Joint Task Force #2: America

by David E. Meadows

  He reached forward and shook the man’s hand as Admiral James introduced them. Tucker was pleased to discover a firm grip. His father said you could always tell the caliber of a man by the firmness of his grip. “Always give a firm grip—don’t try to break the other guy’s arm, but let him know you are glad to meet him. Don’t give him one of these dishrag shakes that make you want to run to the bathroom and wash your hands. Christ! I hate men who shake like that.”

  TUCKER GLANCED AT HIS WATCH AS THEY ENTERED THE Intelligence Briefing Room. Nearly an hour. The good news was the Navy had moved him to Crystal City across Interstate 395 from the Pentagon. The bad news was the Navy had moved him to Crystal City directly across Interstate 395 from the Pentagon. Seemed whenever anyone wanted to speak to him, he had to fight his way to the Pentagon, through increased security, diverted traffic, and humongous crowds of others trying the same thing. Then it took another hour to find where he was supposed to be in this five-sided wheel of national security.

  “Admirals,” the tall, thin Navy Intelligence officer greeted as he extended his hand. “I’m Captain Lawford, sirs. I will be the briefer today. The briefing room is down the passageway to your right, second door on the left.” He glanced at his watch. “Sir, Admiral Marker will be here shortly.”

  “Quite all right, Captain,” Admiral James said. “We’re a little early.”

  The door opened behind them and in stepped a short brunette. Her brown eyes lit up as she saw James. “Duncan, good to see you.”

  “Grace Marker, late again, I see.”

  She shook his hand. “Seems to me you’re early.” She turned to Dick Holman. “And, Dick Holman, what Christly twit convinced you to leave the sight of sea to travel inland to the Pentagon? Must be something really good.”

  “Or something really bad,” Holman answered.

  She turned to Tucker. “You must be Commander Raleigh,” she said, shaking his hand with both of hers.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Admiral James has told me you’ve fully recovered from your wounds and are ready to get back into the fight.”

  “I feel much better.”

  “You should. You couldn’t have felt much worse.”

  Admiral Marker turned to Captain St. Cyr. Her smile broadened. “Captain St. Cyr, welcome to the Pentagon. I have established a traffic drop for you to exchange messages with DGSE, French Intelligence. You have several already there.”

  With a slight accent, he replied, “Thank you, Admiral. You are most kind.” Shaking hands with her, he leaned forward, bowing slightly.

  Admiral Marker jerked her hand back so fast she left the Frenchman’s hand extended in the air. Tucker grinned. She must have thought the Frenchman was going to kiss her hand. That would have been a story Sam would have appreciated.

  “That’s good,” she said, her cheeks turning red with a slight blush. She turned to Admirals James and Holman. Grins spread from ear to ear on their faces. She waved her hand at them. “Don’t say a word, either of you.”

  “Captain Lawford, the briefing ready?”

  Five minutes later, a Senior Chief Intelligence Specialist stood at the front of the room, flipping through the Microsoft PowerPoint slides as Admiral Marker and Captain Lawford took turns exchanging comments on them. During this time, an Intelligence Specialist had delivered a sealed legal-sized envelope to the French Captain, who had been going through the messages inside of it.

  “This is where it gets murky,” she said, nodding at the French Navy officer. “And Captain St. Cyr may be able to help a little.”

  St. Cyr pushed the messages back into the envelope.

  She motioned the Senior Chief to go to the next slide. “This is the chart of the small inlet where the unidentified ship departed four days ago. As you can see, it is south of Abidjan, Ivory Coast. French Intelligence arrived on the scene within twenty-four hours of the ship’s departure. What they found were a lot of dead Africans and one barely alive. He passed a warning about loading a rusty steamship—at least that’s what he called it—and that a bunch of Arabs sailed it out to sea after they loaded it. Captain St. Cyr, does French Intelligence know anything more than what they’ve shared so far?”

  The Frenchman straightened in his seat, nodding at the three Admirals before addressing his comments to Admiral James. “Admiral, I have been reviewing the recent reports from DGSE. To summarize and add what little new has been recovered, we received words of an explosion near this inlet called Inlet del Rouge, which translates to Red Inlet. It is seldom used, we thought, because the waters are heavily polluted with human waste. Nothing lives in this small body of water except bacteria. The next day was what we would call a slow day in Africa, so the duty officer decided to send a patrol to the inlet to check the story of the Africans.”

  St. Cyr leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers. “The entrance to this pier was open, and the smoldering shell of a truck was discovered. All around the truck, just inside the front gate, and along the sides of a nearby hill, were over fifty Africans—all but one was dead. The patrol thought at first that the truck had blown up on its own, killing the Africans. Africans sometimes overload transportation. What they discovered as they searched for survivors were some of the dead with single bullet holes to their heads. There would be no reason to put a bullet into the heads of people who are expected to die in an explosion, only to dispose of those who should survive one.” His hands parted as he held up his index finger for a second. “One African was alive, but he died before an ambulance could get to him, but not before the patrol managed to interrogate him.”

  Tucker watched the movement of the French officer as he spoke. The motions revealed taught muscles; biceps stretched the openings of the short sleeves belying a first impression of a thin, lanky, Frenchman. As he watched, Tucker casually observed sinewy muscles creating faint ripples beneath the white uniform. This was no normal Admiral’s aide-de-camp. What was his real job, he wondered?

  “Based on what the man told before he died—about a huge square van so large a man could walk inside it—the patrol passed a code word to our military control center in Abidjan. Seems the van or container or whatever we call it suffered some damage, and the ones who had killed the Africans had waved a magic wand around it to check the damage. We dispatched a complete chemical-biological warfare team along with armed escorts to the inlet.” He paused for a moment, slowly raised his hands from the table, leaving the elbows on it, and spread his fingers, palm outward, toward the listeners. “Just before sundown, one of the team decided to run a Geiger counter along the pier.” He dropped his hands back on the table. “Nothing. Not a thing. He walked the pier, checked the few remaining boxes—of which nothing but rags were found—and still no detection. Unexplainable and against regulations, the sergeant forgot to turn off the Geiger counter when he had completed his check.”

  St. Cyr cocked his head to the side. “This is because the machine—how do you say it—eats up batteries, n’est pas?” Without waiting for an answer, he nodded again to Admiral James. “As he walked past the hulk of the truck, the machine clicked. Startled, the noncommissioned officer waved it around the area, and as he approached the bed of the truck, the needle went off the scale.”

  “What does that mean?” Admiral Holman asked.

  “It means, Dick, that whatever they loaded from that truck on board that ship is nuclear,” Admiral Marker added.

  “That is true,” St. Cyr acknowledged. “The dead African said a heavy, dark van—probably black—was transported to the pier by the truck and loaded onto the ship. He did not say whether they loaded it into the hold or whether it was too big to fit. We think it could be tied topside on one of the weather decks. I would think the helicopter deck would be the better option. The other complication is that we do not know what type of ship it is. It could be a freighter; a collier; a cruise ship; a sailing vessel—though the size of the truck indicates it would be a large ship. A large e
nough ship to cross the ocean.”

  “You see where we’re going with this, Commander Raleigh?” Admiral James asked.

  Tucker shook his head. “Sorry, sir, I really don’t.”

  “This ship that Captain St. Cyr has been telling us about is somewhere out there in the Atlantic Ocean. What we don’t know is where it’s going, and we don’t know for sure that it has a nuclear weapon on board.”

  “Our analysis is very accurate,” St. Cyr objected.

  “Most likely it would be a dirty bomb,” Admiral Marker interjected.

  “That may be, Grace, but if that dirty bomb explodes in the Potomac, out there”—James pointed north—“near the Pentagon, it would contaminate everything within five to six miles.”

  “But Duncan, we don’t know the size of it yet.”

  “Grace, prepare for the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.”

  “We know it’s loaded other supplies, but we’re assuming it’s the normal complement of food, water, and medicine for the voyage.”

  “Since we’re unsure where the ship is headed, we have identified three possible destinations, using your concept of worst case, Duncan,” Admiral Marker said, drawing out the last words. “We believe the ship is heading to the east coast or gulf coast of the United States. British Intelligence believes the ship may be heading toward Britain. The link between the Jihadists and the New IRA convinces them that since the New IRA did them a favor by going after you, Commander Raleigh, that the Jihadists owe a return favor. This theory complements the warnings to the British government that their unwavering support of America’s war on terrorism would be punished someday, and this day has been identified.” She nodded at St. Cyr. “The French, on the other hand, have ruled out Italy and any other country inside the Mediterranean Sea, because the choke points at Gibraltar and the Suez Canal are too guarded for a rogue vessel to successfully transit. Not to say one couldn’t get through, but it would be very hard at this level of heightened security. Conversely, the French coast along the Atlantic and Channel are vulnerable.”

  “That is true, Admiral,” Captain St. Cyr interrupted, holding up a message in his hand. “But, as of a few hours ago, DGSE believes the target will be Rotterdam.”

  “Rotterdam?” Tucker asked.

  St. Cyr turned and looked Tucker directly in the eyes. “Yes, Rotterdam. Few people know that most of Europe’s sea trade uses containers; ergo, container ships are the primary means by which commerce enters Europe. The superlarge container ships that travel the seas have only three seaports in Europe in which they can safely dock. Rotterdam, Netherlands; Algeciras, Spain; and, Livorno, Italy. Algeciras is on the Atlantic side of the Strait of Gibraltar, but we can safely seal it away because Gibraltar itself stands guard over this strategic city.”

  St. Cyr stopped and looked back at Admiral James, his eyes shifting as he talked between James and Holman. “Traffic into and near Rotterdam is thick. It would be quite impossible to inspect thoroughly every ship approaching this vital port. The Dutch Navy is aware and is increasing patrols. But if Rotterdam were shut down, then the economic fate of Europe would depend on how quickly another port could handle the merchant traffic or how quickly Rotterdam could return to service. Even a dirty bomb, as you call it, would effectively shut down the only city on this side of Europe to handle our imports and exports.”

  “And,” Admiral Marker said, “we believe that this Abu Alhaul is more influenced by a desire for revenge than for tactical advantage. Therefore, the target will be an American port. And not a commercial port, but one of our military ports.”

  “Why?” Dick Holman asked.

  “Propaganda. Imagine the mileage this Abu Alhaul will get out of exploding a dirty bomb in Norfolk, Little Creek, Jacksonville, or even Corpus Christi or Pascagoula, Mississippi.”

  “And there’s New London, Newport, Rhode Island—”

  “And Boston or Philadelphia,” Tucker added.

  Admiral Marker raised her eyebrows. “Why Boston?”

  “USS Constitution. What better propaganda than destroying the oldest active-duty Navy ship in the world?”

  Captain St. Cyr shook his head. “I disagree with you, my friend—a respectful disagreement.” He turned back to Admirals James and Holman. “The Jihadists—”

  “The what?” Admiral Marker asked.

  “Jihadists,” St. Cyr answered. “It is what we are calling those radical Islamists whose only call to their God is to die. Personally, I wish they would die, but they want to take a lot of people with them, as if their God would be overjoyed to see them arriving at the gates of heaven with a bunch of angry souls behind them.”

  “What do we call them, Grace?”

  “You mean other than assholes?”

  Everyone laughed. “No, we call them Jihadists, too. I just wanted to see how the French defined them versus our definition. Terms of reference are important for clarity.”

  “Same definition?”

  “Close enough. The term Jihadists helps to differentiate the radical ‘wanna die to be with Allah’ bunch from the bulk of Moslems.” She nodded at St. Cyr. “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “The Jihadists want to make a statement, but they must show they are able to take many with them. They do not differ between civilians or military. Age, gender, and religion mean nothing to them. If they could, they would line every non-Moslem up against the wall and put a bullet into each head with as little remorse as if they were grinding out the life of a cockroach.” He ground his thumb on the top of the polished briefing table. “I believe their target will be either one of your Navy ports, one of the British Navy ports, or Rotterdam. My country’s intelligence service believes the same, but places Rotterdam as number one.”

  Admiral Marker said, “We believe we can effectively seal the Yucatán Channel and monitor the traffic traveling in and out of the Gulf of Mexico. If our intelligence is correct, the target will either be Jacksonville, Florida, or the Norfolk/Little Creek areas of the Virginia Capes.”

  Admiral James leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table. “Guess I don’t understand why Washington has been ruled out. They have a proven track record of going after the same target until they have successfully eliminated or destroyed it.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I would agree, except this is a forewarned attack of immense magnitude. It’s on the sea, and after Dick Holman sent their leader Abu Alhaul scrambling in Liberia, we think they will want to show their capability against the world’s hyperpower. That means taking on our Navy.”

  James agreed, sighed, and looked at Tucker. “And this is where you come in, Commander.” He pointed to Captain St. Cyr. “You will be working with Captain St. Cyr and this British officer, whoever he may be, to lead an American Special Forces team when and if this nuclear-armed vessel is detected.”

  Tucker leaned forward. “Yes, sir, Admiral—and, no offense to you Captain St. Cyr—but why are we integrating our teams?”

  “Because our government, along with the French and the British, believe we need to reaffirm our support for each other in this reemerging global war on terrorism, and what better way than having warriors from our three nations working together to take out this rogue vessel?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  Duncan James held up his hand. “I know you’re concerned about the work up and all that. I just sent my aide, Beau Pettigrew, to London to be our contribution to the British team, and Commander, Special Warfare Group Two, in Norfolk has dispatched a Navy SEAL from Little Creek, who is a Louisiana Cajun, to Paris to join that counterpart. We have three teams. One will be in Little Creek. Another will be in Portsmouth, England. And the French are working with the Netherlands to forward deploy the third team to one of their Navy bases near Rotterdam.”

  “And that is why you are coming back with me to Little Creek, Commander.”

  “Sir, I need a little time to pack my things,” Tucker said, thinking about how he was going to tell Sam he was deploying. />
  Admiral James stood up. Everyone else stood also. “No bother, Tucker. While you were here, a couple of my staffers swung by your place and packed your sea bag. I apologize for doing it this way, but you can appreciate the precariousness of this situation and the importance of it being kept low-key until after we have defused the bomb or whatever it is.”

  Maybe he could call her?

  “Plus, no telephone calls about this deployment. We will take care of your parents and will cancel any further medical appointments you have here. From now until we have found this ship and stopped it, covertness is the word. No telephone calls; no e-mails; nothing.”

  “Admiral Marker, are you going to tell him or should I?” Admiral James asked.

  The head of Naval Intelligence inclined her head toward James. “He’s your guy.”

  “Is there something I should know, Admiral?” Tucker asked.

  James put both hands on the table, spreading his fingers so the palms were lifted. He took a deep breath. “This is where I tell you how your country needs you. How we know that your service to date has been outstanding and how you have been wounded in taking the battle to the enemy. Now that you are recovering, what you really should be doing is heading home. Take that second Purple Heart, wear it around—Where are you from? Georgia?” He lifted the edge of the folder in front of him, causing Tucker to glance at it. “Yes, Newnan. Take some time off with your parents and fully recover.”