Engage at Dawn: First Contact
A Novel of Science Fiction
Edward M. Hochsmann
Copyright © 2020 Edward M. Hochsmann
All rights reserved. Edward M. Hochsmann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews and properly attributed to the author. This assertion likewise extends to all named characters in this book, none of which may be used in other works without the written permission of the author. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions” at [email protected].
Edward M. Hochsmann
PO Box 286
Shalimar, Florida 32579-0286
www.edwardhochsmann.com
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the text have endorsed the book.
First edition
Editing by Elizabeth Dorward
Cover art by Lance Buckley
Marketing Advisor: Heather Wallace
EBook ISBN-13: 978-1-7354443-1-4
This book is dedicated to my wife and sons, who provide the love and support that gets me through each day and every effort I face. It is also dedicated to the Coast Guard, the oldest continuous seagoing service of the United States, and its complement of supremely skilled, committed, and courageous professionals. They stand the watch and lay their lives on the line every day to save others, defend the homeland, protect the environment, and promote maritime commerce.
Semper Paratus
A few armed vessels, judiciously stationed at the entrances of our ports, might at a small expense be made useful sentinels of the laws.
Alexander Hamilton
1
Inquiry
Brickell Plaza Federal Building, Miami, Florida
0225 EST, 21 January
Benjamin Wyporek, Lieutenant Junior Grade, United States Coast Guard, hated the Federal Building. A lot. Nothing “good” happened when you visited the Federal Building—the best you could hope for was to break even. That was true for visits during a typical working day. And when they summon you and your commanding officer here to explain yourselves at two o’clock in the morning with your crew locked-down incommunicado awaiting the results? Well, my friend, you can be sure you’re facing one hell of a climb to get to “break even.”
The fun started the moment they arrived. The guards at the entrance took advantage of the absence of a lengthy queue of irate federal employees at this hour to give Ben and his CO, Lieutenant Samuel Powell, a thorough examination. Then, the two men passed through a similar screening by two cold-as-ice defense counterintelligence special agents outside the secure conference space on the eighth floor. After checking their IDs, scanning their fingerprints, and confiscating their cell phones and anything else electronic in their possession, the agents ushered the two officers into an anteroom. Before leaving and locking the door, the lead special agent said a curt, “Wait here until they call you.”
Ben was desperately worried. Nothing in his training or experience prepared him for the events he faced over the last week. Hell, before a week ago, he couldn’t even conceive of them. Sam’s expression did not help. Also deep in thought, he was apprehensive, and rightfully so: Sam bore the entire responsibility for everything within his command. After a brief time, Sam glanced over, and, seeing Ben’s worried look, his face softened into a sad smile. He put his hand on Ben’s shoulder and gave it a soft shake. “Take it easy, Ben. We’ll come through this OK.”
In the heat of action, Ben and Sam’s decisions and actions seemed right, but many violated Coast Guard regulations, perhaps even the law. In the cold light of day, the achievements of bringing their crew through the ordeal alive and succeeding in their mission may not be enough. It was time to pay the piper. That potential payment ranged from a “slap on the wrist” in his next fitness report to dismissal from the service and imprisonment. Ben was anxious about what they faced, both for himself and his best friend, Sam.
A muffled conversation outside the entry door made him turn. The door opened, and Dr. Peter Simmons, an erstwhile shipmate of the two men and defense intelligence special agent, entered, unusually dressed in a suit and tie, with his left arm in a sling. When the door closed, Ben stepped forward with his right hand outstretched. “Hi, Doc. Guess I’m glad to see you here. How’s the arm?”
“Still hurts like hell. How’s your head?” Simmons replied, eyeing the small bandage on the side of Ben’s head while he shook the young officer’s hand.
“Been better, but OK now.”
Sam watched the exchange with open hostility. In his view, Simmons was a reckless fool who nearly got his best friend killed and forced Sam to risk his crew and ship to save him. Sam and Ben’s professional life might come to an ignominious end in the next few minutes, thanks to the agent’s appalling judgment. Under the circumstances, Simmons’s smug expression infuriated him, and Sam’s folded arms and icy glare squashed any notion the agent had about a cordial handshake.
Simmons turned to continue his chatter with Ben when the inside door opened, and Captain Jane Mercier entered. The two junior officers snapped to attention, and Mercier quickly said, “Carry on.” Mercier was the chief of response for the 7th Coast Guard District. She was responsible for the better-known Coast Guard missions of search and rescue and law enforcement in the region covering most of Florida, the Bahamas, and Puerto Rico. For now, she was also Sam’s boss, and his and Ben’s fates rested in her hands. “Mr. Powell, Mr. Wyporek, Dr. Simmons. We are ready for you now. Please come with me.”
The men filed past Mercier into the conference room, and she closed the door behind them. Three men and two women, by appearance and dress, senior government people, already sat on the far side of a large table across the room, and Mercier sat down with them. A third, much younger woman sat at the end. An elderly man in the center spoke, “Please be seated, gentlemen.” He motioned to three empty chairs in the center of the room, about five feet away from and facing the table.
The sight severely rattled Ben. The setup of the three chairs in a brightly lit area of what was otherwise a moderately darkened room screamed “inquisition” to him. Shit, they will rip us to shreds, Ben thought as he approached the chair on the far left. He was grateful he wasn’t going through this alone.
After the three men sat down, the elderly man nodded to the young woman seated at the end of the table, and she activated what Ben assumed was a recording device in front of her. The man continued. “For the record, this interview is conducted under Executive Order 10273, and all material discussed here is classified top secret, under codeword JUBILEE. Gentlemen, I need you to state your name and position and that you understand the security level of this discussion.”
“And gents, that means if you talk about anything said in here, you go away forever,” Simmons intoned. “Oh, yes, Dr. Peter Simmons, SA2, DIA-5B.” He turned to Sam and nodded.
“Samuel Powell, Lieutenant, United States Coast Guard, Commanding Officer, Coast Guard Cutter Kauai. I understand the classificati
on and penalties for disclosure.”
Ben’s mind raced as he stared at the people sitting at the table, mentally noting that none of them were providing their names for the record. After a few seconds, Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Um, Benjamin Wyporek, Lieutenant Junior Grade, United States Coast Guard, Executive Officer, Coast Guard Cutter Kauai. I acknowledge the classification of this discussion and the penalty for disclosure.”
Frowning at Simmons, the elderly man resumed. “Thank you, gentlemen. We are inquiring into the events occurring in the Gulf of Mexico, Florida Straits, and the Florida Keys from the 13th through the 19th of this month. Let the record show the U.S. Coast Guard is represented in these proceedings with an observer.” Turning to Mercier, he added, “Please state your name, rank, present station, and acknowledgment of classification, madam.”
“Jane C. Mercier, Captain, United States Coast Guard, Chief, Office of Response, 7th Coast Guard District. I acknowledge the classification of this discussion.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Turning to the three interviewees, the elderly man said, “Now gentlemen, this is a fact-finding session, not an interrogation. We need the full picture of this operation as quickly as possible. Dr. Simmons’s flippant remarks aside, we depend on your honesty and forthrightness here, and discretion afterward. Now we’ve dispensed with the formalities, gentlemen, what the hell happened out there? Please start at the beginning of your involvement, Lieutenant Powell.”
2
Deployment
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, 11 nautical miles southeast of Fort Jefferson, Florida
0943 EST, 13 January
Ben was coming up on the halfway point of his Officer of the Deck or "OOD" duty in the 0800–1200 watch. In that role, he supervised the watchstanders, kept the vessel on course and speed and clear of other vessels, and was the CO’s representative. The workload stayed low when Kauai carried just enough speed to hold heading and position against the light winds and currents in the area. She held a position near a known drug smuggler rendezvous. These were locations where “mother ships” carrying sizeable amounts of cocaine and other illegal products off-loaded to small, fast vessels for the final run to shore in the Florida Keys.
The watch had been quiet so far and somewhat boring, an unfortunate characteristic of sentry operations. Ben was grateful at least for the comfortable weather. The temperate and dry days of January were the best time to be in the Western Florida Keys, at least for a born-and-raised northerner like Ben. Far preferable to July and August, when the only respite from the sweltering heat and humidity came from the torrential downpours of the scattered squalls that popped up during the day.
Even the seas were kind today—no swell, and the small waves stirred by the light winds gave the patrol boat a gentle rocking motion. The downside of January patrols was that weather systems often pushed down from the north with winds that stirred up moderate wave action. They were not a problem for larger vessels, but on smaller boats like Kauai, the choppy pitching and rolling they caused made even mundane activities such as eating and sleeping a challenge.
Kauai was a Coast Guard cutter. By definition, she was an Island Class Patrol Boat (D Class), 110 feet long, and weighing 168 tons, with a crew of 14 enlisted and two officers. She was old, pushing 25 years of age on a design intended to last only 15. The Coast Guard had retired many of her older sisters, but Kauai was still alive and serving. Ben glanced out the rear window and saw the reason: Chief Machinery Technician James Drake walking toward the cradled rigid hull inflatable boat, usually called “the rib” for its acronym RHIB, with a junior petty officer in tow.
Drake, called Chief, being the only chief petty officer on Kauai, was the senior enlisted member and, at 44, the oldest man on the boat. He was the finest chief petty officer Ben had ever known, both for the mastery of his trade and his leadership among the crew. Unlike the more legendary members of the chief petty officer ranks, Drake never shouted at his juniors. Six-foot-four and physically imposing, he only needed to lean in on someone to command attention. Ben wondered whether the junior petty officer with Drake had committed a minor blunder or if he was just doing on-the-job training. Most of the skills Coast Guard technicians gained came from hands-on instruction on the job, and Drake took this responsibility seriously.
Drake looked after his officers as well. Occasionally, Ben had voiced a concern and soon found the problem had been corrected. He suspected Drake had dealt with many other issues before they even came to his attention. It went both ways. When Drake sensed Ben’s uncertainty regarding an important decision, he often asked a respectful but pointed question. Sometimes, Drake pulled him aside and said something like, “You know XO, if I were you, I’d . . .” Ben always took the advice and never regretted it.
Five-foot-ten and average build, Ben was personable and much more intelligent than his mediocre grades at the Coast Guard Academy suggested. He was among the younger members of the crew, being just past his 24th birthday. Ben aspired to join the military since grade school, and his liking of naval history led him to apply to both the Coast Guard and Naval Academies. The Coast Guard offered an appointment first, and he accepted and never looked back.
Ben was the junior of the two officers on board, the executive officer or just “XO," and second in command. Besides standing the occasional watch, he oversaw the administrative needs of the cutter, including the reports, supplies, and financial accounts. Also, he preserved the health, morale, and discipline of the crew, sometimes a hellish task on a surface unit as small and busy as Kauai. Yet, he was luckier than most officers in his position. In his year on board, there were no formal disciplinary actions, and the only chronic troublemakers had rotated off to other units.
In the quiet times on patrol, such as this watch, Ben’s mind often wandered back to his transfer to Kauai. His assignment resulted from good luck, although he wasn’t sure of that at the time. Eighteen months into his first assignment on the large cutter Dependable, the ship’s XO told him of the offer of an early rotation for the position on Kauai. She explained this opportunity was the perfect bird in the hand—with the number of 110s dwindling, his chances for an XO job in his next assignment were fading fast. Needing no further encouragement, he took the job.
Sam greeted Ben on his arrival, having taken command two weeks earlier. The sector commander had fired their predecessors following a serious mishap, and Ben worried he was walking into a fiery mess of poor discipline and morale. Much to Ben’s relief, Sam did not expect him to “whip” the crew into shape; they just needed to offer clear direction, stability, and encouragement. They set out to build Kauai into a successful team and shake loose the specter of failure that had brought them there. Within a few months, they had done just that.
Ben liked and appreciated Sam from the outset. An inch taller than Ben with a slim, athletic build, Sam was a Mustang—a former chief petty officer in the Operations Specialist rating who had completed Officer Candidate School and received an officer’s commission. At 35, he was second only to Drake in age among Kauai’s crew. Ben thought Sam the most open and approachable officer he had ever met, possessing a ready, but not mean, sense of humor. He was not a pushover, and he insisted on decorum on the Bridge and in official situations. Still, Sam made sure the crew understood if they worked hard and played by the rules, he stood by them.
It surprised Ben to learn later that Sam was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania’s prestigious Wharton School and came from a wealthy family. Children in that wealth class rarely opted for the rigors of military life, particularly as an enlisted man. He worked up the nerve to ask Sam about his choice one quiet evening when they were both on the Bridge.
Sam dropped his head for a second, then he looked up and said, “My family asked that question in shocked disbelief.” After a brief pause, he said, “Let’s just say I had to make a choice between two teams. One had people who’d let someone they know die just to make more money. The other had people who risk th
eir own lives to save people they’d never met.” He smiled. “The Coast Guard was the best call I ever made.”
“Me too, sir,” Ben had replied with complete sincerity.
Ben completed another round of scanning for targets by radar and binoculars when the alert sounded on the satellite channel used for communication with the Operations Center in Miami.
The message read, in plain language: “To Kauai from District 7 Operations Center: detach at once from the current mission and proceed to latitude 25 degrees 6 minutes north, longitude 81 degrees 8 minutes west for search and rescue on a disabled sailing vessel. The target is a possible drug smuggler, and Kauai is to contact the Coast Guard maritime patrol aircraft 2303, on-scene commander. Acknowledge.”
This is more like it. Ben thought as he typed the latitude and longitude into the navigation system. Drugs and search and rescue—buy one, get one free! He picked up the phone to call the CO and report the development.
“Captain speaking.”
“Sir, OOD here. They have detached us for SAR, disabled sailing vessel, potential drug target spotted by an HC-144. I read zero-six-seven true at 102 miles. We should have comms from here if he’s high enough.”
“Very well, make the turn and bring up full speed. I’m coming up now.”
“Very good, sir.” Ben hung up the phone and gave the orders to the helmsman. A few moments later, the CO entered the space, and Ben announced, “Captain on the Bridge.”
“Carry on, please.” Sam returned Ben’s salute. “Let’s see if we can talk to them.”
“Yes, sir.” Ben dialed up the plane’s frequency on the control console, then returned to his usual position, able to monitor Kauai’s progress while listening to the radio conversation. “We’re up now, Captain.”
Engage at Dawn: First Contact Page 1