“From your job description, I’d say you need to listen to both voices.” The president paused for a moment and then spoke more softly. “I’ve always cared about your family, Pug, and I know that you were aware of how close I became to your father.”
President Snow stood up, followed by Pug, preparatory to ending the meeting. “I’m truly glad that you’re going to remain with Trojan. I need someone I can fully trust in that position. The advice I seek must come from a trusted source, someone without a personal agenda.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I sense you have a deeper conflict than we have time to discuss today. Perhaps we can remedy that over dinner some evening. Helen will demand a reunion.”
Snow started toward the door. “Are you eligible to retire from the Corps?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got just over twenty year’s service, but haven’t thought about retirement yet.”
“Good. You’ve made exemplary progress. A one-star general with barely twenty years is unusual, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been fortunate to work with good men… and good women, especially President Prescott. They deserve the accolade, not me.”
Snow rose again and both men walked toward the doorway. The president wrapped his arm around Pug’s shoulder and then turned him so they were facing head on. “I think we’ll see one another more frequently if this all comes off as I would like. Please give our regards to your parents. Helen will be thrilled to see that you’ve come back into our lives. She was the primary culprit in getting your brother together with our daughter. Had you been a few years older, I think she’d have chosen you,” Snow chuckled.
“Megan got the best Connor when she got Scott,” Pug replied.
“He’s a good man. When we all settle in, we’d love to have you over for dinner with both Scott and Megan. He’s taken very good care of our daughter and produced some beautiful grandchildren.”
“Scott is a good man, Mr. President. Much more like our father… and he’s home every night,” Pug said.
“Don’t let your confusion overwhelm you, Pug. Those two angels on your shoulder may indeed have a singular purpose. Will you be in town for the immediate future?”
“No, sir. I actually have a field trip coming up shortly. I should be gone a week, perhaps two.”
“A field trip. Is that with a briefcase or a weapon?”
Pug smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes both, sir.”
“It’s very good to see you again, Pug. Take care on your field trip, and I’ll talk with you again when you get back. Leave those two reports you mentioned with Dixie. I’ll find some time to review them before you return.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Chapter 9
South Pacific Ocean
Timor Sea
March
The Timor Sea, the body of water separating North Australia from Indonesia, was generally peaceful during the summer months. Cameron Rossiter, trim and fit with a yachtsman’s tanned complexion, manned the helm as Rainbow Blue sailed gracefully through light swells under clear skies. A twelve-meter craft, she’d been built to his specific criteria two years earlier. She had the finest navigational equipment available, including a Global Positioning Satellite system. Referred to as GPS, it was designed to work with a co-coordinated system of military satellites in geo-synchronous orbit. Blue water sailors saw it as the most significant invention since the compass.
Given the vagaries of South Pacific weather, Rossiter had also ordered exceptionally sensitive radar, capable of detecting the smallest squall. Capped off with state-of-the-art automated gear, including self-furling sails, Rainbow Blue was designed to enable a one-man crew-although she could hold six-to sail her around the world if desired, racing downwind across the wave tops at speeds up to eighteen knots, and averaging six to eight. After making separate trips to various islands in the Solomons, weathering a force three South Pacific gale during the second trip, the solo skipper was justifiably proud of the sleek yacht’s ability.
Five days out of Darwin on a pleasure cruise in the Timor Sea, Cameron Sterling Rossiter, a captain in the Australian Special Air Service Brigade, was sailing alone and enjoying the solitude. Recently returned after a two-year secondment to the 22 ^nd Regiment in England, Rossiter was finally taking a long overdue break. A radio transmission the previous evening had changed his plans considerably and he was now en route to new coordinates, sent from SAS headquarters at Campbell Barracks, Perth.
One hundred and eighty nautical miles northwest of Darwin, Australia, USS Abraham Lincoln, CVN 72, and her carrier battle group were on course for deployment in the Persian Gulf. Eighteen hours earlier, Lincoln had received orders to divert sixty-two nautical miles south of her intended line of transit and rendezvous with an Australian submarine.
The newest members of Lincoln’s complement were General Padraig Connor and Sergeant Major Carlos Castro, USMC, and two unidentified men who accompanied them. The two unknown men were bearded and disheveled, indicating to the Lincoln deck crew that they were not military. Probably oil rig workers, one U.S. Navy deck crew yellow-shirt surmised. He was wrong.
The four men had arrived on the daily COD flight, this one returning from Darwin with necessary supplies and the ‘pony,’ or mail, in transit. Following a change of clothes and storage of some of their personal gear which they would retrieve on their return, Pug, Carlos, and their two companions were lifted off the Lincoln’s deck on an MH-60R Seahawk and flown about a mile off the port bow to a waiting submarine. It was the closest a foreign-in this case, Allied-submarine had ever gotten to the Lincoln, according to her log book. After both ships had received orders to coordinate the rendezvous, with mutual agreement, HMAS Rankin had played cat-and-mouse with the Lincoln’s screening vessels for the past twenty-four hours, with neither side scoring a “kill.”
Hovering above the sleek vessel, one by one, encompassed in a rescue strop, each with a small bag of personal and operational gear strapped to his leg, the four transferees exited the open doorway of the Seahawk and were slowly winched onto the stern deck of HMAS Rankin, an Australian Collins-class, diesel-powered submarine, where they were met by two crew members who stabilized the twisting cable, grounding the static electricity, and unhooked them from the harness. The second crewman escorted them through the sail and within eight minutes, all four were inside the submarine with the Seahawk en route back to the Lincoln. In sixty seconds, the Rankin disappeared beneath the waves.
The two ‘civilians’ immediately went aft, apparently familiar with the submarine. Carlos Castro followed and was shown his quarters. In deference to his flag rank, Pug was met by the executive officer and brought to the captain’s small private quarters, where they had a perfunctory chat before Pug went forward for a quick meal, joined by Carlos.
The first visual confirmation that Rainbow Blue had reached the proper GPS coordinates was the rippling water behind the periscope, some three hundred meters to the west, off her port beam. In a flurry of compressed air and frothing water, her dark sail bracketed against the fiery globe that was resting on the horizon, the diesel-powered Australian submarine, HMAS Rankin, SSG 78, commissioned in 2003, broke the surface, ending the solitude that draws so many yachtsmen to blue water.
Cameron Rossiter lowered the sail, cranked Rainbow Blue’s small maneuvering engine to life, and made for the submarine. By the time he was leeward of the stealthy vessel, gentle swells nudging his craft against the much larger hull, three male and one female seamen were on deck in blue jumpsuits, dropping protective side buoys and casting mooring lines to Rossiter.
“Captain Rossiter?” a full-bearded man called down.