Defiance

by Don Brown

  There was a flurry of activity on the flight deck as the pilot of the Super Hornet hit maximum throttle and the powerful steam-driven catapult slung the sleek aircraft off the bow. Fire from the twin engines blazed as the pilot hit the afterburners, climbing the fighter into the moonlit sky.

  "Launch second fighter!" There was more furious scrambling below, the roar of jet engines, then a mighty shaking. The twin afterburners of the second jet pushed it to the heavens.

  "CIC, Bridge. Position of those bogies?"

  "Bearing zero-one-five degrees. Range 200 miles, Skipper."

  "Are they still over land?"

  "Bridge, CIC. Roger that."

  "This is why you're getting paid the big bucks, Commander," Long said to Zack. "Talk to me about international rules of engagement."

  "Sir, right now we've got a right to be where we are -- in international waters. But if we shoot them down over their own country, we may start a war. But if they keep bearing down on our position, that could be construed as an act of hostile aggression, justifying the use of force."

  "My problem is that once they're over water, they're less than a hundred miles out. I've got no destroyer screens out there, and they have a point-blank shot at me."

  "Unless our planes nail 'em first," Zack said.

  "What's your advice, Commander?"

  "This is a deadly game of brinksmanship, but I'd protect U.S. assets and lives, sir, even if that means splashing the MiGs." Their eyes met. "You have the president's authority to do that."

  The captain radioed the lead fighter. "Viper leader, Reagan."

  "Reagan, Viper."

  "Lieutenant, this is the captain speaking. As long as those MiGs are over land, hold fire. But when they cross the coastline, I want you to splash 'em. Understood?"

  "Reagan, Viper. Roger that. Understand instructions to hold fire until MiGs cross coastline, then attack."

  The tension on the bridge of the Reagan was thicker than the smoke in a Texas saloon. Seconds seemed like minutes. Minutes like hours.

  "Bogies bearing zero-one-five degrees. Range 175 miles. Three minutes to coastline, Skipper."

  "Viper leader, Reagan. Prepare to fire."

  "Reagan, Viper leader. Arming missiles."

  "Come on, baby," Captain Long said under his breath.

  "Bridge, CIC. Be advised bogies have turned back! Repeat, be advised bogies have turned back!"

  Applause broke out on the bridge.

  "Viper leader, Reagan. Break off intercept! Do not fire! I repeat, do not fire!"

  "Reagan, Viper leader. Roger that. I saw 'em turning, sir. Looks like they're headed back to Vladivostok. We're breaking off intercept and heading home."

  "Flight deck! Launch SEAL team. Now!"

  Three minutes later the first of the five giant black helicopters took off from the flight deck. Three minutes after that, all five had disappeared into the dark eastern sky.

  Zack walked away from the captain and removed his officer's cover. Bringing the hat against his heart and looking out over the moon-draped waters of the black sea, he spoke softly. "Lord, grant them safety, grant them protection, and by the divine providence of your almighty hand, bring them back again, alive, with those who may be alive on the ground. Let her be alive, Lord. I ask for a miracle. Let her be alive."

  CHAPTER 53

  Gobi Desert

  Northeast of Sainted, Mongolia

  Three hours before midnight

  Locating the ridge was a little more difficult in the dark, but when Willie looked out and saw the campfires in the middle of the camp under the moonlit sky, he knew the Lord had led them back to just where they were supposed to be.

  "This is it, Shannon."

  "Good work, Willie." Wearing a heavy parka, she crawled up between Willie and Jagtai and spied the area with her binoculars. "Okay." Her voice turned businesslike. "We've got work to do. Jagtai. Bring me the homing devices, please."

  "Yes, Shannon."

  "What can I do to help?" Willie asked.

  "Pass me your flashlight."

  He passed her the flashlight, and she turned it on as Jagtai returned with the box containing the homing devices.

  The devices were about the size and shape of a laptop computer, Willie noted. Dear Lord, please let them work.

  "Okay," Shannon said. "This is the one for the cruise missile targeting. Let's hope this baby fires up."

  She punched a few buttons. In a few seconds, a host of green and yellow lights flashed across the top of the box.

  "Great!" Shannon exclaimed. "Okay, if we don't move this baby, we're going to have a Tomahawk cruise missile for a midnight snack, right here on this ridge. I need one of you guys to circle all the way around to the other side of the camp down there and plant this baby about three hundred yards or so on the other side."

  "I'll go," Jagtai said.

  "Here." Shannon gave him one of the three M1 Garand rifles they had brought along. "Use this if you need it."

  "Got it, Shannon."

  Jagtai disappeared into the night.

  "Okay, Willie, let's get this one fired up." Their eyes met. "You always pray, Willie?"

  "That's my job. And even if it wasn't my job, the answer would still be yes."

  "I'm getting more and more that way myself." She punched a few buttons on the homing device.

  Nothing.

  "Come on." She punched the buttons again. Yellow and green lights danced up and down the box.

  "Thank you, Lord," Willie said.

  "Thank you, Lord," Shannon parroted. "Now we just wait."

  Control room

  Nuclear attack submarine USS North Carolina (SSN 777)

  Depth 100 feet

  Forty miles east of USS Ronald Reagan

  Sea of Okhotsk

  Captain Don Hoover sat at the helm in the control room, sipping coffee and marveling at all of the high-tech gadgetry at the controls of his brand-new nuclear submarine, when the highest enlisted man on his sub, the chief of the boat, approached with paperwork in his hand.

  "Captain, we've received targeting info for cruise missile launch in support of Operation Genghis Kahn, sir."

  "Very well. Read targeting information, Chief of the Boat."

  The chief of the boat complied. "Message is authentic, sir."

  "XO?"

  "I concur, sir."

  "Weps?"

  "I concur, sir."

  "Very well. Load targeting information into computers for Tomahawk launch on my command."

  "Aye, Captain," the weapons officer said.

  "Captain, targeting information is loaded. Missiles ready for launch."

  "Chief of the Boat, make depth for missile launch."

  "Missile launch depth. Aye, sir."

  "XO, take the boat to general quarters. Advise the crew to prepare for Tomahawk launch in T-minus 10 minutes."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The XO took the microphone. "General quarters! General quarters! General quarters! This is the XO. By order of the captain, all hands prepare for Tomahawk missile launch in T-minus ten minutes. Repeat, all hands prepare for Tomahawk missile launch in T-minus ten minutes. By order of the captain, this is the XO."

  "Very well," Captain Hoover said, his voice deliberately calm. He sipped more coffee. "Chief of the Boat. Status?"

  "Approaching missile launch depth in T-minus two minutes, sir. Stand by."

  Captain Hoover watched the clock mounted on the bridge. The second hand made one complete sweep around the circumference. Then another.

  "Missile launch depth, Captain."

  "Very well. Launch Tomahawks."

  "Launch Tomahawks. Aye, sir," the weapons officer said.

  Then came a rushing sound and the whine of rockets. The North Carolina shook and vibrated as if it were about to fall apart in the water. Then a whooshing sound. Then another.

  "Missiles away!" The weapons officer's voice exuded excitement. "Two Tomahawks airborne, bearing course two-two-zero degrees. Range
eight miles. Altitude fifty feet above sea level, sir."

  "Very well," the captain said. "We've done our jobs. Chief of the Boat, make depth two hundred feet."

  "Make depth two hundred feet. Aye, Captain."

  Hoover took a satisfying last gulp of his battery-acid coffee. "We'll hang out around here with Ronald Reagan till the party's over, then get the heck out of Dodge."

  Gobi Desert

  Northeast of Sainted, Mongolia

  Day 547, fifteen minutes before midnight

  Shannon looked into the moonlit sky. There were plenty of stars, but no helicopters. No sign of anything up there.

  "Come on, guys. Where the heck are you?"

  "Shannon, look!" Willie pointed toward the camp, where several of the men were gesturing wildly, as if they were arguing about something. One man stepped into one of the tents. A woman emerged at gunpoint. Her red hair glistened in the campfire and the moonlight. Her hands were tied behind her back.

  "That's got to be Colcernian," Shannon said.

  "No, maybe that's Colcernian!" Willie pointed to another tent, where more angry Arabs were leading another redheaded woman outside at gunpoint.

  "Or maybe L'Enfant."

  They pushed both women, guns trained at their heads, out toward two posts that had been sunk in the ground. The women tried to get away, but their captors now wound rope around them, securing each to a separate post.

  "Come on, SEALs!" Shannon said, her voice soft but urgent. "Or I'm going to shoot these animals myself."

  One of the men was now yelling at the others, and they lined up in a row. Two men started bringing rifles out of the tents, handing a rifle to each man in line.

  "Dear Lord, they're forming a firing squad."

  "Yes, they are," Shannon said. She worked the bolt action on her rifle. "Get your weapon ready, Willie."

  Willie complied. "Who would have thought missionary work would lead to this?"

  "You too, Jagtai."

  "Done."

  "Now if these SEALs don't get here, we're opening fire. I see five animals in the firing squad. There are three of us. I'll take the one on the left. Willie you take the middle. Jagtai, the right. Then fire on whoever is left standing. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  The leader screamed something in Arabic. Shannon brought a bead on the rifleman to the left. The firing squad brought their rifles to their shoulders.

  "Non. S'il vous plait!" The shrieking voice of a woman echoed through the night.

  Where were the SEALs? There was no time to wait. "Ready, gentlemen. On my mark. Fire!"

  Rifle fire cracked the air in the midst of a huge, blinding explosion that rocked the earth. Then another of even greater magnitude. Thick, billowing smoke and blinding fire blocked their view of the terrorist camp, but shrieking and yelling in Arabic echoed through the hills. Then came the deafening noise of rotor blades from behind their heads.

  Shannon looked up and saw the huge black silhouettes of two helicopters passing close over their heads.

  "Yeah, baby! The cavalry has arrived! Let's go!"

  CHAPTER 54

  Bridge, USSRonald Reagan

  Course 001 degrees

  57 degrees 30 minutes N latitude

  140 degrees 30 minutes E longitude

  80 miles west of Ayan, Russia

  Sea of Okhotsk

  Day 548, 11:00 a.m.

  Zack hadn't slept at all during the night. Instead, he had spent the night in long, desperate prayer. He showered at six, and by eight o'clock he was in the ship's JAG office, going over paperwork with his assistant, Lieutenant Meredith, and the ship's senior chief legalman.

  Nine o'clock came and went. Nothing. Then ten o'clock. By eleven o'clock, he headed up to the bridge for his morning meeting with Captain Long.

  "Morning, Zack." Captain Long was in his chair, looking out at the cold gray sea, sipping coffee.

  "Anything, sir?"

  "Nothing, Zack. But remember, the choppers are under a radio blackout, and if they do show up, we probably won't hear anything till they're right on top of us. We're just eighty miles off the Russian coast, so as soon as they break out over sea, they'll be here in less than thirty minutes."

  "Understood, sir."

  "You look sharp today. Why the ser vice dress blues?" "Just in case... You never know."

  "Coffee?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Petty Officer, fetch the commander a cup."

  "Aye, sir."

  "By the way, we did get a message in from the States for you. You seen it?"

  "No, sir."

  "From your old skipper. Here. I've got a copy in my clipboard." Captain Long handed Zack the document.

  From: Commanding Officer, Navy Trial Command Southwest

  To: Staff Judge Advocate, USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76) Commanding Officer, SEAL Team 3

  Via: Commanding Officer, USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76)

  Subj: General Court-Martial Results U.S. v. Ensign Wofford Eckberg, USN

  Please be advised that general court-martial verdict in subject case is as follows: Guilty on all charges and specifications. Dishonorable discharge from naval ser vice. Three years' confinement at navy brig. Three SEAL members involved in retaliatory assault awarded nonjudical punishment with thirty days' restriction and reduction in rank one enlisted grade.

  Trial counsel LCDR Poole sends best regards.

  Zack folded the orders. "Well, there's some great news. Way to go, Wendy!"

  "Bridge, CIC. E-C2 Hawkeye reporting two inbound choppers bearing zero-nine-zero degrees. Choppers have just cleared Russian coast! Report inbound choppers are MH-53E Sea Dragon class, Captain!"

  "Yes! Those are our birds!"

  "CIC, Bridge. ETA?"

  "Fifteen minutes, Skipper."

  "Bridge, CIC. Hawkeye reporting choppers request emergency medical personnel on standby. Request body bags and master-at-arms personnel to take high-profile prisoner into custody. Also have intel on standby for interrogations."

  "Any other news?" "Negative, Captain."

  Zack's heart sank.

  "XO, contact ship's master-at-arms and medical. Also, I want an armed marine squadron to back up the master-at-arms."

  "Aye, Captain," the XO said.

  "Come on, Zack. Let's get to the flight deck!"

  When Zack and Captain Long stepped from the carrier's towering steel structure known as the "island" onto the flight deck, deck crews in various colored jackets were already pointing to the two inbound black helicopters that appeared to be about a half mile off the carrier's stern.

  Flight crewmen were signaling the choppers in for a landing toward the back of the runway.

  The medical crew, consisting of corpsmen, doctors, and nurses, rushed stretchers, wheelchairs, and surgical kits to the landing area.

  The U.S. Marine detachment on board, wearing fatigues and carrying M16s, trotted in closely behind the medical personnel. The marines set a roped perimeter to keep deck crews back away from the choppers' landing areas.

  Zack had tried cases against the best lawyers in the world, and beaten them, and appeared on national and international television, but nothing he had ever done had struck such fear and excitement in him as he felt now. He wished he could slow his heart down to at least 120 beats per minute. Even that would help some. But his heartbeat quickened.

  Rumors swirled on the flight deck that the SEALs had bagged one or more high-profile terrorists. Who could it be? And why the body bags? Someone was dead.

  The rumble of helicopter rotors drowned out everything except a voice on the ship's loudspeaker saying, "Stand back! Make room for the choppers to land. Stand back!"

  Chopper number one floated to the deck. Chopper two sat down beside it. Both cut their engines.

  The choppers sat for what seemed an eternity as gusts of wind from the sea blew across the flight deck. Then Zack saw the medical teams sprinting to chopper one. The master-at-arms and marines rushed to chopper two. The doors on chopper one
slid back. Stretchers and gurneys were lifted into the chopper. A few minutes passed.

  Corpsmen lifted a mobile stretcher out of the first chopper, pushing an injured SEAL across the deck.

  Then another.

  Four stretchers altogether rolled out of the helicopter. Corpsmen worked out on the deck to insert IVs into several of the SEALs.

  Then another stretcher was lifted out of the chopper. A zipped-up silver body bag lay on the stretcher. Zack's heart pounded with apprehension at the sight of the body bag. It was followed by two more.

  When the injured had been removed from chopper one, the marines closed in on chopper two. The large bay door in the rear of the chopper swung open. A Navy SEAL stepped out. Zack recognized Master Chief Matthew Cantor.

  The master chief turned and reached his hand into the chopper. A feminine hand reached out from the dark. Zack's heart skipped. A woman's red hair came into view. Then Zack saw the woman's face.

  Navy SEALs had rescued Jeanette L'Enfant.

  Crushing disappointment left Zack frozen behind the rope that separated the onlookers from the medical, aviation, and military police personnel surrounding the choppers.

  Was Diane in one of the three zipped body bags? Had they even found her?

  Zack fought tears as a U.S. Navy SEAL captain stepped out of the darkness into the light. Captain Noble's stern face was all business. He turned, reached his bulging biceps into the chopper, and yanked on an arm. Out stumbled an Arab man in a white shirt and white pants.

  When the man looked up at the semicircle of naval personnel surrounding him, pandemonium erupted on the flight deck.

  Hussein al-Akhma! In the flesh!

  Cheers, whistles, and catcalls erupted at the realization that the SEALs had bagged the most notorious terrorist in the world. U.S. Marines surrounded the squirming terrorist, and the flight crew burst into chants of "NAAA-VEEE! NAAA-VEEE! NAAA-VEEE!" then changed to "USA! USA! USA!"

  Like adoring fans cheering Hollywood celebrities exiting their limousines at the Oscars, the deck crew cheered wildly as each member of SEAL Team 3 stepped out onto the deck of the Reagan, waving and smiling.