On the balcony of the V.I.P quarters. Hooker could see the silhouette of the E-4B disappear into the early morning haze, then he returned his attention to the harbor. The dark gray bulk of the Antietam was just making its presence known, coming out of the East Loch toward Ford Island and the memorial.
“All systems read green,” the navigator reported.
“Turn the beacon on,” the pilot ordered as he brought the propellers to a halt, having negotiated the final turn in the harbor entrance that would give them a line to the Arizona Memorial. They were just off Hospital Point, almost 2,000 meters from the target. It would be threading a needle, but if they got in any closer they risked getting picked up by one of the security launches.
The navigator transmitted a signal on the designated frequency and the beacon that had been hidden on one of the legs of the Arizona monument was activated. It began sending out its own signal.
“I’ve got target lock,” the navigator said.
With the lock, they were confident that they would not miss. The guidance system of the torpedo would home in on the transmitter.
“Five minutes,” he announced.
Eighty miles to the south of Pearl Harbor, the captain of the SHARCC was gratified to see that they had a secure link with the E-4B now airborne and gaining altitude to the north. He was less than gratified though, when his executive officer suddenly swore from his position near the sonar operator.
“Sir, we’ve got multiple small contacts off the starboard bow.”
“What is it? Dolphins?” the captain demanded, looking over the shoulder of the sonar operator.
“Negative, sir.” The technician frowned.
“They look like five or six small submersibles and they’re close.” He fiddled with the controls.
“Sir! There’s a large contact on silent running behind the smaller ones. I wouldn’t have picked it up if I hadn’t gotten the others on screen. It looks like a large sub — maybe a Los Angeles or Ethan Alien Class!”
On board the E-4B, General Martin had the crew run through their communications checklist for taking over all satellite transmissions one last time. The five-mile trailing wire antenna was slowly unreeling behind the aircraft as it passed 4,000 feet of altitude.
Martin also made last-minute contacts with various military forces standing by, awaiting his orders. The SHARCC had been the primary plan, so they hadn’t had a chance to do a run-through with the E-4B crew. He had no doubt, though, that the men and women on board would perform when the time came. They were all handpicked for their professionalism and even more so for their unquestioning loyalty.
Especially since only a select few knew the exact nature of their mission.
“Two minutes,” the navigator said, caressing the launch lever as he watched the red numbers turn over on his display.
Major Keyes checked his watch. Two minutes. His men were gathered together on the roof, the three-foot edging keeping them hidden from the ground below. They’d climbed up the back side of the adjoining building in the dark using collapsing aluminum ladders. Then they’d traversed across the gap between the two buildings using a line fired across from a crossbow.
They’d quietly manually drilled in anchor points for their rappeling ropes and securely attached the lines. Keyes slid the nylon rope through the snap link on the front of his harness, making sure it looped once so he could break. He edged up on his knees next to the wall. Three other men on lines watched him for the word to go. Behind each of them, four other men waited their turn. Vasquez. was there too, over the protests of Keyes, dressed in black with a submachine-gun, ready to go.
Keyes flipped his MP-5 submachine-gun off safe.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”
The President walked to the podium and looked out at the sea of faces and television cameras.
“Let us bow our heads in a minute of silence for those who died here in the service of their country.”
The torpedo was a large bulk on the top center of the Mark IX, dividing the pilot’s hatch from the navigator’s.
Boomer looked over the torpedo at Skibicki bobbing in the water and nodded. At the same moment they twisted the latch on the respective hatch below them. Skibicki leaned in and levered his arm around the neck of the pilot of the Mark IX, jamming the point of his knife into the soft skin under the man’s jaw, pushing it up into his brain, killing him instantly.
Boomer wasn’t so fortunate. The point of his knife glanced off the air hose of the navigator, severing it and leaving a gash along the left side of the man’s face. The navigator convulsed forward, sucking in a lungful of seawater.
Boomer dropped the knife, letting it dangle on its lanyard, and grabbed the other man’s arms with his own hands, pulling them away from the firing lever the man was desperately trying to reach.
It was a silent struggle, in the surreal green glow of fifteen feet of water. Boomer was half in the hatch, upside down, pressed up against the open latch, his hands on the other man’s forearms, holding them up and away.
Skibicki could only watch from the other side, unable to get in, blocked on the inside by the body of the pilot buckled into his harness and on the outside by the bulk of the torpedo. A steady spray of bubbles from the severed airline floated to the surface, the only sign of the battle going on underneath the placid harbor surface.
Keyes stood and hopped onto the edge of the building.
He pushed off and dropped out of sight, one hand on the rope, the other holding out his submachine gun ready for use. The other three men went over at the same time.
As soon as the ropes went slack, the next men hooked in and followed.
As the last one cleared, Vasquez followed.
The arms grew weaker and weaker and then Boomer felt no resistance. He looped one arm around the man’s chin and slid the blade of his knife into the man’s neck to make sure he was dead. A small burst of red clouded the water.
Skibicki leaned into the Mark IX and adjusted the controls, turning off the power and disarming the torpedo. The submersible slowly sank down toward the harbor bottom.
Skibicki then tapped Boomer on the shoulder and indicated for him to follow. Boomer turned to the west, but Skibicki grabbed him, shook his head and pointed east.
“Damn it, what’s going wrong?” General Martin demanded, staring at the television screen in the war room of the E-4B at the President who still stood at the podium.
“We don’t have contact with the SDV,” Admiral Hancock reminded him.
“They might have been held up. The President will still be out there for another twenty minutes.”
“And if the SDV mission has failed?” General Dublois asked.
“We still have the back up on Air Force One.” Hancock said.
Martin nodded.
“Contact the SHARCC and have them relay the order for our decoy to back out. Go to alternate plan Stingray.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Admiral Hancock turned to give the order, the E4B reached 10,000 feet of altitude. The air pressure indicator on the detonator of the bomb Skibicki had relocated to the E-4B’s inflight refueling inlet did what it was designed to do and exploded the dual blasting caps set into the ten pounds of C-4.
Those inside had a brief moment to wonder what the cause of the loud popping noise was before the explosion reached the auxiliary fuel tanks just above the main fuselage, and the entire aircraft became one large fireball.