Joint Task Force #2: America (32 page)

“Aye, aye, sir,” the Chief said. The man turned and ran across the room, taking the stairs two at a time as he bolted toward the piers.

“What’s going on?” Tucker asked.

“We aren’t sure, but Naval Security Group is able to hear the woman on harbor common better than we are, and their DF sites working with the Coast Guard coastal units have located the transmission as emanating from a location about eleven miles off the tip of Fort Story near the entrance to the harbor channel.”

“One thing they heard that we didn’t was her identify herself as Navy Lieutenant Maureen Early.” He reached over to the table, shuffled the papers around, found the one he was looking for, and handed it to Tucker.

It was the manifest for the crew of Recce Flight 62. St. Cyr and Tibbles-Seagraves looked at the list with him. The top name on the list of twenty-four trapped his attention, sending a rush of chill bumps up his back and chest.
LIEUTENANT MAUREEN EARLY
,
FLIGHT COMMANDER
.

“If what SecGru is saying is correct, Commodore, then how did—”

“—they end up here? I can only guess until you get out there. My gut speculation is that they crashed near the terrorist freighter and they’re prisoners. Or were prisoners. They seem to be free for the moment. Regardless of whether it’s true or not—whether this is a hoax or not—we can’t take a chance. I have sent the Chief to round up the Lieutenant and his teams. Those sailors out there with the patrol boats are not your everyday sailors as you are aware. They’re also a mix of SEALs and explosive ordnance experts—EODs. The Chief is going to be your team leader. He has in-country experience in Iraq, Somalia, and Liberia.”

“Okay, I’m going to get my medical kit together.”

“You’re not going,” Tucker said, his brow wrinkling.

“Look, buddy,” Sam Bradley said, poking him lightly in the chest. “I may have deep feelings for you, but not enough for you to start telling me how to do my job.”

Tucker jerked his head back at the unexpected response. Sam winked. “Someone is wounded, and if this isn’t a hoax and is the real thing, then the difference between life and death may be this little ol’ nurse from DiLorenzo Tricare Health Clinic, Pentagon.” She winked again. “Besides, you need me and you just don’t want to say it.”

“She’s right. We don’t have time to get a medical team here,” Commodore West said, jerking his head at her to get going. “We don’t have time to get anything together except what we have right here. This storm has trees and electric lines down across Tidewater. I don’t think we could get a full team together for hours. Nope.” He shook his head. “Commander Raleigh, you’ll go with what we have available, and I am ordering you to succeed.”

MacOlson ran up the stairs; rain running off his slick, forming a huge puddle around his feet. He shook his head, water splashing Bradley as she leaned away. Smiling, MacOlson gave a mock salute as he removed his ball cap. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Your men downstairs, Lieutenant?”

“Some are, sir. The others are coming. Just had to
finish those last couple of lines,” he replied, wringing his cap without mangling the brim. Water fell from it to join the puddle around his feet. “And, they’re enjoying the dry break from the weather, but we can’t stay long, Commodore. High tide is fast going out, and we’ll need to readjust the lines again.”

“You’re going to be casting off lines in a few minutes, Lieutenant. Your job is to transport Commander Raleigh, Captain St. Cyr, Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves, and five of your team to . . .” and he spent the next few minutes bringing the Surface Warfare officer up to speed on events and stopping MacOlson’s objection to taking a Special Operations Craft out in this sea state.

Unraveling a navigational chart of the waters around the Tidewater area of Virginia Beach, Little Creek, and Norfolk, Virginia, the Commodore laid out a basic plan—a plan that called for Raleigh to lead a makeshift SEAL team that had never worked together along with two officers from allied nations to board a freighter they had very little intelligence about and to fight Jihadist terrorists. If their quick estimate was right, some Americans were still alive and fighting on the bridge. Whether they could get there in time to turn the tide of battle and save the Americans seemed doubtful to him, but the Commodore treated it as if there was no doubt in his seasoned veteran mind that those trapped Americans would survive.

Commodore West paused and looked directly at Tucker. “This is not easy to say. We don’t have orders yet, telling us to do this, but I want to get you all in place so when those orders do come we’re ahead of the game. The weather is still bad, Commander, and it’s playing havoc with communications. So, I am going to give you your orders, and unless you hear differently from me or someone senior to me, you will execute them.” He pointed at St. Cyr, Tibbles-Seagraves, and MacOlson. “Your first priority is to stop that ship from coming closer to the coast. At all costs, and that includes your own lives. Lieutenant MacOlson, you’re to get this team to that freighter
regardless of weather, ship survival, or even the safety of your men and you.”

Commodore West turned back to Tucker. “You’re to take possession of the vessel and hold it in position. If you reach the decision that it’s impossible to do so, then you are to do everything within your power to turn it out to sea.” Commodore West paused. “I have just spoken with Commander, Second Fleet. They have been listening and evaluating those radio transmissions also. Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach is socked in right now, but within the next three hours they expect the weather to clear sufficiently to launch a couple of F-18 Hornets that didn’t bingo west when the others did.”

“So if we don’t succeed then those Hornets are going to take the vessel out?”

“How are we going to find this ship?” St. Cyr asked. “I have heard a lot of different ships on the radio. The anchorages must be crowded.

Commodore West nodded but ignored the question. “What you don’t know is that Defense Intelligence Agency believes the van lashed down on the stern of the freighter houses a nuclear device.”

“That is our assessment, also,” Tibbles-Seagraves volunteered. “In the interest of allies united and information-sharing, if I may?” he asked, nodding toward West. He set his cup on the saucer he was holding in his right hand.

“Of course, go ahead.”

“British Intelligence believes the van is a diversion from a more sinister weapon, but we aren’t sure what. We think it may be biological in nature.”

“We think it could also be chemical,” St. Cyr added.

“Even more reason for you to take Lieutenant Commander Bradley with you. Take her on board so she can form a quick analysis of what all of our intelligence weenies are saying.”

St. Cyr cleared his throat. “Of course, we would have already shared everything we know with our British and American friends. I believe that the appearance of the ship here is directly tied to Commander Raleigh,” he said,
respectfully nodding once in Tucker’s direction.

West stared at the French Captain for a couple of seconds before looking at Raleigh. “Yes, we initially thought this Abu Alhaul’s desire to avenge certain actions attributed to Commander Raleigh might draw him here, but the last report by Recce Flight 62 of the merchant vessel heading north, and the storm off our eastern seaboard, combined to convince seniors the ship was bound for Europe.”

Sam Bradley came back up the steps, wearing a long Navy-issued raincoat. “I’m ready. My stuff is at the front door.”

“Sir, you know this isn’t going to be easy,” MacOlson said. “Those boats aren’t made for this rough weather. We’ve got no keel—”

“—and, you’ve got no rudder or propellers, Lieutenant, which means you should be able to skim over the top of those waves with no problems.”

“No problems!”

“Lieutenant, you wouldn’t want to let an old Surface Warfare officer down, now would you? Besides, those waves are getting smaller and smaller by the minute. Haven’t you been listening to the weather? The storm is curving to the northeast, heading across the Atlantic. By late this afternoon the rain may even stop.”

“That is indeed good news, sir,” MacOlson said. “That means the rescue helicopters should be able to get to us sooner.”

The radio crackled, drawing their attention.

“Lieutenant Early, this is Hampton Roads Coast Guard. We have you fivers, ma’am. Can you tell us your location?”

Static followed the transmission for a couple of seconds, followed by more static as another merchant interrupted the channel asking for permission to enter the navigation channel. He was a tanker out of New Iraq heading for the terminals in Norfolk.

“Get the hell off the circuit,” Commodore West
mumbled. “Jesus Christ! Don’t they know we have an emergency out there?”

As if hearing him, the Coast Guard returned to the circuit. “All stations this circuit. You will remain clear of channel sixteen until we have authorized you to use it. Backup channel eighteen is open for all users with the exception of Lieutenant Early. Do not acknowledge this restriction. Lieutenant Early, maintain contact this channel.”

Static followed for a few seconds.

“Coast Guard, this is Early.” The popping sound of rapid gunfire garbled her words.

The red telephone rang. Commodore West picked it up. Listening, he turned his back to the others. Tucker moved a couple of steps nearer, trying to hear what was being said. West was issuing a lot of “yes, sirs” and “no, sirs.” Must be Second Fleet again.

“I think we’re east of Fort Story,” the voice on the radio broadcast. “We’re pretty sure we saw the old Cape Henry lighthouse, but it was—” Gunfire interrupted the transmission.

Fort Story was a little-known Army base situated on the point of land where the coast curves west to butt against the more famous tourist-ridden beaches of Virginia Beach. The Cape Henry lighthouse was one of the first built in America, and while it was not operational, the Army still maintained it in pristine shape as a historical monument.

Repeated calls by the Coast Guard failed to re-establish contact with the P-3C pilot.

Commodore West hung up the telephone and looked at Tucker.

“It’s a go. Lieutenant MacOlson, take them out, bear south toward Cape Henry.”

“Sir, we aren’t sure exactly where they’re located and there must be—”

West nodded. “You’re right. We don’t. But we have a general area and we know that it’s got a huge, dark-colored van anchored down on its stern weather deck.
Yes, there are at least a hundred commercial ships anchored out there, but the ship you’re looking for has to be within ten to twenty miles of shore, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to see the coastline. That was Second Fleet on the telephone. By the time you hit the channel, Lieutenant, the Coast Guard will have their coastal patrol boat, the USCGC
Albacore
out there. She’s just returned from evading the storm.” The Commodore put on his raincoat. “The
Albacore
will try to provide a weather break for you to close the ship. Should make the going a little smoother.”

MacOlson nodded. “How about the other boats tied up here, sir?”

“Why do you think I’m putting on my raincoat? Headquarters is sending some sailors off one of the amphibs to help me watch the lines. Until then, I think me and the First Class can recall enough about ships to keep them safe until the Boatswain Mates off the amphibs arrive.” He looked at the men and the lone woman watching him. “Well? Get going. You can’t very well help anyone standing here watching me.”

Tucker moved quickly, heading toward the stairs.

“One other thing,” Commodore West said.

Everyone stopped and turned toward the Commodore. Tucker noticed a look of sadness cross the man’s face.
He knows he is sending us off to die.

“May God go with you.”

Tucker nodded once before turning down the stairs. His two Special Forces allies hurried with him. MacOlson had already disappeared, running to his boat. Behind MacOlson ran the SEAL/EOD sailors who had been in the conference room.

Tucker knew the Surface Warfare officer would already have the team outfitted and in position by the time they hit the deck of the boat.

Commodore West shouted, bringing him up short. St. Cyr and Tibbles-Seagraves stopped alongside him. Bradley was halfway down the stairs and kept on going, not having heard the shout. “Commander, that ship can’t be
allowed into the harbor. Keep her out to sea. If all else fails, scuttle her, but don’t let her enter the harbor or close our shores. Navy Intelligence isn’t sure what the weapon is on her stern, but whatever it is, it must be something special if Abu Alhaul has gone through all this trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Tucker said. He bit his bottom lip for a second. In for a nickel, in for a dime, he thought. “But, they may have a worse-case scenario, Commodore.”

West passed them as he hit the stairs. The three men hurriedly followed. “Yeap, worse case it could be a nuclear weapon—a real one. Then it won’t matter whether it explodes at sea or ashore; it’s going to create a lot of death and destruction, which is why, when you take control, keep it out there, away from here.”

SENIOR CHIEF LEARY STOOD BEHIND THE HELM, HIS AK-47
propped across the top of it. “We’re steering two-nine-zero,” he said, tapping the compass in front of him.

He turned. At first dismissing the noise that sounded like a bouncing metal ball as his fingers drumming the compass.

Kelly saw it first. “Grenade,” he said in a voice moist with the blood trickling in his throat. A string of red flowed down the right side of his lips as he raised his hand and pointed toward the hatch on the starboard side of the bridge.

Without thinking about it, Early dashed from where she had been standing near the forward bulkhead. With one hand, she scooped up the still-rolling grenade, and in one smooth underhand softball-like pitch tossed it back toward the open hatchway just as the ship rolled slowly to the port side. The hatch door swung inward, bouncing off the dead man’s head as the grenade sailed through the opening, barely missing the edge of the loose hatch by an inch. The explosion blew out the windows directly in front of the hatchway. The concussion sent her reeling backward, tripping over Kelly’s feet. Her head felt like it was blowing up inside her skull, and when she landed
against the port bulkhead, she was surprised to see the Senior Chief lying beside her.