Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  McMurphy smiled at the exchange. Floyd was the only person in the universe that could get away with talking to Tara like that. Not McMurphy, not even Bannon. Not that either of them was foolish enough to ever try. McMurphy hadn’t nicknamed her Blades for nothing.

  “These two yahoos are monopolizing the TV.” He pointed a hooked thumb at the surfer.

  “What’ve got against luge, Captain?” McMurphy asked.

  “Nothing, except I don’t wanna watch it.”

  “What do you want to watch?” Tara asked.

  “Fly fishing,” he said. “It’s on the outdoor channel.”

  McMurphy covered his face with his meaty hand. The only thing more boring to watch than that would be golf, and maybe paint drying.

  Tara said, “I’ll record it for you. You can watch it when the paying customers are through.”

  One of the young men at the far end of the bar gave her a thumbs up and a smile.

  The bar door opened and a cold January breeze blew in.

  A young girl wearing blue jeans, brown Uggs, and a parka came in carrying a pizza box. She shook snow off her long brown hair and slid the pizza box in front of McMurphy. “Here ya go, Skyjack.”

  “Thanks, Cindy.”

  She worked at the pizzeria down the street, one of the few places, other than the bars and restaurants on the strip, that remained open year-round. He handed her a fifty. “Keep it.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You’re a peach.”

  When the pizza delivery girl was gone, Tara asked, “When did you order a pizza?”

  He held up his phone. “I’ve got an app.”

  “Look at you.” She smiled. “How twenty-first century of you.”

  “How about more beer and less sass, Blades.” He opened the box. Steam and the mouth-watering smell of pepperoni pizza wafted into the air. “You want some or not?”

  “What’s on it?”

  “Half plain, just for you.”

  She delivered his beer and pulled out a slice. “You’re a peach, Skyjack,” she said mocking the delivery girl’s fawning over him.

  He felt himself blush.

  “Hey, dudes,” one of the surfer guys called out. “You might wanna turn the volume up here.”

  McMurphy and Tara glanced over at them. A big red banner scrolled across the top of the flat screen reading Breaking News. Tara dropped her slice of pizza back in the box and grabbed the remote. She aimed it at the TV.

  A national newscaster appeared on screen. McMurphy could only remember him as Ben Something. He held several sheaves of paper in his hands. A somber expression on his face.

  “We’ve just gotten word,” he said staring straight at the camera. “The President of the United States has been taken hostage. Details are sketchy as this is a breaking news story, but inside government officials have confirmed, President Kingsley is being held against his will and the White House has received a list of demands from the people responsible.”

  McMurphy came to his feet and walked halfway down the bar staring at the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Behind Ben Something was a stock footage video of a sailing Coast Guard cutter. Not the Putnam but a smaller, high-endurance class ship.

  “Here’s what we know so far,” Ben said, reading from the papers he held. “After attending a fundraiser dinner last night in downtown Boston to kick off the President’s re-election campaign, Kingsley was scheduled to make an unprecedented trip with a group of handpicked VIP donors, congressional insiders, and reporters to visit Tiamat Bluff, the so-called city under the sea. Reports tell us the President departed this morning from Logan Airport to rendezvous by helicopter with a Coast Guard cutter, the George R. Putnam.”

  “Get on with it,” McMurphy groused.

  “According to sources, the trip had progressed without incident until our local Boston station WCVS News9 received a televised transmission from their reporter on the scene, Jerry Little. We have obtained a copy of that footage. What we are about to show is raw and uncut. Some may find the images disturbing.” He looked away for a second and nodded. “We’re ready to show it to you now in its entirety.”

  The hairs on the back of McMurphy’s neck stood straight up.

  The TV screen shifted to a jumpy image of a bandshell in what looked like a city park. McMurphy thought it looked eerily like Hampton Beach’s own Sea Shell Stage just a few hundred feet away, but it wasn’t. There was a burst of static over the feed and the image went out of focus before jumbling and refocusing again. The cameraman juggling a handheld camera.

  When the image finally cleared, it did so on a headshot of President David Kingsley.

  His clothes; a suit, dress shirt, and tie, were rumpled and disheveled, the front stained brown. The knot of the tie was pulled down and his top button was open. His thick white hair was mussed. He looked harried, with dark, drawn eyes.

  He started, “My fellow Americans.”

  His eyes darted off-screen. Then he looked at the camera again. “I make this appearance today under extreme duress. During my visit today to Tiamat Bluff, the experimental and cutting-edge city under the sea, unforeseen events have taken place and I find myself in the hands of terrorist revolutionaries.”

  Tara’s cellphone rang. She put it to her ear without taking her eyes off the TV. “Yes, we’re watching it.”

  President Kingsley continued speaking. “Myself and a small group of us, as well as a skeleton crew of Tiamat Bluff workers, are being held by members of the Revolutionary Republic Army. General Sucre—”

  Suddenly the screen went blank.

  Ben Something, in a voiceover, informed his viewers this was part of the tape and reminded them again the video was being aired uncut and uncensored. When the President appeared on screen again, he had a large welt under his right eye.

  “They beat him up,” one of the surfer dudes said.

  “Revolutionary Republic Army and Sucre,” Tara said into her phone. “You got that?”

  McMurphy glanced at her.

  She said, “Kayla.”

  He nodded.

  The President had taken a tremendous risk by identifying his captor by name. And paid a steep price for the intel if the facial wound was any indication. McMurphy’s admiration for the man had just jumped tenfold. He knew Kayla Clarke would run with the information. If there was anything out there to find about this General Sucre and his Revolutionary Republic Army, she’d find it.

  Kingsley cleared his throat. “The RRA has delivered a list of demands in a separate communique to Vice-President Wright. Among them are a ransom demand of one billion dollars in exchange for my safe return and assurances of U.S. military aid and financial support for their struggle against the illegitimate regime of General Juan Cabrillo over the newly formed South American country Boca Las Casas in the form of Congressional legislation or an executive order from my office until the corrupt, dictatorial leadership is dismantled and destroyed.”

  The president again glanced off-screen again. Whatever he was being forced to say next, it was clear, he was reluctant to do so. When he again looked at the camera, his eyes shimmered with tears. “These…terrorists have already killed upward of fifteen people in front of our very eyes. Others are being held prisoner, like us. They will be executed if any attempt at rescue is made. It is with that threat imposed, and the lives of American citizens on the line, I am ordering the USCGC George R. Putnam to retreat to a distance of at least fifty miles from the surface area above Tiamat Bluff. I am also imposing a no-sail and no-fly zone over the immediate area of Tiamat Bluff. All ships within a fifty-mile radius are to be removed.”

  “Screw that,” McMurphy said. “He’s under duress. His orders are meaningless.”

  The president continued. “I am being told the RRA has the ability to monitor this activity and if the government does not comply, hostages will die. Countermeasures have been employed to prevent any approach. Any attempts to conduct a rescue will be met with armed resistance a
nd the loss of American lives. I reiterate my order, stand down or people will die.”

  Offscreen a voice snapped, “Say it!”

  McMurphy detected a Hispanic accent. The man tried to disguise it but was unsuccessful. Had to be General Sucre.

  Kingsley nodded quickly. “A time limit has been imposed in the communique delivered to Vice-President Wright. Over the next twenty-four hours, if certain benchmark conditions are not met on a timely basis, and to the satisfaction of my captors, hostages will be executed.”

  “Turn the camera,” the same offscreen voice said. “Over here.”

  The shaky picture swung left, blurred then refocused on Jerry Little, the TV anchorman and personality. He was on his knees. His hands were behind his back. Tied or handcuffed. His cheeks were wet with tears. A hand extended into the frame. Dusky skin. The hand gripped a Century Arms Micro Draco AK-47 pistol. A semi-automatic with a six-inch barrel and a thirty-round banana magazine. The gun was pressed to Little’s temple.

  “No. Please don’t,” Little begged.

  “To demonstrate just how serious we are,” the voice said.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The bang caused everyone in the bar to jump. The two surfer dudes turned their heads.

  On the screen, Little fell to the side amid a spray of blood and brain matter. The video feed jumbled and from the audio came several gasps.

  The voice said, “The clock is ticking.”

  Captain Floyd put into words what everyone was thinking. “Animals.”

  The screen went blank for a second before the visibly shaken Ben Something reappeared.

  “To our…viewers who watched, and were…upset by that. We apologize but—”

  “Shut it off,” McMurphy said.

  Tara used the remote and turned the TV off. The bar remained in stunned silence. She still had her cellphone pressed to her ear. McMurphy looked at her. “You saw?”

  Tara nodded. “He’s there.”

  When the camera blurred, shifting to focus in on Jerry Little, it panned past a group of people. The hostages. Among them was Secretary Grayson and Brice Bannon. They were under heavily armed guard and as helpless to act as McMurphy and Tara were standing in the Keel Haul hundreds of miles away.

  Before he could comment further, his cellphone rang.

  He answered. “McMurphy…yeah, of course.” He waited a minute, listening. “Yes, sir.” More listening. McMurphy felt his features harden into a mask of anger and determination. “I do, Mr. Vice-President. Get us on the Putnam, sir. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Vice-President Ethan Forrester Wright stood behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. His suit jacket was draped over the chair behind him. He wore a white dress shirt, the collar open and his tie pulled loose. His sleeves were rolled two turns up his arm. A wide man in his fifties, his steel-gray hair was cut short to his scalp—a crew cut—the way he’d worn it since his eighteenth birthday when he was inducted into the Army in a dingy, old recruiting office on Livingston Street in Brooklyn.

  He slammed the phone down in the cradle, making the bell ring.

  In the Oval Office with him were; the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security Richard Diaz, James Williamson, the DHS Chief of Staff Diaz and Elizabeth Grayson shared, the DoD Secretary General Montgomery Hall, the Secret Service Director, Clarisse Walters, the Commandant of the Coast Guard Admiral Ray Walcott, and Abigail Flores, the Director of the FBI.

  He looked at them. “McMurphy’s looped in. Get him to the Putnam.”

  “We’ve already dispatched an HH-65 Dolphin helicopter to pick him up in New Hampshire, Admiral Walcott said. “He’ll be on board in a few hours, sir.”

  General Hall cleared his throat.

  “You’ve got something to say, Monty?” Wright asked.

  “With all due respect, sir—”

  “Which means with no respect at all,” Wright interrupted. “But go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

  “We’ve got protocols in place for this sort of thing. This is the very reason the Hostage Recovery Fusion Cell was created.”

  Several years earlier, in response to an alarming increase in the number of American hostages being taken overseas, the government created a single, interagency entity responsible for coordinating and handling the recovery of U.S. hostages abroad. Made up of hostage recovery professionals from Defense, the State Department, Justice, Treasury, and the FBI, along with the intelligence community, the group operated out of FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

  “They’ve planned and trained for years for just this sort of situation. I don’t think relegating the President’s safety, his life, quite frankly, to a…a puddle pirate pilot is the right call.” He quickly added, “Sir.”

  “I have to agree with the general,” Abby Flores, the FBI Director said. “We’ve got experienced hostage negotiation teams and rapid-response forces made up of FBI, military, and Secret Service agents, trained for this very scenario.”

  “Trained to storm a city one thousand feet under the ocean surface?” Admiral Walcott asked. “One we’ve been warned has been fortified against attack, by nutjobs who’ve already killed at least a dozen hostages or more, including Secret Service agents, a Us Senator, a congressman, and the President’s Chief of Staff. Who do you have that’s trained to deal with that, Abby? How do you flash-bang your way through a structure designed to withstand thirty atmospheres of water pressure?”

  General Hall didn’t back down. “The SEALs, sir.” He looked over at Admiral Walcott, conceding a little. “Your own Coast Guard’s Maritime Security Response Teams could assist.”

  “Quit glory-hogging, General,” Richard Diaz said. “You’re one of the few people in this room who are aware of just how well-trained Skyjack McMurphy is. That training you talk of; SEALs, the MSRT, Special Forces. He’s had it. He was a DOG for Christ’s sake. And need I remind you. It was he and Bannon who stopped the attacks on the Oceanic Princess and Yankee Stadium last year. They single-handedly saved over forty-thousand lives and in all likelihood prevented a war with Russia. So yeah, sending him in is the right call.”

  “But,” Flores said before Wright cut her off with a raised hand.

  “This is no time for this interagency bickering. Besides, correct me if I’m wrong, Abby, but wasn’t it one of your own agents that said this hostage fusion cell of yours must be willing to work with anyone to get our people home? That a unified government approach was the key to success.”

  Flores snapped her jaw shut.

  “Trust me,” Wright went on. There’ll be more than enough for all of you to do and get your names in the press. You damn well better figure out a way to work together to do it.

  “McMurphy’s in. End of debate. Abby, Monty, put your teams together, draw up your plans, and get your people on site. They’re to check in with Captain Tolliver. I’ve decided to comply with Sucre’s demand until we can determine if he’s got the means to monitor us the way he says, or not. The Putnam is standing by at the designated fifty-mile mark, waiting. The SEALs will take the lead on this, but whatever they do, Skyjack McMurphy’s going to be a part of it. It’s what Kingsley would want and you all know it.”

  There was a unified chorus of; “Understood. Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, Jimmy,” Wright said to Williamson, Grayson’s Chief of Staff. “I want you to work with State, get me everything there is to know about this Sucre character and his Revolutionary Republic Army. I want to know, who they are, where they came from, anything and everything that will help us fight them, right down to what they had for breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got some of our best people on it already.”

  “Good.” Wright took a moment to look at each person in the room. “The priority is to get the President back safe and sound and to save American lives. But, after this is all over, there will be an internal investigation. I’m going to know how something like this could possibly happen. Secret Service. DHS.
The White House. This is a catastrophic failure and heads will roll, mark my words.”

  He paused before going on. “In the meantime, we need to contain this. No talking to the press. No leaks. I want this so buttoned-up that ‘need to know’ looks like Wiki-leaks in comparison. Am I understood?”

  They responded with a murmur of yes, sirs, and nod.

  “Good. Admiral, how fast can you get me out to the Putnam? I need to be hands-on.”

  Clarisse Walters cleared her throat. “That’s not happening, sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re not going out there,” the Secret Service director said. “You need to stay here. I’m even considering making you retreat to the bunker.”

  “Making me!” Wright exploded. He pounded his fist into the desk.

  Walters didn’t back down. “Yes, sir. You are next in succession to the presidency. It’s my job to keep you safe, even if I have to do it by force.”

  “If you’d done your job in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” That stung and it showed. But Wright didn’t let up. “A blood thirty band of terrorists waltzed right into Tiamat Bluff, a facility your advanced team supposedly cleared. They took it over without an ounce of resistance, killed American citizens, and are holding the President on the United States hostage. On your watch.”

  “That’s not the issue here,” she said. “Your safety is. Sir.”

  “We’re going to get to the bottom of that failure, one way or the other. Trust me.”

  Walters squared his shoulders. “Agreed and with my full cooperation. Once we’re through this crisis. With you here in Washington and not on the deck of the Putnam.”

  Wright opened his mouth to protest, but Diaz spoke first. “It only puts you in harm’s way. We can coordinate everything through Captain Tolliver, he’s top-notch. And of course, you’ll have McMurphy there, too.”

  Wright forcefully exhaled before sitting down. “Very well. But here. The Oval Office. No bunker. The public needs that reassurance. Clear?”

  Walters nodded. “For now.”