His recollections of serving under Ridgeway’s command during the Grenada invasion were mixed. The way Thomas saw it, the general failed to make the best use of the Air Commandos’ varied skills, and insisted that they operate under Green Beret or SEAL coverage. Of course, this was in the early days of joint operations, and the mere fact of having an Army special forces officer in charge of an Air Force unit, was still something of a novelty.
“Special Agent Kellogg,” interjected Admiral Buchanan “Weren’t you involved in a similar helicopter mission back in eighty-five that was tasked to attempt a rescue aboard the Achille Lauro?”
“Actually, Admiral, I was part of a special unit that was training to clandestinely board the cruise ship via parachute,” Thomas revealed.
“I didn’t think that such a thing was even possible,” remarked Brittany.
Thomas held back his response until Tango Zulu’s pilot reported their latest position.
“Eighty-five feet. One hundred and eighteen knots. Six point-eight miles out.”
“Though I wouldn’t want to make it a habit,” said Thomas as the garbled transmission faded. “To insure a safe landing at sea, all you really need to do is properly gauge both the crosswinds and the forward speed of your target. In preparation for our aborted attempt, I successfully completed a half dozen HALO jumps onto the deck of the USS Saratoga.”
“Seventy-eight feet. One hundred and seventeen knots. Six-point-three miles out,” continued the pilot with rote exactness.
Thomas couldn’t help but visualize Tango Zulu’s Marine pilot. He’d be seated on the right side of the Super Stallion’s cockpit. Because the helicopter was steadily losing altitude in preparation for its fast-rope deployment, the pilot would be pushing down on the collective-pitch stick with his left hand. This in turn would cause the throttle to retard and decrease the degree of pitch of the blades, to move the 70,000-pound helicopter downward. He’d also be manipulating the cyclic-pitch stick with his right hand, as well as the dual pedals with his feet, to keep the craft on course by influencing the action of the main and tail rotors.
Altogether, flying a helicopter required excellent physical coordination and superb training. The mere fact that Tango Zulu’s pilot was assigned to this crack unit, indicated that he had these qualities and many others. For, as Thomas knew from firsthand experience, Marine chopper pilots were some of the best in the business.
“Seventy feet. One hundred seventeen knots. Five point-one out,” the pilot reported.
“I’m still wondering how those security teams aboard the QE2 are going to react to the squad’s arrival,” said General Ridgeway. “I’d feel a lot better if we had been able to get out a clean message, informing them of Tango Zulu’s arrival.”
“I hope that the reaction of those shipboard security teams is the extent of our problem,” returned the CNO.
Both Thomas and Brittany heard the worry in the Admiral voice.
Buchanan had already admitted that he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew for certain the reason behind the QE2’s unexplained course change and the complete failure of its communications equipment.
“Sixty-seven feet. One hundred eighteen knots. Four point-three out.”
This latest update indicated that the mystery would soon be solved, and Thomas felt his pulse quicken. He was also aware of a slight anxious knot gathering in the pit of his stomach.
“Sixty feet. One hundred seventeen knots. Two-point three out. This will be a left-turning approach … We’re good to go. LZ’s on the nose … One minute out … I’ve got the spot … Stand by for ropes … Good hover.”
There was an excited tenseness to the pilot’s voice, and Thomas could picture the chaotic scene taking place in the helicopter’s rear cabin.
At the open ramp, the helmeted flight engineer would be preparing to deploy the forty five-foot-long fast ropes. Behind him, the heavily armed members of Delta Force would be awaiting the order from the pilot that would send them sliding down these ropes in quick succession to the deck of the awaiting ocean liner.
“Stand by for ropes,” instructed the pilot. “Forty-seven feet. Good hover … Pro—”
A burst of static momentarily cut the pilot off in mid-sentence, only to be followed by a terrified outburst, that none of the occupants of the op center would soon forget.
“Jesus, RPG at four o’clock!.. There’s a launch … We’ve been hit!
… We’ve lost the tail rotor … Fuckin’ hold on. We’re going’ in!
We’re going’ …”
There was another deafening burst of static before all went silent.
Stunned and horrified by this unexpected turn of events, the shocked occupants of Op Center Bravo peered up at the ceiling-mounted PA speakers as if willing the next update to come forth. Yet none came, and a wave of alarmed chatter filled the room with a somber resonance.
“I knew this damned crossing was no good from the start,” declared the CNO bitterly. “What the hell is going on out there?”
“Easy now, Richard,” advised Ridgeway, his own fur rowed brow tightly knit with concern. “It’s evident that we’ve got a pack of rats aboard the Queen, and now it’s up to us to take the situation in hand and figure out another way to address it.”
Thomas dared to take the role of devil’s advocate. “Perhaps what that pilot saw wasn’t an RPG after all. For all we know, it could have been a deflected bolt of lightning that knocked them out of the air.”
Before Ridgeway could argue otherwise, Lieutenant Tolliver’s booming voice projected from the PA, “We’ve got an emergency transmission coming in from the QE2! Pipe down, people!”
All eyes went to Tolliver’s workstation at the front of the room as he addressed his keyboard, and rerouted this transmission through the room’s speakers. A momentary flutter of static was followed by the steady, deep voice of a single male. He was apparently caught in mid-sentence, his words clear and crisply delivered.
“Once more, this is the voice of the legitimate People’s Republic of China, calling to you from the ocean liner QE2 in the mid-Atlantic. Do you acknowledge? Over.”
Tolliver looked up from his keyboard, to the knot of senior officers gathered at the back of the room. “Should I acknowledge?” he asked, his strained voice cracking.
“Do it!” ordered Ridgeway.
Without further hesitation, Tolliver addressed his keyboard, and spoke into his throat microphone. “This is the National Military Command Center acknowledging your message. Over.”
“I copy that,” returned the amplified male voice. “The conditions of this transmission are as follows: No broadcast interruptions, except for technical reasons, will be tolerated. There are to be no questions on your part, and no negotiations. Do you accept these conditions?”
By this time, both General Ridgeway and Admiral Buchanan had arrived at Tolliver’s side, and both senior officers nodded affirmatively.
“I accept the conditions. Over,” returned Tolliver, who alertly activated the console’s digital-tape machine to record the conversation.
“Very well, National Military Command Center, this is our manifesto:
“Number One: Be it known that Li Chen, the current president of the People’s Republic of China, has assumed his position of power illegally.
As such, he does not represent the will of the Chinese people and is to be returned to the Republic and tried for the crime of treason. All international agreements and treaties made by Li Chen are to be deemed null and void.
“Number Two: The People’s Republic is to be granted full and irrevocable geopolitical control of the Spratly Island chain. The governments of the Philippines, Malaysia, Brunei, Vietnam, or any other country laying claim to these islands and their surrounding seas, shall publicly disavow their claims before an international tribunal of our choosing.