by Lyle Howard
The sun was just peeking over the horizon now, and it cast the eastern sky in a fiery pink glow. Two seamen standing watch outside an open loading compartment saluted as he walked past with his clipboard. “All quiet, men?”
They stood at attention, their eyes tired from the all-night vigil. “All quiet, sir,” came the unanimous response.
This was so much more exciting than sitting behind a desk, shuffling papers and pushing pencils. Sowell could feel his anticipation growing inside. He was proud and a little bitter to have been chosen by the Vice Admiral himself for his final mission. Slowly and deliberately, he walked the two hundred-foot length of the ship and checked off every item on his list to ensure readiness. The Truman reminded him of the naval base itself. Everything was so serene and peaceful on the exterior, but deep inside the heart of both was a hive of activity. A chill ran through him as he stood on the fantail of the ship. The early morning air blowing in off the sea was more cooling than he had expected this early in the summer. It seemed like he was always feeling cold nowadays.
Sowell walked back past the two seamen on post and entered the mid-ship hatch of the cutter. A cup of dark, hot coffee was what he needed most now, so the galley would be his first stop. Once inside the ship, Sowell had a hard time recognizing anything. The last time he was on the Truman was a month ago, before any of the modifications had been made. She looked completely different.
The Truman had a long and storied history. The ship’s most publicized rescue had occurred during January 1986, when the Truman was one of the first to arrive in response to the space shuttle Challenger disaster. In November of 1995, the Truman had helped rescue 578 migrants from a grossly overloaded seventy-five-foot coastal freighter, the most significant number of migrants rescued from a single vessel in Coast Guard history. Now, she was being gutted, retrofitted, and prepared for her last operation… just like he was.
Technicians scrambled past Sowell, making last minute adjustments to their equipment. He had to be careful where he stepped, as the deck was a mass of electrical equipment and cables. Computer consoles were installed where the sonar equipment had been. The tiny green and red lights of their panels blinking on and off like the nighttime sky on some alien world. What had they done to his ship? It didn’t really matter how she looked inside, as long as she did the job they modified her to do. If this test was successful, he knew the Truman was going to be decommissioned and a brand new cutter outfitted to the new Department of Defense standards would take her place. There would be none of this exposed wiring. Why use something twice, when you can spend the taxpayer’s money and build a new one? It wasn’t the fact that he had grown so attached to the Truman that bothered him; it was that he was also a taxpayer.
The galley was still intact and abandoned when he entered it. A coffee maker with a full pot and all the condiments sat against the far bulkhead. Sowell poured himself a cup of the warming liquid and headed up a level to the bridge. Checking his watch, he knew the cargo would be arriving any minute. By this evening they would be underway. Once out to sea, he would let the crew in on how they would be spending their next twenty-four hours.
The bridge was quiet, aside from the usual noises. The radar screen beeped monotonously as the antenna atop the superstructure spun around in its endless orbit. He had time to do some heavy thinking while alone on the bridge. He leaned against the starboard window and contemplated his mission. Even though it was a worthy send-off for his ship, it was less so for him. Sowell was being forced into early retirement after the operation. He was part of the old guard, and like his decomposing ship, he was being sent to dry dock.
The importance of the operation was apparent. The United States Department of Defense had to prove this technology worked. If the North Koreans could detect the Truman, it might just escalate events past the point of no return. He shook off that horrible thought and picked up the intercom to muster his officers.
The Truman would carry a total of thirty-eight men and seven women. That was less than two-thirds of his usual complement of seventy-five, but half had been replaced by scientists and technicians. Somewhere in that count, there had to be one or two intelligence people skulking amongst them as well, Sowell figured.
The cutter would be underway with the least amount of crew available to operate the ship safely. Sowell’s actual Coast Guard personnel consisted of eighteen hand-picked men and women of various rank and skills. Many of them had served under Sowell before. They had jumped at the opportunity to serve with the Captain, knowing it would be their last chance. Being only a few years older than most of them, they considered him part of “their” group.
A career navy man, Sowell rose quickly through the ranks, reaching his present position at the age of thirty-five. Now, thirteen years later, he was sick and being put into mothballs because of his illness. Sowell had won many a battle during his life, but the one against the disease that was eating him from the inside out would be his last. His features had turned gaunt, and he wasn’t moving as fast as he used to, but he could still hold his own with his crew. His thick brown hair had begun to fall out in great clumps from the rounds of chemotherapy, and his once steely blue eyes now sat pale and recessed in their sockets. It just wasn’t right the way they were easing their consciences by throwing him this last bone to send him off in style. It wasn’t dignified—but there was a job to do.
He shook off his depression and reached for the squawk box microphone. “This is the Captain,” his voice boomed, “I need all officers to meet me in the galley for your briefing in one hour....that’s one hour!”
13
Standing outside the bridge with his binoculars held to his eyes, the Captain called out star coordinates to his second in command. Even though there was a low cloud ceiling tonight, Sowell was an experienced sailor and knew his positions. Ensign Terry Hale would stop writing every few seconds to blow warm air onto his hands. The temperature on deck was only seventy-five degrees, but with the Truman running at top speed, the wind made it feel like the fifties. The Ensign thought what they were doing was ridiculous. With all the navigational equipment onboard, there was no reason to use the stars. Stars rarely malfunctioned, Sowell had told him in jest.
The southern Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Florida had a natural warm water river running through it known as the Gulf Stream. That swift Atlantic ocean current originated in the Gulf of Mexico and stretched to the southern tip of Florida, and flowed northward along the eastern coastline of the United States and Newfoundland before crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The Truman crossed the Gulf Stream approximately seventy-five miles off the coast. Over the centuries, the current had become the burial ground for many ships and Spanish Galleons blown off course during the time of Ponce de Leon and the discovery of the New World. There would always be room for one more ship in its indigo depths.
Sowell shouted over the churning Gulf Stream as it was sliced open by the bow of the Truman, calling out another coordinate. “Did you get those last numbers, Ensign?”
“Uh, yes sir. I did.”
The Captain let the binoculars hang loosely around his neck. The fur of his parka collar bristled against the wind. “You’ve lived your entire life in Florida, son?”
“How can you tell, sir?” The young man answered, a shiver running up his back.
“The bluish tint of your skin is a definite tip-off. Why don’t you go below and get a pair of gloves or a heavier jacket? I can’t stand to watch you shaking like this.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be right back.” The Ensign excused himself and headed below deck.
The seas were getting rougher. The Truman was cruising in large circles, simulating a search pattern. If the simulated enemy radar spotted them, it was meant to look routine. Sowell knew the ship’s rendezvous point and the designated time. Getting it there in rough seas and with this dense cloud cover hadn’t been an easy task.
Bundled u
p in an oversized parka, the Ensign made his way back up to the bridge. Coming out of the commotion below decks, the serenity outside was a welcome pleasure. The only sounds he could hear were the hypnotizing hum of the Truman’s engines and the constant slapping of the ocean against the hull of the ship. Closing and securing the hatch behind him, he walked over to the railing. The stillness outside was almost threatening. A hand on his shoulder shook him from his trance. Sowell was standing beside him. “Sorry, Ensign. Let’s go back down. We’ll be on sight in a few more minutes. Get ready to prepare the crew.”
Placing his clipboard between his legs, Hale reopened the hatch. The Captain stepped through first. Hale was about to close the hatch when he heard an unfamiliar sound over the noise of the engines. He paused and stepped back out to the railing.
“Are you coming, Ensign?” Sowell called from the bottom of the stairway.
“One second, sir,” Hale said cocking his head from side to side. It sounded like...fans? That couldn’t be! The sound might as well have been the sirens from ancient mythology: impossible. His imagination must have been running away with him. He turned and followed the Captain to the control room below.
The contrast between above and below decks was as startling as night and day. The control room was full of activity as crew and technicians moved about the cabin, bathed in red light. The red glow of the compartment took a few seconds to get oriented to before the two men could move around freely again.
The sounds of electronic machinery coming to life surrounded them as they made their way to the chart table in the middle of the room. A digital map of the entire area was displayed on the table. Sowell and his officers huddled around the chart and talked in whispers, not wanting to bother any of the technicians making their final preparations for the test. “This is it, lady and gentlemen,” he said, pointing a shaky finger at a mark on the diagram. “There is no margin for error. We’ll only get one shot at this. It has to be on target. If this test fails, it’s because we’ve let her get out of position, is that understood?”
The crew all nodded in the affirmative. The Chief Petty Officer at the far end of the chart chimed in. “Pardon me, Captain, I was wondering—if we maintain radio silence after the test and all the way back into port, what if something goes wrong? We could be stranded out here!” Sowell smiled at the woman and tried to show patience in his voice. The rest of the crew listened attentively; they all had the same question on their minds. “C.P.O., if we go off radio silence at any time out here, we’ll be sitting ducks. The North Koreans would have their patrol boats on us like flies on shit. They would have a squadron airborne before Kim Jong-un could get himself off the toilet.”
“I understand that, Captain, but then, aren’t we sitting ducks out here anyway? Jacksonville wouldn’t know that we were missing until morning.”
Sowell hung his head in frustration. His demeanor and patience were beginning to crack, and he couldn’t let that happen. There was too much at stake. He took a deep breath to regain his composure. “Once the sun comes up, and we’re not back in port, they’ll send support after us. I guarantee it. We’re only a few hours away from the base. The rescue ships would probably cut that time in half. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the bridge.” He had to get away; he couldn’t look into their fresh faces a minute longer. The Ensign took over. “Okay, people; let’s get her ready for knockdown in... seven minutes,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll be on deck with the Captain if you need us. You’re dismissed!”
The crew dispersed quickly and went about their assigned duties. Sowell found it an effort to push the hatch to the bridge open. The Truman had slowed considerably, and the tranquility of the open sea made him feel more relaxed. He took a deep breath and let the fresh salt air wash away his conscience. He turned to find the Ensign staring at him. “What’s the problem, Ensign?”
“Are you alright, sir? The crew’s worried about you.”
“I’m sorry, son. I guess I’m just a little edgy tonight. Tell Boyd I’m sorry for snapping at her like that. It was a fair question.”
The Ensign noticed that Sowell had forgotten to put his parka back on. “Cold, sir? Can I get your jacket for you?”
The Captain shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Is everything at ready stations?”
“The weather desk says there’s a fog bank rolling in from the east. Heavy fog’s pretty unusual this far out here, don’t you think?”
Sowell stared at the eastern horizon through his binoculars. “It shouldn’t affect us until after the test. I wouldn’t be surprised if it drifted right over us with the winds blowing this way.”
The Ensign paused. “Do you hear that sound, sir?”
The Captain quickly changed the subject. “We should be coming to our destination, Ensign. Tell the technicians to prepare the laser.”
The Ensign saluted, still listening to the strange sound emanating from deep within the mysterious fog bank to the east. “Will we be able to watch the test, Captain?”
“You can’t see the laser, son. You will be able to hear it, though.” Sowell said as he disappeared back down into the ship leaving Hale alone on deck.
The Ensign looked through his binoculars at the fog bank which remained stationary off the port side of the Truman. He could never recall seeing fog that thick, not this far out to sea.
Below deck, the crew stood behind the technicians as they monitored their equipment. A large digital clock on the rear bulkhead counted down the last thirty seconds. Up on deck, a small hatch, the size of a hubcap, opened in the stern. While all the heavy electronics were below decks, the only part of the laser turret visible above was a glass tube about a foot long, pointed up at the heavens.
In its sights was the twenty-year-old malfunctioning N.O.A.A. weather satellite. In the past few weeks, its orbit had been decaying by itself. Now, it was expendable. The targeting system was programmed into the laser circuitry back in Houston. This kept the target a secret, restricted to only those with enough clearance to be in the know. If the North Koreans, the Russians, or even the Chinese were alerted to something going on with the weather satellite, they might just monitor it themselves. They might not know what was happening, but they would be able to tell that the satellite was brought down by something other than gravity.
Hale kept his binoculars focused on the fog bank. The wind had shifted direction, and the fog would surround the Truman in about five minutes. He was watching it intently as the laser began to sing out. It sounded like a chorus of angels, starting at a low pitch, then gradually building to a high-range climax that he could no longer hear. All this happened in a matter of seconds. He looked at his watch and then back to the fog bank. It was three minutes away.
In the control room, the Captain was monitoring the time too. The digital clock on the bulkhead clicked to zero, and the compartment erupted with applause. Everyone stood and hugged each other. Only the men monitoring the path of the target stayed eyeing their terminals. They tracked the satellite as it began to wobble wildly, then plummet and burn up s it re-entered the earth’s atmosphere. Technicians came by and slapped the Captain on the back and thanked him for a job well done. Climbing the stairs again, he opened the outside hatch and let the Ensign know that the test was a success, but the Ensign was preoccupied with something else.
“Sir, the fog is closing in. Shall I get us underway?”
Sowell patted Hale on the shoulder. “Five more minutes son, then its full speed back to the base. If you need me, I’ll be in my cabin.”
“That’s an affirmative, sir.”
Sowell stepped carefully down the companionway and hurried through the control room, past the technicians and crew who were still celebrating. He looked at his watch again in the pale red light of the passageway. In two more minutes, the gas would be surrounding the Truman. He had to get to his cabin and put on the only gas mask aboard.
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14
Pacing back and forth outside the bridge, Ensign Hale was the first to feel the effects of the gas. As it slowly rolled over the bow and began engulfing the Truman, his fingers started to go numb. Unaware of what was happening to him, the clipboard fell from his hands as he futilely grasped for the handrail in front of him. He tried stamping his feet on the deck to relieve the loss of sensation in his shoes. As he lost consciousness, he thought that the Truman had started spinning in a vast whirlpool of ocean current, but to the contrary, the ship was quite still. Finding it impossible to walk, he had to turn his head to prevent falling flat on his face when he collapsed on the cold steel deck. It was an agonizing five minutes before he completely blacked out.
The decision to use this type of gas was made because it was odorless. The drawback was the excruciatingly long time it took to work. Hale, and any other breathing organisms onboard, would be immobilized for the next three to four hours. The fog poured over the Truman and slipped lazily through the air intake vents. Within minutes, the entire crew was immobile. Technicians that had been busily calculating the probability of an accurate knockdown were now nothing more than bodies slumped over computer keyboards. The control room of the Truman, which had minutes earlier been filled with the sounds of joyous celebration and laughter, was turned into a wax museum cast in an eerie shade of red light, like the core of a volcano.
Sowell looked around for the last time at the quarters he had for so long called home. He picked up the parka off his desk and used a tissue to clear the condensation that had collected on the outside of his mask. He tried to open the door to his cabin, but it wouldn’t budge. A technician returning from the galley had collapsed in the corridor and fallen against the Captain’s hatch. The man’s white coat stained with black coffee he had spilled. Sowell wasn’t sure he still had the strength to force the hatch open. Fortunately, the technician was lying on his side, and Sowell was able to push the door open wide enough to squeeze through sideways.