“Yeah, I just hope this guy, Turner, has some balls and common sense,” she said with concern. “I don’t want to drop my people into a firestorm due to bad intel.”
“You never give us guys a break, do you, Sid?” Colonel Sears said, jokingly jabbing the twenty-five year veteran female Sea Knight pilot Sidney Zibrinski in the arm.
“Never let up, I say,” she replied, smiling as the two Marine pilots stood and exited the briefing room, leaving Lieutenant Minichino alone with the captain.
Lieutenant JG Minichino was watch officer for the Combat Information Center, which was the tactical heart and soul of the vessel’s coordinated strike force. A ten year Navy man, he prided himself on precision and total accuracy. He was affectionately known as ‘mixer man’ by his shipmates, a title bestowed upon him for the astute manner of mixing up a variety of exotic cocktails while on shore leave.
“Captain, the quartermaster in the chart room reports that we’re one hundred ninety-five nautical miles from Tenerife,” Minichino reported, reading the data off the clipboard he held. “At our present speed of eighteen knots, we’re looking at a six hour ETA at best.”
“Eighteen knots, huh?” Mac grunted in disdain. “We can launch the Cobra and the three Sea Knights, correct?” he asked his CIC Officer.
“Yes, Captain, we can, but it would be a one way trip until we came within island range to recover,” Minichino replied. “We can send in the Cobra now, as it has a range of two hundred seventy-four nautical miles. I’d delay launching the Sea Knights. Fully-loaded with twenty-five Marines each, they would be cutting it close as the combat range is one hundred eighty-four miles, Sir.”
“Make it so, Lieutenant,” he said. Mac picked up the briefing room phone and buzzed the engine room.
“Engine room,” a voice yelled over the din of the steam turbines.
“Chief, this is the captain. I damn well know that this vessel can push twenty-one knots or better. Seeing I ordered top speed, may I inquire as to why we are presently only making eighteen knots?”
“Captain,” the young engineer responded nervously, “these engines are getting up in years and I’m worried that they might blow under too much stress.”
“Then by God, let ‘em blow!” Mac roared loud enough for the entire engine room crew to hear over the loud speaker. “I want all you got, Chief, understood?”
“Aye, sir. I’m on it,” the rattled chief replied, sweat forming on his forehead as he put down the intercom mic. “You heard the man,” he said to his crew in the engine room. “Fire ‘em up, and pray we don't have a shit-storm.”
Mac made his way back to the bridge, followed by Lt. Commander Ewell. He walked to his chair, his senses attuned and adrenaline flowing, feeling alive for the first time in a very long time.
“I just hope we’re in time to help those poor bastards on Tenerife,” he said to Ewell, who nodded in agreement. They heard the Claxton sound on the launch deck where Colonel Sears was going through his pre-flight checklist and preparing his AH-1F Strike Cobra for launch.
“God only knows what will happen if we arrive too late.”
27
The sun was now making its descent behind the twelve thousand foot peak of Mt. Teide, casting shadows upon the rocky summit road leading to the Bishamon complex. Turner sat behind the wheel of the idling black Bishamon Mercedes, overlooking the sheer drop-off where Paulo met his cruel demise the night before.
Seeing the wreckage of the rover far below only intensified his anger for the man that Samuel and Yashiro were now extricating from the trunk of the vehicle.
He and Osama will be brought to justice for their barbaric actions, he promised himself as he sat silently and steeled his mind for the fight ahead. For him, the last twenty-four hours of death, destruction, and fight for survival culminated into this one final act that would end this ongoing nightmare. He not only had to save his father and Maria from these murderers, but also the countless, nameless individuals that faced certain death if the tsunami actually occurred.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was well past four o’clock. Though his mind was prepared for the conflict ahead, shades of doubt mixed with a twinge of fear crept into the deepest recesses of his soul. He doubted that they could succeed and wondered if it would have been more expedient to hide out until it was safe. For a brief moment, he wanted to avoid the peril that lie ahead and let the rest of the world deal with Pencor and Osama. He feared that his friend Samuel would somehow die because of his wild roll of the dice. He quickly dismissed the notion, knowing that the lives of untold millions depended on their success. I have to hold on for their sake, he thought, pushing the demons of fear and anxiety from his mind.
Turner had finished conversing with Under Secretary Robertson on the Global Star phone just before they stopped to remove Pencor from the trunk. The conversation with Robertson troubled him deeply as he watched his demented passenger unceremoniously lifted out of the trunk. Robertson’s words still echoed in his ear.
“Mr. Turner, you need to be aware that if you fail to neutralize the Scalar weapon at the facility, the United States Navy frigate Milford will be authorized to launch its Tomahawk missiles to eliminate the threat,” he had said flatly.
“If you do, sir, you may be causing the deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people here on Tenerife,” Turner countered in protest.
“That is understood completely,” Robertson retorted, “but the President is getting a lot of pressure from some people in the Senate. They are stating the argument of minimal collateral damage on Tenerife, as opposed to the countless lives lost here at home. Though it is regrettable, this is not negotiable. That weapon, along with the entire facility, will be neutralized if you fail to succeed,” he said in finality.
“You’re not giving us much leeway,” Turner argued.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner, but we have no other choice at this point. We will give you sufficient warning on your SmartCom VHF radios now that you have given us the frequency. The USS Hazleton is en route to La Palma as we speak and will give you ample warning,” he said. “If, and when, the order comes to launch, you and your teams will be evacuated by the support choppers that will be launched from the Hazleton. You must be clear on this, Mr. Turner. When you get the order, you had better get your asses out of there.”
Now, as he sat alone in the Mercedes, he realized that no matter how he looked at this scenario, many innocent people were going to die. He was furious at those responsible, and regarded them now as a cancer that needed to be completely eradicated.
Robert Pencor, with his hands still bound, was hurriedly shoved into the passenger seat by Samuel, who shut the door behind him.
Pencor glared at Turner, but his usual controlling demeanor was quickly unsettled. He saw a fury in the blue eyes of Turner that bore through him with an intensity and hatred he had never seen before.
“I hope the damn facility comes down on your head, Pencor,” Turner hissed at him. “Animals like you don’t deserve compassion. The scary thing is the rock you crawled out from under probably holds more like you.”
“Mr. Turner,” Pencor said, feigning control of the situation. “People like you and your father are weak. It’s the powerful that will always control the world, and there is nothing that you or your misguided leaders in Washington can do to alter the fact that the world’s economic configuration is about to be completely redrawn. I intend to hold power in that new global structure and my Zero Point Generators will ensure that, Turner. You, or anyone opposing me, will be eliminated like a bug under my shoe,” he spat caustically.