Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar
Disclaimer: See Part One Chapter Five Tuesday
1953 local -- 1523 ZULU
Mac and Gunny's house
Suburbs of Zaranj
Afghanistan 'Non-judicial punishment...' As I was fiercely kicking and punching the sand-filled sack that Gunny had installed in my bedroom as a punching bag for us to somehow keep up our training, I once again saw Kalesky's face before my inner eye and it made me punch even harder. Suppressed grunts were underlining my efforts to work off my frustration.
>> Why don't I defend him so we can cut a deal to have him undergo your very personal kickboxing endurance routine?
I'd had a hard time trying to keep my laughter low when I had received Harm's last email. He'd pulled out all the stops and had shown incredible creativity inventing nice, slow and wonderfully painful ways for me to get back at Kalesky - and only for a split second had I wondered how this vindictive tendency in his character could possibly have escaped my notice until now. On the other hand, every line of his email seemed to bear traces of his compassionate and only minimally malicious smile, and the picture I had gotten of him back on the pier in Norfolk was once again confirmed: Harmon Rabb simply wasn't capable of taking the law into his own hands. But his efforts to support me and lighten my mood were too endearing.
Sighing, I grabbed for my towel and wiped my sweaty forehead, leaning back against the bare wall and briefly closing my eyes. The smirk wouldn't leave my face, though. I could just picture him looking at me in that unique way of his, half self-confident and half uneasy, waiting for me to relax and smile to let him know that he had made me feel better. Shaking my head with a low chuckle, I put away the punching bag. 'Gotta love that sailor...'
Thank God, I had found the time to wear myself out enough to be able to concentrate on what still lay ahead of me tonight. Just two hours ago, my frustration had threatened to get the better of me when I had learned that thanks to my negotiating talent, the terror cell had received 25 brand-new anti-aircraft missiles. Special treat for Suzie, best regards, Ben. Great - even though we knew the Stinger copies wouldn't be needed for the terrorists' upcoming project.
Gunny and I had three days left to prevent a major attack from happening - and we still had no idea what our 'friends' were aiming at. Thanks to the information that I had been able to drag out of Kalesky's nose about the group planning on using Al-Husayns for their strike, we had been able to assemble quite a list of possible targets. Two thirds of Afghanistan were within range of the missiles, with a little luck they'd fly right into Kabul. Webb had told us he'd notify the German and Dutch commanders of the international peace forces.
But there was more. Half of Pakistan was in danger, too - the government in Islamabad had secretly been warned. Karachi was just out of reach, but we knew that Webb's CIA contacts in the Pakistani port city were frantically trying to get their hands on some information about what might be worth blowing up. My personal guess lay in the opposite direction, though. The Al-Husayns might even be able to threaten the international airport of Dubai and thus the most important supply route for coalition forces headquarters in Qatar. Gunny doubted the terrorists would take the risk of dumping their costly missiles into the Straits of Hormus, but I was not so sure about that. Stranger things had happened - especially with al Qaeda.
At least I could be sure that neither Iraq nor the Omani waters lay inside the attack zone. I was heartily ashamed of myself for cherishing such selfish feelings, but still, my spirits were considerably lightened by the knowledge that certain people I happened to care about wouldn't be in the wrong place at the right time, whether they were playing reporter in country or taking little joyrides in 40-million-dollar birds.
"You ready, ma'am?" I heard Galindez call from the adjacent room, shaking me from my musings.
"Give me five minutes to grab a shower and get dressed," I answered and ordered myself to hurry up. Tonight might be our last chance to shed a little light on the whole scenario.
2119 local -- 1749 ZULU
Terrorist training camp
A few miles outside Zaranj
Afghanistan
This was one of the few occasions when I actually felt grateful that I was once again wrapped in black from head to toe. Tonight, my Chador spared me the effort to try and keep a straight face when I discovered yet another high tech item that the command central of the terror camp was equipped with. Where the hell had they gotten all this from? Okay, wrong question. As long as people like Ben Kalesky were around, nothing of the sort seemed to be too hard to acquire.
Quite a few nations' finest products were assembled among the technical equipment. Russian satellite dishes were peacefully cooperating with a German computer network that was actually running our well-known American software. Chinese short-wave radio transmitters were competing with Finnish cell-phones. How many innocent salesmen were out there, I wondered, who had no clue that the merchandise they had just successfully delivered was now working against their own countries?
"Maryam?" The Gunny took me by the arm and dragged me over to where Kourosh Maghari was sitting in front of a short-wave radio.
"Sit down." Maghari's tone was harsh, even though he had told Gunny earlier that the group appreciated my dealings with Kalesky. But obviously it would have been too much to acknowledge that to me, too. I stifled my frown, obediently lowered my glance and shyly took a seat.
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked Gunny, keeping my eyes down. Of course, I knew exactly what was expected of me, but officially, only Gunny had been informed. I didn't need to know what lay ahead of me and what consequences my cooperation would bring about. I only had to function when required.
"Tell her," Maghari ordered Galindez.
Keeping his voice gruff, the Gunny instructed me. "Our Iraqi friends in Basra will contact us tonight with updated information on the target. Unfortunately, none of them speaks Farsi and we have no one with us who's fluent enough in Arab. That's why we'll have to communicate in our enemies' language. You will translate."
Normally, my first notion would have been to ask if the comm link was secure, but a) I was sure the terrorists had that problem covered, b) as a woman, I wasn't supposed to think that far and c) - frankly - I didn't care. So I only mumbled a low "Yes." and nodded in submission to my husband's orders, waiting in silence until I would be needed.
Gunny and Maghari went a few steps away from where I was sitting, meeting with Rokneddin and several other men that I recognized from the other night's meeting. They kept their voices low but, to my great relief, not low enough.
"Do you really think it is wise to cooperate with them in this?" Rokneddin's voice was ringing with doubt as he addressed his brother.
Kourosh put a soothing hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "We have the same goal, Rokneddin. They may be Sunnites and reject our fundamental belief in the succession of the prophets, but we're all Allah's disciples."
A man that I had once heard being addressed as Amal Faezi spoke up, an impressive furrow showing on his brow. "They're Sunnites? I thought Basra was Shiite territory. If I'd known this I'd never have given my consent! And my money, for that matter!"
The imam fixed his gaze on Faezi. "Calm down, Amal. Kourosh knows what he's doing."
"I sincerely hope so, for his sake." Faezi's stare sent daggers at the older Maghari before he turned it to Gunny immediately after. "And I hope we can trust your wife, too." He looked over to where I was sitting, briefly meeting my glance before I quickly looked down, mentally slapping myself for letting myself get caught eavesdropping.
Luckily, the Gunny had witnessed my lapse and reacted immediately. With a few quick strides, he was at my side, roughly yanked me up from my chair and slapped me without so much as uttering a word. For the fraction of a second I just stared at him, unbelieving, but then the brief unguarded look that he gave me in between all his acting, made me want to take him into my arms and console him - Galindez looked so lost and unhappy about what he had just felt compelled to do. I winked at him and then instantly slumped down on my chair, holding my cheek and seemingly biting back my tears. A hard thing to do when everything within me suddenly wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation. Harm sure was in for another entertaining email!
"She will think twice of doing anything else than what she's ordered to," the Gunny stated gruffly, returning to the other men who were smirking openly.
'Exactly,' I silently agreed, 'I'm ordered to do as much damage to your devilish plans as I can. And I will - so help me God.'
Just then, the radio crackled and whistled loudly. I jumped and turned to the microphone, feeling the circle of men closing in on me from behind. Almost like a pack of predators they were drawing close, leaning in, looking over my shoulders, keenly observing my every move. I have to admit that I actually began to feel intimidated by the threat that was inherent in the situation and if it hadn't been for the Gunny who somehow managed to stand right behind me, firmly laying his hands on my shoulders, the following minutes might have turned out hard to endure.
["Zaranj forr-too-tree, 'dis is Basra base. Do you copy? Over." ]
The voice that came from the loudspeaker was tinny and hoarse, but it made me instantly picture its bearer as the unforgiving Grizzly-bear type. Broad-shouldered, with enormous paws and sharp, deadly teeth. Faking a frightened expression that wasn't too far from my true state of mind, I glanced at Rokneddin who had positioned himself next to me.
"Acknowledge." He put a slip of paper on the table in front of me, reminding me that I had at least to make believe that I needed guidance to conduct a radio conversation.
"This is Zaranj 423, broadcasting on channel 27. Come in Basra base. Over," I slowly read out what Rokneddin had written out for me and then again looked up at him.
["Is you reddy, Zaranj forr-too-tree? How many horses stand by forr Friday? Over."]
Gunny had told me that 'horses' were meant to be missiles but I wouldn't let the group know that I knew. "They want to know if we're ready for Friday and how many horses we have," I translated.
"Tell them we will have five Arabian horses ready to be saddled," Rokneddin instructed me.
Five Al-Husayns. Good. "We will have five Arabian horses at our disposal. Over," I informed our Basra contact, playing the ignorant interpreter again.
["Not six? Over."]
There had to be a reason why our contact wanted one more. One shot to spare, maybe? "They want us to have six horses ready."
Rokneddin seemed to contemplate the question for a moment, then gave in. "They can have six."
"We will have six horses for you, Basra base. Over"
["You can starrt earrly? Over."]
"Our contact asks if we can start early."
After a short whispered exchange with Kourosh and the imam, Rokneddin nodded. "Tell them they're ready at daybreak."
"They will be ready to start at daybreak. Over."
["Time is 8:30 in 'de morrning. Yourr time. Over."]
Again, I turned to Rokneddin. "They say that the time is 8:30 a.m., our time-zone."
"What are the coordinates?"
"Basra base, what are the coordinates? Over."
["Firrst meeting: east longitude is fifty-six degrrees, ten minutes, nort' latitude is twenty-six degrrees, seventeen minutes. Over."]
'Meeting' - what a nice euphemism for an attack. And the target was in the west - I had known it. They were aiming at the coalition forces. The only thing that struck me as kind of odd was that the distance seemed a little short. Dubai airport was out of question. Whatever they were trying to destroy had to be right at the coastline. Nothing else would make sense. Or would it?
I had to try very hard not to jump when I suddenly felt Gunny's hand move on my right shoulder. Almost inconceivably, Galindez was tapping a Morse code on my clavicle.
".--/---/-/./.-."
Water. Apparently, Gunny had inconspicuously taken a look at the electronic map above my head and found that the target was situated at sea. I started to tremble slightly. There weren't any of our ships in that region, were there? But then - how would the terrorists know that on Friday, exactly at 0830, one of our ships would pass that exact spot? What the hell was out there?
I translated the coordinates to the group and once again fixed my gaze on Rokneddin, awaiting his next order.
"Ask them for the other coordinates."
"What are the coordinates for the other meeting? Over."
["Same coorrdinates, Zaranj forr-too-tree. Second meeting is at 8:35, 'tird at 8.40. Over."]
Three attacks. Two missiles per target. A convoy of some sort? I felt my pulse accelerate ever more. "The coordinates are always the same," I told Rokneddin, keeping my voice disinterested. "They ask you to meet with them at 8:35 a.m. and at 8:40 a.m., too."
"Ask them if they really have them with them."
Who? What? I felt like screaming in frustration. "Basra base? Will you have them with you? Over," I stubbornly translated Rokneddin's cryptic statement. On my right shoulder, Gunny's fingers tightened slightly. 'Play it cool, Mackenzie,' I silently scolded myself, 'you're going to find out what this is about.'
I felt Gunny lean slightly to the side and murmur something to Kourosh who immediately answered. In afterthought, I guess it was Maghari's reply that caused Galindez to suddenly squeeze my left shoulder in a way that almost made me cry out, but back then I had no clue what provoked his reaction. It had me turn my senses on high alert, though, and not a second too early.
"-.../-.-./.--/./.-/.--./---/-./..." Galindez tapped. ".--/./-.../-.../.-/.../.-/.--."
B/C Weapons. Webb, ASAP.
Holy sh...
Whatever was out there would cause innumerable deaths if the terrorists succeeded in blowing it up. That meant we had to find a way to stop the plot right here, within the next forty-eight hours. As my cheeks started to burn, I almost missed our contact's next sentence.
"Repeat, please, Basra base. Over," I told him, wishing my voice wouldn't threaten to shake that much. Gunny gave my shoulders a rough shove to show his disapproval of his wife's lack of concentration.
["We talk again 'Tursday, half past nine in 'de evening. Your time. Over."]
"They want to contact us again on Thursday at 9:30 p.m." I quickly translated, trying to look guilty.
"Tell them we'll be here." Rokneddin shot me another hostile glare.
"We will be waiting for your call. Over."
["Allah be wid' you. Over and out."] The static ceased as soon as the connection was broken.
Out of here and to my sat phone! In my despair I could think of only one way to give the Gunny and me an excuse to get out of here at once. I started to get up, swayed on my feet, grabbed for my chair and gasped, pressing my hand to my stomach.
"Vajih..."
For the fraction of a second, Galindez caught my glance and understood instantly. He jumped to my side to support me on my feet and looked up at the others. "I need to get her home."
Kourosh fixed his gaze on me, not caring to conceal his disapproval. "What's with her?"
Although we hadn't rehearsed this, Gunny answered within a split second. "She is pregnant. I will take her home and come back to you."
I looked up in shock and only barely managed to keep up my role. I had been thinking about feigning some sickness, not a pregnancy. But now it couldn't be helped. Kourosh nodded and motioned for his brother to take us home.
During the whole ride, Gunny sat at my side helping me sit upright as my fake nausea threatened to overwhelm me. He didn't meet my eyes, yet. A caring husband wasn't really the image that he had given of himself this far and both of us intended to keep it that way. Vajih Goshtasbi wasn't too interested in his wife's health. He only wanted to ensure the safety of his son.
"I'll be back in a minute," Gunny assured our driver and then slowly guided me into the house. Once the door was closed, he immediately let go of me. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he at once apologized, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "I couldn't think of anything else that fast."
"Apology accepted, Gunny," I only answered, already desperately rummaging through my things for the sat phone. "Where is the damned thing..." I muttered angrily.
"Uh... with all due respect, ma'am," Galindez began. I interrupted my search and looked at him, slightly annoyed.
"Ma'am, I need to get back to the car, and I think we shouldn't call Mr. Webb until we dig up a few more details. I'll be back in about two hours. By that time we might be able to tell them a little more about what we're looking at."
"No, Gunny, this can't wait. That's why I faked my little breakdown in the first place, remember? I'll inform Webb about what we know. But you're right: we definitely need more detailed information. So before you go..." I reached into a small side-compartment of one of my bags and pulled out a small transmitter that Webb had given me for special occasions such as this. "Put it somewhere safe where they won't see it and make sure you catch any important bits of conversation. I'll be monitoring you from here." With my last words, I had pulled a headphone with a little receiver out of the same bag.
Gunny gave me the slightest of strained smiles. "Understood, ma'am. Let's just hope they feel like talking."
"With a born diplomat like you around, I'm sure they will." I returned his smile, well aware that it didn't quite reach my eyes - I was too tense.
"Thanks, ma'am." Gunny waved a salute and was already at the door again. I prepared myself a cup of strong coffee and flopped down on our shabby sofa, hoping that I'd at least hear from him soon. I hated long waits.
For the next hour, I felt like I was doing a CIA freshman course on monitoring, the whole time desperately trying to reach Webb but for some reason I couldn't get a hold of him. 'Dammit, Clay, couldn't you just once be reliable?'
Our friends at the camp had apparently gone back to making themselves comfortable with a little tea, discussing all things from oil prices to opium shipping routes. While most of the topics were interesting, at times even highly entertaining, I still found myself drawing patterns on my legal pad. 'Come on, Gunny, don't let me down...'
Eventually, I heard the hum of the voices lessen a little. Apparently, Gunny had dragged someone a little away from the group and was about to question him. I straightened and unconsciously tightened the grip on my pencil.
["Kourosh, can I ask you something?"]
["Of course, Vajih. Go ahead."]
["When I asked you earlier, you mentioned something about the targets being chemical and biological weapons. What exactly are we firing upon?"]
["I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, Vajih, but your wife being around made it impossible. You know you can never trust them."]
["Yeah, I know,"] Gunny cut in with a smile that was detectible even through my headphones.
Maghari began to lay out the plan to Galindez, blissfully unaware that I was at the same time writing down every single word he said.
["Three weeks ago, an Iraqi al-Qaeda cell in Basra contacted us and told us that members of the Iraqi Republican Guard had managed to secure at least parts of their weapons arsenal before the UN inspectors could get their hands on them. They loaded them on three inconspicuous commercial ships that were able to leave Umm Qasr before the port city was lost to the aggressors. The Republican Guard wanted al Qaeda to have the weapons rather than losing them to the invading troops. Some of them are conventional, you know, bazookas, grenades, short-range missiles, real Stingers for instance. But most of them are chemical and biological warheads, designed for Scuds and Al-Husayns."]
Those bastards... my fist clenched so firmly that my pencil broke. 'No, Iraq has no chem-bio weapons.' Sure.
To any bystanders, Gunny's voice would have appeared normal, but working so closely with him, I had gotten to know him better than to be fooled by his seemingly calm attitude. Just like me, he was trying hard to digest the enormity of the news he'd just learned.
["But if The Base has control over those ships, why don't we secure the weapons for us instead of blowing them up?"]
["They tried, but with each passing day, it gets harder to navigate them unobtrusively and right now there's nowhere we could safely unload the cargo. They've already been picked up a few times by western secret services. So our leaders decided we'd better make use of the weapons and cause as much damage as possible, to the western coalition as well as to those who call themselves Muslims but help the enemy."]
["The Emirates..."]
["For example. So, the crews of the ships will get them to the right coordinates on Friday morning and abandon them there. Our task is to blow them up. That's it."]
Gunny and Kourosh kept talking, but the topic had shifted to the Emirates' position in the current conflict and I felt I needed to hear no more. Yanking the headphone from my ears, I jumped to my feet, briefly trying to steady my racing pulse. I had expected some drastic scenario, but what we had at hand might easily turn out far deadlier than 9/11. There were tens of thousands of coalition soldiers in that region, and millions of civilian people populating the Gulf shores.
Frantic, I once again tried to reach Webb. With trembling fingers, I dialed the irrationally long number, pacing the room and praying fervently that this time, he would be within reach.
["Webb."]
Thank God! "Clay? This is Mac."
Webb instantly picked up the urgency in my voice. ["Colonel! Something wrong?"]
Somehow, his question made me chuckle a little helplessly. "Actually, yes. We found out about their plans."
["How bad?"] was all he asked.
"Threatcon Delta."
["Spill it."]
"The target is a convoy of three commercial ships. They will be blown up on Friday morning, between 0830 and 0840, Afghan time, near the Emirates' coastline, 056 degrees 10 minutes East, 26 degrees 17 minutes North. They have Iraqi chem-bio weapons on board."
Webb had listened quietly while I had explained the situation. However, my last sentence caused a sharp intake of breath. ["Wait! Could you repeat that last part?"] All of a sudden, his voice had lost all remainders of its usual calm.
"They have chem-bio weapons on board that the Baath regime obviously managed to smuggle out of Umm Qasr a few weeks ago, and I'm sure you..." I didn't get to finish my sentence.
["Damn!!! Are you really sure about this, Mac?"]
Alarmed, I swallowed. "Yes, I am. Why?"
["We were sure there were only conventional weapons aboard! Stingers, for instance."]
"There seem to be Stingers among the cargo, but most of it is B/C materiel. Warheads, mostly. You knew about this?"
["Yeah, we did. And based on the information that all materiel was conventional, we worked out some ROEs. Right now, a fighter squadron is headed for the ships to try and destroy them off the coast. "]
"Oh God..." I gasped. And suddenly, an even more dreadful suspicion hit me. Grabbing the backrest of the sofa for support, I forced myself to ask the next question. "Clay, did they depart from the Seahawk?"
["Yes, they did."]
I immediately detected that he wasn't telling me everything. That was when I knew my intuition had once again been proven right. "He's up there, isn't he?" I whispered.
["Squadron leader."]
Chapter Six
2231 Local -- 1831 Zulu
Approximately 180 nautical miles SSE of the Straits of Hormus
"What's our time to target?"
"Eleven minutes out," reported Cash from behind me. "Still quiet on the scope."
"If we're lucky, it'll stay that way."
"Jorgensen told me about your kind of luck, sir ... I'm not so sure I want it."
I had to chuckle at that. An uninformed observer might come to the conclusion that I ended up in a Tomcat every time I paid the Seahawk a visit. Hell, I suppose that assumption isn't too far off these days. I certainly hadn't expected to be flying this particular mission, but the moment Coates and I had reported back aboard, Captain Johnson had pointed me toward the CAG. Apparently the operational tempo had been taking its toll on the air wing: two or three pilots were down with the flu, and there had been a deck mishap the night before that had everybody a little shaken up. No serious injuries, fortunately, but the CAG had said flatly, "If you're sharp, I want you" -- and I hadn't been inclined to disagree.
From the time we'd radioed the Seahawk of our discovery until the time my bird's wheels had left the deck, about three hours had passed. If records were kept for such things, I'd probably be in the running for shortest time aboard a carrier, and my adrenaline level hadn't lessened by even a fraction. As soon as the Seahawk had nailed down the position of the convoy -- entirely too close to the Qatari coastline for anyone's liking -- a warning signal had been transmitted, demanding identification and surrender before action would be taken to force the issue. Predictably, no response was made, and so our mission stood.
It occurred to me, at about ten thousand feet, that I'd barely said a word to Coates as we went our separate ways in the corridor outside CIC. She'd said good luck, and I'd acknowledged it, but I hadn't thought to tell her how well she'd performed over the last few days. For some reason, that bothered me, but I'd have to rectify it after I got back. Right now, my priorities were focused on a tiny sliver of the sea that was getting closer by the second.
The radio squawked. "Echo Flight, Bat Cave. Give us a comm check and stand by for mission confirmation from CENTCOM."
I keyed the comm switch. "Bat Cave, Echo Lead. Standing by."
"Echo Two," acknowledged my wingman, a light-commander who went by the call sign 'Red.'
"Echo Three."
"Echo Four."
"Echo Watcher," chimed in our escort in the E-2, a few thousand feet above us.
After a pause, the order from the Seahawk came through. "Mission confirmed. Parameters are as follows. Target the forward holds with minimum ordnance, and maintain position to provide support until the SEAL insertion is completed. If you take fire, you are authorized to use any and all weapons at your disposal, but provide verbal cues so that we can relay warnings to the SEALs. Happy hunting."
"Easy for him to say," grumbled my RIO once the comm link to the Seahawk was closed. "Those surface-to-air jobs would work just as well on us as they would on any of CENTCOM's aircraft."
"Aw, come on, Cash. You don't think I can outfly the USAF and the RAF?"
"Hey, no offense, sir, but it ain't always just about the flying -- Jorgensen said even you got dinged over Afghanistan!"
"Jorgensen's got a big mouth, doesn't she?"
Cash laughed, as did the others, bleeding off a little of the tension. "Roger that, sir."
It's amazing how much perceptions can change with a little time, I reflected in those few moments of calm before the storm. There was a time when I'd avoided the shipboard aircrews like the plague, simply because I didn't feel I had the right to identify with them anymore. It didn't feel like all that long ago that my career as an aviator had come to an abrupt, painful end, but in reality, it had been nearly eight years since I'd first gotten back in the cockpit and back into the life I'd sought ever since I'd seen my first airplane. It wasn't exactly the life I'd expected or desired, but it was mine, and there wasn't much about it that I'd change if I could.
So much had changed, about the world at large and about my own world, and yet here I was, flying off the Seahawk again, flying over the Gulf again. Maybe someday someone will explain to me how karma works, because so far it still confuses the hell out of me.
"All right, kids, lock it in," I told the rest of the group, ready to get down to business. "Red, Bounce and I will take the first run, in that order, and Buck will keep tabs on us. Use your Fox-Twos. And I don't want us to need a second run. One shot, one kill, all right?"
"Bet your ass, sir!" answered Bounce, also known as Echo Three.
"Dial it back, Bounce," suggested his wingman dryly.
"You're just jealous 'cause you have to stay up here and mind the store."
"Am I going to have to separate you two?" I inquired calmly. "Consider that the last word on the jokes, by the way. From here in, we get serious. Prep for descent on my mark. Three - two - one - mark."
I pointed my aircraft toward the waves, and the other two followed my lead.
We leveled off at about four thousand feet, and I eased my thumb over the weapons toggle. Before I could move the selector over to arm my starboard anti-radiation missile, a burst of static issued from the radio, and the command that followed swiftly changed everything.
"Echo Flight, Bat Cave - disengage!"
I glanced in the mirror, sharing a startled look with Cash. "Say again, Bat Cave?"
The young, excited voice from the Seahawk was then replaced by the voice of Captain Johnson. "Echoes, climb to 30 and head back here. Immediately. Your mission has been aborted."
Red voiced everyone's collective disbelief. "Hammer - ?"
What the hell? I was at least as surprised as the others, but I certainly knew better than to question. "You heard the man. Hit the ceiling."
So we did. As we climbed, my brain flashed through a number of scenarios, trying to determine a reasonable explanation for breaking off the attack. None of them were particularly reassuring.
"Sir," Cash began slowly, "why would they abort, unless - "
"It's that 'unless' that has me worried, Cash. Either those ships are manned by innocent civilians, or there's something aboard them that we can't risk blowing up. You want to take odds on which option it is?"
"No, sir."
We were back on deck approximately half an hour later, and once again I was heading for the Combat Information Center as rapidly as possible. The other aircrews caught up as they finished their own post-flight plane checks, and before long there were eight dissatisfied aviators crowding into the room, seeking answers.
The captain immediately called a halt to the murmurs running through the group, merely by turning to face us. "Report to your ready room and wait there for amended orders. Depending on how plans work out, you may be going back up with very little notice, so be ready. Commander, with me."
I followed him to the briefing room, every step heightening my desire to yell in utter frustration. How much longer was I going to be jerked around before someone told me what was going on?
As soon as I stepped through the hatch, though, my fears were partially confirmed. Clayton Webb looked up at me from his seat at the table, his expression as impassive as ever. "Sorry to ruin your fun," he remarked, without a trace of humor.
I dropped my helmet and survival vest on a chair and took a seat, dreading what was to come. As far as I knew, Webb had been mobile throughout the region for the past few days, spending more time at coalition headquarters than anywhere else. If he'd hopped a transport out here in time to beat me back, we had a much more serious problem on our hands than we'd thought.
"There's something on those ships that we can't risk blowing up," I stated flatly, and waited for him to elaborate.
Webb nodded grimly. "Reliable information from outside assets points to terrorist control of the ships. Apparently their plan was to hide in plain sight. They banked on the theory that the dock workers would be accustomed to seeing the occasional conventional weapons come through on the black market and wouldn't be particularly concerned. The man you talked to -- "
"He wasn't lying," I broke in, my feelings on the matter resolute. "He saw what he saw, and nothing else."
"Yes, he did, and it's a good thing he's got Marines watching him right now, because there are people out there who won't be happy to learn that he tipped us off to anything. The terror informant network in the city is more extensive than any of us had expected." The agent rubbed his eyes wearily. "The containers marked with conventional weapons' designations are just that, and there are more of those than you were told about, too. But nine of the containers marked as ceramic dishware are also concealing chemical warheads for use with medium-range missiles."
My throat constricted involuntarily as the enormity of what I'd almost done crashed down on me. If we'd fired on those ships and ruptured even one of those warheads, all because I'd come back with incomplete intelligence on the threat ... I'd have been responsible, not once but twice, for the resulting destruction.
"We had to act on the information we had," Captain Johnson said, seemingly reading my thoughts. "We can rarely afford to wait for only a possibility of learning more. I stand by the decision that was made, and you should, too. Having said that, we need to take another look at the current situation."
No kidding. "Do they have the capability to sea-launch a chemical attack?" I asked, forcing myself to stay focused on the present.
Webb shook his head. "Not so far as we know, but that isn't their goal. The plan is for the crews to abandon the ships at an appointed time, before the weapons are detonated by a ballistic attack."
"Where the hell are these guys getting their hands on the missiles to do this?"
"A rather impressive array of black market contacts. Russian, mainly, but also some other former Soviet states." Webb gave a snort of contempt. "There's even an opportunistic American working the region who's going to get the full Guantanamo treatment when I get my hands on him, trust me."
An American selling military equipment. Suddenly a dim flicker of recognition flared in my mind, and I stared at him. "Webb, those reliable outside assets that you referred to a minute ago -- I don't happen to know them, do I?"
He lowered his gaze for a moment. "Yeah. It's them."
A cold hand reached into my chest and twisted hard. Of all the possible complications to this mess ...
Captain Johnson scowled at the both of us. "Someone care to give me a decoder ring?"
"Colonel Mackenzie and Gunnery Sergeant Galindez, sir. They've been undercover with an al Qaeda cell for a few weeks now, trying to expose -- well, this, I guess." I raked a hand through my hair, trying to clamp down on the swirling emotions clouding my brain. What was I allowed to feel at such a time? Anything? As little as possible, probably. Come on, suck it up. "We know the schedule for the attack, then?"
"We do, and we've got a little time to play with, but not much. Even if they didn't know we were tracking the ships before, they probably know now, so it's possible that they'll move up their timetable. Our immediate objective is to neutralize the ships -- a secondary one would be to take out the base that's carrying out the attack. Thanks to the colonel and Galindez, we've got a confirmed position on the missiles they'll be using."
"What are you going to do, target Mac's position with her own satphone?"
Webb looked like he wanted to smack me one for such a blunt protest, but he kept his cool. "They'll get time to evacuate. Hell, you can call her yourself once we get things coordinated with CENTCOM. But let's get back to the previously identified immediate objective, all right?"
The ships. Right. God, did I need to get my head in the game.
"We need a disabling strike that won't allow them an opportunity to use their weapons," the captain said, opening a folder that listed the battle group assets at his disposal. "Targeting their engine rooms will at least prevent them from getting any closer to shore, but there's still a risk that the crews will go kamikaze and detonate one of the warheads."
I spoke up instinctively, before the thought was fully formed. "I seriously doubt that will happen, sir."
Johnson glanced up. "Can you explain that assertion, Commander?"
"The terrorists' plan is to hit the ships at a specific time, after the crews have already bailed out. They don't have any intention of going down with the ship. They're willing to kill, but they're not willing to die."
Webb turned to the captain. "Knowing that, can the SEALs go undetected long enough to get aboard and disable both the engines and the crews?"
Johnson folded his arms, and I thought I saw a hint of a smirk. "They're SEALs, Mr. Webb. That's what they do all day and dream about all night. Yes, they can get it done. I'll give the order -- those ships could get closer to shore every second. You, on the other hand, have an air assault to plan, so I suggest that you get with the CAG and open up a line to Headquarters. Commander Rabb, Petty Officer Coates was forward-thinking enough to arrange quarters for you while you were gone. Get some rack time. CAG will let you know if he needs you."
Mechanically, I came to attention as he left the room, feeling slightly numb. So much was happening, and I felt like I understood precious little of it.
Vaguely aware that I was being watched, I turned toward Webb. "The skipper gave me a break, not you. This is your project, isn't it? Go do it."
The agent waited a moment before replying. "Why do you always have to qualify everything as 'my plan' or 'my mission'? I know what my responsibilities are, but I'm not the one who packed a chemical warhead in a crate of salad plates."
"No, but Mac and Gunny sure didn't decide to infiltrate al Qaeda on their own, did they?" I regretted the words almost as soon as I said them; not out of any deference to Webb, but because they were a little to revealing about my state of mind.
It was too much to hope that he wouldn't pick up on that. As much as I typically hate to admit it, Clayton Webb is extremely well trained in all forms of intelligence gathering, human sources included. He knew perfectly well where my thoughts lay. "Mac's a big girl. She can take care of herself, and she'd deck you for trying to do it for her." He paused briefly, and I felt his gaze on me again. "Actually, she wouldn't deck you for that, would she? Anyone else she would, but not you."
I wasn't at all comfortable with the idea of discussing that implication with him, so I chose to ignore it. "You know what I'm talking about. If we go forward with this attack, we'd better have a damn good reason to believe that our people are completely and totally out of the way."
"Nobody's arguing with that. All I'm saying is that we're in phase one of this, and you're jumping ahead to phase fourteen." Webb stood up. "Listen to the captain for once and get some sleep."
With no better ideas on how to improve the situation, I decided to take their advice. The billeting officer directed me to a stateroom, where a note was sitting on the table next to my bag.
Sir -- Don't worry about updating Admiral Chegwidden tonight. Since it's midday back home, I'm on my way to call him now before I hit the rack. If you need me, I'm going to be hanging out in the legal office in the morning -- they look like they could use the help. Hope things went well up there.
Good night, sir -- Coates
Thanks, Jen, I thought, somewhat bleakly. But it looks like we're just getting started.
There was only one thing I could think of that might restore some order to my chaotic existence. I wouldn't be able to say much, but I was willing to take whatever I could get. I powered up my laptop and logged into my email, hoping against hope that I'd be able to reach her in some tiny way. To be continued...
