“The Commodore is correct,” the Commander agreed. “If the storm heads directly for us, it’ll most likely be the most powerful hurricane to hit Virginia since Isabel. It’s only five hundred miles away and traveling at five knots. Every ten hours it chops the distance by fifty miles.” The officer paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Lots of unknowns here. How much is the slow movement of the storm influencing the balancing act of the high and low fronts? How much speed will it pick up when the balancing act ends? And will the balancing between the high and low fronts dissipate slowly or”—he clapped his hands together—“disappear all at once? If it’s slow, then it may not reach hurricane force, but if those two fronts move apart suddenly, then I agree with the National Weather Service’s worse-case analysis that the winds could quickly go from eighty miles an hour to one hundred sixty miles an hour. And with only five hundred miles between it and the East Coast, there’s insufficient distance to give the winds time to lose strength before they slam ashore somewhere along our middle Atlantic coast.”
Tibbles-Seagraves leaned forward. “So, the storm may hit here?”
The Commander shook his head. “Could,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But not necessarily. We won’t have a good idea where it’s heading until those fronts move. If the high-pressure front to the north shifts west and the low front to the south moves northward, then the storm could close our coast as it curves out to sea toward the North Atlantic. As I’ve said, when it comes out of the high-low pressure vise, the final direction will be determined by which pressure system shifts east first.” He pointed toward the open sea, visible about a quarter mile away, whitecaps whipping across the high waves being blown into the Hampton Roads complex of harbors, piers, and shipyards. “If it does, it will come directly across this body of water, hitting land here, blowing this building to hell and gone.”
Tucker looked to where the meteorologist pointed.
Tibbles-Seagraves’s eyes bulged.
“Here?” Tucker asked.
“John, stop teasing,” Commodore West said. “It’ll head toward Virginia as its land-crossing point. That being said, it doesn’t matter whether it shoots out of the frontal vise, as John calls it, and heads north or east; some of it will hit the Tidewater area. Right, John?”
The meteorologist nodded several times, grinning. “Yes, sir.”
Commodore West, Tucker, and Sam laughed.
“A joke?”
Tibbles-Seagraves reached up and shook the Frenchman on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t understand, my friend. It is a bit of humor that only we who speak the international language of English could understand.”
“And, French isn’t an international language?” St. Cyr protested.
“For surrendering,” Commodore West muttered unheard beneath his breath.
“Commodore, what about the search-and-rescue mission for Recce Mission 62?” Tucker asked.
West put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Sorry. Everything is grounded along the East Coast and out of Roosevelt Roads for at least the next couple of days. I hate to say it, but if they survived the crash—and we are assuming they crashed—then they will need a lot of luck and God’s grace to survive this.” He turned to one of several televisions mounted above the front windows of the control tower and pushed the ON button. A satellite picture appeared. “This is the Atlantic. Look at this! About the only clear area for this storm are the farther areas of the Eastern Atlantic. Torrential rains are pounding the Caribbean Islands, south of it. If you watched television last night, you’ve seen the floods.” He turned back to the men. “As for the crew of Recce Flight 62, I don’t see much hope for them. The only thing we can hope is that Admiral Holman and his international partners across the ocean catch the terrorists.”
“You think they were shot down by those on the ship?” St. Cyr asked.
West shrugged. “Who knows? They report no engine problems; had made over fifty ups-and-downs identifying merchant vessels, and the one vessel they identify heading in a different direction than the others is the last one they report. If they had crashed near it and it was a friendly, we’d’ve known by now. No, whatever happened, that vessel had to have seen it or been the cause of it, which means whatever is on that vessel and whoever is manning it doesn’t want us to find it.”
Movement to his right caught Tucker’s attention as he was listening to the Commodore. Sam had moved to the ever-present coffee pot and poured herself a cup. The Chief from the quarterdeck below walked into the tower.
“Commodore, we’re ordering Domino’s Pizza. Would you like us to order some for you and the others?”
“Chief, you think they’re working?” West asked, and then continued before the Chief could respond. “If you call them and if we should be so lucky, order enough for all of us. I think we’re going to be here through the night.”
Tucker walked over to the port windows, tuning out the Commodore and Chief working out the pizza order. Looking down at the two small piers where the Mark V Special Operations Crafts were tied up, he watched, mesmerized, as the six crafts pitched and rolled with the rough seas being forced through the narrow waterway entrance to where Special Boat Unit Twenty called home. As he watched, a couple of sailors on board one of them jumped onto the pier and, with movements born of experience, loosened the lines running between the boats and the wooden piers. “Looks as if those boats are going have a rough night,” he said to no one in particular.
The others joined him.
“Just hope the sailors on board have strong stomachs,” West offered. “Can’t really take them off and can’t have them sortie out to sea like the big boys are doing and the small boys plan.”
Tucker looked at the Commodore. “The fleet is setting sail?”
West nodded. “Best thing they can do. It’s far easier for carriers, cruisers, even destroyers, frigates, and most of Admiral Holman’s amphibious ships to ride out the storm at sea than be tied up where severe winds and tides can slam them against the piers and shores. I recall a storm in Jacksonville once—years ago, probably while you were in high school—that put a frigate on the beach. The Commander of Atlantic Fleet was not amused.”
Sam walked up with a tray bearing several cups of coffee. “Here, gentleman, and don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t do windows.” She sat the tray on the table in the center of the tower. “As the lead medical person on this team, I made a fresh pot after doing a visual analysis of the older pot of coffee and determining it was growing new and unidentified bacteria, possibly as a fallout of evolution since the coffee had been there so long.”
The coffee did taste good. Tucker thought about asking the Commodore if this meant securing from the terrorist alert and allowing the three of them to return to their respective bases. He grinned slightly at the thought of how Tibbles-Seagraves had looked when the British airman had heard about the possibility of the storm crossing right up that narrow channel. Come to think, it took the Commodore’s comment to make him realize the thin Commander was making a joke. Neither the man’s voice nor facial expressions betrayed this sense of humor.
Commodore West held the steaming cup of coffee between both his hands. “Let me tell you why I asked for you here,” he lifted the cup and took a sip. “I wanted to give you background about the weather because it does impact you. I have asked Washington for permission to return you home.” He nodded toward the Royal Air Force Wing Commander. “I think our Royal Air Force counterpart would prefer to be inland when the storm does break free, and since the focus of the search for this rogue merchant vessel is on their side of the Atlantic, both he and Captain St. Cyr may be of use to their own countries.”
“Are you sure you should be the one making this decision?” Captain St. Cyr asked in a nonconfrontational manner. “My orders were to remain here until the chase is completed. I would be disobeying orders if I departed based entirely on only the American decision, sir.”
West set his cup down on the table. “
Right you are, Captain, which is why I have asked Washington to work out the details. Heaven forbid that America would even presume to decide something for France.”
“I think my country would acquiesce to the American decision,” Tibbles-Seagraves said. “We have too close of a trusting relationship not to work together.”
Tucker saw a flash of anger in St. Cyr’s eyes. You would think after all these centuries the animosity between England and France would have died out, but it remained. Two old empires and cousins still fighting on the international playing field, but with words and diplomacy as their weapons. The twenty-first century had added America to the game with France.
“Bottom line, gentlemen, is that until Washington, London, and Paris tell us otherwise, you three are the international Special Forces effort to stop that rogue merchant vessel in the event it sails this way.”
“Our teams?” Tucker asked.
“No teams, Commander. Your teams, as you know, remained with Admiral Holman. The SEALs I have assigned specifically for Special Forces work I’ve sent home.” He held his hand when he saw Tucker open his mouth. “I know what you’re going to say, Commander. But I discussed this with Commander, Special Warfare Group Two, and between the two of us decided their families needed them while we play out this game of Russian roulette with the storm. Plus, everything we are seeing from the intelligence community, including the CIA and DIA, all agree the rogue vessel is on the other side of the Atlantic heading toward the Mediterranean or, as the French believe, toward Rotterdam. Wherever it is, it isn’t here.”
“I have found that most intelligence becomes politically tainted as it rises through the levels of government,” St. Cyr offered. “What if the ship isn’t heading east?” he asked, his voice rising. “What if it’s sailing to here? How are we going to take it down, as our countries would prefer, if we have no teams? Have no one but ourselves?”
West turned, his lips clinched, and walked to the window. Down below, the Mark V Special Operations Crafts bounced on the turbulent water. “Then, Captain, you will just have to use one of my boats. No aircraft are flying—couldn’t if they wanted to. They aren’t going to be able to fly for at least another two days, and if that storms does what we think, then you can count on that being a week,” West said, his words crisp and sharp. “And don’t expect more help from larger ships, because starting at about”—he looked at his watch—“In two hours—seventeen hundred our time—the fleet is going to start sortieing, heading out to sea to ride the storm out. The only ships remaining in port are those who can’t get underway for various reasons or because their mission design such as our SpecOps craft limit their survivability in heavy seas.”
“So should we return to our quarters?” Tibbles-Seagraves interrupted Captain West’s rising voice.
“Wing Commander, you may return to your quarters, or you can stay here with me through the night. I have bunks on the first deck. But you can’t leave until I get orders authorizing it.”
“Maybe we should go back to the BOQ?” Sam asked, looking at Tucker.
His eyebrows rose as thoughts of how to improve the passage of time flickered through his mind.
The Chief came back up the stairs from below, balancing a couple of pizzas on his arms. “Here you are, Commodore,” he said, sitting the boxes down on the table.” He turned to the Tucker. “Commander, your bags, along with Commander Seagraves’s and Captain St. Cyr’s, have arrived downstairs. I’ve put them in the bunk room.”
Tucker and the others looked at the Commodore, who was taking a bite from a slice of pizza. “Of course,” West said through bites, “you’ll have to carry your own bags back.”
Two hours later, they watched the first of the aircraft carriers sail past the entrance to Special Boat Unit Twenty harbor. Close behind it sailed an assortment of cruisers, destroyers, and several frigates. The remaining bulk of the United States Navy Second Fleet was underway, making its way through heavy seas, heading to the open ocean where they had the freedom to maneuver to avoid the worst the storm could offer.
Darker clouds sailed in as the ships sailed out, darkening the skies and casting a heavy gray pale across the landscape, accompanying the last two aircraft carriers as they sailed past. It was an impressive parade of American Navy power for the six people who stood in an old World War II seaplane tower; their own special review platform. Few words were spoken as they watched the warships, amphibious ships, and auxiliary ships sail out to the sea, fighting against the wind that sought to blow them into shallow waters along the coast. South, along the coast of Florida, another ship worked its way north, unaware that the United States Navy had vacated its major hub on the East Coast.
CHAPTER 8
THE DARKNESS RECEDED SLOWLY AS EARLY BEGAN TO regain consciousness. A kaleidoscope of faces, knives, guns, and a roaring bull chased nightmares across jumbled thoughts. There was pain ahead, and it grew as she struggled upward. The last thing she recalled was seeing the tall man with the mustache draw back. It was as if slow motion had taken over as she watched the first fist arc toward her face. After the first couple of blows, she had passed out. She rolled her head to the side, expecting to feel the hard deck of the ship against it, but instead discovered a softness that made her think of a pillow.
Maureen Early opened her right eye slowly, feeling her eyelids fighting against dried moisture gluing them together. Her left eye, swollen, didn’t want to open, and with her hands tied behind, there was little she could do. Her legs, toes pointed outward, lay splayed in front of her with two untied boots resting in the faint passageway light filtering through the small porthole in the door. She stared silently, watching the toes of the boots sticking straight up and realized they weren’t moving. She wiggled her toes and felt relief when they touched the top of the steel toes of the flight boots. She still had feeling in her feet. She scrunched her head into the softness beneath it. The ship didn’t seem to be rolling as much as it had been yesterday.
“Lieutenant, you awake, ma’am?” Senior Chief Leary asked from behind her.
She looked up with her right eye. He was leaning over her from behind, looking down, his eyes searching her face. “Yeah,” she said, the word forced through cracked lips and a dry mouth. “You look like shit, Senior Chief,” she mumbled.
“Don’t try to talk yet, Lieutenant. You took a few punches, but I liked the way you avoided the rest by passing out.”
“Don’t be funny. It hurts too much. Water?” she asked weakly. She forced her left eye open against the strand of mucus that had dried across it. The vision was blurred.
“Mr. Kelly, can you do it?” Leary asked.
Early shut her eyes and did a mental assessment of her body. Her arms hurt. Four, maybe five now, days they had been tied behind her back. She wiggled her fingers; still had feeling. Her stomach hurt when she breathed, and her face felt as if someone had taken a hammer and beaten her with it.
“Did they—?” Her voice trailed off.
Senior Chief Leary shook his head. “No, they didn’t.”
“My face hurts,” she said. Early raised her head, opening her eyes. The vision in the left one was a little clearer. Her copilot Scott Kelly was knee-walking across the metal deck toward some bowls near the door.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice trailing off.
“They finally decided we needed more than a cup of water a day. You’ve been out of it for the past twenty-four hours, Lieutenant, but from what we can tell, there’s nothing broken.”
“You sound different, Senior Chief,” she said. She took a deep breath and started coughing.
“On the other hand, you could have a cracked rib.”
Across the compartment, Scott bent over, dipping his face in the bowl and sucking up a mouthful of water. He turned and knee-walked over to where the Senior Chief and Early sat.
“Lean up, Lieutenant,” Senior Chief Leary said, raising his knee to force her head up. “Now this is going to be shaky, but Lieutenant K
elly is going to put his lips near yours. You have to open them, so he can give you the water he’s carrying in his mouth.”
She blinked several times, loosing the yellow strands of mucus from her left eye. She opened her mouth and shut her eyes. A moment passed and the wet, satisfying taste of water filled her mouth. She swallowed. The short flood quit and she opened her eyes. Scott Kelly looked down at her. “You all right?” he asked.
“I’m stiff and my face hurts when I talk. Can you squirt some of that in my eyes?”
“Think you can move?”
“Push me up, Senior Chief,” Early said. She pulled forward, doing a sit-up. Bright spots swam across her vision, and her body swayed to the right, where she fell against Leary, who had shifted his body so he was behind her.
“Take it easy, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’ve been horizontal for a day. Let your body adjust to the new position.”
She opened her eyes. Scott had worked his way back to the water, filled his mouth again, and was returning.
“Open your mouth again,” Leary said.
She kept her eyes opened. Kelly squirted a little water onto each eye, then spit what little remained into Gotta-Be’s mouth. A few seconds later, she had swallowed the water. “Thanks.” She blinked her eyes rapidly, the water stinging slightly. Her vision cleared.
“Much better than doing the Senior Chief,” Scott said, smiling, revealing a long open gap where white teeth had once been.
Her eyebrows bunched. “What happened?” she asked.
“It looks worse than it is,” Scott replied, his tongue visible as he ran it over the stumps of missing teeth. “You should have seen the other guy.”
She drew another deep breath. Her ribs on the right side hurt. She rolled her upper left shoulder, sending a dull pain across the top of her chest—as if something was sticking into her from beneath the skin. The pain from the shoulder was manageable. Early pulled herself all the way up to a sitting position, moving off the Senior Chief. She blinked several times and then turned to face him without falling over or passing out.
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