Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  The cold, cloudy sky was just a harbinger of things to come, McMurphy groused. He chomped on the end of a lit Cuban, refusing to put it out when Haddad complained. He did agree to step around Tolliver and stand downwind of her. He blew a great cloud of cigar smoke into the air, trying to decide what to make of Haddad not boarding the doomed submersible at the last minute, having avoided not one but two brushes with danger.

  Calculated or coincidence? A good question.

  They stood in silence, watching a Navy Sikorsky MH-53E Sea Dragon approach from the stern. It began its landing descent. A heavy-lift cargo helicopter, the Sea Dragon was identical to the CH-53E Super Stallion line built for the Marine Corp, except for the enlarged sponsons—projections that provide for greater fuel storage—and the visible in-flight refueling probe.

  A marvelous machine, in McMurphy’s opinion. The Sea Dragon had been introduced into the fleet in the early 80s, a durable chopper normally crewed with two pilots and three gunners. At an overall length of nearly one hundred feet, it had three turboshaft engines and was capable of cruising speeds of one hundred forty miles per hour and a range of six hundred twenty-one miles. Its armament included two window-mounted machine guns and a ramp mounted weapons system.

  From the way the pilot struggled to stick the landing, McMurphy could tell this beast was loaded to the gills. Carrying a SEAL team of eighteen, even with their tactical and scuba gear, that was only a fraction of the thirty-thousand-pound payload the Dragon was capable of.

  What the hell did they bring along with ’em, McMurphy wondered.

  The helicopter completed its landing. The engines shut down and the rotors slowed. The side door slid open and eighteen men in turquoise and navy-blue camouflage jumpsuits clamored out of the cabin. They worked together unloading equipment and gear under the watchful eye of a platoon chief while one young man strolled confidently across the flight deck. His lieutenant bars a muted green.

  He approached Tolliver but didn’t salute. “Lieutenant Bradley Jones. Permission to come on board, Captain.”

  Tolliver stuck out his hand and they shook. “Permission granted. Welcome to the Putnam, Lieutenant. Glad to have you here.” He turned to Haddad. “I’m sure you know Ms. Haddad.”

  “Of course.” He shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you in person, ma’am.”

  Jones had a distinctive southern accent. McMurphy guessed his age at twenty-five, though he appeared to be twelve.

  “This hulking gentleman to my left,” Tolliver said, “is Chief Warrant Officer John McMurphy.”

  Jones eyed him with a fleeting glimpse of suspicion before extending his hand. “Chief. What branch?”

  They shook. Jones had a firm grip. “A Coastie like Tolliver. Call me Skyjack.”

  “You get called up last minute for this gig?” Jones asked, noting McMurphy’s blue jeans and day-old red stubble on his face. “something like that. I’m here at special request of the Vice-President.”

  Taken aback for a second, Jones said, “Huh. Well, okay then.”

  “Lieutenant,” Haddad said. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke inside. Catch you up to speed.”

  “Sounds like a plan, ma’am.” He turned toward the helicopter and called out. “Chief!”

  Bent over examining the contents of a large military green container, Jones’ platoon chief, an NCO named Null—Haddad had provided McMurphy with a list of the men and one woman assigned to the SEAL team—twisted around.

  “Grab that Feeb,” Jones ordered, “and double-time it over here.”

  Null leaned into the open cabin and shouted.

  A man in a dark suit and wearing a black overcoat poked his head out. He conversed with Null for a moment then climbed out of the bird. Special Agent Andrew “Andy” Goodwell. He had dark slicked-back hair and pale-skin. Skinny as a rail, McMurphy feared a good stiff wind would blow him overboard. He crossed the flight deck with Chief Petty Officer Null, jogging to keep up.

  “Not to be rude, Lieutenant,” Haddad said.

  “Just you and the fed,” McMurphy said. “Need to know only.” To the chief, he said, “No offense, Null.”

  He looked to Jones, who nodded.

  “None taken,” Null said, but clearly, he was put off. He turned and strolled away.

  Jones, on the other hand, narrowed his gaze as he stared at McMurphy, then abruptly turned his back to him. Here’s where the interagency pissing contest began, the young lieutenant vying for control of the op. And why McMurphy hated dealing with the feds and other branches. Egos bigger that the Seven Seas, all of them.

  “I’d appreciate an explanation, ma’am,” Jones said.

  “Get over yourself, Junior,” McMurphy said. “The clock’s ticking and we ain’t got time for that crap.” He turned abruptly and started for the superstructure.

  At the portal, he didn’t wait for the others. Time was precious and McMurphy wasn’t about to lose any of it playing politics with a swabbie wet behind the ears. Behind him, he heard the fed ask Tolliver, “Any chance I can get a good cup of joe on this rig?”

  “The best in the fleet,” Tolliver said proudly.

  “Sounds great,” Goodwell said. “’Cause the Navy’s idea of coffee isn’t fit for human consumption.”

  “Hey,” Jones said, protesting.

  They adjourned to the officer’s mess. There, full coffee cups were passed around—without Tolliver’s bourbon kicker, McMurphy thought regretfully—as they brought Jones and the hostage negotiator FBI Andy up to speed.

  “Have we had any further communication from this Sucre fella beyond the initial contact?” Goodwell asked.

  “You mean the video he sent to all the TV news outlets?” McMurphy asked. “The one where he publicly executed a reporter? That communication.”

  “Yes, Chief McMurphy, that one. I studied it on the flight here.” He looked at Jones. “We all did. I sympathize with your anger, but we can’t let our emotions—”

  McMurphy stared at Goodwell. “You don’t know me, Andy—”

  “Actually, I do. I studied your file on the way here, too. I am very familiar with your service record, but more importantly your—antics—since.”

  McMurphy wondered how much the man really knew and how much he only thought he knew.

  “It was why I put in a call to my superiors,” Goodwell said. “To request your immediate removal from this situation. I told them you’re a liability. That you’re too emotionally invested—”

  McMurphy pounded his big fist into the table hard enough to rattle the coffee cups set on it. “You’re damn right I’m emotionally invested. My best friend, a man who’s saved my life more times than years you’ve been alive, is trapped at the bottom of the ocean with a homicidal madman who’s already shown he doesn’t give two-hoots about human life. Brice may already be dead for all I know. And if you think you or any damn Washington bureaucrat’s going to stop me from rescuing him or avenging him, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  Haddad cleared her throat. “Let me ask. Agent Goodwell, how was your demand to remove Chief McMurphy received?”

  The agent’s face flushed red. “It was…denied. Vigorously.”

  “As I suspected.” Haddad glanced around the table. “Now, like it or not, this is the team we’ve got. If any of you have a problem with that,” she pointed at the door, “now’s the time to remove yourselves.”

  No one moved.

  She went on. “Good. To answer your question, Agent Goodwell, the administration did receive a private communique, a list of demands. The Vice-President is reviewing it now to determine a course of action. I am not privy to the contents in detail.”

  She took a sip of her coffee.

  “Our job, gentlemen, is to develop a plan.” She looked at Jones. “Infiltration and extraction. The safe rescue of the President is your top priority. Agent Goodwell, your job is to try and talk Sucre down, if and when we’re able to reestablish contact with him. So far, all attempts to contact Tiamat Bluff have
failed. If talking him down isn’t an option, you’re to distract him long enough to keep the President alive until Lieutenant Jones and his team successfully completes their assignment.”

  “Hold on a minute,” McMurphy said. “We’re a hell of a long way from that yet.”

  “Agreed,” Haddad said. “We need a plan first. One we are confident will work. One that will only be implemented once the Vice-President decides we’re a go.”

  “Hard for me to get this guy talking, keep anyone alive, with no ability to communicate with him,” Goodwell said.

  “We’re working on that,” Haddad said. “In the meantime, all we can do is hope Sucre will contact us.”

  “Hoping,” McMurphy said. “That’s not much of a strategy.”

  “I need a lot more to go on than what we’ve received so far,” Jones said. “Schematics. Building plans. Visuals.”

  “There we can help. A little.” Haddad activated the smart screen calling up the same imagery as Dr. Larson had used during her presentation. “This is Tiamat Bluff.”

  “From the video Sucre released,” Tolliver stood up and approach the image of Tiamat Bluff on the smart screen, “we know the President, Mr. Little, and at least some of the others were in being this large green space.” He pointed at the transparent dome crowning the facility. “In the center of the park is a bandshell. They’re there.”

  “Is there anyone on board who’s been down there?” Jones asked. “Can you give me a firsthand account of the layout? I need electrical schematics. Structural materials. Means of egress.”

  “No,” Tolliver said.

  “In preparation for the President’s visit,” Haddad said, “The Secret Service recommended removing all non-essential personnel from the facility.”

  “The FBI’s tracking down as many employees as we can find,” Goodwell said. “Also architects, designers, builders. Agents are speaking with them, trying to gather as much information about the place as we can get. I can put you in touch with the agent in charge.”

  Jones threw a pen on the table. “Christ. We’ve got nothing to go on? This is going to get people killed.”

  “Dial it down, Lieutenant,” McMurphy said. “This is uncharted territory for all of us.”

  “You’re asking me to develop a plan, with nothing to work with,” Jones said.

  “Not nothing.” Tolliver cleared his throat. “I might be able to help you out there.”

  He glanced over at Haddad. “Ms. Haddad, may I?”

  She nodded and handed him the tablet she used to control the smart screen.

  He tapped in a few key strokes and the image of Tiamat Bluff darkened then reappeared, but under a shimmer as if being seen through an actual underwater lens. When a few air bubbles drifted upward over the image McMurphy began to get an idea of what they were looking at.

  “We haven’t exactly been sitting on our hands waiting here on the Putnam,” Tolliver said. “Before we were ordered to move off-site, we dropped a couple of underwater surveillance drones into the water.”

  On-screen, the image of Tiamat Bluff grew closer.

  “We’ve had to be very, very careful,” Tolliver said. “Tiamat Bluff’s equipped with very sophisticated sonar and radar capabilities. It’s been a real pain, but my operators are good. Better than even I knew.”

  The image closed in on the park dome. Through the cross thatched web of steel reinforcement, the inside of the dome came into focus.

  “We’ve collected video of every square inch of that facility’s exterior. My boys have hours of tape for your team to review, Lieutenant. We know there are two moon pools, several docking hatches—though no military subs match their proprietary design.”

  “Meaning we can’t connect to them?”

  “Correct,” Tolliver admitted.

  “We wouldn’t be able to unnoticed even if we could,” McMurphy added.

  “And there are several lockout trunks but they require inside access.”

  “Blowing them might adversely affect the facility,” McMurphy said, short-circuiting any thoughts the gung-ho lieutenant might have of blowing the hatches.

  “How so?”

  “Crushing the facility like an eggshell,” McMurphy said.

  “We wouldn’t want that,” Jones said.

  “No,” Haddad said. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “We can command the surveillance drones to go anywhere,” Tolliver said. “See anything you want to see, mission prior or during.” He forced a grin. “I can’t give you ears, but you’ll have eyes, courtesy of the USCGC Putnam.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That evening after Chief Singleton dropped his bombshell discovery about the mysterious Chase Edwards, Tara and Kayla were in Brice Bannon’s twenty-seven-foot Sea Ray SDX-270. An open bow, sporting boat with a three hundred horsepower inboard MerCruiser engine. Built for speed, stability, and comfort, they skimmed over the dark Atlantic Ocean water traveling south at near the vessel’s max speed of twenty-five knots. The ride was smooth and Kayla, like Bannon and McMurphy, had the seaman skills to handle the speedy boat over the smooth water.

  Armed with Singleton’s information, Kayla had done a deep dive into government records as only she was capable of doing. While Tara and Singleton shared another drink, Kayla tapped keys, searching databases and records, and even made a few old fashion phone calls.

  Finally, she glanced up. A gotcha smile on her face. “Chase Edwards was CIA. I’ve got the name of his caseworker. And he lives close by.”

  “Where?” Tara demanded.

  “Cape Cod.”

  Tara grabbed her coat and practically raced across the bar to the door, beaming at finally having something to do. To Kayla, she said, “Let’s go!”

  She tossed the keys to the Keel Haul to Singleton as Kayla gathered her coat and things. “Lock up when you’re done, Chief.”

  Tara had spent plenty of time on the water and normally would’ve enjoyed being out on the boat, except, it was after dark in the middle of January in New England. They had to wear heavy parkas with fur-lined hoods zipped up to their throats against the weather. Their caps mashed down on their heads to keep their hair contained and their heads warm. Each wore thick winter gloves.

  Tara’s cheeks stung from the icy splash of sea spray. Even with her black wool cap pulled over her ears, they burned from the cold, convincing her she had frostbite and they’d soon fall off.

  Over the throaty roar of the big Merc engines, she thought about how much she loved living in America. Egyptian born and raised, she’d fought alongside Bannon and McMurphy in Afghanistan before their time in the Coast Guard had come to an end. Having burned many bridges back home—under her real name she was wanted for going AWOL from the Algerian National Navy where she’d trained in the MARCOS program—the Indian Navy’s Special Forces—and with no family left in Cairo, Tara had accepted Bannon’s invitation to come to America, and eventually to join Secretary Grayson’s strike team.

  Decisions Tara hadn’t regretted for an instant, except for one thing.

  “Tell me again why we’re here and not somewhere warm, like Florida.”

  Kayla laughed over the sound of the Sea Ray slapping the waves. “Winter’s rough up here, I’ll give you that, but it makes you appreciate summer all that much more.”

  “That’s bull-you-know-what.” Tara crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her gloved hands under her armpits and shivered. The sun had set. The western sky once bright orange and red was now dark with a ribbon of purple clouds hugging the horizon. The blue sky almost black. And not yet five in the evening.

  Kayla laughed again. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  They’d cut diagonally across Cape Cod Bay then traveled south to the canal, a channel north of Sandwich, Massachusetts that would take them to Buzzards Bay. They passed under an elevated railroad bridge before Kayla pulled back on the throttle. From there, they circled around Taylor’s Point, around the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, and proceeded
north again to the small, former whaling community of Bourne.

  Tara clutched a military-grade, waterproof tablet in her gloved hands, a satellite image of the canal on it while she scanned the starboard shoreline. A third of the way up the peninsula she pointed at a small concrete boat launch. “There.”

  Kayla expertly navigated the low water markers and pulled the Sea Ray into the docking slip that extended outward from the launch. She cut the engines as Tara leaped onto the dock and slipped the mooring lines around cleats fore and aft to secure the boat.

  She looked up the embankment at a small Cape Cod-style home. Gray shingle siding with white trim and a steeply pitched roof with lighter gray asphalt shingles. White-gray smoke drifted from the central chimney. A single lamp was on behind sheer curtains in what looked like a rear living room area.

  Kayla joined her on the dock. “Ready?”

  Tara unzipped her parka. “Ready.”

  They took the steps up to the lawn two at a time and strolled down the driveway past where a Dodge pickup was parked. The front of the house had a small, white-trimmed porch and an American flag. Tara pounded her fist on the frame of the metal storm door. Kayla pulled her Coast Guard credentials out, including her Investigative Services badge. Each member of Bannon’s team had them, though they were not technically part of the Investigative Service. The badges were a perk of working directly for the Secretary of Homeland Security and served to give them credibility during their investigations.

  The interior door opened and a man in his late sixties stood cautiously to one side of the storm door glass. Bald except for a halo of gray hair, Daniel O’Shea stared back at them with alert blue eyes. “Can I help you?”

  Kayla held up her badge. “We’re with the Coast Guard’s Investigative Services. We’d like to speak with you if you don’t mind.”