by Bart Gauvin
A pause followed, then the lieutenant came back with, “Say again, Chief?”
Just then a seaman reappeared from below decks and called, “Chief, you need to see this!”
“Wait one, Adak,” Everfield said into the radio as he followed the Guardsman through the hatch, down a ladder and forward to the musty sleeping quarters in the bow. There the second team member was crouching over what looked, at first glance, to be a large stash of cocaine divided into dozens of rectangular white bricks. He stood up when the chief pushed his way forward between the rows of bunks that converged inward towards the bow. “What is it, boys?” the chief asked.
“Don’t know, Chief,” the other man said, “could be drugs, but, well, what do you think these wires are?”
Then Everfield saw it and froze. Several colored wires snaked into the white bricks. They led back to a pair of small green boxes taped to the side of the hull, Is it a bomb? No. Everfield realized what it was, Scuttling charge. The veteran Coast Guardsman felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead and an unpleasant ticklish sensation in his lower gut as he comprehended the danger he and his party were in. Those bastards left a scuttling charge to kill us!
“Back! Back!” the chief ordered the others firmly. “Get back on deck and move as far aft as you can.”
“What is it, Chief?” the man who’d been crouched over the bomb said, not understanding, but sensing the fear in the old petty officer.
“It’s a bomb. Now do as I say and get aft!” the chief answered.
The others needed no more encouragement. Next the chief grabbed his radio and called Adak. “Adak, Away Team. We have a situation here.”
“…scuttling charge in the bow. Looks like it’s rigged to blow, over,” crackled through radio speaker in Sandy Hook Coast Guard Station watch center.
Ingalls’ head shot up. What now? In the last few minutes it seemed all hell had broken loose. The DEFCON One call started the cascade of events, followed closely by the report from Wanderer that Trogg was mining the channel. Then a few minutes later, while Ingalls was discussing the closure of the harbor over the phone with the Port Authority, the man stopped mid-sentence and said, “Uh, gotta go. We’ve got a bridge down in the East River up here.”
The line clicked off. Ingalls hung up and dialed NYPD headquarters, trying to come to grips with the disaster unfolding around across his city. No way one of the bridges could have actually collapsed into the river, he thought.
A harried voice answered the line at NYPD headquarters.
“Which bridge?” the police officer answered testily. “We’re responding to explosions all over Manhattan right now. It’s like—” The man’s voice was replaced by a series of muffled bangs coming through the speaker. Ingalls thought he heard someone in the background yell “Gun! Gun!” before the police officer on the phone said quickly, “Got a situation here.” The line clicked off. Ingalls stared at the mute phone, dumbfounded. Where are we, Gotham City?
One of the watch center officers switched on the television hanging in a corner of the room and turned up the volume, drawing Ingalls’ attention as he hung up the receiver. In seconds the entire room was transfixed by the images on the screen.
“—are saying that it was a truck bomb, but we’re still waiting for confirmation,” a reporter was saying into the camera, one hand pressed to her ear beneath a stylish cut of brown hair to block out the blaring sirens audible through her microphone. Behind her, the square base and distinctive glass-and-steel of the World Trade Center buildings were clearly recognizable, gray smoke swirling about.
“Looks like the ‘Blind Sheikh’ attack from last year,” someone in the watch center muttered.
The officer with the remote impulsively switched the channel, conjuring up the local NBC anchor who was saying, “Just to reassure everyone, casualties in this attack should be low, we can hope, given that it’s a Sunday. Still, our reporter on the scene says that damage to the front of the Stock Exchange is extensive and—”
The video feed displaying over the anchor’s shoulder showed the narrow, winding, marble and granite corridor of Wall Street filled with emergency vehicles, their lights flashing and reflecting off the surrounding walls and windows.
Then the channel flipped again, this time to the most dramatic images yet. A reporter was speaking into the camera, the ticker below her showing the ABC logo and giving her location at Pier 35 on the East River side of Manhattan. She was speaking earnestly into the camera, but everyone in the watch center was so transfixed by the images behind the young woman that none even registered what she was saying. In the foreground of the shot, the long central span of the huge Manhattan Bridge sagged down into the East River like some enormous gray ribbon. The places where the span connected to the two suspension towers showed the jagged protrusions of steel beams and wires where the proud bridge’s structure had pulled apart. Huge suspension cables hung limply from either tower, snaking from their high anchor points down until they disappeared into the water in confused coils that looked for all the world like tangles of knotted gray hair among the FDNY and NYPD watercraft that were plying the agitated waters around the disaster. Looking for survivors, Ingalls realized, belatedly.
Beyond the wreckage of the downed Manhattan Bridge, the still-standing Brooklyn Bridge showed signs of damage as well. The bridge itself was too distant to make out details in the grainy TV footage, but everyone could see the wisps of black smoke and occasional flashes of flame rising from burning vehicles on the center of the older bridge.
The reporter was saying something about a train derailment on the nearer Manhattan Bridge when Ingalls realized in a flash of horror that some of the jagged shapes protruding above the water in the middle of the river were New York City subway cars. That caused Ingalls to pay closer attention to what the smartly-dressed reporter was saying.
“—and the blasts here were not the only attacks either, Brian,” the woman was saying as the camera panned back to her. “One officer manning a police rescue boat told us just a few minutes ago that the Holland Tunnel on the other side of the island is closed and that there is smoke coming out of the tunnel entrance. He also said that the NYPD may have prevented a similar attack on the George Washington Bridge, but so far we have no confirmation of that.”
“Jessica,” broke in Brian, the local anchor, in his gravelly-voiced concerned-journalist persona, “what of the reports of gunfire outside of several NYPD precinct headquarters? Do you have any information about that?”
That statement drew Ingall’s attention away from images of the bridge, flashing his thoughts back to his futile call to the NYPD.
The woman on camera allowed a look of surprised concern to pass across her face before responding, “Uh, no Brian, I had not heard that, but that would certainly,” she paused, “That would certainly fuel the theory about some sort of coordinated terrorist attack going on.”
They don’t know that all hell is breaking loose right here in the harbor too, Ingalls realized.
Immediately Commander Jim Ingalls was back to the problem at hand. He tore his eyes away from the television, forcing his fears about what the apparent attacks all over the city, all over the world, might portend. Focus on what you can affect, he told himself. Mines in the harbor. Hostiles heading for Breezy Point. Men aboard that damned trawler that could blow at any second.
A phone rang and one of the junior officers answered with a professional, “Sandy Hook Coast Guard Station.” She listened for a moment, nodded, then said, “Wait one.” Looking over at her commander while placing her hand over the telephone receiver’s speaker, the younger woman said, “Sir, it’s the FBI. They say with the terrorist attacks around the city and everything else going on that they’re claiming jurisdiction over the trawler. They want us to bring it to the NYPD pier at the Brooklyn Army Terminal as soon as we have it secured.”
“Did you tell him it’s
rigged to blow?” Ingalls asked, antagonism in his voice. He didn’t want a bureaucratic turf fight right now. There was too much going on and too much at stake.
The younger officer opened her mouth, then looked at the receiver clearly perplexed.
Not her fault, thought Ingalls, I wouldn’t know what to do in her position either. The FBI’s order makes sense under normal circumstances. We want to know for sure who’s responsible for this. The commander was trying not to show it, but he was reeling like everyone else from the rapid-fire blows of the surprise that they were at war, the mining of the harbor, and now the terrorist attacks across the city. The whole world has gone mad.
“Tell him we’ll get the trawler there as soon as we can,” Ingalls allowed after a moment, Assuming it doesn’t blow up. Then he turned his attention back to more pressing matters. He focused on the situation map, mounted on the front wall of the watch center. The chart showed in blue the greater New York Harbor along with the patch of Atlantic Ocean south of Long Island and Rhode Island and east of the Jersey Shore. Numerous inbound and outbound ships were denoted by magnets on the map, which was mounted on a metallic backing. The markers that concerned him right now were the ones representing the two cutters servicing the harbor; Adak was at the entrance to the channel and chasing the fleeing—Bulgarians? Terrorists? Russians? Could Russia be responsible for all this?—towards Breezy Point, on the eastern side of the channel. South of the harbor mouth and just over twelve miles east of the Jersey Shore, the larger cutter USCGC Dallas was drawing near to that Finnish-flagged Soviet intelligence trawler, the Kursagraf.
Ingalls looked over at his surface operations officer and said, “Get on the horn to Adak’s boarding party and tell them to disarm that scuttling charge if they can. Tell them I don’t want them taking any chances and if they have any doubts about it, they need to get in the RHIB and get away. Tell them the FBI needs the boat for evidence, but it’s not worth their lives.” It was a bit cowardly, he knew, to put the responsibility for choosing to abandon the trawler on the shoulders of the chief, but Everfield was the man on the scene and Ingalls was confident that he would make a smart decision.
The surface ops officer made the radio call. A moment later the speaker crackled, “Sandy Hook, this is pilot boat Wanderer. We copied your last transmission and we may be able to help. My boatswain is former Navy, explosive ordnance disposal. Says he may be able to disarm your bomb. We’re coming alongside the trawler now.”
Finally, a bit of good news, Ingalls thought.
“Thanks, Wanderer. Be careful,” the surface ops officer was saying when the man with the remote asked in a loud voice, “What’s happening to the TV?”
Everyone looked again at the television in the corner. The screen had gone fuzzy with interference, but the picture and sound remained clear enough to see and understand. Two TV anchors, a smartly-dressed man and woman, sat behind what looked like the local news desk, but they weren’t the regular ABC anchors who’d just been speaking. ABC was Ingalls’ regular news channel, and the two on-screen anchors were not among the regular faces he knew from the station. Then the ticker at the bottom of the screen caught his attention. It read in bold letters: AMERICAN AND GERMAN FORCES INVADE POLAND AND CZECHOSLOVAKIA.
The officer with the remote turned the volume up. The image on screen shifted to footage of boxy tanks churning across a soggy field. Looks like be somewhere in Europe, Ingalls thought absently. Then the scene shifted to columns of armored vehicles transiting the narrow streets of a town whose houses showed white stucco walls and red tile roofs under wet, iron-gray skies.
The unfamiliar female anchor was saying in a serious and matter-of-fact tone, “The Pentagon reports that forces of the Bundeswehr, supported by American troops stationed in Germany, have begun cross-border operations to achieve NATO objectives in Poland. They say that the operational plan requires limited incursions into Czechoslovakia as well to prevent Soviet forces there from interfering in the operation.”
The male anchor interrupted with a stilted phrase of his own, “Yes, Mary, such a surprise attack is typical of declared NATO doctrine. The Alliance leaders clearly felt threatened by the Soviet intervention to resolve the chaos in Poland. They apparently have decided to act pre-emptively to forestall Soviet intentions there.”
Something was off, Ingalls knew right away. The Coast Guard officer couldn’t put his finger on all of it, but alarm bells were going off in his head as he listened to the clearly-rehearsed commentary accompanying the fuzzy video of the two journalists. No doctrine I’ve ever heard has us launching pre-emptive attacks against Soviet troops, he thought. Who are these people? Since when does NATO launch pre-emptive wars against the USSR?
The picture on the television faded, becoming even more snowy. Ingalls could see the usual Sunday anchors again, the ones who had been on the television moments earlier, through the interference. They looked like like specters in front of the newcomers. For an instant he could hear both sets of anchors speaking simultaneously through the static. What’s going on here? He walked over and grabbed the remote from the man holding it, switching the channel back to NBC, then CBS. The same fuzzy video of the unfamiliar anchors appeared on each of the network channels.
“—NATO offensive into Eastern Europe appears to be absolutely massive,” the male anchor was saying. “One Bundeswehr commander we spoke to compared the attack to the ‘left hook’ of the Gulf War three years ago, and—”
Ingalls’ air operations officer, faithfully monitoring his own radio, interrupted, “Sir, that AWACS south of Long Island is calling. They say they’re picking up some powerful emissions from that Finnish—” he broke off and seemed to have a moment of clarity, “—sorry, Soviet, intel ship, the Kursagraf. They say it’s broadcasting on numerous commercial TV and radio frequencies!”
The surface operation officer’s radio now crackled to life with, “Sandy Hook, Adak. These leakers are getting close to the beach at Breezy Point. We’re going in close to pursue. I see flashing lights, looks like the NYPD is here. Any word on our boarding party and that scuttling charge, over?”
Ingalls head was reeling. He grabbed his radio, “Boarding party…”
CHAPTER 65
0853 EST, Sunday 13 February 1994
1253 Zulu
Piper Cherokee 213R, over the Atlantic Ocean, twenty miles east of Asbury Park, New Jersey
“YURI, IT’S TIME,” the pilot called back amidst the noise of the small aircraft’s single engine and propeller. “Are you ready to transmit the contacts?”
“One moment, one moment,” said Yuri, in the rear of the four-person cabin. Do you think I want to spend any more time wedged into this cold, cramped coffin than I absolutely have to? he thought, annoyed. The short, slight-framed Yuri was seated sideways, hunched over a large, boxy piece of equipment that occupied the other rear passenger seat. He was peering into the green glow of an LCD display that showed several blips on a dark background. Each of the blips represented the position of a ship approaching or leaving New York Harbor. The ruggedized keyboard he was using to meticulously type the coordinates, course, and size, of the various contacts displayed the Cyrillic alphabet rather than the English one, which was perhaps less than surprising given that both men were conversing in Russian. It was attached to the larger display box by a thick, jerry-rigged cable, and both pieces of equipment were painted in the same olive drab hue common in the Soviet military.
“Well, bistro, quickly, Yuri. Others are waiting on us,” the pilot urged as he turned back to maintain their lazy north-south racetrack pattern twenty miles off the Jersey Shore.
If I were back in my Tu-95, Yuri thought sourly as he continued to tap the keyboard, I could just push a button, and all this information would transfer nice and neat to the uplink. The system they were using was painfully jerry-rigged, especially when compared to those on the huge “Bear” long-range naval bomber. On boa
rd one of those huge four-engine aircraft, Yuri could stretch his legs, even walk around a bit when he needed a break from his radar operator duties. Now, confined in this little Piper Cherokee, it was an entirely different matter. Yuri’s legs were cramping and he was feeling the mental strain of the mission. Sweat was beading on his forehead, despite the cold temperature of the cabin.
The radar sensor he was peering at wasn’t nearly as good as the one on the Tu-95, either. Of course, their little Piper Cherokee would never have gotten off the ground with a sensor that big and heavy in its cabin. No, they were fortunate to have gotten one of the new small radars designed for the Yak-141 fighter jet. It was fortunate that the smaller radar even fit. They had needed to remove the seat, string the antenna along inside of the fuselage, and jam the receiver box into the cabin. It was very rough, but it worked. The sensor was now emitting electromagnetic waves out the left side of the aircraft, and these were bouncing off the metal hulls of ships moving up and down the coast. He counted more than a half-dozen blips, two of which, at the far northern edge of his radar’s range, had been drawing closer together over the past few minutes.
Yuri had volunteered for this mission, not knowing what it would entail. His commander had recommended him as the best radarman his elite reconnaissance bomber regiment had. He’d been sent to meet a Spetsnaz colonel, and now here he was. It all seemed an exciting diversion from the normal drudgery of patrolling the Barents Sea, and so it had been, training with the Spetsnaz teams, drinking with them, womanizing with them.
Then the day came when he realized that his little escapade was more than a nice break from his Murmansk day job. That day had been when he and the five other members of his special mission team departed on their very indirect travel from Moscow to New York, via Damascus, Lagos, Buenos Aires, Rio, and Miami. They spent the last week in the US Northeast connecting with other agents in country, acquiring their aircraft, and moving them to the abandoned farm-field airstrip in New Jersey. Along the way Yuri experienced some of the comforts of America, the most amazing of which to him was the grocery stores. They were just so full and colorful, even in the dead of winter! Yuri never could have imagined a similar cornucopia in the USSR, even in the subsidized stores he had access to in Murmansk due to his privileged position as a naval aviator. It was enough to make him begin to question the weekly political education he’d received since being drafted into the Soviet fleet.