October 16th, 1820, Indian Ocean 300 miles South, southwest of Jiwana, Pakistan
Chip wandered through the Missile Room one more time. He'd made this circuit of the boat three times so far today and it wasn't even dinner time. He preferred the time he spent standing his watches. At least he could stop wandering the corridors of the Seaview and stand in one place.
He'd tried doing reports. The endless reports of what everyone was doing and what supplies they were using to do it. The personnel reports, the performance reports, the fitness reports the bread and butter of his job he often thought. Every mile the Seaview traveled generated some sort of a report to be read and remembered and signed off on. But he just couldn't concentrate on the work. Lee had been gone for almost week. Nelson had told him, probably against regulations Chip thought sardonically, that Lee had been alive and well on this morning. Knowing how quickly Lee could go from alive and well to not well Chip was not reassured. He wanted his buddy back on his boat where he belonged, where he and 125 other crewmen could keep an eye on him, keep him safe.
The last event in the hostage situation had been the arrival of Admiral Johnson and Jeremy Hodges, the President Special Advisor on Terrorism, aboard the Seaview an hour ago. The surfacing and landing the helicopter on the deck of the boat had required a little bit of nice boat handling with a five-foot swell and a fifteen-mile an hour wind. Still while he thought the boat had handled well he knew most of the credit for the neat landing had gone to the navy chopper pilot.
Chip paused to step into an aft storeroom, selected at random and check the stowage of the boxes. It never hurt to keep inspecting these storage areas. The boat went through some amazingly dramatic movements from time to time and not all of these storage areas got checked every day. He pondered putting a seaman in charge of just going from storeroom to storeroom each watch and double-checking the stores. Seeing everything neatly stowed he closed the door and walked on. Shouldn't really be necessary if things were properly stowed in the first place. Maybe what he would do was have the COB double check all storerooms at the beginning of the cruise. He knew Sharkey checked them all now as part of his pre-departure stores check but a second trip around would do no harm. He made a mental note to himself to talk to the COB about this next time they spoke.
Chip walked into the aft engineering workspace. He saw Torrance and Saunders there and asked if they were going to give the Flying Sub a third coat of paint. The Admiral ordered the Flying Sub repainted in deep red he'd said for camouflage so at least they were going to be part of some sort of mission here. Torrance said that the COB said the two coats were enough. Chip nodded and left the work area and started down the corridor toward the aft Torpedo Room. He knew his prowling and scowling had crewmen cowering all over the boat waiting for him to discover something wrong.
He needed some way to burn off all this anxiety. Maybe another hour in the Weight Room, although his abs were still sore from yesterday's marathon session. If they were cruising at least something would be happening. This sitting on the bottom waiting for Lee to turn up was killing him.
Chip's eyes lit up. "PATTERSON, what is that I see on the deck? Could that really be an oily rag on my Torpedo Room deck?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. It must have fallen out of my pocket." Patterson stood at attention in front of Chip the offending rag now wrapped tightly in his left hand.
Chip explained to Patterson all of the awful things that rag could have caused in some icy detail. Patterson remained mute his crestfallen face his only defense. Finally, satisfied Patterson would never drop another item the rest of his life Chip left the Torpedo Room to find some dinner before returning to the reports in his cabin. Well, all this walking the boat had at least done some good, he decided.
After the door closed Riley and Kowalski came up on either side of Patterson and clapped him on the back. "That was great, Pat," Kowalski said, "now he'll eat something and we can all take a break."
"Easy for you to say," Patterson complained. "Your turn tomorrow. I'm not doing that again."
The others laughed and steered him back to the torpedo they were rebuilding.
October 17th, 1300 Hours, 7 miles North of the village of Wana, South Waziristan, Federally Administered Tribal Areas, Pakistan.
United States Senator John Styles pulled his stinking blanket back up on his shoulders and looked down into the bowl of… of what he wondered? He sniffed it, yeah, mutton and rice, of course it could be goat, but it smelled more like mutton. No forks or even spoons just this funny flat bread. Styles glanced across at Lodhi, the Pakistani liaison guy, who was expertly scooping the goo up with a piece of the bread.
Some good that guy had been. He could talk the local lingo but no one would talk to them. Kept them locked in this stinking barn and fed them greasy old mutton. Nothing to sit on but big piles of hay; nothing to do, no television; no idea what was happening in the real world.
Styles scooped up a bite of the mutton and chewed it carefully. The stuff tended to run to gristle more then meat. As he chewed he surveyed his fellow prisoners. Carstairs was sitting next to him, as well he should, Robert was a good man, never forgot who he was working for. He frowned a bit as he saw the reporter, Craig, talking to the pilot. He didn't want this to turn into a Navy story-this was a Styles story, United States Senator kidnapped by terrorists. If he was going to have the be Jesus scared out of him he was at least going to get some good press from it. He would talk to the reporter again as soon as he finished this awful stew. He wondered how this was playing out at home.
Might be worth getting on that useless translator's case again. At least the guy could make some sort of an effort to get the sheep herders who were holding them to list some demands. As far as Styles could tell all they did was feed them and walk them to and from the outhouse. He couldn't afford to spend much more time here. A week max and this story would be old news. He needed to be rescued or ransomed while his kidnapping was still on the front page.
Where the hell was the military. He had voted them a nine percent increase in their budget last year, eleven percent for the Navy alone, and here he was sitting in a cowshed because the Navy couldn't take care of a simple helicopter. Where were the Navy SEALS? Didn't those guys rescue people?
October 18th, 0140 Hours, Wana/Dhansa Road, 7 dar es Waliba, South Waziristan, Federally Administered Tribal Areas, Pakistan.
Lee moved carefully through the dark rocks and brush until he reached the main road where he increased his speed to a fast walk. Hanging his AK-47 over his shoulder by its strap he reached under his jacket into the pocket of his gmis, he pulled out a small packet of dried meat which he ate as he walked.
So far so good, he decided. He'd found the hostages with the Salarzai just where he'd been told they would be. The SEAL team had arrived. His meeting with them had gone well and they were moving into position. He carefully didn't allow himself to think that things were going well. That sort of temptation of fate always led to disaster. Perhaps though disaster might yet be averted.
A nearly full moon aided Lee's walk enormously highlighting the ruts in the road with dark shadows. The clear visibility allowed him to alternate a steady mile-eating jog with periods of walking on the steeper uphill sections. Two hours later found him approaching the darkened compound. Carefully skirting the outer dry mud wall Lee made his way up to the highest ridge on the north side, moving slowly and never coming within a quarter mile of the actual wall. Satisfied that nothing had changed since he'd left in the late afternoon to meet the SEAL team he found a relatively rock free spot and laid down to get a few hours sleep before his day began.
As he lay curled up in a tight ball minimizing his exposure to the cold night air under his thin woolen blanket, he allowed himself to think for just a moment about coffee, lovely, dark roasted coffee, black as night coffee, almost too hot to drink coffee. The hardest part of the last week had been the caffeine withdrawal. He sure missed his coffee. Laughing slightly at himself he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep while he rested and waited for a good time to begin the next act.