Brooke took all that in and a warm feeling of safety wrapped around her for the first time since she started on the mission. “Thank you for saving me.”
“I was just looking for the son of a gun who shot at my boat.”
Brooke was about to say something silly like “guilty” or “I didn’t know it was loaded,” but a sharp pain from her leg froze her brain.
Sensing her sudden discomfort, he unconsciously placed his hand on hers. “You want me to have Howell give you a shot or something?”
“No, it subsided; I need to have my wits about me to write my report.” She looked into his eyes and saw genuine concern there. It made her wonder if he was a dad. Owing to her grogginess, she was about to ask him if he had kids, but he spoke before she did.
“I have to get to the con; just let us know if you need anything.” He left and closed the door behind him.
I did shoot at his boat. To Brooke he suddenly went from a dad to a teenager with a new car, preening and caring for it, sympathetically hurting with every ding and scratch. Boys and their toys, she thought. The last thing she focused on was her freshly laundered bra, on a hanger, under the overhead, as she started to glide off into a light slumber. It didn’t last long…
II. WHALE OF A TAIL
Aaaooooga aaaa oooooo ga! The klaxon horn sounded and startled Brooke awake.
On the bridge, Mush swung around with his glasses trained on the rear of the 560-foot-long Nebraska, as a plume of white water and orange flame erupted out of the sea. The giant ship shuddered. Then he saw it. A huge gray mass in the water. The huge amount of bubbles told him that the boat’s hull had been breached. He screamed into the interphone, “I want weapons free, now!”
He pulled off the binoculars, scrambled down the hatch and came out the access hatch on the deck. He grabbed an AR-22 assault rifle from a sailor emerging from the rear torpedo hatch and ran toward the stern. The massive form was coming in again, maybe with another mine. He started shooting into the body of the thing. Soon more sailors armed with heavy weapons joined in. Thousands of rounds entered the water and most hit the hulk just under the surface; it started to shake. Then Mush noticed something odd — there’s no blood, no wounds. The bullets went clean in and only air bubbles were coming out. He kept firing. It was working; the thing had slowed its approach to the hull. He turned to the conning tower and yelled to his exec, “Hank! All ahead full now; get us away from this thing. All ahead full!”
A few men lost their footing as the big ship dug a hole in the water and lunged ahead. The grey mass stayed aft of the rudder. A huge tail was the last sight above the water, then nothing. Mush ran to the base of the conning tower and yelled up. “Damage report?”
“Port propulsion plant is flooded, four hurt. Starboard got us out of here. But we are taking on water.”
“Close all watertight hatches, get the pumps working in Port Prop.” Mush headed toward the rear hatch.
“Aye, aye.”
As alarm bells started calling to secure quarters, a midshipman asked, “What the fuck was that, Captain?” Then realizing he was cursing to a superior officer, recanted, “I mean what in the name of …”
“Carry on, Sailor” Mush snarled as he hefted the gun to the pimply-faced sailor. When the young seaman was out of earshot Mush mumbled to himself, “Just call me fucking Ahab!”
“Attacked? A U.S. nuclear sub was attacked?” President Mitchell couldn’t believe his ears.
“We are just getting the details now, sir. But it appears the USS Nebraska was on a special op when it was either mined or torpedoed in open water,” the secretary of the navy reported.
“Special operation? For who?”
“Why for you, sir,” a slight tinge of confusion tightening his brow.
“Slow down. Me?” The president leaned to one side to yell around the SECNAV’s body, “Reynolds!!!!”
Chief of Staff Ray Reynolds was entering President Mitchell’s office as the Commander-In-Chief was bellowing his name. “I was just coming in, sir. Yes. This is Hiccock’s operation. You approved it two weeks ago — to try and get hold of the Russian crucibles.”
“Any casualties?” the commander-in-chief asked.
“No fatalities, four crew injured,” the SECNAV said.
“How did a nuker get involved?”
The SECNAV went to intercede but Reynolds jumped in. “Boomer, sir, the Navy calls them boomers.”
“Whatever; how did a warship get involved and attacked as part of my — Hiccock’s plan?”
“We don’t know if this has anything to do with that mission, except for the fact that your mission operative was rescued by this boat,” the Secretary said.
“So this is Burrell, the agent who went undercover to buy the bomb-making hardware?”
The SECNAV turned to Admiral Shorn who then took over the hastily called briefing. “Yes, it would seem so, but the attack may or may not have anything to do with her mission or the procurement of the nuclear contraband.”
“Was she injured?”
“Yes, but before the Nebraska recovered her, clinging to a raft in the Indian Ocean. She was not injured further in the attack on the sub though, sir.”
“Who attacked us?”
“No way to know yet sir, but it was not a conventional naval attack, of that I am sure.”
“How can you know that if you don’t know all the details?”
“Because the Nebraska is commanded by Bret Morton. He’s as fine a Naval man as you’re ever going to find.”
“Morton… Morton. Is that Mush Morton’s kid?”
“Grandson, sir; Dudley “Mush” Morton was one of the best sub drivers in WWII and wrote most of the book on modern submarine warfare on the spot under Japanese fire. The kid’s genes got diving planes on them, sir. No conventional warship or threat could get to within 5,000 yards of a boomer and especially one with a Morton in command. I’d stake my last two stars on the fact that this one came out of nowhere or from a new weapon technology we haven’t counter-measured yet.”
“Okay, I want hourlies on this till that boat is at our base; Admiral you assign someone to brief me.”
“I’ll do that myself, sir.”
The president nodded to the admiral, then turned to Ray. “Get me Hiccock on the double.”
“On his way sir; turned him around as he was heading home.”
Joey met Bill at the portico off the East Wing of the White House. “The shit’s hit the fan, Billy boy. The boat that picked up Brooke got attacked. The SECNAV is in there now with Admiral Shorn.”
“Geez, I leave here for ten minutes and … is anybody hurt?”
“Four crewmen wounded — one is critical. The boat’s limping back to Midway, and it’s got air cover and a support ship is zeroing in.”
“Was Brooke hurt?”
“Not from this attack, but she was pretty beat up when they took her aboard.”
“Do we know who did it?”
“No. But they’d either have to be real stupid or really looking to start World War Three.”
“You think it’s the Russians?”
“It was their junk we were trying to get. Brooke may have stumbled on to something in Malta and been a loose end they weren’t willing to let go of.”
“Do we have her report?”
“Not yet, what with the attack and all.”