Confusion filled Lassiter’s face as he pushed away his chin mike and addressed his copilot.
“What the hell is this all about?
Captain Davis, get the Chairman on the horn, and inform him of General Spencer’s request to alter our flight plan.”
“Lucky, if you’ll just hang loose a sec,” interjected Coach, who beckoned both Brittany and Red to join him on the flight deck, before instructing them to shut the cockpit door, and then sharing with the flight crew the real reason for their presence amongst them.
Chapter 50
Friday, July 2
Freeman Hollow
It was at a temporary ORP at the side of the trail that Ted Cal-la han called together Thomas, Sergeant Reed, Captain Christian, and Ranger Glickman. They convened beneath the protective cover of a camouflaged tarp. With Reed illuminating a detailed U.S. Forest Service map of the Irish Wilderness with his redlensed flashlight, Jody Glickman pointed out their current position.
“Tater Hill is right over the next rise,” she whispered, her right index finger circling the corresponding topographical feature on the map.
“It’s another kilometer at most, and it’s here that we’ll find the entrance to the Defense Department’s underground facility.”
“Surely it can’t be accessed by the general public,” remarked Callahan.
“There’s a barbed-wire-topped, chain-link fence and an iron barricade protecting the entrance, which most hikers mistake for the opening of a collapsed cavern,” Glickman said.
“Since it’s apparent that’s where the footprints we’ve been following are headed, why not bypass this booby-trapped trail altogether?” Thomas suggested.
“It would certainly speed things up.”
“Not really,” objected Reed, who had just put a pinch of tobacco in his mouth.
“My R&S team reports that the surrounding woods are saturated with freshly placed claymores. The footpath might seem slow, but it’s safer in the long run. At least we know where to look.”
“I wish we had time to call in some of that mechanized equipment from the Alton staging area,” said Jay Christian.
“A Grizzly could clear us a safe lane to Tater in a matter of minutes.”
“Though we don’t have a Grizzly, my Sappers are carrying bangalore tube charges,” Reed revealed with a grin.
“They might be noisy as all heck, but I guarantee that we can clear us a lane to that cave entrance without taking the time to probe by hand.”
Less than a meter away from the five individuals gathered beneath the tarp. Doc Martin peeked out of the heavily camouflaged slit trench in which he was buried. He was so close to the intruders he could almost reach out and touch them, and the ex SEAL fought the temptation to take all of them out with a single frag grenade.
His mission and that of his three-man unit was R&S, with strict rules-of-engagement limitations imposed on them by Dick Mariano. This was fine with Doc, who got just as much satisfaction from tracking a man down as from cutting his throat.
He had been taught this forgotten skill by some of the best trackers on the face of the earth — Vietnam’s Montagnards, or Yards, as the members of SOG preferred to call them. The Yards were Vietnam’s largest minority, their culture organized along tribal lines much like the American Indians. They were nomadic hunters and foragers who still used the crossbow, and had taught Doc that the real art of camouflage was blending one’s spirit into the forest as well as one’s own body.
He had also learned from the Yards how to sharpen his senses through meditation. Through a variety of self-realization techniques such as deep breathing and chanting, he discovered that one could smell an enemy long before he could be seen or heard.
Nowhere was this more evident than from Doc’s current vantage point, where the distinctive scents of the five intruders overpowered his sensitive nostrils. Without having to even hear her voice, he knew that one of them was female. Yet another chewed tobacco, while all of them were most likely meat eaters.
Of course, masking their own body odors through eating a native diet was only one of the tricks that this group of neophytes needed to master in order to survive. They made too much noise, and wasted valuable time fidgeting with their high-tech NVGs.
They also needed to better utilize listening halts to become more aware of their surroundings, while their R&S teams had to learn to slow down and quit trying to cover so much territory on their sweeps.
It was only too apparent that these soldiers had never seen battle. They were most likely instructors from nearby Fort Leonard Wood, whose combat was limited to organizing war games.
Doc had been there himself, and knew they’d get a sobering dose of reality the moment Mariano inevitably changed their rules of engagement.
Chapter 51
Saturday, July 3, 0409 Zulu
U.S.S. Rhode Island
For Captain Terence McNeil Lockwood, his duty was perfectly clear — he’d continue the repair efforts on his sonar and communications systems, while at the same time prepare to execute the EAM that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had personally conveyed to them via Nightwatch. Only a few minutes ago, a rumbling explosion had sounded outside their hull, and Lockwood feared they’d be unable to fulfill this sworn obligation.
He assumed that the most likely source for the blast was a torpedo exchange between the phantom submarine that had collided with them earlier and the U.S.S. Polk. Because they still didn’t know this fact for certain, or whom the victor was if this exchange had indeed come to pass, he could only pray that they’d get the all-clear from the Polk by 0500, the preappointed time for the first Trident to fly.
To ensure that this launch went off without a hitch. Lockwood exited the control room, where he had been coordinating the repair effort, and headed aft. This brought him to the upper deck of the missile compartment. Other than the engineering spaces, which occupied the after end of the boat, the missile magazine was the largest single compartment on the Rhode Island.
He paused for a moment to survey the twenty-four launch canisters. They were positioned twelve to a side, and painted an orange-tinted red. Each one of them held a nuclear-warhead tipped Trident missile. Only a pair of these Tridents would be needed to fulfill their current duty, and Lockwood headed down to the magazine’s second level to check their status.
He found his weapons officer, or weps, as he was better known, in the missile control center. Weps was seated in front of the main launch console, his complete attention focused on the twenty-four rows of digit-sized buttons that occupied the center part of the console. At the moment, only the buttons labeled 1 and 24 were illuminated, as were the four buttons beside them marked 1SQ, denote, prepare, and away.
1SQ referred to the state of readiness needed to precipitate a launch. It was a compilation of factors including the state of each missile’s three-stage, solid-fueled propulsion system. Of equal importance was a spinning up of the latest targeting data.
In order to hit a target thousands of miles away, the missile had to know the coordinates of the target and the precise location of the submarine at launch. The Rhode Island’s twin MK-2, MOD 7 Ship’s Inertial Navigation System, would provide the exact point of missile release, through a complex array of electro statically supplied gyroscopes, accelerometers, and computers.
The target coordinates were relayed in the EAM, and were automatically fed into the system so that the crew would never know a warhead’s exact destination. That way, a crew member with relatives living in Moscow wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that one of their Tridents was targeted on the Russian capital, or on any other location that might have personal significance.
“How much longer until we have 1SQ on those two birds, Weps?” asked Lockwood in greeting, a heavy weariness to his voice.
Weps replied without taking his eyes off the console.
“Another fifteen minutes and we’ll be good to go. Captain. Sorry about the continued delay. That collision did a lot more
damage than we had originally thought, but I promise we’ll be ready when it’s time for launch.”
“Let’s continue to pray that sometime within the next fifty minutes the geopolitical situation will change for the better, and we’ll be ordered to stand down,” remarked Lockwood.
“From that commotion outside our hull, it sounds to me that whatever mess we’re in is only heating up,” said Weps.
“I don’t suppose you have any additional info on the source of that explosion, or have since heard from the Polk?”
Lockwood reached out to innocently massage Weps’s shoulders.
“Right now, I know just as much as you or any other member of the crew. I have cob’s personal assurance that by the time we’re ready to ascend to launch depth, he’ll have sonar up and Gertrude functioning. That way, if our phantom submarine is still around, at least we’ll be able to tag them, and talk to the Polk if we need to.”
The 1SQ button to missile number one began blinking, generating a frustrated curse from Weps. It was as he initiated a diagnostic to trace the problem that Lockwood’s XO paged him.
“Skipper, the folks in Engineering are reporting a strange scraping sound. It seems to be originating from outside our upper hull, at the forward end of the engine room.”
Chapter 52
Saturday, July 3 0413 Zulu
“I’ve got the yellow stripe,” reported Benjamin Kram, his eyes riveted on the real-time scene visible on the control panel’s video monitor.
“Forward ten meters, starboard three.”
The video picture was compliments of a miniature camera set into the mini-sub’s lower hull. The bright yellow stripe it was focused on was painted alongside the Rhode Island’s aft, upper deck access way In order to mate the mini-sub’s transfer skirt directly onto this access way the pilot expertly manipulated his joysticks, causing the thrusters to propel them slightly forward and to the right.
“There are the crosshairs!” Kram proclaimed.
“Down one.”
There was a distinctive, clamorous clanging noise as the mini sub settled down onto the Rhode Island. Kram had to utilize yet another video camera to finalize the alignment, and it was with great relief that he gave the order to attach the transfer skirt and pressurize.
“Commander Gilbert,” he added to SEAL Team Two’s mustached CO, “if it’s all right with you, I’d like to join your men when they unseal the hatch.”
“Me and my ladies would be honored for your company during this historic, first operational transfer,” Gilbert proudly replied.
To extract himself from his cramped command chair, Kram had to grasp the overhead handholds and scoot backward into the passenger compartment. Together with Gilbert, they hunched over and continued farther aft into the transfer module, a circular compartment with a round hatch cut into its deck.
They made certain that the pressure was equalized before kneeling to un dog this hatch, which noisily squealed as they yanked it toward them. Exposed below was the dark gray outer skin of the Rhode Island’s upper hull. Portions of the bright yellow decal that Kram had been watching on the monitor were also visible, and they had to call upon two muscular SEALs to deploy the heavy iron tool needed to actually crack open the Trident’s hatch. It too opened with a grating squeal, and there was a popping sensation, followed by a cool draft of polythylene-scented air.
Kram peered anxiously into the open access way The glowing lights of the Trident’s aft, upper-level missile magazine invitingly beckoned down below. A steep, iron-rung ladder was anchored into the side of the hatch, and Kram readily accepted Gilbert’s offer to lead the way.
The descent went quickly, and as he dropped onto the deck below, Kram looked up to see which of the SEALs was following.
It was at this exact moment that a camera triggered from inside the mini-sub, temporarily blinding him.
He gently rubbed his eyes, his sight returning in time for him to view the strange reception committee that waited for him inside the missile magazine. Gathered in a tight, protective phalanx was a group of helmeted sailors wearing full-body armor, a lethal combination of combat shotguns and pistols trained his way.
Chapter 53
Saturday, July 3, 0417 Zulu
Nightwatch 676
It was from the wire operator, of all people, that Trent Warner learned about the other aircraft flying in close formation off their tail. After getting a confirmation that the object the startled airman saw out the window of his wire port was indeed another airplane, the Chairman flew into a rage.
“Has the flight crew forgotten that I’m supposed to be the first to know about any other planes we might encounter?” he shouted to no one in particular, then made a beeline straight for the stairway leading to the flight deck.
“Major Lassiter!” he exclaimed as he stormed into the cockpit.
“Are you asleep on the job up here? Why didn’t you tell me that we’ve picked up an escort? Is it one of my Tomcats?”
The Chairman’s eyes opened wide with disbelief when the individual seated in the pilot’s position calmly turned around, exposing the grinning face of Coach.
“Sir,” came a woman’s firm voice from behind, “if you’ll please keep your hands where we can see them, and back out of the cockpit.”
Shocked horror filled Wamer’s face upon learning that the speaker of these words was none other than Commander Brittany Cooper. The President’s military aide held a flare gun in her determined grasp, with Sergeant Rayburn close at her side.
“What’s the meaning of this outrageous act of insubordination, Commander? Put down that damned pistol before someone gets hurt! Have you lost your senses, woman?”
Brittany coolly answered him.
“It appears that you’re the one who needs a long rest, sir.”
“And how about starting with early retirement at Leavenworth?”
Red put in.
“So the conspiracy nuts have escaped, and now they’re spreading their dangerous, paranoid fantasies to the rest of my flight crew,” said the Chairman to Lucky, Jake, and Owen Lassiter, who had taken the navigator’s position behind Coach.
“What did they tell you, gentlemen? Don’t tell me it’s that coup d’etat crap again?”
The collision-avoidance radar began chiming, and Lucky leaned forward to inspect the screen.
“We’ve got more company headed our way, gents. There’re three of them this time, approaching on a direct intercept course from the north.”
All eyes went to the wraparound cockpit window, where the flashing red and green strobe lights of the lead F-15 Eagle that had already joined them took up a defensive position in the black sky ahead.
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, this is Strike Eagle Leader,” announced a clipped voice from the overhead intercom speakers.
“Please be advised that I show a flight of three bogeys coming in on zero-one-five. Eagle Two will remain in your six o’clock.
Over.”
“Strike Eagle Leader, this is Nightwatch six-seven-six,” replied Coach into his chin mike.
“We’ve got the bogeys on radar. Thanks for your concern. Over.”
“So our escort this early morning is compliments of the Air Force,” stated the Chairman with a bitter laugh.
“I hope they’ve got some fight in them for a change, ‘cause my Toms fly with an attitude.”
“Admiral, enough!” warned Red, who had had her fill of the Chairman’s intimidating head games.
“Back out of that cockpit, and keep that trap of yours shut!”
“Sergeant,” interrupted Major Steve Hewlett’s deep voice from the top of the stairway, “is that any way to speak to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?”
The broad-shouldered Marine SIOP advisor stood there with a 9mm pistol in his right hand, and he pointed the barrel at Brittany.
“Drop it. Commander!”
Hewlett took a tentative step forward, and he directed his next remark to the silver-haired indivi
dual standing in the back of the cockpit.
“Are you okay. Admiral?”
“I am now. Major. Arrest them all, and throw the whole lot of them in detention.”
Hewlett took another step forward, and Red beckoned toward the gun that Brittany still had trained on the Chairman.
“One more step, Gomer, and Commander Cooper is gonna put another hole up the old man’s ass!”
“Major Hewlett, don’t listen to the darned fool,” commanded Warner.
“And besides, do any of you think it makes any real difference if I live or die? Our movement will continue regardless!”
“Nightwatch six-seven-six,” a male voice with a slight Southern drawl to it broke in over the cockpit’s intercom.
“This is Tomcat Leader, from aggressor squadron Baron, based on the Harry S. Truman. Be advised that your escorts have arrived for door-to-door service all the way to Andrews.”
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, this is Strike Eagle Leader. You are to disregard that offer. Eagle Flight will be your escort to Langley as ordered.”
“Strike Eagle, this is Tomcat Leader. On whose authority do you base your orders, sir?”
“Tomcat Leader, this is Strike Eagle, and my orders come directly from General Lowell Spencer, Deputy Commander of the U.S. Strategic Command. Please move out of our airspace so we can proceed to Langley. Over.”
There was a noticeable pause as the Tomcat Leader appeared to be mulling over this request, and the Chairman defiantly grabbed the auxiliary radio headset that was hanging beside Jake.
“Tomcat Leader, this is Admiral Trent Warner calling from Nightwatch six-seven-six. You are to ignore the instructions of Strike Eagle and provide escort to Andrews as I originally requested. Over.”
Jake reached up and ripped the Chairman’s headset plug out of the radio socket. At the same time. Coach spoke into his own chin mike.
“Strike Eagle Leader, this is Major Foard, Nightwatch six seven-six’s commander. I realize there are some contravening orders this morning, but be advised that I’m personally requesting escort to Langley, per the authority of General Spencer aboard Iron Man One. Over.”
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