Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  The skipper, Commander Bob Devlin, sat in his usual place, slumped over in the fold-down chair on the port side of the periscope stand, a stunned look on his face. He had barely moved since the pirates commandeered Corpus almost a week before. Ward couldn’t help but wonder how he had ever feared this man. He seemed to be nothing more than a hollow shell.

  Other than Devlin, one of the seamen who was manning the planes, and Jim Ward, the only other people in the control room was a trio of terrorists. The leader, the one the others referred to as Manju Shehab, stood by the chart table, carefully cleaning his large pistol, just as he had done since shortly after commandeering the boat. Ward wondered about that. His would have to be the cleanest weapon in Asia.

  The young midshipman turned back to pretend to study the sonar display, all the while saying a quiet prayer under his breath.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Sam Witte said quietly, “Sonar reports we have a curve. We’re ready to maneuver.”

  Don Chapman looked up and nodded. He took another glance at the Topeka’s CCS Mk2 multi-function display screen, an exact replica of the one on Corpus Christi. The line of white dots that they were convinced was The City of Corpus Christi marched neatly down the CRT. The skipper took another look at what the screen showed.

  “Give me your best solution, Weps,” he requested.

  Mark Lucerno glanced over his shoulder and said, “Bearing three-five-five, range four-three-thousand, course zero-one-five, speed twelve. Sir, he hasn’t maneuvered since we got this tonal. Not even a hint of a waiver on received frequency. The guy is boring holes in the ocean, fat dumb and happy.”

  Chapman patted the young lieutenant on the shoulder.

  “Good job. But I doubt that the Corpus crew is very happy right about now. Someone over there was smart enough to figure out how to give us this tonal to track. Smart enough and brave enough to do it. You know as well as I do that if they didn’t want to be found, we’d play hell trying to find them.” He turned back toward Witte and ordered, “Left full rudder, steady course three-five-five. Ahead standard.”

  The helmsman swung his wheel over to the left. The only sense of motion on the big nuclear-powered submarine was the rapidly spinning compass repeater as the rudder swung the sub’s nose around to the new course.

  “As soon as we steady up, slow back down to ahead two-thirds.” Chapman was using the boat’s speed to hurry it around the turn and, more importantly, bringing the TB-23 towed array around to its new course more quickly. Until the TB-23 was stable on the new heading, they were blind. Corpus Christi could make any kind of sudden move and they would have no way of knowing about it until they came about and realized they had lost their target.

  Chapman grabbed a 21MC microphone and punched the button to talk to the radio room.

  “Radio, Captain. Prepare a SLOT buoy. Put in our position and the solution for Corpus Christi. Time to give Higgins and Captain Donovan a warm-fuzzy.”

  A SLOT buoy, or Submarine Launched One-way Transmission buoy, was a one-way method for a submerged sub to talk to its friends on the surface. It consisted of a small tape recorder, low-power transmitter, and tiny antennae, all housed in a three-inch-diameter, thirty-inch-long buoy that could be shot out from one of the sub’s signal ejectors. It would float to the surface where it would continuously broadcast its message to anyone who could hear it. When the battery aboard the buoy died, the device would scuttle itself and obediently sink to the bottom of the ocean. Meanwhile, the sub went on about its business.

  Don Chapman was banking on one of the pair of SH-60 helicopters that were temporarily calling Higgins home, or one of the P-3C Orion aircraft searching out of Kadena in Okinawa, hearing the SLOT buoy and relaying the message to all concerned.

  “Skipper, steady course three-five-five,” Sam Witte reported. “TB-23 steady in fifteen minutes. Slowing to ahead two-thirds. Signal ejector reports ready to launch the SLOT buoy.”

  It would be fifteen minutes before they could once again listen to the distinctive noise of their quarry.

  Chapman wearily slumped down in his seat on the port side of the periscope stand.

  “Very well, launch the SLOT buoy. Let me know when we regain Corpus Christi.”

  He took a big slug of coffee from his white china mug and leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Meantime, there isn’t much for us to do but wait. And, if you’re so inclined, maybe say a little prayer for those guys. And for us, too.”

  The White House Situation Room was a study in uncontrolled chaos. President Adolphus Brown had barely left his seat at the head of the big conference table in over twenty-four hours. Food and fresh coffee came in on big trays. Leftovers and used napkins were bussed out. A steady stream of briefers trooped in, delivered their carefully crafted presentations, spun their talking points, and paraded right back out.

  The latest slide show was a State Department revelation on the status of Islamic revolutionaries in the southern Philippines. The young State hotshot was in uniform: dark blue suit, red striped school tie, pale blue button-down shirt, and mirror-polished, black wing-tips. He had droned on with a clipped Yale accent for his allotted forty-two minutes, using every second. The department spin highlighted their on-scene expertise and close cooperation with the local authorities. The Secretary of State even ventured the hint of a smile as the briefer slipped out of the room.

  As soon as the door closed behind the wonk, President Brown turned to the Secretary and quietly said in his most sarcastic tone, “There’s something I don’t quite understand. If State has such a good handle on the area, how did this happen without you knowing about it?”

  The hapless Secretary began sputtering something unintelligible. Dr. Sam Kinnowitz broke in and rescued the man.

  “Mr. President, Topeka just reported in. They have contact on the Corpus Christi. They are moving in to a firing position right now. We have several other assets moving in to help. The closest is the USS Higgins. She is an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer about two hundred miles south of Topeka and heading her way.”

  The National Security Advisor flashed his laser pointer across the big flat panel screen, showing all the players. The president now had a mouthful of sub sandwich. He motioned Kinnowitz to go on.

  “Mr. President, it’s going to be a race to stop Corpus before they get close enough to do something destructive to the Japanese mainland. If that’s what their intent is. And we must assume it is. If they are under control of pirates, God only knows what their aim is. Damn hard to fence a nuke sub on the black market. But if it’s terrorists—Al Qaida or somebody just as murderous—then we can only assume they are going to do something spectacular…and horrible.”

  “What are the possibilities?” Brown asked through his napkin.

  “Well, I don’t know if they have the know-how to launch Tomahawks or not, but if they do, they are close enough to do some damage. The only other thing we have are those two missing Russian nuclear torpedoes. We’re playing it like those fish are on Corpus.”

  “What should we do, Sam?”

  “I think we had better warn the Japanese.”

  The Secretary of State jumped out of his seat and pounded the table with a closed fist.

  “I can’t allow that!” he shouted. “If we tell them we have a rogue submarine headed their way, we will have an even worse international incident on our hands. How do we explain losing a nuclear submarine to a bunch of pirates who intend to launch an attack on Japan? We’ve got enough problems with the rest of the world doubting everything we say now.”

  Sam Kinnowitz opened his mouth to protest but President Brown stopped him with a raised hand. He spoke slowly and clearly, carefully enunciating each word.

  “We are not going to put several million innocent people at risk without at least the decency of a warning. And all just to save face. Mister Secretary, you will inform the Japanese ambassador of the threat and do it immediately.”

  The Secretary of State of the United States st
arted to argue with his boss. President Brown stopped him with a raised hand that contained the remnants of his sandwich.

  “Mr. Secretary, either deliver the message exactly as I directed or have your resignation on my desk. You have one hour.”

  The Secretary angrily stomped out of the Situation Room.

  As the door slammed shut, Kinnowitz flipped his laser pointer over to point at the map of Korea. A series of narrow traces arcing across the map showed the path of several KH-11 Keyhole spy satellites that had dutifully over-flown the isolated country in the last twenty-four hours. Over the Sea of Japan, just outside the twelve-mile boundary, two small green symbols showed the orbits of an EP-3 ARIES sigint plane and an RC-135 Rivet Joint intelligence and reconnaissance jet.

  “All right, Sam, what’s all this gobbledygook?” the president asked.

  “We are getting some interesting intercepts out of North Korea. It looks like General Kim Dai-jang is making a move to take over the government.”

  The president almost choked on the last bite of his sub.

  “What? You mean a coup?”

  “That’s what we’re hearing. His people are moving on Pyongyang. They already have control of significant military installations in the northern part of the country. We might be seeing an overthrow of Kim Jae-uk.”

  “Damnation! What the hell else can happen? It’s gonna be one hell of a seven o’clock newscast tonight!” The president slid down in this chair. “Whole damn world’s gone crazy! Okay, what do we know about this General Kim Dai-jang?”

  Dr. Kinnowitz studied notes on the legal pad on the desk in front of him and answered, carefully choosing his words.

  “He has stayed way back in the background. Our sources tell us that he is the head of the Peoples Army Special Weapons Bureau. That would make him one of the big guys in their nuclear weapons programs. And, apparently, he is a pretty big cheese on the Committee for State Security. We think he is the one behind all the recent nuclear activity. It looks as if this is a move to take control of the government and maybe to expand out of North Korea. Southward, first, would be my guess. And I’ve got some real strong suspicions about the timing of all this, considering what else we know about all the hell that’s breaking loose.”

  President Brown nodded.

  “Okay, that makes sense. What do we do? Send an alpha strike into downtown Pyongyang?”

  Dr. Kinnowitz shook his head vigorously.

  “No sir. There is a much more subtle and effective way.”

  The president wiped a spot of spilled mayo from his tie.

  “’Subtle’ and ‘effective’ sounds precious to me,” he said.

  Dr. Sam Kinnowitz spent the next half hour explaining his plan.

  Sabul u Nurizam paced back and forth nervously. His mountain-top command center felt more like a prison than a haven for the continuation of his holy cause. Even surrounded by several dozen of his best men, for the first time ever in this place he felt vulnerable. The waiting was the worst part. Surely Allah must grant a special place in paradise for a faithful follower who suffered such torture.

  The infidel submarine had been captured and underway for its destination for almost a week. At least, it must be assumed so. He had no way to verify the continuation of the plan. If something had gone wrong, if the Americans in the submarine had repelled the attack, it would have certainly been gobbled up by the gluttonous news media and featured on the television sets all over the world. He could only assume that Manju Shehab and his men were ready to strike Tokyo with the vicious nuclear torpedoes by now.

  In his mind’s eye, Sabul could see the mushroom cloud rising out of the sea. Pink, gold, and yellow swirls rising to a massive tower of orange and black. Millions of infidels sharing a few short milliseconds of hysteria before being incinerated. Before finding themselves serving the faithful martyrs for eternity.

  And the nuclear explosion that filled the news, the one outside Mecca. Allah be praised that it failed. Who was behind that? The Israelis? The Americans? Maybe the Indians. They had gotten very cozy with the Israelis over the last few years. But whoever was behind it didn’t matter. They had just helped his grand scheme to raise the Muslim masses. What good Muslim wouldn’t rally behind the mullah who struck back for such an insult with nuclear fire?

  In the entire time that Sabul had plotted and planned his Islamic State of Southeast Asia, he had never felt so frustrated. He was so close to success, but now there was nothing he could do but wait. Wait and wonder if all was progressing as it was planned.

  He stormed out of his small hut and marched across the courtyard, over to the communications hut. Maybe there would be some word, even the barest hint that something was happening in the ocean a thousand miles north. Or, Allah forbid, that Manju and his men had failed somehow and were in the custody of the Americans.

  Only one lone man watched the communications hut. The flickering CRT screens went largely ignored. When Sabul slammed open the door, the man fell out his chair in his surprise and hurry to rise.

  “Any word from our men?” Sabul demanded. It took all his willpower to resist striking the helpless little man when he shook his head. “Then arrange a boat for me to Sarawak,” Sabul ordered. “I must be there immediately. There is where Allah has decreed that we will take the next great step in overthrowing the infidels.”

  Sabul had no idea where the idea of going to Sarawak had come from. His plan had been to wait here, to celebrate the glory of their triumph in Japan right here on this remote mountaintop.

  It must have been Allah who placed the words in his mouth. Now, as ordered, he would go to Sarawak. The triumph was so close he could feel it, burning like a fever.

  41

  Ellen Ward stumbled blindly down the trail, tears streaming down her face, sweat blurring her eyes, trying to control her emotions as much as her body as she did all she could do to try to get away. She knew there was nothing she could do to help Roger. Nothing except shepherd her group to safety as he had bidden her to do.

  One thing was for certain. Roger Sindhlan had almost certainly sacrificed his life so she and they would have a chance to live. She couldn’t allow that sacrifice to be in vain by not getting her charges away to safety.

  She had to do everything in her power to make sure they got off this terrible mountain. It was her duty to the kids. And to Roger.

  She prodded and pushed her students to move ever faster. It was a headlong dash, mostly downward, along the slippery, winding jungle trail. She wasn’t quite sure how they all managed not to slide off the path and plunge headlong down some ravine to their deaths. Someone was certainly guiding each footstep.

  They rounded a steep bend in the trail, a cutback that would lead them back up the crotch of a daunting, steep gully. Ellen paused for a quick breath, leaning against a tree, before urging the panting, exhausted kids to follow her up the slope. They had all fallen to the ground fifty feet behind her when she stopped. She most wanted to slip to the ground, too, to rest, to calm her ragged breathing, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Not yet. Roger Sindhlan had most likely died so they would have this chance.

  It was now her duty to get these youngsters up that trail, closer to safety. And one of the traits her husband had instilled in her was an overpowering sense of duty.

  She stretched her back, trying to find new strength in her shaky legs as she got her balance again, and then pushed away from the tree. That’s when a big hand reached out of the thick brush behind her and grabbed her arm in a painful grip.

  Ellen did the only thing she knew to do. She fought to break free from whoever had hold of her. But she was too weak, too tired. She was pulled roughly back into the bushes, struggling, kicking, clawing. Someone wrapped strong arms around her, holding her too tightly for her to pull away.

  “Ellen, settle down.” The whispered voice was deep, gruff, but it sounded so familiar, like a hard-to-place someone in a blurry dream. “Be quiet, too. It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’ve got
you.”

  “Tom?”

  Tom Kincaid! No one else had that voice. But why was he here? How had he found them? Maybe she was dreaming. But if she was, she was perfectly willing to allow herself to be caught up in it. Besides, at the moment, she had no better choice.

  She quit struggling and fell back into his arms, buried her face in his chest, and allowed the waves of exhaustion to roll over her. She was dimly aware that the other men with Tom, men in uniforms, were shushing the kids and pulling them into the underbrush as well, out of the clearing.

  They were all safe.

  Then the shock of the entire ordeal caught up with her. She couldn’t help it. She shivered violently. The tears started and she couldn’t stop crying.

  “Ellen, get hold of yourself,” Kincaid commanded. “I need you to think clearly now. We heard shooting. What happened? How many of them are there? We’ve got to know.”

  Ellen Ward pulled back, looked up at him, at his sweat-streaked face and intense eyes. The same eyes she had almost fallen in love with back in college when she made the difficult choice between him and another handsome, intense young man who was fighting to win her favor. A man named Jon Ward.

  Somehow, she managed to pull strength from his nearness, to grit her teeth, to get control over her emotions. She took a deep breath and began spilling the entire story to the man whose heart she had once broken.

  “Station flight quarters and bring her into the wind,” Commander Paul Wilson ordered.

  He looked out at the swirling, gray sea, crowned with whitecaps. A sea-state “four.” The meteorological report, just in from Fleet METOC, promised that a storm would sweep through the East China Sea in the next twenty-four hours, sea-state building to seven with winds at fifty knots or better. The threat of rough weather was not good news, on top of everything else going on. A typhoon was coming through, but it looked like the worst would go well south, down toward the Philippines. At least that’s how METOC was projecting the track. The whole world was at the brink of war, a lost submarine was under the control of God-knows-who, so, Wilson figured, maybe Mother Nature was jealous and wanted some attention of her own.