“Our link is down with Looking Glass!” the SHARCC executive officer yelled.
“She’s gone!”
“What the hell?” the captain exclaimed. He tore his gaze from the sonar screen. Whatever the contacts had been, they were now too close to be picked up. The large contact was stationary off their starboard bow, about 1,000 meters away.
An alarm screeched.
“Torpedo lock!” the counter electronics officers yelled, indicating that the large contact had locked in a torpedo homing signal on their hull.
“Have they launched?” the captain demanded.
“Negative, just the lock.”
The captain had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was, none of it was in the intricate plan he’d been briefed on.
The SHARCC shuddered as an explosion reverberated through the hull.
“Status!” the captain screamed.
“I thought you said they hadn’t fired!
“We’ve got a breach in number three and four swim locks forward,” the damage control officer reported. He looked up.
“It wasn’t a torpedo. Someone’s at the hatches.
We’re being boarded.”
The SHARCC captain drew his pistol and gazed at the corridor leading to the front of the submarine. There was a chatter of automatic fire, then dead silence. The captain pointed his weapon at the hatch.
He never got a chance to shoot as the first Navy SEAL came through the hatch firing.
Hooker leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. The members of the staff were scurrying about, yelling into portable Satcom radios. Except nothing was happening, all communication with Looking Glass and the SHARCC was down. He could see for himself that the memorial was still intact and if he squinted, he could make out the figure of the President behind the podium, still speaking.
There was the sound of a shot on the first floor and all the men froze, looking at one another in confusion. Hooker was ignored as four men dressed in black swung down from the roof on rappeling ropes, landing on the balcony. They fired long sustained bursts from their silenced weapons into the room, killing all inside. Over a hundred years of military experience died in those seconds. Hooker’s bodyguards fought back and two of the men went down, but a second wave followed and the sheer number of the attackers overwhelmed Hooker’s men.
It was over in twenty seconds. Three black-clad men and one woman — Hooker could tell by her figure — were still standing. Everyone else other than Hooker was dead.
The leader of the men turned to the old man and pulled up his black balaclava.
“General Hooker.”
“Major Keyes,” Hooker nodded in return.
“We wondered where you had gone. We haven’t heard from you in six months.” He looked beyond, at the bodies strewn about the room and the shattered radios. His staff was now gone.
There was no one left but him.
Keyes shifted the lever on the side of his MP-5 to single shot.
“You’ve failed, you know that, don’t you?”
“I did my duty to my country to the best of my ability,” Hooker replied.
“I lost this battle, but there is a bigger picture.” His right hand was under the blanket covering his lap.
“Enough macho bullshitting,” Vasquez called out.
“Let’s finish it.”
Hooker’s blanket shredded as he pulled the trigger of the silenced Ingram MAC-10 concealed there. At 1,100 rounds a minute, the thirty-round magazine was completely emptied in under two seconds.
The shocked look on Keyes’s face was gratifying to Hooker as the major staggered back under the impact of bullets. Hooker’s right hand flicked a switch on the left arm rest and Claymore mines that had been wired into the ceiling exploded, spraying the other side of the room with thousands of tiny pellets. The rest of Keyes’s team and Vasquez died in the blast.
The roar of the F-16s built to a crescendo and the missing man formation flew by overhead. The bosun’s whistle on the Antietam blew across the water and the crew saluted in unison.
A lone bugler standing on the end of the memorial put his instrument to his lips and began playing Taps, a tune written by Major General Butterfield, West Point class of 1839, the soulful sound echoing through the hearts of the men standing at rigid attention. On the faces of some of the survivors tears flowed despite all the years that had passed. Tears for their young comrades in arms who had not known the blessings of the past fifty-four years.
CHAPTER 28
A dark hole beckoned in the bright blue water, and Skibicki’s fins disappeared into it. Boomer hesitated for a second, then followed. His compass told him they were on the east side of the harbor, which meant they were near the sub pens at Pearl.
The hole narrowed to a tunnel six feet in diameter. Dim, underwater lights lit the way, showing pitted concrete walls, slowly sloping up.
Boomer surfaced in a chamber about twenty feet square with a wooden dock on one side. He slipped off his fins and joined Skibicki on the dock.
“Where are we?” he asked as he took off his tanks and weight belt.
“This is the dive area for NAVSPWRGP One,” the sergeant major replied, referring to the Navy special warfare group at Pearl.
“We’re right next to the sub pens. They use this to get out into the water without being seen, which they occasionally have to do for training. It was actually built in World War Two as a service duct for the sub pens, but since the pens were expanded in the other direction and upgraded, this whole area was given to the SEALS.” Skibicki pointed at a metal door.
“This way. There are some people I want you to meet.”
Skibicki twisted the hatch and swung the door open. On the other side a large room beckoned lit by halogen lamps.
Several radio sets were operational along one wall, and a large table was in the center of the room with maps spread out on it.
There were numerous men in the room, but Boomer’s eyes fastened on the lone woman with the large white cast on her leg seated at the conference table. He ran across the concrete floor and skidded to his knees, wrapping Trace in his arms.
For several minutes he simply held her, head buried in her shoulder.
When he finally pulled back, he smiled as he looked into her eyes.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Just some minor problems. I’m all right.” She looked over his shoulder.
“You’ll be surprised to see who’s here.”
Boomer followed her gaze and stiffened as he spotted the — familiar figure of Colonel Decker. At the radios he recognized Lieutenant Colonel Falk and Colonel Coulder.
Boomer turned to Sergeant Major Skibicki who had followed him over.
“Who are these people?” Boomer asked.
He pointed.
“That’s Decker. He’s the one who ordered the mission into the Ukraine.”
Skibicki laid a hand on Boomer’s arm.
“We’re getting ready to brief General Maxwell. You and Trace need to hear this too, because it’s the only time this story is going to be told other than when Maxwell relays it to the President.
I really don’t know all that’s happened either, so bear with us.”
Boomer looked back at Trace.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“Not yet.” Trace ran her hand up his arm.
“I missed you.”
Boomer took her hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around hers.