EPILOGUE
Benjamin Hram stood hunched over the USS Folk’s Type 18 search periscope. The lens was set for low light mode, the brightly lit object of his scan appearing to fill the entire northern horizon.
The QE2 was barely 2,000 yards distant, and regardless of the dangers of collision in these storm-tossed seas, this was the distance of separation that Kram had ordered. As the last surviving sub of the escort formation, the Polk wasn’t about to let the ocean liner out of its protective sights.
It wasn’t long after the SDV returned safely to the dry deck shelter, minus its SEAL assault force, that the first highfrequency radio message was received from the QE2. The dispatch was short and to the point, and after Kram read it to the crew over the 1MC, a chorus of relieved cheers filled the Polk. As of an hour before, the ship had been successfully retaken, the terrorist threat eliminated, with the President of the United States and the eight other leaders now under the protective arm of the brave men of SEAL Team Two.
No one was more excited by this news than the Folk’s captain. One of the greatest catastrophes in modern history had been averted, and regardless of the fact that hundreds of brave young men had died along the way, the outcome was cause for celebration.
Scuttlebutt had it that Petty Officer Mallott and his boys in Jimmy’s Buffet were abandoning turkey and serving a real steak dinner that evening. Of course, they still had two days of escort duty to go, with the QE2 already back on course for Southampton.
Kram’s main concern was that the weather topside would worsen.
Hurricane Marti had continued her relentless push to the north, and the Folk’s constantly pitching deck was proof of her gathering fury. Even at periscope depth, the churning seas made submerged travel uncomfortable.
Winds were already gusting to well over fifty knots on the surface, with thirty-to forty-foot waves present. This was impressive, considering that the eye of the storm was more than 140 miles distant.
To safely ride out this tempest, the QE2 had cut its speed to under ten knots. The view from the periscope dramatically displayed the manner in which the giant ocean liner was handling the rough seas. Bobbing from side to side like a bathtub toy, the massive vessel was taking a beating, and Kram felt sorry for its poor passengers.
His view of the ship was veiled momentarily by a wave splashing up against the periscope lens, and Kram began a slow, 360-degree scan of the surrounding seas. Towering swells raged all around them, with jagged streaks of lightning coloring the gray, cloud-filled skies.
“Skipper,” barked the gruff voice of the boat’s COB. “I’ve got the latest TACAMO update. I think you’re going to want to hear it.”
Without bothering to look away from the rubberized lens coupling, Kram replied. “Fire away, COB.”
The COB ducked through the heavy black curtain that separated the periscope pedestal from the rest of the control room. With his glance locked on the overhead monitor screen that displayed a view of Kram’s periscope scan, COB reported.
“The Priority-One transmission originated in the CNO’s Pentagon op center. It informed us that as of 0110 hours, American strategic forces have stood down from a DEFCON Two alert status. This alert was precipitated by threatening moves on the part of outlaw elements inside Red China’s military. Shortly after midnight, our time, the ringleaders of this right-wing, extremist faction were rounded up and arrested.
Included in this group was Adm. Liu Huangtzu, who was reported to have committed suicide before being incarcerated.”
“So the last of the surviving Maoists is finally dead,” reflected Kram, who used his right thumb to amplify the lens to its maximum magnification for a closer study of the wind-carved seas. “If I remember correctly, Admiral Liu was a Long March survivor, and Mao’s most cherished naval advisor. We all know him as the father of the modern PLA Navy. It’s a shame that he had to end his long career under such a black cloud.”
“Speaking of black clouds, Skipper,” interrupted COB, his eyes still locked on the monitor screen. “That sky to our east doesn’t look very promising. Is that a lowlying cloud bank of some sort, visible on the horizon?”
Benjamin Kram had also spotted this alien, dark gray formation that extended the entire length of the eastern horizon. A quick range-check showed it a good 10,000-yards distant. As Kram rechecked this figure, he realized that the mysterious formation was on the move, headed right for them.
“Those aren’t clouds, COB,” observed Kram, his pulse quickening. “It’s a giant wave. That’s got to be over a hundred feet above sea level to be seen from this distance! Get on the radio to warn the QE2. Then we’re taking the Polk down to escape this monster ourselves.”
Trying their best to ignore the wildly pitching deck, a joyous reunion of sorts was taking place inside the QE2’s Bridge. Assembled in one corner were the Kellogg brothers, a bandaged Thomas finally able to tell Vince the exacting details of the events that had led up to his airborne arrival on the ocean liner.
Gathered behind the navigation plot, Lawrence Laycob and Robert Hartwell were discussing old times with Captain Prestwick. It was in 1972 that the three first met on this very same Bridge, on an adjoining portion of the Atlantic. Both men had been SBS commandos at the time, who had parachuted aboard to look for a bomb.
It was shortly after a thorough search of the ocean liner determined that the bomb scare was a hoax that Laycob ceremoniously reached into the folds of his wet suit and pulled out the latest edition of the Times of London for the QE2’s captain. Never in their wildest dreams did they ever think that twenty-five years later, they would be reunited on the QE2’s Bridge once again.
Ronald Prestwick was in the process of accepting Lay cob’s apology for having no Times to give him in this instance when the Folk’s warning arrived via radio. Prestwick himself acknowledged receipt of this urgent dispatch, and after signing off, joined the Bridge’s other occupants at the rain-soaked observation window.
In the middle of this concerned group was Thomas Kellogg, who had to tightly grip the edge of the instrument console to keep from tumbling over. He did his best to peer out the window and spot the giant wave the Polk had just warned them about.
It was a struggle for the exterior, rubber-bladed wipers to clear the rain-soaked window. In those rare instances when Thomas was afforded a clear view, what he saw was far from reassuring. The night was pitch black, with visibility poor. The sea was a roiling mass of white foam, the driving spray constantly lashing the ship in blinding torrents.
Wave after wave smashed over the bow, leaving the foredeck almost permanently awash.
With the assistance of binoculars, it was the ship’s bearded master who was the first to spot the wave. By the time Thomas saw it, Prestwick had already issued the course change needed to point the QE2’s bow directly into the approaching wall of water.
“By Jove, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that we were headed straight for the white cliffs of Dover,” observed Lawrence Laycob, — his clipped British accent delivered with cool aplomb.
Thomas wasn’t nearly as composed as the SBS commando, the terrifying sight he was viewing causing goosebumps to form on his skin. “Oh my God, that thing is huge!” he exclaimed.
The immense wave appeared to fill the entire eastern horizon with its malevolent presence.
“Sweet Jesus,” Vince muttered. “All this, only to be taken down by a damn rogue wave.”
“Concerned, Special Agent?” the ship’s captain said.
“You forget, sir, that you’re sailing aboard the greatest ocean liner ever designed by the hand of man.”