“Last I heard, he’d called for a full debrief. Shall we go see?”
offered COB.
Kram beckoned aft, past the drawn curtains of the periscope pedestal and the vacant fire control console. With COB leading the way, they left the control room and passed through an elongated, narrow compartment with two long consoles lining each bulkhead. Here the members of their SEAL team would coordinate the activation of the dry-deck shelter and the launching of the new Mark VII mini sub
A sharp left took them beyond the space where the Ships Inertial Navigation System was stowed. A hatchway set into the after bulkhead conveyed them into the cavernous space, formerly reserved for the Folk’s missile magazine. Though the tubes were still here — sixteen in all, positioned in two parallel rows of eight — the missiles themselves had long since been removed.
Today they were used to stow the voluminous amount of equipment needed by the SEALs, with tube six providing access to the dry-deck shelter and the mini sub
A lattice-steel catwalk encircled the magazine. It was often used as a jogging track, with sixteen and a half laps equaling a mile. Kram therefore wasn’t surprised to see one of his men jog around the aft end of the magazine and head down the catwalk toward them. He was attired in a bright blue T-shirt and matching shorts, and it was COB who identified him.
“Either I’m seem’ things, or that’s Chief Mallott!”
CPO Howard Mallott was the Folk’s head cook. His exclusive domain was Jimmy’s Buffet — the name of the ship’s galley-where Mallott ran his department like a virtual fiefdom. Not the most physical of specimens, Mallott had a bulging waistline, gold wire-rimmed glasses, and a spiky crew cut that were familiar to all. Yet this was the first time that either Kram or COB had seen the personable cook with a sheen of exercise-induced sweat on his forehead.
“Hello, Captain! Afternoon, COB!” Mallott grunted between heaving breaths, a good twenty yards separating them.
Kram couldn’t miss noting his leaden stride, and he flashed the portly cook a supportive thumbsup.
“Gotta keep fit, sir,” Mallott added, with ten yards still between them.
“Don’t go droppin’ from a cardiac on us, Mallott,” teased
COB.
“I might be a few pounds overweight,” Mallott retorted, his labored breaths clearly audible.
“But my good cholesterol far outnumbers the bad.”
“Love the new bison burgers. Chief,” commented COB, trying his best to keep a straight face.
“It’s a refreshing change from all that turkey.”
Mallot’s pace seemed to quicken, and as he prepared to pass them, he made certain to meet Kram’s admiring glance.
“I’m serving bison chili at mid rats sir. I’ll make certain to save you a bowl.”
“Thank you. Chief,” said Kram, who watched Mallott strike cob’s open palm with his right hand before continuing his labored run around the catwalk.
Kram led the way down a nearby stairwell to Three Deck, where a short passageway conveyed them into the relatively large compartment usually reserved for the crew’s activity space. This afternoon it was being used as the special operations briefing room.
There were a good number of officers and enlisted men gathered here, with a mix of Polk crew members and SEALs. As usual, the SEALs occupied the right side of the room, where they had their laptops set up on three tables, one behind the other.
Commander Doug Gilbert, the wiry, silver-haired CO of SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team Two, stood at the front of the room, facing a cross-section diagram of the new Mark VII mini-sub. It was apparent that he hadn’t seen the two newcomers in their midst, and Kram didn’t dare interrupt him.
“So you see, ladies,” continued Gilbert while highlighting the circular transfer skirt on the bottom of the diagram with a pointer, “the ability to transfer both personnel and equipment from sub to sub gives us an entirely new mission. And if the unlikely day should ever come when treaty obligations indeed require that submarines such as the Rhode Island go to sea without their missile warheads, we can provide the all-important backup delivery service.
“Cause as I told you before, ladies, this SEAL trusts no one!”
“The day the politicians order us to remove those warheads from our missiles and bombs is the day I start digging a fucking fallout shelter!” proclaimed the SEAL XO from the front table.
“It’s our nukes that have kept us free for the last five decades!”
His associates voiced their support with a spirited round of applause, shouts, and whistles. Gilbert turned around to face them, and only then noted Kram’s presence in the back of the room.
“Pipe down, ladies!” Gilbert ordered.
“Captain’s here, and we certainly don’t want him to think we’re holding a damn political rally.”
“I’ve got to admit that you’d get my vote,” said Kram, who had to wait for another raucous chorus of applause to die down before adding, “I thought you’d like to know that it was the Rhode Island’s receipt of an Emergency Action Message that led to the cancellation of our exercise. Captain Lockwood hopes to reschedule the transfer, which could take place as soon as later this afternoon.”
“An Emergency Action Message,” repeated the SEAL team
XO.
“To hell with that Global Zero Alert Treaty. Maybe we’re at war!”
“Commander Gilbert, sir,” the team’s meteorologist dared to interject.
“If we can’t complete the exercise today, does that mean we won’t be home as planned for July Fourth?”
“Well, excuse me. Chief Murray,” returned the senior SEAL with an inflection that would have made Jackie Gleason proud.
“Did you hear that, ladies? Mr. Sunshine is worried about missing fireworks with his old lady. Hell’s bells. Chief. If you wanted holidays with the family, you should have joined the fucking Air Force!”
Chapter 19
Vince estimated that they had been traveling for a good hour since their initial capture. They had been immediately blindfolded, hog-tied around the waist, and led on foot like a dog on a leash through the thick forest. After they’d been ordered not to talk, the mysterious trio who had captured them became eerily quiet too. All Vince could hear from that group was an occasional grunt or swear word, the heavy sound of breathing, and the thud of footsteps, rustling leaves, and snapping twigs underfoot.
The route they were following led away from the river. There didn’t appear to be a developed path, and shortly after the roar of the rapids faded, they began their way up a steep incline.
Vince tried his best to remain orientated, and he initiated a rough pace count, presuming they were headed in a northerly direction. The heat and humidity were intense. His clothes were soaked in sweat, his mouth bone-dry. Because of the tight blindfold, he was the victim of numerous painful encounters with projecting limbs. Thorns tore into his sunburned skin, and several times he was forced to a halt after colliding with a sapling, boulder, or root clump. No sooner did he regain his footing than he’d feel a rough jerk on the rope that was tied around his waist.
This rope was also connected to Andrew Chapman, who followed several feet behind.
At first Vince toyed with the idea of directly challenging the trio and asking for mercy. Yet he was unable to forget their forceful order for silence, and he decided instead to hold his tongue for the moment. One good thing was that they hadn’t immediately executed them. He supposed they were in league with the personnel aboard the black Huey, and that both Vince and the Vice President were going to be held hostage. In such situations, discretion was most often the best policy, and Vince could only hope that they’d eventually get a chance to plead their case with the ringleader of this mysterious group.