As he proceeded to Pier Nine, a sunless mood came over him. The USS Normandy, a guided missile cruiser, was moored by itself to the north. He passed the pier, and the shadowy feeling brightened. It was as if a giant dark cloud hovered over the Normandy itself.
Mordet. I can feel you.
He returned to Pier Nine. The pier security guard’s gaze narrowed on him as he approached. Chris examined the sailor quickly. The guard’s hair came slightly over his ears. Either he was a sailor pushing regulations or an imposter. Chris suspected the latter. He’s too alert — unlike a sailor who has stood too many watches in home port, and nothing happens. But something is about to happen, and this guy knows it.
“Sir, this pier is temporarily on lockdown for a security drill,” the guard said.
“I’m investigating a terrorist threat in the area,” Chris countered, “and I’d like to know where you went to boot camp?” Every sailor remembers where he went to boot camp, and whoever says it’s classified information is lying.
“Huh?” the guard asked.
“Did you go to boot camp in South Carolina or Texas?”
“Texas.”
Chris took a step toward him. “Wrong answer.”
The guard’s hand inched slowly in the direction of the pistol on his hip. “I’m sorry, I meant South Carolina.”
“Wrong again,” Chris said.
The guard reached for his pistol, which Chris realized had an extended holster, probably for a sound suppressor. There was nothing Navy about the man other than his uniform. Chris stepped forward and struck him with an open-handed chop to the throat, stunning him. Chris grabbed his head and wrenched it around until the guard’s spine snapped, and his body dropped to the ground like a sack of elephant shit.
He proceeded to the 173-foot cruiser. It’s the weekend. Most of the crew will be off the ship. He walked up to the brow, a portable metal plank that connected the ship to shore. Partway across the brow, he stopped and stood at attention facing the US flag aft, then he continued to the end of the brow and stopped at attention facing the older of two sailors on the quarterdeck. “Request permission to come aboard,” Chris said.
Instead of asking for Chris’s ID and granting permission, the older sailor said, “We’re under lockdown right now, and you can’t board the ship.”
Similar to the imposter on the pier, his holster wasn’t regulation.
“Are you the OOD?” Chris asked.
The sailor hesitated. “Yes.”
Chris pointed to the other guy. “Is that your Petty Officer of the Watch?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your Messenger?” Chris asked.
“I told you, we’re under lockdown.”
“Why are both of you armed instead of just one?” Chris asked. “Why sound-suppressed pistols? And what are these stains all over the quarterdeck?”
The fake OOD reached for his gun, but Chris got to his own first and let the air out of the imposter. Meanwhile, the other “sailor” was drawing his sound-suppressed weapon. Chris’s bullets swept him aside.
His pocket vibrated. Damn. If he’d been sneaking up on someone and his cell had gone off, he’d be a dead man. After taking his phone out of his pocket, he noticed the caller ID: Young.
“What?” Chris whispered.
“You were right! Mordet hacked into the USS Normandy’s Aegis combat system, and he’s uploading GPS coordinates and TERCOM leading to two targets.” TERCOM was the Terrain Contour Matching navigation system used for cruise missiles. Each missile would follow the pre-recorded contour maps, use its internal radar to record its current locations, digitally match the uploaded map with its current location, correlate for accurate flight, and adjust for any deviance until it reached its target.
“We know that he’s targeting the Redskins’ stadium. But you just said two targets.”
“Just a sec. He’s going to fire a Block II TLAM A.”
Chris’s heart sank. Each Tomahawk Land Attack Missile could travel distances up to 2500 kilometers at a speed of 890 kilometers per hour. They delivered an air-burst of four hundred fifty kilograms of high explosives, enough to kill all eighty-five thousand people at the Redskins-Cowboys game.
“Where’s the second target?” Chris asked.
“Oh, no.”
“Where?”
“The White House.”
Chris continued to scan the area for immediate threats. “Mordet said he was going to kill someone special. He must’ve meant the president. We’ve got to stop him.”
“When Mordet hacked into the Aegis, he left a back door open. I’m into the C&D, but he’s blocking me from the Weapon Control System. I need access to that in order to terminate the launch.”
“I’m heading to the CIC to shut him down.”
“What’s the CIC?” Young asked.
“Combat Information Center. It’s the tactical center of the ship.”
“I’ll keep trying to shut him down, too,” Young said. “Be careful.”
“Out.” Chris turned off his phone, zipped it in the bag, and put it back into his thigh pocket.
He opened a grey hatch, not knowing what would come next but hoping he’d rise to the occasion. He walked forward, aiming his pistol at each danger area, and as he reached the ladder leading up to the CIC, a beastly thug with a submachine gun came down the ladder. The beast lifted his weapon, but Chris squeezed the trigger of his pistol, giving him open-heart surgery. Someone else’s bullets sprayed down the ladder in his direction, and he jumped back to avoid the projectiles.
“I was expecting you, Chris,” Professor Mordet called from the top of the ladder. “You had me worried for a little while. I thought you might be late for the show, but you are just in time.”
Submachine guns poked down the ladder as if searching for Chris. His heart rate flicked to full auto, and his palms became slick. He squeezed his pistol tighter. When the first tango appeared, Chris fired, but he missed. He fired again, but the tangos’ weapons withdrew. “Glad to know I’m not late,” Chris said.
“You cannot stop the rain from falling,” Mordet said. “You can put up an umbrella to keep yourself dry, but others are going to get wet.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But you cannot help it. I have already taken over the ship’s Weapon Control System and set it on an automatic program timed to launch two Tomahawk missiles at kickoff of the Redskins-Cowboys game. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” There was a cruel happiness in his tone. “Whether the president attends the game or watches from the White House, the outcome will be the same. The Weapon Control System can no longer be manipulated from the CIC. No one can stop the rain now. Not even you.”
Chris maneuvered around to a ladder on the port side, hoping to find another way to the CIC, but three men had already descended the steps and declared open season on him. He hastily shot back at them to slow their advance before he ducked out of their line of fire. He had to get there before Mordet’s men trapped him in the passageway athwart ship. He aimed his weapon chest-high as he turned the corner and ran into a tango. The abrupt encounter startled Chris, and he jerked the trigger, but at point-blank range, he didn’t miss. He continued to pull the trigger rapidly: surprise, speed, and violence of action. Point-blank’s body collapsed on the man behind him, and they both fell to the floor. More shuffling noises came from the top of the ladder.