Sea Of Terror db-8

by Stephen Coonts

  "What the hell?" Esterhausen asked.

  "I think they're getting nervous about us moving around," Howorth told him. "Maybe they're watching our aircraft out there, following us."

  "What does it mean?"

  "That things are going to start happening damned fast, now."

  Howorth set up one final e-mail, this one addressed to GCHQ and the NSA: Ghailiani clicked HTML page. Carrousel in casino, Deck 9, 2218 EST Two tangos outside by Atlas Pool, one inside casino. Ready to receive visitors.

  Again she hit send. The message was encrypted using a GCHQ cipher originally created at Fort Meade, so in the unlikely event that someone in Ship's Security was aware of her mail, they weren't reading it.

  "Okay, Jerry," Carolyn said, closing the e-mail account and sliding the computer across the table to Esterhausen. "It's all yours."

  "What did you do?"

  She shrugged. "Nothing much. Called down the wrath of God on the unbelievers, maybe. Just a little."

  "I don't understand."

  "You will," Carolyn Howorth said. "Just be patient, and you will."

  Osprey Cambridge One 40deg 19' N, 69deg 06' W Friday, 0442 hours EST

  The V-22 Osprey droned through the night, its enormous twin props in the forward flight configuration, driving the aircraft along at just over 270 knots. On the red-lit cargo deck, twenty-four men in combat dress that gave them the look of malevolent beings from another world quietly waited, their rucksacks parked between their booted feet.

  "We're approaching the drop zone, Mr. Dean," the cargo master said over the intercom. "Ten more minutes to drop." "Right."

  Dean looked aft along the twin lines of black-garbed and masked men seated in the blood-tinted glow of the Osprey's cargo deck. Members of the ultra-secret Black Cat Bravo assault force assigned to the NSA's Deep Black program, they were the National Security Agency's premier military strike team — or would be after tonight. This would be their first operational mission.

  Over the past several years of Deep Black's operational history, Desk Three agents had been limited in combat to the firepower they could carry on their person — generally a semiautomatic pistol. The standard wisdom of covert ops held that if you actually needed to use a firearm, your mission had failed.

  There were times, however, when something more was needed than a sound-suppressed pistol, a means of delivering major firepower with surgical precision. Various branches of the U. S. military had such units — the Army's Delta Force, Rangers, and Special Forces, the U. S. Marines' Force Recon, the Navy's SEAL Teams — and Deep Black's Desk Three had worked with all of them, generally through the auspices of USSOCOM, the U. S. Special Operations Command.

  But for the past two years Rubens and Charlie Dean both had been pushing for a special-capabilities unit answerable solely to Desk Three. The need had become particularly evident last year, when Dean had undertaken a Desk Three op in the Arctic far north and the takedown of a Russian ship illegally holding American personnel who'd been operating an ice cap weather station. A SEAL assault unit had taken the ship, but difficulties in command control, in communications, and between individual personnel had caused difficulties that Black Cat was designed to prevent.

  The Black Cat units, Alpha on the West Coast, Bravo on the East, were the result.

  Technically, the team members were, like Dean, civilians — "technically" because although the NSA was subordinate to the U. S. Department of Defense, with either a lieutenant general or a vice admiral as director, the Agency operated in a kind of twilight world straddling both the civilian and the military defense communities.

  Of course, the NSA officially didn't even have a field-active component or human intelligence capabilities. Its original charter called for the Agency to handle electronic and signals intelligence — SIGINT — only, which it did by monitoring radio broadcasts, phone and satellite communications, and Internet connections worldwide.

  But Desk Three existed because sometimes a human being had to place a listening device in a telephone or an intercept unit inside a computer keyboard to eavesdrop on communications. And sometimes those humans needed a lot of firepower, fast.

  Hence, Black Cat.

  "Cougars!" Dean called over the team's radio channel. "Switch to tank oh-two!"

  The Osprey's cargo deck had already been depressurized, and every man there was breathing pure oxygen through an attachment to 02 lines along the cargo deck's internal fuselage walls. They'd been breathing pure oxygen for the past forty minutes in order to flush all of the nitrogen out of their bloodstreams. Each man now made the switch-over to his own, personal oxygen bottle, throwing a connector switch, then unthreading the aircraft supply line from their oxygen system: At these altitudes there simply wasn't enough oxygen in the air to keep a man aware and conscious for more than a few minutes.

  One by one, the men along the starboard side each raised a black-gloved fist with the thumb extended up. The Osprey could carry twenty-four passengeis in two rows of seats, more if they were floor-loaded. Dean and his eleven men were Cougar Team. The twelve men on the port side comprised Jaguar Team and would remain in reserve.

  "Cougars! Prepare for jump!"

  The eleven men along the starboard side of the aircraft stood as one.

  The bad guys had thrown the team a curve just over twenty-four hours ago by separating the two ships that, until now, had been lashed together. The Atlantis Queen was still less than half a mile away from the Pacific Sandpiper, but the two vessels would have to be taken down separately now.

  And so a second assault force was approaching the Sandpiper on board the USS Ohio with an ASDS riding piggyback on its after deck and Navy SEALs preparing to deploy. Jaguar Team, which originally had been intended to land on the Sandpiper, would now hang back in the orbiting Osprey and jump where they were needed.

  The Cougars began going through their final checkout.

  Dean pressed a key on the panel strapped to his left forearm, and the LED screen lit up with pertinent data — his altitude above sea level, now 22,745 feet; the temperature outside, minus twenty-three degrees; the wind speed downloaded from the Osprey's computer; the atmospheric pressure… it was all there, right down to the wind speed above the water at the target. He pressed another key, and the atmospheric data were replaced by a bio stats screen, including, again, the outside temperature, as well as heart rate, blood pressure, and the flow rate of 02 through his face mask.

  He pressed a third key, and those data were replaced by a navigational screen showing his precise longitude and latitude, plus his current velocity — 271 knots — as clocked by NAVSTAR-GPS satellites in medium Earth orbit, eleven thousand miles overhead. Most important was the tiny, glowing red arrow on the extreme right, by his wrist, accompanied by the numerals 96845, the last three of which were flickering so quickly they were blurred as the number dwindled. It was the range, in yards, to the target, which now lay about fifty-five miles to the northeast. The arrow gave the direction to. the Atlantis Queen and was now pointed at the front of the Osprey's troop bay.

  The wrist pad gave him all the data he needed to conduct a HAHO paradrop and landing on what otherwise would have been an impossible target — a moving target, in pitch-blackness, that was just seventy feet long and about fifty wide.

  Each of the other men in the assault had the same device, and each was cycling through the different screens now, making sure they were operational. Once certain that their electronic systems were good to go, they began the time-honored physical check, with each man checking the straps, weapons, gear, and buckles of the man beside him, then standing still as the two switched roles.

  Each man in the assault team wore a black GORE-TEX jumpsuit over a Polartec liner, cold-weather gloves and overboots, and an HGU-55/P parachutist's helmet with a built-in communications system that would allow him to talk to the other team members and, via a relay through a nearby AWACs aircraft, with Desk Three. His lower face was covered by an MBU-12P pressure demand oxyg
en mask. His left eye was covered by an AN/PVS-14D night-vision monocular, which left his right eye dark-adapted in the dim red glow of the Osprey's cabin lights.

  They carried a mix of weapons. Four, including Dean, carried the ubiquitous H&K SD5 with infrared laser targeting mounts and an integral sound suppressor. Four others carried a fairly new entry in the U. S. military arsenal, the AA-12 automatic combat shotgun, while the last four carried CAR-15 assault weapons. Each man also carried a SIG SAUER P226 with a sound suppressor screwed tight to the muzzle.

  Dean finished checking the straps and harness fastenings on Tom Fredericks, the man immediately in front of him, making sure in particular that his combat shotgun was secure on his back and the hose from his 02 cylinder was clear and not going to be torn by an opening parachute. Then Dean clapped Fredericks on the shoulder and allowed the other man to check him.

  Final checkout complete, the twelve of them stood single file, facing the still-closed boarding ramp of the aircraft.

  And then there was nothing to do but wait.

  Chapter 24

  Assault Team Cougar One North Atlantic Ocean Five miles from target Friday, 0447 hours EST

  The minutes passed, as they always do just before a step into emptiness, slowly.

  The Osprey had reached its service ceiling of about twenty-four thousand feet. HAHO parachute jumps usually took place at altitudes over twenty-five thousand feet, but that could always be tailored to fit mission requirements. Cougar would be steering to target across a distance of only five miles, rather than the more usual thirty to fifty. They droned along now in level flight, steadily closing on the waypoint designated Charlie One.

  "What's the word, Mr. Rubens?" Dean asked, keeping his helmet comm gear switched off while he used his implant to talk to the Art Room. "We've got about two minutes to go/no-go."

  "The President still hasn't gotten back to Bing," Rubens said. He sounded tired and not a little exasperated. "This may be a CYA hand-me-down." "Shit."

  Dean hadn't been paying a lot of attention to the bureaucratic games in Washington lately, but he'd heard enough from Rubens over the past several days to make a pretty fair guess as to what was happening. The current administration didn't want to be seen as militarily adventurous at a time when it was trying to disengage from Iraq. The United Kingdom had rejected an offer of help by the United States with Harrow Storm, and that had been fine with the President. He wanted to stay out of what publicly was a British crisis if he possibly could.

  But the two hijacked ships were now just two hundred nautical miles from New York City. Rubens was convinced that the real goal of the IJI Brigade terrorists was to force the United States to step in and either attempt a bloody takedown of both ships, one that might well end in hundreds or thousands of casualties and risk radioactive contamination of the entire North Atlantic Gulf Stream, or, failing that, sink the two ships out of hand to keep them out of American waters or ports, an act that would show the U. S. military murdering thousands of hostages and contaminating the ocean, all live on the nightly cable news.

  By doing nothing, the administration might be hoping that someone else took the responsibility of actually making a decision. If Rubens decided to launch Operation Neptune on his own, he would give the President options. If Neptune was a success, the President could accept the praise. If it was a disaster, he could always "disavow all knowledge of their actions," as the old TV spy show so succinctly put it.

  As Rubens said, a CYA hand-me-down of responsibility — cover your ass, and let someone else take the responsibility.

  "Neptune," Rubens said after a moment, "is a go. On my authority."

  "Copy," Dean replied. "Neptune is go." At that moment, he was very, very glad he did not have Rubens' job. Success would mean someone else got the praise and he, most likely, would get a severe dressing-down for exceeding his authority. Failure meant political crucifixion and quite probably legal action as well. If Neptune turned sour, they would be looking for scapegoats in the morning.

  "Good luck, Charlie."

  "Thanks. And… don't worry. We'll do our best."

  "I know you will."

  The aircraft cargo master slapped Dean on the shoulder and switched his headset back on. "The tangos just called to wave us off," the cargo said over Dean's helmet radio. "Guess they're nervous about us flying so close."

  "What'd you tell them?"

  "That we were a fat, stupid UPS plane en route to Boston," the cargo master replied. "Just like we planned it."

  "Any reply to that?"

  "Negative. But you can bet they're watching us!"

  "Yeah, but a cruise ship's radar isn't going to spot man-sized targets. They can watch all they want."

  The cargo master held a hand up as he listened to an intercom transmission from the cockpit, then nodded and gave Dean the ready sign. They were coming up on Charlie One. The pitch of the Osprey's rotors changed as the aircraft slowed sharply.

  With a shrill grinding sound, the rear ramp to the Osprey's cargo deck opened, dropping to create a descending ramp leading into darkness.

  Dean opened his communications channel again. "We're good to go, people," he said. "Light your strobes." At the back of the helmet of each man in the line, an IR beacon began winking on and off, invisible to the unaided right eye, visible as a white, pulsing flash through the NVG monocular each man wore over his left.

  The sudden wind from outside whipped at the legs of Dean's jumpsuit. The oxygen coming through his mask was cold and unbearably dry. More seconds crawled past, and then the cargo master said, "Okay, people! We're coming up on jump point Charlie One in five.. four… three… two… one… now"

  "Go!" Dean yelled. "Go! Go! Go!"

  The line of twelve black-clad men moved forward swiftly, passing the line of empty seats to their right, the line of watching comrades still seated on their left. They hit the lowered ramp one close behind the next, launching one after the other into the night.

  Dean was the last man out… and then he was falling through the dark.

  Starboard Boat Deck, Atlantis Queen 40deg 47' N, 69deg 59' W Friday, 0448 hours GMT

  "This way," Johnny Berger, the steward, whispered. "But be quietl"

  Andrew McKay nodded and passed the whisper back to Nina, and she passed it on to the others following. There were twelve of them strung out in a long line, emerging one by one from the door onto the Starboard Boat Deck. Eleven would be taking the lifeboat; the twelfth, Dr. Barnes, was bringing up the rear. He would help them keep a lookout and actually operate the davits that would lower them into the sea.

  "Mommy, I'm sleepy," Melissa said.

  "Shh, dear. Not now."

  Their escape had been put off one time after another. Not long after their secretive meeting up in Kleito's Temple on Tuesday afternoon, the helicopter attack had thundered out of the east. Several of them, including McKay and his family, had seen the helicopter shot down off the starboard side. The escape, which had been planned for that evening, was put off. The hijackers would be on their guard, and it was too dangerous to go wandering around on deck.

  There were rumors that a passenger had been shot afterward, but no one in the group had been able to confirm that. They'd agreed, though, that the terrorists might decide to lock all of the passengers up at any time — perhaps put them with Harper and Bernstein and the ship's captain and the Cruise Director and everyone else who seemed to have vanished during the past five days.

  But then the wind had picked up and it had started raining. Berger had pointed out that they did not want to try to drop into the sea from a moving ship. The maneuver would be dangerous enough even if the water was calm.

  And so they'd put the escape off for another night.

  That afternoon, however, the rain had lifted and the wind had died down as the ship had emerged into sunshine from a long line of squalls. Barnes had checked some maps in the ship's library earlier. He'd pointed out that — given their speed and course since Sunday — th
ey ought to be somewhere off the coast of Massachusetts by now, probably less than fifty miles from shore; they could start rowing northeast and hope to strike land within a day or two, even if the military didn't pick up their emergency signal and come get them.

  Tonight, they'd all agreed, would be the night.

  Turning right, they moved along the safety railing toward the loom of the first lifeboat, hanging just above the deck. Barnes used his security key to swipe through a reader. Everyone else had left their ID cards in their staterooms; if the hijackers were tracking people by the locations of their passkey cards, they likely wouldn't notice the ship's doctor on the boat deck, where they would definitely come investigate twelve passengers and crew out here late at night.

  A ready light winked on, and Barnes pressed a button. With a grinding whine, the lifeboat swung across the deck and over the railing.

  "Let's get the women and children on first," McKay said, nudging Nina and Melissa forward. He knew it sounded silly — a bit of melodramatic nonsense — even as he said it. But the stress was building inside him to the point where he could hardly stand still. He needed to get them off the ship now…

  "Wakkif!" a harsh voice barked from farther aft… and then three flashlights switched on, pinning the party of passengers against the railing. "Stop! Stop where you are!"

  "Aw, shit!" Carmichael said. Turning, he started to run forward, but a hijacker with an AK-47 stepped out of the shadows and knocked Carmichael down with a rifle butt to the jaw.

  Stunned, the civilians could only stand there, helpless as a half-dozen armed men came toward them both from forward and from aft. A few of the civilians raised their hands.

  "Put hands down," one of the hijackers said in heavily accented English. "We know you no have weapons. Now move! That way! You will come with us!"

  And the hijackers herded the twelve of them forward along the deck, back toward the door from which they'd just emerged.

  Assault Team Cougar One

  40deg 47' N, 69deg 56' W