“More men. Here, we’re relatively safe. It is a controlled area, surrounded by…” For a moment he hesitated, as though wondering how much to tell her… “friends,” he concluded finally. “People I can trust.
“But trust to do what?” she asked. This was all proceeding with the dizzying speed of Alice bolting down the rabbit hole.
Suddenly, the room they had just left, the restaurant, exploded with gunfire. She heard screams and the stutter of automatic weapons. Before she could fully absorb what had happened, T’ing and his men pulled her up off the couch and rushed her toward the back door. They bolted out of it into a dark, grimy alley, and T’ing dragged her along as he ran toward one end.
“What’s happening?” she asked, aware that this was really no time to be asking questions but unable to resist the temptation. “Where are we going?”
No one bothered to answer.
Behind them, doors popped open as occupants’ heads popped out to see what was happening, and then slammed hastily. One door stayed open, and they ran to it. Once inside, a steel door was bolted shut behind them.
More gunfire, and she noticed that they were down to three bodyguards instead of four.
T’ing held his finger to his lips, gesturing to be quiet. She almost held her breath.
Just as suddenly as it started, the gunfire ceased. An eerie silence settled over the area, as though every living thing had bolted into a hidey-hole. She suspected that was in fact the case.
Acting on some unknown signal, one of the men opened the door and looked out. He turned to gesture to T’ing, who pulled her forward. “Let’s go.”
She stepped out into the alley and was surprised to see, despite the silence, that it was crowded with people. They were moving quietly, barely seeming to touch the ground. Most of them bore weapons — knives, guns, and a variety of Chinese close-in fighting weapons. She shuddered when she saw those — not much of a match for automatic weapons, but the men carrying them didn’t seem concerned.
Their car appeared at one end of the alley, and they ran for it, Wexler again cursing the fashionable high heels she wore as she stumbled over some trash and almost fell. T’ing caught her as she went down.
They practically fell into the back of the car, which took off before they’d even had a chance to strap in. As they pulled out onto the main thoroughfare, T’ing said, “We’ll try to make it to the United Nations now. But if they’re following, it may be difficult.
Was the United Nations security force capable of dealing with whomever was following them? She wasn’t sure. On the surface, you normally just saw civil servants with badges and handguns, manning the entrances with their floruoscopes and metal detectors. But when it came down to men armed with automatic weapons, she suspected they might not be much use.
But then again, in the last decade, the UN’s consciousness of international terrorism and the dangers thereof had moved more and more to the forefront. She tried to recall the briefings she had heard, the contingency plans, and realized that there would probably be additional security forces at the UN that she’d never seen.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
T’ing nodded. “In the end, this will have to be stopped where it started. And that means the United Nations.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
CVIC
USS Jefferson
Friday, May 7
1700 local (GMT +3)
“That does it,” Batman announced as the last of his airwing broke off and began returning to the carrier. “It just goes to show, they don’t have the will to fight.”
“Wonder why they all broke off at once like that?” his air operations officer mused. “I know what people say about them, but I would have thought the fighter community would have stuck it out. I know they were tough when we used to train them back in the seventies.”
Batman shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. They’re out of my airspace — that’s all I care about. Now all we have to do is figure a way to get past that line of mines.”
“The helos have been reconfigured for minesweeping,” the TAO announced. “They’re ready to commence sweeping immediately.”
“Give them the go-ahead — and keep a close eye on them,” Batman answered. “But until you find a sweep CO who will give me his personal assurance that the water in front of me is spotless, I’m still going to set zebra below the waterline.” Setting zebra referred to closing every watertight hatch and fitting that would be secured during general quarters. It was used to ensure maximum structural integrity when transiting a suspected minefield.
Four hours later, the helos had towed their massive minesweeping frames through the suspected minefield, and snipers had detonated the mines that were detected. A narrow swept channel was laid out on Batman’s tactical plot. Everyone who’d looked at it, including Batman and Lab Rat, had made every suggestion that they could think of. There was nothing left to do except trust that the helos’ gear had worked as advertised.
“Maybe we should just wait for the minesweeps to arrive,” Lab Rat’s chief said. “I’d feel better if we did.”
“Me, too. But we can’t, Chief. The rest of the world is watching.”
“They watched us knock everything they could throw at us out of the air,” the chief said.
“Yeah, that’s true. But in the end, if they can keep us locked in the Gulf, they win. We can’t let them get away with it — we can’t.” Lab Rat studied the chart one last time, looked at the overlapping swaths of supposedly clear water, and finally put his pencil down. “Sooner or later, you got to take the risk.”
The chief grunted. “Yes, sir. But I don’t expect you’ll have a lot of heartache about it if I stay above the waterline for the next couple of hours.”
“Nope. I’ll be in TFCC if you need me.”
Lab Rat settled into a back corner of the crowded compartment as the carrier started her approach on the swept channel. It seemed that they’d done everything they could, but as good as that might be, sometimes it wasn’t enough.
The edge of the flight deck was ringed with lookouts, all carefully checking small sectors of water for potential hazards, especially unexploded mines. Each lookout was equipped with a flotation device and a pair of binoculars. Lab Rat was willing to lay odds that they’d formed a betting pool before they’d reported for their assignment, wagering on which one of them would be the first to sight a mine.
Every so often, interspersed between the enlisted men and women, Lab Rat saw the glint of metal on a collar. There were not nearly as many officers as enlisted men and women volunteering for lookout duty, but there were enough to show the troops just how critically important their jobs were. The admiral hadn’t had to make assignments — there’d been more than enough volunteers. Lab Rat himself had put his name on the list, only to be told that he was needed in TFCC instead.
The air operations officer had one last suggestion. “Let’s send the cruiser through ahead of us, Admiral. She can post lookouts closer to the waterline — they’d have a better chance of seeing anything the sweeps missed.”
Batman considered it for a moment, then pointed at the cruiser’s track history on the screen. “See that? She’s got minimal control over her rudder right now — looks like a drunk trying to walk home. Yeah, her lookouts might see something, but there’s no way we can follow exactly in her wake. It’s too erratic, too narrow, and the Jefferson isn’t nearly as nimble. Besides, she’s taken enough damage already. No, we’ll go first. Put lookouts up everywhere we can, and get the helos out in front of us. If they’ve done their job, we’ll be fine.”
The first fifteen minutes of the swept channel transit passed with excruciating slowness. The plot showed their progress through the swept channel and the TAO made periodic announcements of the time remaining.
Four minutes before they were to clear the minefield, the monitor showed a group of lookouts break away from the edge of the ship and start running for the center of the flight deck. A m
assive thrumming rang through the ship, and Lab Rat knew immediately what was happening, even before the collision alarm started, even before the bridge could make the announcement on the 1MC.
The carrier slammed violently to the left, then went hard down at the bow. The angle on the deck was two degrees initially, then quickly increased to five degrees. Damage control teams were called away and the 1MC began to carry the litany associated with controlling flooding.
Batman paced the compartment furiously, signing emergency messages out, talking to Fifth Fleet on the radio, watching the ship’s progress through the minefield and waiting for another detonation. Lab Rat stood back out of the way, helpless to assist him in any way.
Finally, when the chaos was just starting to die down, six short blasts sounded on the ship’s whistle. Lab Rat felt a cold shudder run through him.
Six blasts. Man overboard. And given what they’d just been through, it clearly wasn’t a drill.
The muster reports poured into the admiral far faster than they ever did during drills. One by one, the ship’s major departments accounted for all their personnel and reported that fact to the ship’s captain, who kept a running tally going in TFCC. For a few minutes, it looked like it has indeed been unnecessary. But two names repeatedly rang out over the 1MC, the Officer of the Deck’s voice increasingly pleading as he ordered the two to report to their muster stations.
Each time Lab Rat heard the names, it felt like a physical blow. And finally, an hour after they’d hit the mine, with the flooding still out of control on the starboard bow and the two people still missing, Lab Rat admitted the awful truth to himself. He looked over at Batman, and saw tears on the admiral’s cheeks.
TWENTY-NINE
Office of the Chief of Naval Operations
The Pentagon
Friday, May 7
1800 local (GMT –5)
Tombstone planted his hands on his uncle’s desk and leaned across toward the older man. “I don’t think you understand — I have to get out there.”
His uncle watched impassively for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I meant what I said, Stony. Batman’s on his own — he can handle it.”
“It’s not that I think he can’t handle it. It’s just that — dammit, you said it yourself. This is the sort of thing I was born for. I have to get back out there, Uncle. Besides, Tomboy is out there.”
His uncle slammed his fist down the desk. “Don’t try to make me believe that’s what this is about, Stony. Because you know it’s not. You’re aching for one last shot at this, and you are not going to get it. You’re staying here — and that’s final.”
“At least let me get a message to Batman. He’s trapped in there — it’s Jefferson, Uncle. My Jefferson.”
“Batman’s Jefferson. And no — no messages. And don’t make me implement security measures to keep you from bullying your way out there, Stony. You know I will — don’t make me. Because all you’ll do is end up looking foolish. You got that?”
Tombstone drew himself up straight. His mind raced furiously, trying to find some loophole in his uncle’s reasoning, some reason and train of thought that would convince his uncle how important it was. But try as he might, he kept coming back to one conclusion.
His uncle was right.
The reality of the situation started to sink in and Tombstone slumped into the chair in front his uncle’s desk. “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?”
His uncle nodded. “Yes, Stony. It is.”
Just as Tombstone opened his mouth to apologize, to explain what he meant, there was a sharp rap on the door. The admiral’s chief of staff stepped into the room. He held a message in one hand. “Admiral — this just came in, sir. Jefferson—she’s hit, sir. Hit bad.”
“What?” Tombstone and his uncle exclaimed simultaneously. Tombstone reached for the message, but the chief of staff kept it out of his reach and handed it to the chief of naval operations, who suddenly looked ten years older than he had just moments before. He took the message and started scanning, but did not object when Tombstone walked around behind the desk to read over his shoulder.
The cold details, devoid of all emotion, made Jefferson’s circumstances iminently clear.
The minesweeper had done the best it could, but they missed one. Jefferson, with Lake Champlain following in her wake, had hit a mine. It detonated just under her forward bow. Seven percent of her forward compartments were flooded, and she had a five-degree list she couldn’t correct. Damage control teams had stopped the progression of the flooding and dewatering was in progress now. Batman concluded with, “Whether or not flight operations can be resumed will depend on shipyard-level repairs.”
Shipyard level — not something they could handle on their own. Batman was telling them that the carrier was not currently capable of flight operations — and might never be again.
“It would have happened whether you’d been there or not, Stony. Batman made the same decisions you would have.”
“No, he didn’t.” Tombstone’s voice was filled with fury. “Damaged or not, I would have had that cruiser in front of us. The submarine, too, if I had to. Without the carrier, there is no battle group. None.”
“There’s the United States,” his uncle said.
For a moment, Tombstone didn’t understand what he was saying. Then it hit him — his uncle meant to replace Jefferson with the new carrier. Just like that, without even seeing Jefferson himself, without pulling out all the stops at the shipyard.
Tombstone turned on him. “You’re going to give up on her? Just like that. After all Jefferson has been through, I think she deserves a little more consideration than that.”
“No, she doesn’t. The ship isn’t the battle group — neither are the aircraft. It’s the men and women who sail in her, the ones who make the tough decisions just like Batman made.”
“We don’t yet know how bad it is. We won’t know until we get back to the states.”
“Yes, we do. Read it again. You know what Batman’s saying.”
Tombstone scanned the message again, and saw that’s exactly what Batman was recommending. It was unthinkable — the ship he’d spent most of his career on, now mortally wounded. He longed to be at sea with her, as if somehow his very presence could hold back the future he saw rushing inexorably toward her.
How many battle groups had she carried to every part of the world, how many countless times had she gone into harm’s way to protect their national interests? It couldn’t be that serious… it couldn’t, it simply couldn’t.
“Sir.” There was another rap on the door, and a radioman chief came in, holding another message. “The casualty list, sir.”
Casualties — of course, there would be casualties. Men and women trapped in compartments below the waterline, those thrown overboard by the impact, mostly enlisted technicians serving their time in the Navy deep below the surface of the ocean. How could he have forgotten them, even with the excuse that he’d been concentrating on Jefferson’s fate?
His uncle took the message, scanned the pages, and his face turned pale. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
Tombstone felt a new surge of horror. He reached for the message, but his uncle held it away. It was someone they knew — it had to be.
“Who is it?” Tombstone demanded. “Who?”
“Sit down, Stony,” his uncle said, his voice thick.
And in that instant Tombstone knew. Knew irrevocably, knew it as certainly as though his own arm had been severed.
“It’s Tomboy… she’s dead.”
THIRTY
United Nations
New York
Friday, May 7
2000 local (GMT –5)
Even before they pulled up to the private entrance to the United Nations, Wexler could see that chaos reigned on the sidewalk outside. Perhaps two dozen men clad in nondescript clothes were moving about purposefully. They had no particular uniform. Some were in conservative suits, others wore blue
jeans and T-shirts. They had one thing in common, however — a purposeful look in their eyes that kept everyone away from them.
And weapons. Their choices seem to be about equally divided between automatic weapons and handguns. There was an air of menace around them, and for just a moment she quailed. Had they come this far only to be trapped right outside their own building?
Then she saw that Brad was right in the thick of it, clearly in charge. She breathed a sigh of relief.
T’ing shot her a thoughtful look. “He is very well-organized,” was all he said.
As their car approached the area, they were immediately surrounded by the armed men. Sarah rolled down the window, and Brad rushed over. “You’re okay?” he asked, a hard note in his voice.
“Yes. It has been… it has been interesting.” She laid one hand on his forearm. “But my friend took care of things.” She saw the light of slight surprise in T’ing’s eyes, as though he had not expected her to publicly acknowledge what he’d done.
A group of men quickly formed up behind him, and Brad helped her out of the car. She was immediately surrounded by them, shielded completely by their bodies. She turned back to the car. “Are you coming?”
“Madam Ambassador, we don’t have—” Brad started.
She cut him off. “The ambassador has been most generous with his resources. We will reciprocate.” There was steel in her voice, and she noticed Brad blinked.
“Of course.” He made a motion, and additional men formed a separate protective group.
T’ing waved them off. “Thank you. I appreciate very much the offer of assistance. However, given the events of the last few hours, I suspect that I have some matters to resolve.” A brief, but bloodthirsty look flashed in his eyes. “I will call upon you when I return, if I may.”
“What are you going to do?” she demanded. “Who were they, and what did they want with me?”
The Art of War c-17 Page 20