“Easy does it, Vince,” Morrison cautioned. “Don’t forget that my team was responsible for doing the background checks on Liu and his cronies.
If anyone’s to blame for this frigging mess, it’s me.”
Robert Hartwell didn’t like the direction in which this whispered, guilt-ridden conversation was headed, and he did his best to change the focus. “All this talk about blame is meaningless at the moment, chaps.
Right now, I think it’s best if we concentrate our thoughts on how we’re going to rectify our mistakes.”
“Robert’s right,” agreed Morrison, who gestured toward an adjoining table where a restless group of French, Italian, and German security agents were seated. “I’m afraid that our colleagues might go and try something desperate.”
“I think it’s best if we try to circulate a note to the other tables, emphasizing the vital importance of restraint,” Hartwell quietly advised. “A coordinated response is our only chance to retake the ship.
Any premature move now will only result in more needless death and carnage.”
Samuel Morrison nodded in agreement. “The bastards are bound to drop their guard eventually, and that’s when we’ll strike.”
“I wonder where the rest of the crew is being held, and if there have been other casualties?” asked Vince.
“My best guess is that it’s merely business as usual for the others,” offered the Scotsman. “Don’t forget that we’re the hostages. All Liu has to do is remind the crew of that fact to keep them in line. I’m hoping that someone has managed to slip away. This is an awfully big ship, and one of my staff could easily be hiding in the shadows, organizing a plan of attack even as we speak.”
“And I guess we shouldn’t give up on an outside rescue effort just yet,” reminded Vince. “Washington’s bound to realize that something’s wrong next time they attempt calling us, and it’s only a matter of time until they send in the cavalry.”
“And what cavalry are you referring to, Special Agent?” Hartwell questioned. “You forget that we’re in the middle of the bloody Atlantic Ocean.”
Vince looked at the QE2’s security director and answered resolutely. “I believe that there’s a little lady called the USS Iwo Jima in the vicinity. And though they won’t be arriving by horseback, I sure wouldn’t want to be in Dennis Liu’s shoes when the guys from Delta Force come dropping in to find out what the hell is going on down here.”
25
Little did Vince Kellogg realize, but the orders to the USS Iwo Jima mobilizing Delta Force had already been issued. This alert was the result of the Pentagon’s continued inability to establish radio contact with the QE2, and the failure of the National Reconnaissance Office to provide them with an operational reconnaissance satellite. Until a Canadian Aurora patrol aircraft could be flown in from Nova Scotia, or contact finally reestablished with one of their submarine escorts, Command had no alternative but to assume that a worst-case scenario existed.
To address this nightmarish possibility, the NCA was relying on the Iwo Jima’s helicopter borne commando units to provide visual proof that the ocean liner was still afloat. Op Center Bravo was the origin of these orders, and the current clearinghouse for all incoming theater updates.
As such, it was packed with personnel including General Ridgeway, Admiral Buchanan, Brittany Cooper, their staffs, and a newly arrived Thomas Kellogg, who headed straight for the Pentagon from the hills of West Virginia, after being unable to make contact with the QE2 himself.
A static-filled radio link with the storm-tossed Iwo Jima allowed them to get a realtime report of the rescue force’s liftoff. Hurricane Marti’s howling winds and pounding seas made the midnight disembarkation an extra hazardous one, with two Marine CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters used to carry out the mission. Each of these all-weather capable aircraft was tasked with carrying a different unit that included Delta Force and SEAL Team Six.
As it turned out, the only helicopter that was able to get safely airborne was the one carrying Delta Force. An overheated engine scrubbed the SEAL team’s chopper while it was barely in test hover, and the weather kept a replacement helicopter pinned to the rain-soaked deck.
Being a former air force commando, Thomas knew that they were lucky that at least one of the units was good to go. The Super Stallion was an incredibly sophisticated platform, with state-of-the-art avionics.
Capable of flying at 196 miles per hour, with a range of 540 nautical miles, one CH-53E would be more than sufficient to do the job at hand.
The hope now was that it wouldn’t experience mechanical difficulties and be forced to return to the Iwo Jima.
Thomas listened to the static-filled voice of Flight Tango Zulu’s pilot as it was relayed into the op center. It wasn’t all that long ago that he could have been one of those soldiers prepping themselves for action in the back of that chopper. There was nothing that could equal that feeling of anxious anticipation, as the pilot put the helicopter into hover, the rear tail door was lowered, and the fast ropes deployed. He knew that a proficient squad of commandos could clear a helicopter in a couple of minutes. This was the ultimate rush, one that easily rivaled free fall in intensity.
Under ideal conditions, the Super Stallion could have reached the QE2’s last-known position in a little more than a half hour. The presence of the hurricane changed all that, the swirling, multidirectional wind gusts making the mere act of flying a challenge.
Confident that the chopper’s three General Electric T 64-GE-416 turboshaft engines would get them through the storm, Thomas was somewhat surprised when he was invited to join the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the CNO, and Brittany in the conference room.
Thomas and General Ridgeway had originally met during Urgent Fury, and it was the chairman who asked Thomas to brief them on his recently concluded investigation.
Though Thomas was still anxious for more information about the QE2, he presented the details leading up to the arrest of their two suspects only a few hours earlier. As he was documenting their lead suspect’s admission that his threat on the QE2 had no real substance, Lieutenant Tolliver entered the room. The junior officer handed Brittany a fax, which she read while Thomas began a hasty summation.
“What’s this all about, Lieutenant?” she asked once Thomas had completed his brief.
There was a hopeful gleam in Tolliver’s eyes as he replied. “All I can tell you, sir, is that the Coast Guard auxiliary watch center at Bath, Maine, sent us this fax. It was generated by a garbled ham radio transmission that they picked up less than fifteen minutes ago. And what makes it interesting is that those signal letters and official number are assigned to one vessel only, and that’s the QE2!”
“Then they’re still out there!” exclaimed Brittany, whose remarks were cut short by the loud, crackling voice of Flight Tango Zulu’s pilot, from the overhead PA speakers.
“Roger that, mother base. Going down to five hundred and fifty feet, one hundred and thirty knots, approximately twenty miles to target.” A burst of static momentarily the transmission. When it finally cleared, it was the nasally voice of the Iwo Jima’s air-traffic controller that they heard next.
“Aye, Tango Zulu. Target should be in sight, on bearing zero-two-fiver. Over.”
“Roger that, mother base. We have a visual on target, bearing zero-two-fiver, range one-niner miles and closing.”
This vital information was delivered in such a rote, informal manner, that for the first second or two, not a single occupant of the conference room reacted to it. Only when the reality sank in, did Brittany express the relief that all of them were sharing.