Targets of Opportunity (48 page)

“Can you get close enough to attach the GA device?” the captain asked.

“Affirmative,” the team leader reported with a confidence not justified by the difficulties they faced.

In order to fasten the GA devices to the hulls they would have to race their speedboats ahead of the subs, then each would send a twoman team into the open sea, all four secured to their pursuit crafts by a long, braided nylon rope attached to the stern. With the launches staying in motion at a slower speed, they would allow the subs to catch up with them and, as they passed, the men in the sea would attach these small instruments to the outside skin of the AUVs with a water-resistant adhesive already affixed to the back of the device. The good news was that the reading on the GA would be almost instantaneous and reliable, but the bad news was twofold. First, a miss would cost them valuable time, since they would have to bring the men back aboard the launches and then repeat the process. Second, after the men in the water were done, the draft of the rear-powered submarines might draw them toward the propellers, tearing them to shreds.

“Do it,” the captain ordered.

————

Both launches took off at once, riding over the large surges that slapped at them, often tossing their small pursuit vessels into the air, the engines spinning uselessly in space as they were slowed and thrown off course. But in a few minutes their sonar indicated that they had managed to outrun the AUVs. The
Burgwyn
kept apace.

Without delay, two SEALs from each launch flipped over the side, tethered to their boats, disappearing from view into the murky darkness of the roiling sea.

Their headpieces were fitted with halogen lights, but the beams were useless in these conditions except perhaps for the ability to spot each other. When they hit the water they did not swim, they merely stayed submerged, allowing the nylon ropes that had become their lifelines to reach full length and begin to drag them forward as their boats slowed.

In less than a minute they could make out the oncoming subs. The Red Team was too far astern, so those two men began paddling furiously to put themselves in the path of the AUV. The other two were soon staring directly at the nose of a small craft as it churned toward them. Only one of them had to succeed, and each knew his role, one to the port side, one to the starboard.

The AUVs were about thirty feet long and moved with remarkable stealth, running almost silently as they relentlessly followed their programmed paths through the sea.

As the subs drew nearer, one of the men spoke into his microphone. “Blue Team here, we need more speed,” he said, “three more knots, and pronto.”

In a moment, all four men felt a slight tug on their lines as their movement increased, nearly at the same rate as the subs’.

The men on the Red Team, who had been too far away, had pulled closer, and one of them was near enough that he managed to slap the GA device toward the rear of the AUV, then flipped backward, barely clearing the propeller. “Red Team done!” he shouted into his microphone. “Red Team done!”

The SEALs on the Blue Team each had a good position, and both men were able to paste a GA sensor onto the hull. Then, just as one of them reported, “Blue Team done, Blue Team done,” his rope was caught in the propeller. Before he could be dragged into the lethal path of the swiftly turning screw, the cord was severed, and he was set adrift.

On the launches, as soon as they heard that the GAs were in place, they began reading the monitors. Then the SOS came.

“Blue Team, one man cut loose, repeat, Blue Team, man cut loose.”

The other three men were being pulled back to the launches, their teammates aboard the launches drawing in their cords hand over hand. The
Burgwyn
, which had kept a safe distance, was shining all of its spotlights on the two pursuit crafts during the mission. As soon as the distress call was sent they began sweeping the area with high-powered beams, searching for the lost man.

Tossed about in the inky water, the abandoned SEAL had immediately surfaced and ignited his flare. Even with his electronic chem-lite shining into the darkness and his homing beacon working, the movements of the sea and the darkness of the sky made it impossible for the crew of the
Burgwyn
to spot him. Added to the problem of identifying his position was the time it would take for a destroyer the size of the
Burgwyn
to come about. The distance between the SEAL and his mates had vastly increased in just these few moments and the danger that he would be lost was rapidly increasing.

Meanwhile, the captain aboard the
Burgwyn
called for the monitor readings.

The Red Team leader called in. “All readings are negative. That’s negative for any radioactivity.”

“Blue Team, report in,” the captain ordered.

“We confirm sir. Two devices report no radioactivity.”

“Please reconfirm those readings,” the captain ordered.

“Reconfirming, sir, there is no reading of radioactivity on either craft.”

Meanwhile, the small pursuit boats were turning course as the SEALs struggled to get a visual on their missing teammate. Much smaller and more agile than the large destroyer, they were taking a two-flank approach in estimating the winds and currents and, with the readings on his homing beacon, they hoped to narrow the search area.

Sandor heard everything. “Captain, this is Sandor. I’m heading back. After you pick up your men, do whatever you need to destroy those subs.”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Remember, they may not be carrying anything nuclear, but we have no idea on the total payload.”

“We know what we’ve got to do,” the captain said, his voice betraying the obvious concern—he needed to pull his men out of the water before he could take out the AUVs, but time was indeed growing short. “We’ll stand back, then launch our torpedoes.”

“Sir, this is Red Team leader,” came a voice from below. “We copy that, sir. You do whatever has to be done, but we’re all staying down here until we find him, sir.”

“That’s affirmative from Blue Team,” another voice promptly added.

“You listen up,” the captain snapped, “you’ve got exactly ninety seconds to locate him and then you all return to the
Burgwyn
, and that is an order, son.”

No one spoke as the seconds ticked by, the two launches frantically negotiating the stormy sea, the large spotlights from the destroyer sweeping the water like huge klieg lights. Sandor had Martindale throw the forward searchlights on, but from this high, through the stormy sky, they were little help.

Sandor told Martindale not to leave the scene while the man remained missing. Everyone fought against time and the weather, the two launches circling in a deliberate pattern that canvassed the area in the hope of picking up a signal.

And then, suddenly, a glimmer could be seen about a hundred yards from the Red Team boat, the beacon bobbing up and down on the chops and swells like a drunken buoy.

“We see him,” Red Team reported. “We’ve got him.”

Sandor blew out a full lungful of air, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Marty, it’s time to go find out where they really sent those nukes.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO

A
S
T
OM
M
ARTINDALE
piloted the Seahawk back to the mainland he was becoming increasingly concerned about the accelerating winds that buffeted his craft, sending it back and forth like some airborne rocking horse.

“I’m not one to leave a party early,” he said into his microphone, “but we’re getting our asses kicked up here.”

The copilot said, “Roger that.”

Sandor had moved to the jump seat right behind them. “How are we on fuel?”

“Depends how far you want to go,” Martindale replied with a chuckle, just before another gust sent the chopper reeling. “Shit, that felt like a hundred-mile-an-hour crosswind.”

“Can this thing take a hundred-mile crosswind?”

Martindale laughed again. “Hell no.”

Sandor steadied himself, then said, “I’d like to reach one of these refineries, and it’ll be a whole lot better if we don’t have to stop. Can we make it?”

“Depends which one. The only good news is that we’re running northerly with this hurricane, not fighting the headwinds anymore.”

Sandor said, “Good,” then tapped the copilot on the shoulder. “Jake, hook us up with security in Baytown, then I’ve got to speak with D.C.”

As he was about to make the connection, the voice of the captain from the
Burgwyn
came through. “Gentlemen, don’t know if you’ll be able to see this off your rear port in this soup, but we’re twenty seconds from contact.”

“What the hell,” Martindale said, banking the chopper to the left as they peered through the dense rain at the sea behind them.

Just a few seconds later they heard the crew aboard the
Burgwyn
whooping it up over the radio as they were barely able to make out the distant flash of the fiery destruction of one submarine, then the second, MK-32 torpedoes taking out both vessels.

“You boys see that?” the captain asked.

“We saw enough,” Sandor told him, “but we heard your men and that was even better.”

“We’ll do a full recon, make sure we didn’t leave any moving parts behind.”

Sandor thanked him, then told Jake he had better contact Washington before he called Baytown.

Deputy Director Byrnes had already been informed that the two subs were not “hot,” news that was immediately passed to the joint task force. That good news was tempered by Sandor’s concerns about the missing truck and the possibility of a second target.

“It’s worse than that,” Sandor told the DD after he confirmed that both subs had been taken out. “I think these subs were an elaborate version of an old-fashioned bait and switch.”

“You don’t believe Baytown was ever their real objective?”

“It was just too easy for us to connect the dots. The attack plan was too impractical. I think Adina told the men who invaded Fort Oscar that it was all about a strike on Baytown; that way if they were caught that’s what they would tell us. Same with the two idiots he left behind in St. Barths. Why put them there unless you actually wanted them to be captured? I believe even Hwang was dealing disinformation and didn’t know it. Adina’s too good a chess player for all these mistakes.”

“And the two AUVs they just took out?”

“How in hell were they going to make it through the cut into Galveston Bay, then all the way to Baytown without being stopped? Anyway, they were carrying conventional explosives; how much damage would they have done?”

“I understand.”

“And the entire game they played with this guy Amendola selling them security information, then making him disappear just before the attack. All too pat.”

“So you figure it’s all about this tractor-trailer.”

“I do. Adina is using this hurricane as cover. It’s perfect for him. He’s got us chasing a couple of drone subs armed with TNT and everyone else in the area is fighting Hurricane Charlene. We need to find the damn truck, then take it out in some way that minimizes the damage.”

Byrnes said he would report all of this to the joint task force and rang off. Sandor’s next call was to Brendan Banahan and Patrick Janssen to find out what they had heard about the tractor-trailer.

“Nothing,” the Baytown security director admitted. “Not a single lead.”

“Well, the only good news I’ve got is that we took out the two subs and, unless I miss my guess, your refinery is in the clear.” Sandor gave a quick description of what had taken place in the Gulf.

“Hell,” Janssen said, “that’s something anyway. Meanwhile, your boys in Washington spoke with the governors of Texas, Mississippi, and Louisiana, they’ve got the National Guard mobilizing and every state trooper that isn’t tied up with Hurricane Charlene is out there on the roads.”

Sandor was not encouraged. “We’re missing something, guys, something obvious.” He thought it over for a moment. “This truck isn’t going to be on the move. It’s got to be in a warehouse someplace. The packages arrived thirty-six hours ago; they’re not riding around risking the chance of being caught. Let’s assign a couple of agents to cross-check every possible warehouse that might have taken in a large rig since yesterday.” He paused again. “And truck stops, what about truck stops? That’s the oldest ploy in the world, hide in plain sight.”

“We’re already working on the truck stops, but we’ll double up on that, and we’ll do a computer run on all the independent garages that might take in a tractor-trailer like this.”

“All right,” Sandor said, his voice betraying his concern. “Be sure to let everyone know we’re running out of time, if we haven’t already. You hear from Krause?”

“No, want me to patch him in?”

“Why not?”

They connected to Corpus Christi and brought the commanding officer up to date. “Damn,” he said, “that’s great work those boys did on the AUVs, wish we had something more on your truck, Sandor.”

“Me too.”

“You heading back here?” Banahan asked.

“What do you think, captain?”

“They’ve got things under control in Baytown and you’re running low on fuel. I say you play your hunch and check out Baton Rouge.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

OUTSIDE BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA

J
ORDAN
S
ANDOR HAD
been right about two things. First, his guess that the refinery in Baton Rouge had become the real target. Second, that it was too late to stop the truck from reaching its destination.

By the time the all-points bulletins had circulated through the three states and the law enforcement personnel and National Guardsmen could be mobilized, Adina’s men were already driving along Scenic Highway, circling the refinery on their way north.

As Hurricane Charlene hammered the Gulf Coast, there were just too many logistical issues and not enough manpower to blanket the entire southeastern United States with the level of surveillance Sandor wanted. Every available trooper, soldier, and police officer was already on duty trying to prevent another Katrina-like calamity. The plant at Baton Rouge had temporarily shut down operations—it had sustained so much damage in the hurricane season two years before, it had had to be closed and refitted over several months, and they had no interest in sustaining another similar loss.