“You might hear shooting off in the distance. Ignore it. Keep your sweep 30 degrees either side of the bow, understand?”
“Yes, sir! Sweep from 330 to 030!”
“Right on! I’ll call you if I can, but when you feel us doing a crash back, don’t wait for any orders, just beat feet back to the Boat Deck and report to Bondurant, clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well done, son.” Sam clapped the young man on the arm. “Good luck. Off you go!”
“Yes, sir!” Pickins said, saluted, and then ran off to his post on Kauai’s bow.
Sam turned to glance forward. Repositioning the lookout to the bow would only buy them a few extra seconds of warning at 28 knots, but Sam was banking every second he could.
◆◆◆
Machinery Technician Third Class Brown was assisting Drake in running his routine morning checks in Main Control when the phone rang. Drake lifted the phone with a look of concern—if the Bridge was calling, it couldn’t be good. “Main Control, Drake… He’s jammed up, isn’t he? Okay, Hoppy, if you can pass me engine control, I’ll pull the topping stops. I think I can squeeze a few extra knots from the old lady. Right then, I need you to give me a heads up about a minute before so I can replace the stops and slam in back full without blowing us up. On it now.” He grabbed a set of pliers out of the box and turned to Brown. “Bart, take the throttles and hold at 98% until I give you the signal and then edge it up, we’ll start with Number 1!”
Drake laid down between the engines, carefully reached the pliers in and gripped the topping button on the fuel control, extracting it and putting it into his pocket. He glanced at Brown and held up one finger, and the junior petty officer put his hand on the right-hand throttle. Drake gave an exaggerated nod and then fixed his gaze on the fuel control, providing a repeating pinching signal with his fingers for Brown to advance the throttle. When the control arm had reached the point Drake couldn’t risk anymore, he held up a fist and looked to Brown, who held up both hands. They then repeated the process on the #2 engine. He got up, moved to the control station, and glanced at the digital reading for the cutter’s speed through the water—30 knots—and let loose with a “Hot Damn! Payback time—hold together, baby!” The engine instrument readings were a nightmare scenario for any engineer, but Drake knew the engines could take it for a brief time.
Brown, wide-eyed after the procedure and aghast at the readings, turned and shouted over the noise of the engines, “How long will they take this Chief?!”
“As long as they need to!” Drake shouted back.
“What should I do if one lets go?!”
“If parts start flying, we hit the fuel shutoff and get out!”
“What do I do then?!”
“You damn well better catch up to me, son!”
◆◆◆
After a minute, the engines were running at maximum, and Sam felt they were running faster than any full-power run they had before. “OOD, ETA, please.”
Hopkins was not freaked-out, exactly, but a full-power run in low visibility was very high-risk, bordering on reckless. If another vessel appeared directly ahead of them out of the fog, a collision was likely. That would end this mission, if not the patrol boat herself. Hopkins had dropped the scale on the search radar to two miles when Sam ordered full speed to achieve the highest resolution and probability of detection. And she stayed bolted to the screen. She glanced at the SeaWatch panel and replied, “Captain, speed of advance is 29, I make it… twelve minutes now, maybe eleven and a half.”
Sam was impressed. Twenty-nine knots and 30 through the water. Well done, Chief! “Very well. Any shoaling to worry about?”
“Well, Captain, if it was low tide right now, I’d be pissing my pants, but we’ll be OK all the way. It will be close at the end. And, by the way, we’re violating the wake limits in the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge,” she added with a slight grin.
Sam returned a sad smile. “Book me. When this is over, the Department of Interior guys will be least of my worries.”
No kidding, Hopkins thought. According to the book, the captain should connect with the District Command and seek a Statement of No Objection for use of force. Of course, there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting an SNO in time to help the XO. She could see it clearly: he will do whatever it takes to save his friend and shipmate, even if that violates standing orders. Calling now would only risk the more severe charge of disobeying a direct order. The look they shared made clear both knew this truth, and neither would say it. After a few seconds, Hopkins looked down at the radar screen, and Sam turned back to the fire control station.
The crew scrambled to their GQ stations, donning vests and helmets. Sam fastened his vest and stepped over to the Fire Control Station, where Williams had activated his console and worked through the warm-up of the 25mm. “Williams, load with armor-piercing when you get online. How will the infrared sight do in this fog?”
Williams pressed a few buttons and moved the joystick to check the infrared gun sight’s operation. “Better than visual with the long-wave camera, maybe 700 yards, sir.” He made another selection, and with a series of “clanks,” the chain mechanism loaded the first Armor Piercing Discarding Sabot-Tracer round into the 25 mm main gun. “APDS-T loaded; gun ready.”
Sam turned back to Deffler, who was just putting on his helmet. “Deffler, reposition over here at fire control, please. I may need your eyes for shot spotting.”
“Yes, sir.” He activated the internal antenna of his laptop and then pulled it out of the docking port to cross the Bridge. “Hi, sailor!” He winked and kneeled next to Williams.
“Don’t start,” Williams growled back.
Sam grabbed his binoculars and went out on to the starboard bridge wing. He need not have bothered with binoculars—visibility was a quarter-mile in the fog—but he needed something to steady his hands. Hebert was already in battle gear and was preparing his machine gun for action. “Whattaya say, Chef?” Sam said with a forced grin.
“Same as always, sir,” Hebert replied with a tight smile. “You catch ‘em, and I’ll cook ‘em.”
Sam patted him on the back and continued to the end of the walkway. He gazed astern and briefly watched the “rooster tail” produced by thrust from the propellers. Kauai’s creamy white wake stretched straight back and spread out behind on the smooth water until fading from sight in the fog. He then turned his gaze inward and took in the sounds: the muffled roar of the diesel engines; the bumping and clanging as the crew prepared for battle; the snapping of the U.S. flag and Coast Guard ensign in the stiff wind high on the mast; the rush of the water passing at 30 knots and the intermittent thumping from the hull hitting the small waves. Through all this, the captain of the Coast Guard Cutter Kauai bowed his head and prayed. “Please, God, keep him and us safe for just ten more minutes.”
Resolution Key, Florida
0725 EST, 19 January
“I can see them,” Ben said when he could make out the black shape of the large SUV coming through the mist. His “barricade,” if it could be called that, was barely two-and-a-half feet high. “They don’t seem too worried about us.”
“Not much to fear from small arms. You don’t happen to have an anti-tank rocket on you, by any chance? No? No.” Simmons’ face was expressionless as he stared at the approaching SUVs.
Ben couldn’t remember ever being so scared and swallowed hard. “Shouldn’t we spread out? I mean, one shot with an RPG can take out both of us.”
Simmons shook his head. “No, we need to keep close to the portal. They won’t risk an explosive shot this close to the target, at least, until they figure out what it is. We move off, and they’ll blow us away for sure.”
“OK. Just a reminder, it’s my first firefight.”
Simmons shot Ben a glance and smile. “Yeah, I remember. Don’t worry, Ben, you’ll be fine. Keep your head down, and other than that, it’s just like the gun range.”
Ben selected the voic
e-activated position on his radio. “Kauai, Shore-One, hostiles in sight and approaching, over.”
“Roger One, we’re almost there, and we have eyes on scene. Where are you? Over,” Sam’s voice replied.
The sound of Sam’s voice and the knowledge a Puma was providing him situational awareness provided some relief from the gnawing fear. “We are both barricaded by the shed, sir, within 15 feet. Everything moving is hostile, over.”
“Roger that. Hang in there! Out.”
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here,” Simmons quipped.
“Shakespeare, The Tempest,” Ben responded.
“Well played, sir. We’ll set you up with a pretty Lit major yet.” Simmons smiled grimly with his eyes fixed on the approaching vehicles.
The line brought the thought of the lovely young analyst he had met a mere day and a half ago to mind. “If I don’t make it back, would you tell Victoria,… well, you know what to tell her.”
“You will make it back,” Simmons snapped. “Just keep your head in the game!”
The two SUVs split apart and continued their slow approach. Simmons noticed the rear window of the left one coming down and put two Uzi bursts toward it. The window quickly raised. “Stand by for dismounts. They’ll be using the vehicles for cover. You take the one on the right. Shoot at anything you see outside the vehicle, but don’t take a lot of time aiming. We need a steady fire on them, or they’ll rush us. Remember, stay low!”
Ben’s vehicle slowed, and a head appeared around the back. Ben raised his carbine, firing a three-round burst, and the head disappeared. The SUV stopped, and two more heads popped up over the hood and fired automatic weapons. Rounds slammed into the wood barrier and ground, throwing up sand and wood splinters. Ben returned quick bursts in the general direction, noting Simmons doing the same toward his vehicle. “Kauai, Shore-One, we are taking fire, repeat we are taking fire, request immediate assistance!” Ben discarded the radio and laid down a quick set of bursts, and one black-clad figure tumbled from behind his vehicle. Steady fire, stay low, steady fire, stay low. Ben drilled his mind to the task at hand.
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, 1.0 nautical miles west of Resolution Key, Florida
0727 EST, 19 January
“Conn, Mount 51, sound of gunshots 040 relative, no visual target!” Hebert shouted through the bridge door from his position on the starboard machine gun.
“Conn, aye!” Hopkins replied.
Sam watched the scene ashore unfold in real-time in the video feed from the orbiting Puma. His heart pounded, and he felt rising nausea as he watched the SUVs split apart and then stop. Figures emerged from both vehicles.
“Kauai, Shore-One, we are taking fire, repeat we are taking fire, request immediate assistance!” Ben’s voice burst from the radio.
“Conn, Mount 51, sound of continuous gunfire 050 relative, no visual target!” came the redundant report.
“Conn, aye! Captain, one point seven miles to shoal water.” Hopkins had called down to Drake at two miles and saw the engine speed back down slightly to “normal” emergency ahead in response.
“Very well, prepare for crash back. Williams?”
“Nothing yet, Captain, sorry,” Williams said, shifting in his seat.
“Captain, one and a half miles to shoal water.” Into the telephone, she said, “Chief, stand by for crash back.”
“Very well, stand by.”
Suddenly, the deck seemed to jump with a loud “thud,” and a second later, a low “boom” sounded through the Bridge. “Mount 51, report!” Hopkins shouted.
“Sound of an explosion 020 relative! Gunfire has stopped!”
On the Puma’s video display, Sam saw the figures behind the westernmost vehicle aim a mortar-like device and fire it. The camera picked up a flash of a small object, then a burst overhead Ben and Simmons’s redoubt. Either Ben or Simmons—from the camera aspect and mist he couldn’t tell which—fast-crawled to the other briefly then returned to his position. Sam was unconsciously pounding his right fist on his thigh as the scene played out before him.
“Getting something,” Williams said. “Yes! Two targets on long-wave IR.”
Sam leaned in. “Surface action starboard, train on the target on the far left and standby. Deffler, illuminate the hostile vehicle farthest west.” Standing up, he shouted, “OOD, Crash Back Now!” He keyed his handheld radio. “Pickins, haul ass back to the Boat Deck now!”
Hopkins shouted into the telephone, “Main Control, Conn, Crash Back, all back full!”
“Unmasked,” Deffler piped up. “Target illuminated.”
Sam held on to the bridge rail as the patrol boat pitched down and violently shuddered while shedding speed quickly in the emergency stop. He watched the firing resume on the screen, and the figures started moving from behind the vehicles and closing on Ben and Simmons’ position.
“Main Control, Conn, All Stop!” Hopkins shouted into the phone when the speed dropped to zero. The roar of the engines immediately died away.
“Conn, Mount 51, more continuous gunfire bearing 060 relative, no visual target!”
“Conn, aye!”
“Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking!”
“Batteries release, commence fire!”
◆◆◆
Drake held the phone to one ear and his finger in the other to hear Hopkins orders over the engine noise. Sweat poured down his face as he stared at the instruments—the engine room was sweltering during normal cruise conditions. After ten minutes at extreme speed, it was like an oven.
Hopkins held the line open. When Drake heard Sam shout the initial crash back order, he did not wait for Hopkins to repeat it—just dropped the phone and smoothly but quickly closed the engine throttles. When the RPMs had died down enough, he declutched the engines from the propeller shafts, shifted to reverse drive, and reclutched. After a short spine-tingling shriek from the clutches, the propellers showed reverse turns, and Drake advanced the throttles. The propellers bit against the cutter’s forward speed and sent a fearsome vibration through the hull. The engine room was a cacophony of roaring engines, rattling tools, and the sharp “pings” of propeller cavitations. Holding the phone to his ear again, while gripping a stanchion to stay upright, Drake watched the ship’s speed readout drop to zero. He retarded the throttles to idle and declutched at almost the same time Hopkins “all stop” order came. He switched the engine control selector back to the Bridge, picked up the phone, and reported, “Conn, Main Control, engines at all stop. Returning engine control to Conn.”
With the engines at idle, Main Control seemed almost quiet compared to the last few minutes. Brown had just started to relax when a series of loud thuds and sharp vibrations startled him. He looked frantically between the engines and instrument panel and shouted, “Shit, Chief! What now?”
“Relax, son,” Drake wiped the sweat from his forehead while staring forward with a worried expression. “It’s the main gun.”
Resolution Key, Florida
0720 EST, 19 January
Ben had already spent one magazine and slammed another into the carbine, resuming fire. His pistol was also charged and ready. Suddenly, the ground vibrated, followed by a muted flash and “whoosh—boom” sound with a gust of wind from offshore. The assault on the senses caused an instinctive pause in firing from both sides. “They’re off!” gasped Ben. He turned back to his front. “What are they doing?”
“Retasking,” Simmons said, pulling a small package out of one of his pockets. “They’ll try to take us now for interrogation.”
“What do we do?”
“Don’t get taken.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean, whatever you have to do, DO NOT get taken by these guys.” He looked Ben in the eyes. “Nothing would be worse, believe me.”
“Right.”
Some activity behind his SUV attracted Ben’s attention. There was a “whump” sound, and a grapefruit-sized object sailed overhead their
position.
“FACE DOWN!” Simmons shouted.
Ben turned and buried his face in the sand when a loud “pop” sounded overhead, followed by a “whir” and a stabbing pain in the back of his right leg. Within seconds, a severe muscle cramp-like pain spread over his body, and he could not move. He tried to shout in terror, but all he heard was, “Ahhhhhh!” He felt another prick in his neck, and the pain subsided, although he still could not seem to get his muscles to work.
“It was a micro-flechette with a tetrodotoxin derivative. I’ve given you the antidote, but it’ll be about 30 seconds before it’s fully effective,” Simmons whispered as he pulled the now empty syrette out of Ben’s neck. “Fight it! They’ll be rushing us in a few seconds—you need to be shooting.”
The pain subsided, but the world moved in slow motion. Ben sensed time was passing, perhaps while the enemy waited for their chemical attack to take effect. Finally, he saw movement again near the vehicles. Ben hand closed on the grip of his pistol, and it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds as he raised it off the ground. He squeezed off first one and then several rounds in quick-fire. Simmons fired his Uzi in full-automatic, and two of the approaching figures fell to the ground. Another burst of automatic fire from the SUVs threw up more sand, and Simmons grunted and crumpled with a hit.
Suddenly, the SUV on the right lurched and leaned to the left, its tires flattened. The windows of the stricken vehicle shattered and the fuel tank exploded, engulfing it in flames as a series of loud “Thump” sounds arrived from offshore. The two dismounts still standing darted toward the remaining SUV.
Holding his wounded left arm, Simmons grimaced. “What the hell?”
Ben recognized the sound of a 25mm gun and croaked, “It’s Kauai!” He laboriously brought his pistol to bear on the other SUV.
A black-clad gunman next to the SUV blind-fired a rocket-propelled grenade to seaward in the general direction of the incoming tracer fire. He then piled with the other survivors into the vehicle, its rear tires spinning and throwing up sand and dust.
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, 600 yards off Resolution Key, Florida
Engage at Dawn: First Contact Page 21