David E. Meadows
Final Fathom
This book is dedicated to our children Sara Meadows and Nicholas Meadows
Acknowledgments
It is impossible to thank everyone who provided technical advice and support for this book and my other action-adventure novels. I deeply appreciate their advice, support, and technical competence. I also am always appreciative of those who visit www.sixthfleet.com, read my columns, and sometimes disagree. Your comments are welcomed and for those who send e-mails, I do try to reply personally to each.
You run the risk of missing someone when you are acknowledging contributions, technical advice, and support, so I apologize up front if I did so.
In these three books of the Dark Pacific series, I wrote a lot about the F-22A Raptor. The F-22A Raptor is the most technologically advanced fighter aircraft in the world. All the information in the books on the F-22A is easily available on the Internet. Without reserve, my great respect to the men and women who take this phenomenal weapon of democracy into the hostile areas of the world. Writing about them and trying to extrapolate how they fly and how flying those planes is dif-ferent — from those who sit in the cockpit, who know what they are doing, and use the advantage of the technologies and avionics of the stealth fighter to control the aerial battle space — I ask their forgiveness if, for the sake of literary ease, I mixed up the cockpit controls and capabilities of the aircraft.
There is another group of individuals who should be recognized for their contributions to the Raptor. This group is the men and women of Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and Pratt & Whitney, who built the F-22A Raptor, integrated the technologies, and designed the avionics that gave this aircraft its superior position in the history of military aviation. Without them, this aircraft would never have left the enterprising desk of some Pentagon defense requirements person.
The Joint Strike Fighter (F-35), also in this series, is being flown by our closest Navy ally, the Royal Navy. Lockheed Martin leads the Northrop Grumman and British Aerospace Systems (BAE) teams in building this stealth fighter. When accepted by the Pentagon, the Joint Strike Fighter will join the F-22A as another premier battle space fighter to be flown by the United States and some of our closest allies, including Great Britain.
The information on the Fast Sealift Ships was gained in an afternoon of trekking across the deck of the USNS Denebola with the master of this gigantic aircraft carrier-size ship, Captain Joe Gargiulo, and Mr. Matthew Cull (PM5 Sealift Surge Detachment). Other information came from personal research, which included libraries, the Internet, the handouts on the ships. The Denebola is representative of all eight of the Fast Sealift Ships. It is over 946 feet in length. The newest aircraft carrier, the USS George H. W. Bush, is 1,092 feet in length — a difference of less than 150 feet. The Nimitz-class aircraft carriers, of which USS George H. W. Bush is one, have a crew of more than 5,500 people, with ship’s company and the air wing embarked. The USNS Denebola has fourteen merchant marines manning her while in port, growing to a maritime complement of about forty when she is under way.
My thanks to Terry Smith, Vincent Widmaier, William “David” Cross, Amanda Roberts, and Angela O’Neal for their security insights and recommendations. For technical advice and support, my appreciation to Tim Bovill (may he enjoy Norfolk), Jerry Bechlehimer, Mark Thomson, Christine Weston-Lyons, Mary Forbes, Shirley Cool, Bonni Rae Lamson, Sue Abbott, William “Bill” Gaul, and Bill “USNA class of ’74” Hall. And, of course, three of the most powerful women at NIS: Cassandra Mewborn, Brenda Williams, and Jessie McAliley. Then, of course, every retired sailor has ole shipmates who keep in touch. My thanks to Paul and Karen Ratkovich, William J. “Hawk” McDonnell, and Marcus “Narwhal” Williams for their comments and support.
As always, my continued thanks to Tom Colgan for his editorial support and to his able right-hand person, Sandra Harding. And my thanks to my agent, John Talbot, for his advice and guidance.
Rest assured any and all technical errors or mistakes in this novel are strictly those of the author, who many times wanders in his own world. Please keep in touch.
David E. Meadows
ONE
The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder. Andrew jumped. His eyes flew open. Beads of sweat raced down his cheeks. His breaths were short, rapid, and panicky with relief. The steady outward appearance of calm moments earlier vanished. His body shook and he nearly tumbled off his knees. He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly, knowing those watching believed him to be praying. Andrew fought to stop the trembling, slow his breathing. He recalled his father’s warning about how he should act once the selection process finished, but it was easy for his dad to tell him for his dad never had to do this.
The pressure of the barrel shifted off his temple. When the handler pulled the pistol up, the cool air circulating through the shadows of the barn brushed like a circle of ice across the red pressure spot on his temple. His eyes followed the pistol as the man placed it in the case carried by another man.
“It is God’s will,” the crowd said in unison.
“Like his brother,” someone said.
“The pistol!” one of the deacons shouted.
“The pistol!” the crowd shouted, taking up the cry.
The man who moments earlier had pulled the trigger while the gun was against Andrew’s temple reopened the case and took the gun out of it. He pointed it upward and pulled the trigger. The gun fired. The bullet shattered old wood shingles as it penetrated the roof. Andrew jumped at the noise. The smell of cordite drifted across his face. Small splinters drifted down onto the crowd.
“Amen,” came a smaller chorus from the deacons surrounding the pit. “Praise the Lord.”
Four more shots followed the first one. More small pieces of wood rained on the crowd.
The congregation went wild with cries, prayers, and shouts of praises for God’s grace on Andrew.
The pistol was laid reverently back in the case. Then the man locked it, nodded at the man holding the case, and the crowd watched as the person carrying it walked up the steps leading from the pit. Andrew watched along with everyone else until the case disappeared within the crowd, the man carrying it heading toward the area where earlier Andrew had hugged and left his father.
Two pairs of hands grabbed Andrew under the arms, pulling him to his feet. He opened his eyes and glanced at the two men. Their lips moved. They were speaking, broad grins stretching their faces. He smiled. He knew they were praising him, shouting thanks to the Lord. But the words flowed around him like a bubbling stream, failing to penetrate the frightful haze still enveloping him.
His knees buckled, their hands tightened. He was numb from kneeling so long as the congregation prayed for divine intervention. Upright, he was a good six inches taller than the two men holding him. His weak smile faded, removing all expression from his face.
The hands tightened slightly and the two men turned him toward the steps. He took a deep breath. A few tears edged from the corners of his brown eyes, trickling down across day-old growth of dark stubble. He wanted to fall back onto his knees. Take more time to regain control of his body; show his composure; impress the congregation — not disgrace his father.