends which one. The only good news is that we’re running northerly with this hurricane, not fighting the headwinds anymore.”
Sandor said, “Good,” then tapped the copilot on the shoulder. “Jake, hook us up with security in Baytown, then I’ve got to speak with D.C.”
As he was about to make the connection, the voice of the captain from the Burgwyn came through. “Gentlemen, don’t know if you’ll be able to see this off your rear port in this soup, but we’re twenty seconds from contact.”
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