“Mr. Turner, this is Jim Robertson again. If we can manage to get aircraft within striking range, we may be able to take the weapon out with conventional weapons, but we will need a description of the weapon your father spoke of in order to relay a precise target.”
“Mr. Robertson, according to our friend Yashiro, a scientist for Bishamon, the Scalar weapon he describes is protected beneath the facility. According to him, the abrupt shutdown of the EM waves would cause a shock wave equivalent to a thermonuclear explosion that would more than likely kill many of the island’s inhabitants. I would highly advise against using an air strike until we can gain entry to the target, find out the situation, and hopefully reduce the weapon’s output levels.”
“Then we are all counting on you, and your team, Mr. Turner. I only hope we can get there in time to be of assistance,” President Clark said sincerely. “The captain of the USS Hazleton will be contacting you for instructions. God’s speed and good hunting,” he said, and then the line went dead.
“We need to get going now, Captain,” Turner said.
Saune was well ahead of him. He threw Turner a 45-automatic with a full ammo belt, and tossed an ammo belt to Samuel. Then he and his eight men prepared to leave.
“Once both teams have gained access to the facility, we’ll rendezvous at the control room,” Turner added as he handed the Captain a crudely-drawn map of the floor plan of the complex, made in haste by Yashiro.
“It should take you about forty-five minutes to reach the facility from here,” Captain Saune said, strapping on his side arm and tossing Turner his binoculars. “We’ll head back to the base and take off in the Huey, so we can coincide with your arrival at the Bishamon facility.”
“I’ll call you on your Global Star when we are within ten minutes of the target,” Turner said.
He and Samuel stood up and headed for the door. Yashiro was getting ready to follow when the phone rang once more. Turner answered as he paused at the doorway.
“Josh,” the familiar voice of Carlos Santiago boomed over the phone. “Thank God I got through to you. We have a serious problem.” A sudden fear for the safety of his father and Maria leaped into his weary mind. “Your father, Maria, and that Burr fellow have taken a helicopter to La Palma to search for those damned artifacts. I’m sure you have heard that the Cumbre Vieja is erupting,” he said in a worried tone.
“Damn it!” Turner yelled, slamming his fist against the door. “When did they leave?”
“According to Maria’s note, they left right after I went to the university luncheon,” the Professor replied. “I was hoping that you might have heard from them.”
“Unfortunately, no, Professor,” he replied, closing his eyes in frustration. “I told them to stay put until we gave them the all clear. It’s not like my father to do something this risky. I hope when they see the eruption occurring, they’ll have the good judgment to get out of harm’s way,” he said, hoping that they were okay. “I’ll contact you if I hear from them. Good-bye, Professor.”
The weight of this new development added to his anxiety and sense of foreboding as he, and the others, filed out of the house towards their vehicles. Turner knew he had to stay focused on his present task. Any distractions at this point could cause the death of Samuel and the others. He had to remain sharp, at least until this nightmare was over, and worry about his father and Maria later.
If there is a later, he thought as he, Yashiro, and Samuel climbed into the Bishamon sedan.
The two under-manned assault teams drove off towards the heights of Mt Teide and the foreboding Bishamon weapon facility. Each was lost in thought, wondering what the next few hours would bring, and, who would live, or who would die.
26
The late afternoon sun presented a brilliant light show dancing off the blue-gray waters of the northern Atlantic as the sixteen thousand ton amphibious transport made her way through the gentle swells of the unusually calm seas. The USS Hazleton left the naval base in Rota, Spain and was accompanied by her two Knox Class support fast frigates, the Blakeslee and the Milford. She was on her journey home to Norfolk, Virginia, where she would be decommissioned and mothballed after a long and illustrious career.
An Austin Class LPD-4 amphibious transport, she was the last of her series when Congress decided not to fund their overhaul and modernizing back in 2003. The more modern LPD-17 had been set in motion as her replacement.
Despite her age, the Hazleton was still a formidable strike and support vessel. At a length of five hundred sixty-nine feet, her two Foster Wheeler 600 psi boilers powered twin De Laval GT turbines, providing a hefty twenty-four thousand shaft horsepower.
The Hazleton, with a crew of twenty officers and three hundred ninety-six enlisted men, carried three CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters and one deadly AH-1F Cobra Strike helicopter. In addition, it carried a Marine contingent of four hundred men that could easily be deployed from its well deck. Located astern, the well deck could ballast down, flooding the stern and enabling its six LCM-6 landing craft access through its huge drop down gate.
The old LPD-4 served as command and control for numerous amphibious assault missions in its past, and as a civilian disaster relief ship on various occasions when natural catastrophes occurred around the world. She had been assigned to the Eisenhower Carrier Group for the last two years in the Iran Theater, but the constant mechanical problems and outdated hardware forced her to be recalled home.
The captain of the Hazleton sat in the bridge command chair sipping his coffee and feeling the familiar gentle vibration of the ship’s four electrical power plants, capable of powering a small town.
Captain Jason McKnight was a formidable man of fifty-two. Known as 'Ole Mac' by his crew, he had been in the Navy for over thirty-two years now, and skipper of the Hazleton for the last fifteen, making this final voyage a bittersweet one for him. He held a certain fondness for this old ship as he gently stroked his salt-and-pepper beard and stared out across the calm ocean waters.
A sad end to a damn good ship, he thought as he took another sip of coffee. He glanced about the old bridge, taking note of the classic metal wheel box and rust-colored wheel; handles on either side to hang on to in foul weather. She might be old, but she is a good ship with a fine crew, he mused as he noticed Lieutenant Commander Jack Ewell entering the bridge house.
Though the Hazleton was ending its illustrious career, McKnight was thinking about the stark contrast of the new AEGIS Class guided missile destroyer that he would command after a month’s shore leave. He welcomed the challenge, but he would miss the specialized missions that were afforded by the LPD Class ships.
“Duty roster, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Ewell reported, interrupting the captain's reverie as he handed him the clipboard.
“Thank you, Commander,” Mac said, perusing the schedule and nodding approval as he handed it back to him for posting. “What’s the word from the chart room in regards to weather for our voyage to Norfolk?” Mac asked his first officer.
“Clear sailing until we get within two hundred nautical miles of Norfolk. We’ll run into a weak low-pressure system that’s projected to move up the coast. They expect waves from four to six feet, but nothing out of the ordinary,” he replied, handing the roster to Ensign Swann.