Dex
At Sea
When the V-22 touched down on the Cape Cod’s flight deck, Dex looked across the passenger bay at Dr. Robert M. Schaller, the nuclear guy from MIT, and smiled. The scientist didn’t reciprocate. He looked like a candidate for a firing squad as he struggled to unhitch his safety straps.
Dex had talked to him sporadically during the long flight, partially to add some detail and color to his briefing notes. Schaller had seemed grateful to gain a fuller understanding of why he’d been “selected” for the job. He was a soft-spoken, no-nonsense kind of guy sliding into his fifties with a full head of graying hair, a stylish goatee, and an athletic build. Dex figured him for a squash or tennis player.
A latch clicked and the belly door was thrown open by a seaman wearing a heavy, hooded parka. A bitter slap of super-cooled air rushed in from behind him, threatening to stand Dex up like an uppercut. Apparently the Cape Cod had been in a good position to effect a very northern rendezvous point.
“Doctor Schaller. Mister McCauley,” said the young sailor. “Welcome aboard!”
He guided them across the windswept deck to the storm door, a short corridor, and a stairway up to the bridge. Once inside, despite the absence of the wind, Dex could still feel the intense cold leeching the heat from his bones. How did these guys stand it?
After being escorted onto the command deck, Dex and Schaller saw a man wearing a crisp, tan service uniform look up from a display console, then approach them. “I’m Captain Danvers,” he said. “Good to see you fellows could make it.”
Everyone shook hands. Dex looked around at the clean, Spartan control area. The digital age had wrought huge changes in the last twenty years. “Nice boat you have here.”
Danvers grinned. “Thanks, Chief. The Admiral has a meeting scheduled for Dr. Schaller, but you’re welcome to stay and check things out, if you’d like.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The Captain motioned to an ensign who was manning a navigational station. The young officer moved quickly to escort Schaller off the bridge. Dex looked around.
“How far from the target area?” he said.
“Several hundred miles southeast of the coastline coordinates.” Danvers spoke with a slight western accent, probably Texas.
Dex glanced through the glass at the gray sky and matching ocean. “Is that good?”
The Captain shrugged. “Not sure yet. We’re within range of the CH-53 to airlift a Dragonfish in good time. But…we’ve picked up a vessel on radar at the target coordinates.”
“What kind of boat?”
“We have a SeaDrone on recon to get a visual right now. Looks fairly large, though. Could be something like the Cod, or maybe a merchant class. Also trying to get a spy-sat to catch some images on the next go-round. We should have data from either source any minute now.”
“Hmmm, what’re the odds some freighter’s parked right where we want to be?” Dex shook his head.
“Yeah, looks like we’re on tit number two, and the Admiral’s not happy about it.”
“Any idea who the interlopers might be?” Dex appreciated the Captain speaking so freely to him, and wondered if Admiral Whitehurst had given explicit orders to do so. Whatever the reason, Dex wasn’t going to bring it up. Being left out of the mission was bad enough, but being kept off the information list would have been more than he could swallow.
“Not yet. As soon as we get visual, we can track it down pretty fast.”
Dex nodded. He knew a variety of agencies had compiled stored image profiles of just about every registered ship on the sea, from every conceivable port, nation, or private entity. No hiding from the eye-in-the-sky and a decent database.
“Any idea when they plan to approach the target?”
“Waiting on Whitehurst right now. I imagine they want to get that science-guy up to speed first. We have the CH-53 and the Dragonfish rigged and ready—that would get them to the access point within 30 minutes, tops.”
Dex nodded. “Guess it’s hurry up and wait now.”
Captain Danvers grinned. “Same old Navy, right? Listen, Chief, feel free to take a tour around the boat, check her out. I’ll send for you as soon as we know something.”
“I might just do that.”
But not just then. The USS Cape Cod was a state-of-the-art boat, worth seeing, but he wanted to be around to hear any new developments. He couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy and Bruckner. Once he knew they were safe, there would be time later to take a leisurely tour.
Besides, he already knew this was a special ship. A ship designed to ensure that any air or deep sea rescue/recovery mission the Navy might encounter would be assisted with the best technology in the world. It made him think back to his early days in the Navy, when they trained guys in the old rubber and canvas suits with the brass diving helmets and vulcanized rubber air hoses.
Talk about primitive. Not to mention dangerous…
Dex remembered his Chief from those training missions—a guy named Magnuson, who’d been a salvage diver when he was a teenager on the gulf coast. When he’d volunteered for the Navy after Pearl, he already had more experience than half the guys in Underwater Rescue.
Being a diver is the most dangerous job in the world, Magnuson used to tell them. And it’s also the simplest. Script’s always the same—somethin’s down there; somebody wants it; you go get it.
Dex smiled as he reminisced those days. Twenty-two years ago? Where did the time go?
He remained on the bridge despite feeling the frustration he couldn’t do more to help. For now, all he could do was wait and stand by the glass to regard the harsh sea. Somewhere out there, beyond its dark gray chop, lay the distant icy shoreline of Greenland.
Every once in a while, he’d check his watch as he tried to imagine what it was like for Tommy and the old man. With that unknown boat already on station, it was a good bet they’d been packed into a sub headed toward One Eleven. Dex wondered how Bruckner was holding up, especially with people who seemed as ruthless as his captors. Tommy would be okay—as long as he didn’t mouth-off to them. And in a pinch, he could be counted on to attempt whatever was needed to survive.
But Dex needed details, he needed input. Not knowing jack crippled him.
Five minutes of useless, quiet speculation ended when the ensign on the communications console spoke softly into his headset mic. “Updates on ‘unknown’ coming in. Stand by…”
Everyone glanced at the officer, waiting. Dex did his best to be unobtrusive as he anticipated the new info.
“Let’s hear it,” said Captain Danvers.
“Satellite confirmation at 99-plus certainty—freighter Isabel Marie. Panamanian registry, ownership Colchys International Line in Greece.”
The Captain considered this. “Any history on the owners? Any good, innocent reason for that boat to be parked at the entrance to One Eleven?”
“Nothing yet from Colchys. Regardless, we should know more any minute now. SeaDrone ETA four and counting.”
Dex clenched his fists, held them. Finally, some answers.
“We’ve got video,” said the ensign. He keyed his console and one of the LCDs on the bridge array blinked from dead black to an aerial view of the gray ocean from low altitude. Everyone focused on the screen as the SeaDrone’s hi-res cameras suddenly captured a startlingly clear image of the Isabel Marie—a merchant ship that had seen better days.
“Jesus, what a tub…” said someone.
“Wait a minute, there’s a big chopper, see it? Right there on the waist deck.”
“Don’t let its looks fool you,” said the ensign. “I’m not getting any confirmation of legitimate activity from any of the ‘alphabets’…this looks like a rogue.”
Dex kept his position, figuring the best way to stay in the mix, was to stay out of peoples’ way. If the NSA and CIA and the rest of the agencies didn’t like that boat, then it must be bad news.
“SeaDrone on aggression mode/stand-by,” said Captain Danvers. “Communications, hit the target with all hailing frequencies. Request immediate identification and destination.”
“Aye, sir,” said a crewman with a headset and a sophisticated bank of controls in front of him.
As the Cape Cod attempted contact with the rogue vessel, Dex wondered if they’d found it in time. There was a possibility Tommy and the old man were still on that boat, which greatly increased their chances of surviving this whole thing. “Contact,” said the communications officer. “Isabel Marie reports engine trouble. Adrift. Awaiting assistance.”
Danvers grinned, shook his head. “Assistance? Right, sure they are. Tell them we will assist.”
The crewman reestablished contact. A pause, then: “They are refusing assistance, Captain.”
Danvers nodded. “Tell them they are impeding a United States naval operation, and their cooperation is requested.”
“Captain,” said another crewman at a different station. “I’m getting a heat signature consistent with a small missile launch.”
“What?” Danvers moved to looked over the seaman’s shoulder at a display.
“It’s a SAM!” said the crewman.
“Evasive action on the SeaDrone! Now!”
As Danvers spoke, one of the screens went dark.
“Impact,” said the crewman. “We lost it.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Danvers’s face had flushed as he slammed his fist on the corner of the console.
The communications officer was now holding his headset closer to his ears. “Uh, Captain, I’ve got contact with the freighter. Says they need to talk to you.”
“Put it on speaker!” Danvers said as he tried to compose himself.
The crewman toggled the output.
“This is Captain Danvers, United States Navy. Identify.”
From unseen speakers, the transmission crackled onto the command deck, static threatening to mask it at any moment. “Advise you disengage at once. We have two American hostages.”
“Isabel Marie. Please stand by.” The Captain looked at his communications officer. “Patch me into the Admiral’s quarters. Now!”
“Aye, sir.”
Dex was surprised to hear his old boss’s voice booming over the loudspeakers: “Admiral Whitehurst.”
Danvers cleared his throat, then reprised the situation.
“Stand by, Captain. I’ll be right there.”
Several long, silent minutes later, Whitehurst and Harry Olmstead stood with Danvers staring at a screen which held a hi-res sat-image of the rogue freighter. Dex had tried to fade into the bulkhead. He kept having this feeling he’d be asked to leave the party if someone took much notice of him.
“Olmstead and I expected this,” the Admiral was saying. “Drabek says we can still get a unit in there and effect rescue.”
“It would help if we had recon,” said Danvers. “We don’t even know who these guys are.”
Harry Olmstead held up his index finger. “Actually, some of us have a pretty good idea, but—”
“But it’s classified.” Danvers looked disgusted, and Dex understood how he felt. He couldn’t count how many times he’d been kept out of the loop because of that catch-all bullshit.
Olmstead nodded. “Actually, yes.”
“Advise the rogue vessel we need proof of ID and proof of life on the hostages before we make a decision,” said Whitehurst. “And we’ll need it quickly, or any decisions we make will be made based on the delay.”
Danvers nodded to the communications officer, who relayed the Admiral’s command. Then: “Standing by, sir.”
“Will they comply?” said the Captain.
The communications officer tilted his head slightly. “Not certain, sir. They didn’t say no…they advised us to stand by.”
Dex leaned against the bulkhead. Now, at least, he would know if they were still alive. If for any reason Whitehurst didn’t get the proof he needed, then Dex could be pretty damn well sure his friends were dead.
And that made him think about Bruckner again. Even though he’d just met the old man, Dex felt like he really knew him, and did consider him a friend. Weird how time and culture didn’t mean a whole lot in situations like this.
And the more he thought about it, the more he realized how the old man might be the key to the whole thing.