“What?”
“My initial reaction exactly. Sometime within the last couple of hours, what appears to be a group of Chinese terrorists seized operational control of the ocean liner. As far as I know, our President and the other heads of state haven’t been harmed, though a Marine Super Stallion helicopter carrying a Delta Force interdiction unit was lost effecting a rescue attempt.
“The National Command Authority also believes that the terrorists have gained control of China’s nuclear-warhead unlock codes. The terrorists are threatening to begin launching the PRC’s strategic nuclear arsenal if their irrational demands are not met, or another rescue effort is attempted.”
“So that’s why they broke off their great circle route and turned north,” reflected Bodzin. “Surely we’re not going to just sit here and let them get away with this.”
“As a matter of fact, we’re not. Both the Polk and SEAL Team Two have been placed on alert, and ordered to stand by to initiate a clandestine rescue attempt sometime within the next four hours.”
“But what about the storm that’s blowing topside, Captain? And how is our SDV ever going to catch up with them, sir? Unless the QE2 reduces its speed substantially, the SDV’s eight knots is never going to cut it.”
Kram was impressed with his senior sonarman’s tactical foresight, and he answered him directly. “We’ve only experienced Marti’s outer fringe so far, and weather conditions are still within the parameters of a safe SDV launch. As far as the way in which our SDV is going to be able to catch the Queen, Command didn’t say. We’ve only been instructed to stand by for additional orders.”
Kram paused to shift his glance to the two seated sonar technicians, and added, “There was one additional portion of the TACAMO broadcast that I thought you’d be particularly interested in hearing. We’ve been informed to be on the alert for a Chinese Han-class attack sub that Command believes might have secretly penetrated these waters from the north, and is an integral part of the terrorist conspiracy.”
“Sierra Seven!” exclaimed Bodzin.
“It could very well be, Mr. Bodzin. I need you and your boys to do your best to determine that fact for certain. And if Sierra Seven does turn out to be that outlaw sub, I have a feeling that we’re soon going to find out what kind of punch those fish we’re hauling down in the torpedo room are really carrying.”
29
By little less than twelve hours after Thomas Kellogg made the rash decision to volunteer his services, he found himself inside the rear cabin of a MC-130H Combat Talon, well on his way to the North Atlantic.
From an uncomfortable steel-and-nylon-webbed bench set against the cargo hold’s forward bulkhead, he gazed out at the cavernous hold, empty except for the sleeping load master He was the extent of this aircraft’s cargo package, to be delivered to a spot above the ocean, some 3,000 miles to the northeast of Washington’s Andrews Air Force Base. The flight had begun there, and Thomas knew that Command had really pulled out all the stops to get this complex operation organized in so little time.
As the MC-130H momentarily shook in a pocket of turbulence, Thomas reached down to brace himself against the steel seat frame. The plane’s interior was cold, drafty, and noisy, the four Allison T56-A-15 turboprop engines grinding away with a constant, guttural roar. A partially eaten box lunch sat at his side, along with the detailed schematic diagram of the QE2 that he had been studying for most of the morning.
This foldout, cross-section guide of the ocean liner had been hand-delivered to Andrews shortly after dawn by a Cunard representative and former staff captain of the QE2. This individual flew in on the first shuttle of the morning from New York, and he gave Thomas an extensive briefing on the ship’s layout and the best way to carry out his mission.
He started off by recommending that Thomas utilize the Sun Deck’s helicopter pad for a landing zone. It was situated immediately abaft the funnel, on the topmost deck this area being the largest portion of unobstructed open space available to safely accommodate him. It was also encircled on two sides by a six-foot-high Plexiglas windscreen that could help snag the chute in case a violent crosswind was encountered.
The jump itself was scheduled to take place at dusk, and once on the QE2, Thomas would have until midnight to get into position to implement the rest of the plan. Because the transfer of the SEALs was timed to take place precisely at the stroke of twelve, it was imperative that the QE2 be slowed down to at least eight knots, the SDV’s top speed.
To accomplish this feat clandestinely, the Cunard employee suggested that Thomas access the dual pitch-control levers located in the aft portion of the Engine Room on Eight Deck. These levers were mounted onto each of the ship’s two drive shafts, and by manipulating them in a manner that he subsequently demonstrated, the pitch of the propellers could be altered and the vessel slowed.
Designed for use in emergency situations only, the levers were totally independent of both the Bridge and the Engine Room. It was impossible to override the system in any other way.
The levers were in an infrequently visited portion of the ship. To get into this isolated compartment without being discovered, Thomas was given a somewhat circuitous route. Once he safely landed on the Sports Deck, he was to proceed forward to the amidships stairwell. By climbing to the deck above, he’d be able to stash his gear in a vacant stowage locker on the Signal Deck, located aft of the ship’s Kennels.
From there he was to return to the Eelevator shaft, where an access hatch would lead him down to Four Deck. From there he’d head aft. At the sternmost portion of the ship, another emergency-access ladder would take him down into the Engine Room and drop him off directly beside the dual pitch levers.
To allow Thomas to better blend in, should he be discovered transiting one of the public passageways, Cunard had sent along a ship’s officer’s uniform for his use. This outfit of black trousers, shoes, tie, and a white shirt with gold-and-purple-striped epaulets, identified him as an engineering officer. It was a cursory disguise at best, but certainly better than relying on the olive-drab, thermal jumpsuit he was presently wearing over it.
By the time the briefing was ending, his means of transport had finally arrived. With the invaluable assistance of the Air Force Special Operations Command, the nearest available MC-130H had been located at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. This aircraft belonged to the 15th Special Operations Squadron. It was normally based at Hurlburt Field, Florida, and had been visiting Dover on an exercise.
Being a former Air Commando himself, who was once based at AFSOC headquarters at Hurlburt, Thomas felt right at home upon being introduced to the crew. To make their 11:00 a. m. liftoff, little time was wasted propping the Combat Talon for its long flight, and fitting Thomas with his flight suit, gloves, goggles, helmet, oxygen mask, and of course, his HALO parachute gear.
It wasn’t until he signed for the parachute, though, that the reality of the mission he had volunteered for abruptly sank in. His mind still filled with the myriad of details he’d have to remember about the QE2, he knew that they would all be useless if he didn’t survive the jump.
As he continued out onto the flight line, Brittany at his side, he began to have second thoughts about his participation in this mission.
Regardless of his previous decision never to strap on a parachute again, it had been much too long since he had completed his last HALO jump.
Gut instinct warned him that this entire effort was totally foolish, and he fought the urge to drop his gear and walk away. Yet Brittany’s presence and a stubborn will kept him from doing so.