“Maybe they know something we don’t.”
One thing submarine drivers despised were cute little intelligence boys sitting in their nice Virginia office buildings deciding what could and could not be shared with ships at sea. Andrews had a nasty feeling about this one. “Maybe they do.”
He flipped to the orders page. “Did you take care of this already?”
Rob nodded. “Yes. I’ve plotted a course to the southern gulf about fifty to seventy-five klicks inside the strait.” There was only one strait as far as the Persian Gulf was concerned. TheStrait of Hormuz is a narrow choke point where an inordinate amount of the world’s supply of oil flowed in huge supertankers. It was another duty of the US Navy to ensure no one took it into their fancy to block the Strait. The only way for the Chinese boat to exit the Gulf was through the Strait, and it simply was not possible to do that without being noticed.
“It says here we’re supposed to be goal keepers,” Andrews scowled. “I wonder what they think that means. Deny sea passage to a Chinese sub? Does that give me authority to sink him?” He shook his head. An Admiral had not written this order. This order was issued by some flunky in Washington—or worse yet—Langley. Why would Langley write orders to submarines on carrier protection patrol concerning specific tactics in regard to a Chinese sub? He flicked his finger at the photo.
“I wonder how they got into the Gulf.”
“The Russians used to have a trick with the SOSUS line where they would try and get their boomers through by riding the wake of one of their surface freighters. A really dangerous game in case someone stopped too soon.” Andrews laughed. “It never worked really. The boys with the big ears at the NSA always heard them. We always knew when they were going to sortie a boomer and simply waited until they left their freighter before picking them up. I’d guess the Chinese followed a tanker through the Strait and we plain missed it.”
He shook his head and snapped a finger at the map. “Fifty klicks south of Al Faw.” He shook his head gravely. “That means they snuck up as close as possible to the coast without showing themselves.” His mind started to churn with the possibilities—the same possibilities that had surfaced half a world away earlier that same day. The inescapable conclusion surfaced for Andrews. China was working with Iraq. Nothing good could come from such an alliance. He remembered the rumors from back home about campaign contributions, the Chinese manipulation of the elections, and Iraq’s continued intransigence over UN weapons inspectors. Now, he had to find a Chinese sub. It all began to smell.
Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness, rather than permission. Andrews could ask for clarification from COMSUBGRP2, or he could use his latitude regarding the orders. He sighed.
“Robbie, make sure we have fish in tubes one, two, three, and four. Tubes flooded, doors closed.” He looked back to the photograph. “If we find this guy, he doesn’t get to open water. If he twitches, we send him to the bottom.”
Robbie looked across the table. Those were war fighting orders. “You think that’s wise?”
“According to this message there is a suspicion that theHan might be damaged.”
Robbie nodded slowly. “Damage can cut two ways. He may be slow or noisy or both.”
“Yeah. Put yourself in his shoes. Say you’ve got a damaged boat and some casualties. First thing you’ve got to assess is whether you can fix the problems at sea.” Andrews shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not. It would take some time to figure those things out and come up with a plan. I would rig for ultra quiet and go slow hoping to avoid detection.”
“So you think a sub driver with a damaged boat is more dangerous?”
Andrews shook his head. “More desperate. And desperate men tend to gamble closer to the edge of their performance envelope. Until we know otherwise, we treat this one like a hostile.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bartlett, Illinois
Saturday, November 15, 1997
7:00 P.M. CST
Lynn Harper walked down the basement steps. From her vantage point, where the half wall of the staircase ended, she could see the back of her husband. He was sitting at his workbench. The gun safe was open in the corner, a canvas bag sat at the foot of his stool, and the computer screen flickered on the far corner of the bench. The Culpeper Minuteman Flag hung from the ceiling above him. Its motto readLiberty or Death / Don’t Tread On Me . That (and a few karate tournament trophies) was all that he kept as a reminder of a secret life and a secret past.
Metal ammunition cans were open and he was working bullets into several magazines. His stereo was playing Fernando Ortega’sMeditations . The haunting piano melodies lilted throughout the basement. She knew it was one his favorites. It was the same album that he had played over and over during those dark days when his father lay dying in a nursing home. Cancer is such a devastating disease for it not only wastes the body, as in the case of Jim’s Father, it kills the spirit too. Taped to the monitor edges was a picture of Jim when he was ten. He stood in the garage with his father and a black Labrador retriever named Josh. Another photo was propped on the keyboard. It was very recent, with his father, mother, and their children clustered next to the fireplace during Christmas—photographs and memories without pain and suffering.
Behind him on the concrete floor rested a massive black Labrador retriever namedIndiana Jones. The sad eyes looked across the basement to where Lynn was standing. Both wife and dog knew something was up. Jim had cleaned some of his guns. The pungent odor of Shooters Choice and Hoppes Number 9 permeated the basement air. Spent patches and lint free swabs were tossed in his garbage can. Jim always kept his guns cleaned and oiled, so any additional work meant he was preparing himself for action.
Action was one of those words Lynn could live without. Throughout the early years of their marriage, he had disappeared—sometime for months at a time, sometimes for a few brief days. It was a part of his life about which she never quite knew the specific details. There were the times he had returned beaten and bruised. The broken arm, dislocated shoulder, and bullet holes were not unusual injuries. Nor was it unusual for him to spend long hours brooding about what had happened.
There were the holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries he missed. The nightmares accompanied him home. He trained harder, with a quiet intensity. He gave his entire being to becoming the best shot and smartest fighter. His trainers never questioned his bravery or his ability to hit hard and fast. They chided him about taking a hit to give one. His attention to detail and near photographic memory gave him an ability to work through complex problems.
His passions ran deep, and his commitment to his family ran deeper. She never questioned his commitment or his love. He was truly her best friend, and now this very dear man was preparing foraction again. She did not need much imagination to understand that her husband would probably face danger and possible death, nor did she have any illusions that he would dispense the same. It had been years since someone had brought the past back. She thought this part of his life was over, but maybe it would never truly end.
Lynn had exploded angrily at him when he explained he was going back to Iraq. He had tried to explain about honor and duty. He had mentioned he was the best man for the job—something about unfinished business—and he had broken a promise about going back to the field. He had stood before the sweeping fury of her tirade, and made no effort to defend himself against her pointing fingers and angry scowls. He could only nod and agree with her.
She regretted her anger now. She also knew the name of the man calling her husband away from her and the girls again—Louis Edwards! She knew the lever used to pry Jim from his decision never to go back—Jerry. Jerry had been the best man at their wedding. Jerry and Jim had been on so many missions together. A Batman and Robin duo who, according to the rumor and gossip, could accomplish anything, go anywhere, and do anything a Langley mole or Beltway bandit concocted.
Then the unthinkable happened. Jerry did not come back from a mission. Jim came back a sunburned and dehydra
ted wreck. He spent two weeks in a NATO military hospital in Germany. When he arrived home, he was silent. He established a fund for Jerry’s family, but not much got contributed. Today, they needed him again, and Jim extracted a steep penalty from Louis. A million dollar trust fund had been established this afternoon. The final cost might be very high, for Jim was leaving tonight.
Lynn knew his heart sometimes led his head, and she knew his sense of honor. Duty, honor, and fidelity summed up the man she had married twenty years ago. Over time she had learned to trust Jim’s heart. He had an instinct to know the right thing to do without always being able to explain why it was right.
She closed her eyes again. She had spent the past half hour alone in their bedroom praying. Of the two of them, Lynn was the prayer warrior. Jim had learned to fight with his hands and mind. She learned to fight from her knees, conversing with the Lord of creation. She prayed for her children and her husband every day. There were tearstains on her Bible. Lynn Harper knew the meaning of sacrifice, and, once again, she was being asked to sit tight, put on a stiff upper lip, and wave good-bye.
She took the final steps down the staircase into the basement. She knew very little about the guns he kept. She never liked them, and asked why he wanted another one. As far as she was concerned, they all did the same basic thing—pull the trigger and they go bang. Jim would talk about his guns like they were old friends, and she patiently listened to his descriptions. Eventually, he figured out she was humoring his exuberance.
She recognized the dull, black Glock and the Mossberg shotgun laid out on the bench before him. The third weapon was a Browning Hi Power. It was field stripped for cleaning and oiling. Lynn recognized the Browning from the distinctive hardwood grips and the stainless steel barrel. It was the gun he had brought back from Iraq. It was Jerry’s gun. He had kept it after Jerry had died.
It occurred to Lynn that Jerry had died in Iraq. There was one reason for Jim to go back. He intended to right a wrong or fix a misdeed. He had come to some decision deep in his heart, and perhaps, even he did not know what that decision was.
Indiana Joneslifted his massive head and slowly his tail thumped hard on the floor. He revealed two other things Lynn had missed from the staircase: a combat dagger—favored by the British Special Air Service—and a combat knife favored by the United States Marine Corps. They had also been recently sharpened and oiled. No wonder the dog was worried; her husband was preparing for war.
She rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed him assuredly. He looked up and patted her fingers. His touch lingered for a several moments. She leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “So am I.”
“You have to go, don’t you?’ she continued. There was no use fighting. She needed to send him to whatever fate he faced knowing she loved him—even if she did not completely understand.
“Yes.”
She pointed to the disassembled Browning. “It has something to do with Jerry?”
His bottom lip quivered. “Something.”
“And its something only you can do?” She needed to hear him say it was so. She needed to understand that he believed he was the only one capable. Even it were untrue, she needed to hear his conviction.
“Yes. Only me—I know how to get in and out,” he replied, knowing she had forgiven him again. How many times he had failed her he could not count. Yet she continued to forgive him. “I’m simply going to diddle a computer system or two.”
“You need guns to do this?”
“Well, the client might not agree with my approach to data management.” He paused, and said aloud what he had kept to himself when talking to Louis Edwards. “I don’t intend to leave it in one piece this time. I’m going to destroy it all—completely.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “You have your guns, and your karate, and your shooting and sparring buddies. Why do you have to go and try to get yourself killed?” The terror she had calmed threatened to rise up and overwhelm her again.
“It’s a point of honor. I never finished the task, because someone thought it better to leave the Iraqis with certain capabilities in place.” He paused, grinding his teeth. “That decision cost Jerry his life.” He shook his head and muttered, “For what?” Had anyone watched Jim’s face, they would have seen the warrior’s mask descend on his features.
“Honor,” she said hollowly. “What about the honor of a husband and father? What about the needs I have as a wife or those of your daughters? Where is the honor in getting killed? Jim, there are other people who can do this. There have to be,” she said desperately.
He turned from the workbench and held her hands. He saw the tears held back and nodded. “Lynn, listen to me. I’ve been there. I went in and I went out. I know the technology better than any commando team they can drop in there. I know how to fight and I know how to survive. This is the last time. I promise you it’s the last time.” Even as he said those words, he wondered if it was truly the last time.
Lynn felt the conviction and the icy fear of her husband’s intentions.
“When do you leave?”
“Tonight—they’ll be here in less than an hour.”
She looked at the shotgun shells. They were a mixture of rifled shotgun slugs and various sizes of buckshot loads. Next to shotgun shells were the 115 grain full metal jacketed 9mm shells, and a collection of .45 ACP Gold Dot hollow points. They all weighed in at 230 grains. He had pulled them out of the ammo cans. Jim loaded them on the Dillon 650 XL reloader bolted into the bench’s other corner.
He decided to take the Glock 21 because he trusted the gun to perform in the harshest conditions with virtually all types of ammo. Regardless of bullet configuration, sand, water, grit, and congealing grease, the Glock had always performed. He had ten magazines for the 21, and decided to take a complete reload for each magazine.
The Mossberg was an obvious choice for close quarter combat. The last time they had penetrated the Data Center, the M16 A2 had proven to be a liability. There were too many angles and corners for the light 5.56mm round to deflect. The shotgun provided compact devastation without the fear of ricochet. Besides, the sound of a 12 gauge chambering a round has an incredible intimidation factor. People tend to run for cover.
The Browning was for luck. Jerry had carried the gun through several missions. The gun was considerably thinner than the Glock, and he had ten magazines loaded with hardball. He intended to use it as his backup gun stuck in a holster located on the small of his back. Since he was headed back to the place where Jerry had been killed, perhaps there would be a chance for payback.
“Why are you bringing your stuff?” she asked, “Can’t they supply what you need?”
He closed his eyes and breathed out. He dare not panic his beloved. “I know what I need; I have what I need.” He was the doctor again. He waved his hand at the weapons. “These are my tools. I know how they act; I know what they do. I shoot them all at least once or twice a month. I trust them, and I am betting my survival on things I trust. Should I take a weapon that I know nothing about? Somebody else’s gun?” He shook his head. “Trust me, Lynn, I know what I’m doing.”
He did not voice the other concern—his distrust of Louis Edwards and those who were sending him. He lived in a land ruled by people who had no honor, no integrity, and no allegiance to duty. He did not know yet what shape it would take, but a Judas would be along. Someone to ensure he did not get out of hand.
The most important weapon Jim would take with him was between his ears. But, it helped to know that when you squeeze the trigger and the firing pin punched forward, something went bang.
He squirted oil on the rails and behind the hammer down where the sear lived. He slid the barrel into the Browning slide, then attached the spring to the underside of the barrel. He slid the slide and barrel on the receiver’s rails and punched in the retaining pin before working the slide back and forth a couple of times. Finally, he slid
an empty magazine into the well of the Browning and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forward on the empty chamber. He removed the empty magazine, and slid a loaded magazine into the gun. He racked the slide again, and pushed up the manual safety. It was now cocked and locked.
He holstered the Browning. Carefully he placed the shotgun shells, magazines, and reloads for the Glock into the canvas bag. He slid the Glock into a black nylon holster. He would secure that on his belt and around his upper leg. The Mossberg was a modified from the factory original. Tac Star pistol and Forend grips had replaced the normal stock grips, and it had a combat sling to carry it over his shoulder. He pushed six buckshot rounds into the sidesaddle carrier on the left side of the receiver.
The combat dagger was attached to his right leg above the boot. It never hurt to have things ready before Louis showed up. The combat knife was placed in the canvas bag. He felt the weight and was satisfied. It would be heavy, but not unmanageable. Finally, he loaded seven rifled slugs into the Mossberg’s magazine.
“Come on, let’s go talk to the kids before I leave.”
Lynn stood with folded arms, watching the man she loved change into a weapon. “You will be careful?” The cold ran its fingers down her spine.
He smiled and held her gaze. “I’m always careful.”
“I have something for you. I know you’ll be busy, but you’ll need this somewhere along the way.” She handed him her small pocket Bible, the one she carried in her purse. The gold leaf name at the bottom right corner saidLynn Harper .
“This is the one I gave you?”
She nodded. “It’s small, and I know you don’t have much room, but I would feel so much better if you took it with you.”
He took it from her and placed it in the canvas bag next to the shells and magazines. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to bring it back in good shape.”
She closed her eyes and grabbed him as a sob racked her frame. “Just bring yourself back.”
He patted her back and replied softly, “Always, love—always.”
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