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This was his sixth visit to the interrogation room in the three weeks he had been incarcerated. On each previous occasion, he had been frog-marched the two hundred meters by two burly guards and chained to a fixed table and chair in the middle of the room. There he sat for close to an hour awaiting the arrival of a government lawyer, who would read the charges against him and ask him if he wanted to give a statement. He would say no, he wanted an attorney, and then the government lawyer would pack up and leave. He would be returned to solitary confinement in his 3.5-meter by 2-meter cell. Rostov was unfamiliar with this interrogation technique. It was certainly not one he would have used when he was a security officer—the process took far too long and had none of the ancillary benefits of inflicting pain on the victim.
This trip held an immediate surprise: someone was already seated at the table when he arrived. Rostov looked him over carefully as he was brought into the room and shackled to the table. He was of average height and stature in his mid-30s, with a plain face, brown medium-short hair, and a scruffy beard. He wore a plain navy blue suit with a white shirt and plain maroon tie. Everything about the man was plain. He was obviously no lawyer—this man was an intelligence officer.
After the guards had secured him to the table, the man said, “That will be all, thank you.” The guards departed without speaking and closed the door. He then sat staring at Rostov without speaking or moving for what must have been five minutes. It might have been another novel interrogation technique—bore your opponent into submission—but Rostov decided to bring it to an end.
“Aren’t you going to lay a panoply of my alleged crimes before me and threaten me with millennia of incarceration unless I confess and betray all my comrades?” Rostov asked.
“Yevgeny Vladimirovich, why on earth would I waste my time with such a useless gesture?” the man replied in perfect, northern-accented Russian.
“My compliments, you speak passable Russian,” Rostov replied in Russian.
“Hell, if one hundred forty-five million Russians can do it, how hard can it be, eh?” the man said in English with a broad grin. After allowing the insult to set in, he continued. “I sense you believe that my government needs something from you, something that we would be willing to make a deal for, perhaps to include your freedom. If that is what you genuinely believe, please let me set you straight. We know everything about your organization, from top to bottom. There is nothing you can tell us about the 252 Syndicate we do not already know. How do we know these things? Let me explain.
“About two months ago, a ship operated by one of your front companies, the motor vessel Miho Dujam, was detected and pursued by U.S. law enforcement agents in the Bahamas. The crew scuttled the ship, which prevented the seizure of a large quantity of illegal armaments but failed in the murder of the twenty-two female captives on board who were destined for sexual servitude. I am delighted to say these women have been or soon will be returned to their families or another safe environment. Before the Miho Dujam sank, our officers found, aside from the women, a laptop computer containing enough data and metadata for us to penetrate your IT systems at all levels. That is how we learned of your travel itinerary and could position forces to apprehend you.
“Your organization wisely ditched all their current passwords when you were taken, but it was far too late by then—we were in everywhere. As we speak, forensic accountants across the northern hemisphere are tracing every bank account you use, every property you own, and every bent politician and policeman on your payroll. The days of expansion are over for the 252 Syndicate. Now, I’m not saying we can extirpate you. There will always be those countries where most of the ruling class is corrupt, and a vile organization like yours can flourish. You are welcome to them. So, Yevgeny Vladimirovich, there is nothing the United States needs from you to sink the 252s.”
“You lie! If that were true, why go to the trouble of kidnapping me? Several of your men were killed, and was that for nothing?”
“Ah, now you are thinking, Yev. Yes, we thought you would be of value along with documentation of your organization’s involvement with the Chinese government, particularly involving the Ile Ste. Michel operation. So we went after you while you were there. But wait, right in the middle of our operation, the Chinese base’s big Lǎo Bǎn himself shows up! There to dip his wick with two more victims you provided, whom we also rescued. We got every biometric known to man from that guy while he was in your brothel. So, once again, your utility to the United States has vanished. Unless....”
The man leaned forward. “Are you familiar with the expression ‘icing on the cake,’ Yev? No? It means something a little extra on top of an excellent thing. In your case, it means you give a detailed account of your involvement with Xiaotong Chen and any other Chinese officials working the BRI efforts in Europe. We already have a slam-dunk case of conspiracy in international crime that we can use to help the Haitians break out of that God-awful lease they signed. However, the Chinese can tie things up for years in World Trade Organization litigation. It would be nice to drop some hints that the smart play for them would be to let it go, lest things get out into the press. Things that make other BRI clients, past and future, stroke their chins and say, ‘Hmm, I wonder if....’”
Rostov started to fold his arms, but then the rattle of chains reminded him the gesture was impossible. Instead, he grinned and said, “Sounds like I have a powerful hand to play after all. Suppose I tell you I have quite a dossier on Comrade Chen and several other colleagues. Depending on what I get in return, I might share that treasure. Now, what are you offering me?”
The man sat back with a grim smile and said, “Your life.”
“My life?”
“Yes, you get to live. You see, Yev, if you don’t give us everything you have, you are quite useless to us. It is expensive to keep a prisoner in a supermax facility like this. With no return on investment, why would we? This is your one and only deal, and the offer, if not accepted, expires when I leave this room. You answer every question we ask about the Chinese, wholly and truthfully, whenever we ask, and we’ll keep you alive. Otherwise, we’ll cut you loose for a public demonstration of the criminal justice system and find out who wins the race to kill you, the Chinese or your erstwhile chums in the 252 Syndicate. My money will be on the latter, by the way—I’m sure they have a stronger presence in our prison system than the Chinese.”
Rostov opened his mouth silently, his mind racing. This was the endgame, and he had no cards he could play. Rostov ached to reach across the table and snap this Amerikanski mu’dak’s scrawny neck. He looked down at his shackled hands, trying to keep the frustration off his face.
“Tick, tock, Yev. I haven’t got all day here. And don’t think I have any investment in keeping you alive for a second. I’m sure there will be plenty of action around my office in your death pool.”
Rostov glared at the smug little man with all the hatred he had. Someday, I’ll pay you back with interest for this. But I must be alive to do it.
The man shook his head, stood, and said, “So be it. Good luck in Hell, Yev.”
As he turned toward the door, Rostov said, “Wait. I agree. What do you want to know?”
The man shook his head. “That’s for someone else. No, Yev, our association ends here. Another officer and lawyer will be with you shortly to get your signature on the usual waiver documents and start your interrogation. I will drop these clothes in a burn bag and go for a long, scalding hot shower in bleach to try to get your stench off me.”
As the man reached the door, Rostov spat, “Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?”
“Doctor Peter Simmons, DIA,” he said, then stepped through and closed the door.
It had been a beautiful ceremony, with Victoria and Ben standing beneath the floral arch on the beach overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Victoria was radiant in her elegant white dress, with her hair up and her long veil lightly stirred by the gentle on-shore breeze. Ben looked every bit the dazzling hero in his dress white uniform with medals, sword, and his brand new shoulder boards holding the two full stripes of a lieutenant. The nondenominational ceremony was conducted by a young Air Force chaplain from Patrick, whom Ben and Victoria had befriended shortly after moving to the area. Even the vows were memorable, with the nervous Victoria delivering flawlessly in her beautiful low voice while the confident Ben actually stumbled with emotion in a couple of amusing places. Overall, Haley rated it a four-Awww! performance.
Kauai’s crew, past and present, was heavily represented in the wedding party. Sam Powell stood up for Ben in dress whites as best man, and Joana was a resplendent matron of honor in a long, v-neck, cranberry-colored dress. Hopkins and Lee were almost unrecognizable in their matching dresses, with their hair down and, in Hopkins’s case, glasses laid aside for the day. The only “foreigners” in the wedding party were the two groomsmen, two of Ben’s friends from the Academy, also in dress whites.
Haley attended as a guest, happy to be spared the awkwardness of appearing in either her uniform or a bridesmaid’s dress. She had used the event as an excuse to go shopping with Margot on her last visit home. The strapless blue cocktail dress they picked out was rather stunning compared to Haley’s usual choice and made the most of her athletic build. It had been a simple, but significant bonding event that had cleared the remaining bad air with her stepmother.
The reception venue was also first-class and conveniently next to the beach altar, while the reception itself was on the low-key side, with about fifty guests and a DJ. The food was excellent for a mass service, and Sam’s wedding toast to the bride and groom did not disappoint. Pleasant as the ceremony and reception were, the most exciting factor for Haley was the man standing in as the father of the bride.
Victoria’s parents had been killed in a car crash when she was only eight. Her older sister had filled in as a surrogate parent until she died, shortly before Victoria’s graduation from high school. Victoria and her late sister’s fiancée helped each other through their grief, and then he, a post-doctorate astrophysicist, helped her through her undergraduate studies at Princeton. When he entered the DIA, he arranged for a data scientist position for Victoria, an arrangement of considerable mutual benefit for her and the organization. This was the famous, or, from Sam’s point of view, infamous, Dr. Peter Simmons.
She was intrigued by her first sight of the man as he escorted Victoria to the altar. He was only average height, maybe an inch taller than Haley, but he had a nice build—athletic without being over-muscular. He looked a few years older than she was, maybe mid-thirties, with medium-length dark hair, a close-cropped beard, and a youthful face that reminded her of one of her favorite actors, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Obviously reveling in his current role, he was beaming as he walked Victoria to the altar and shared a warm look and handshake with Ben when they arrived.
The contrast between Ben’s dynamic with Simmons and the latter’s with Sam and Hopkins was fascinating. Haley knew Sam was not a fan of Simmons from their conversations in the command handoff, but the depth of the animus surprised her. On the one occasion she saw them shake hands, Sam’s bearing and expression were what she would expect from a man forced to shake hands with his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s slimy divorce attorney. Hopkins didn’t even make a pretense of civility, just turned and walked away the one time Simmons approached her. And yet, he and Ben were clearly friends.
Haley got her chance to inquire later in the evening as she took a stroll on the deck outside the venue overlooking the beach. She was gazing at the stars, surprisingly bright in the cloudless sky, when a voice from behind startled her.
“A rather boring selection this time of year.”
She turned to find Simmons looking at her with interest. “I mean the constellations, of course.”
“Of course,” Haley replied, turning again to look. “Good for navigation, though. I can see at least eight first magnitude stars.”
“Six, actually. Antares, Vega, Capella, Arcturus, Spica, and Procyon. Although Castor, Pollux, and Regulus are close. I’m Peter Simmons, by the way.”
“Really? I seem to have heard of you.”
“And I of you, Captain Reardon. Am I what you had expected?”
“Fewer tentacles and less brimstone than my predecessor would have me believe.”
“Well, we all have our supply chain issues these days.”
After a chuckle, she said, “You can call me Haley if you like.”
“Thanks, Haley. Pete.”
Haley nodded, glanced toward the venue, and said, “So, is this a happy day for you?”
His smile became warm. “Honestly, yes, one of the happiest I have experienced in quite some time. The woman I love like a little sister has just married the finest man I’ve ever known. It would be an enormous challenge to improve on that score.”
“I understand you were the one who brought them together.”
“Yes, that’s true. I would love to claim it as a stroke of genius, but it was dumb luck.”
“Sounds like an interesting story.”
“You can pry it out of me with a drink.”
“I’m game. Let’s go.”
A short time and several drinks later, Haley got round to the question she had been dying to ask all night. “So, what is the deal between you and Sam? I mean, he and Ben are so tight, I can’t get my head around his hostility to you.”
“Mea culpa. We started bad, and I haven’t been able to make it up since. We almost came to blows at one point.”
Haley glanced across the room at Sam, sharing a dance with Hopkins. “With Sam? Really?”
“No shit. Ben had to get in between us to prevent a fistfight in the Key West SCIF, of all places. Then I got suckered by the 252s into a kill box with Ben along for the ride, and Sam had to throw away the book to save our asses with Kauai. That’s how I got added to Hoppy’s death list, by the way,” he said with a rueful glance.
“Hmm. I guess I can understand the hostility.”
He grinned. “And yet, we are still here sharing drinks.”
“Yeah, I like to live dangerously. A bad boy geek from the intel community sounds like an interesting way to burnish my badass cred.
“Bad boy geek?” Simmons grinned. “Now that’s a moniker I can work with.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful friendship, the Bad Boy Intel Geek and the Badass PB CO.”
Haley clicked his glass with hers and said, “Cheers. One thing, though, before we get too far along on this epic relationship: if you get any of my kids in a jam, I will kill you.”
It was Ben’s first day back from his and Victoria’s honeymoon to Yellowstone, an interesting choice for a venue, although understandable given Victoria’s curiosity for anything and everything scientific. The trip was apparently quite a success, as the man who returned was much more like the original Ben she had met. It was another tally on her personal ledger’s “time to hookup” side.
Haley herself had had a long sojourn with Simmons—three days and nights. He was a remarkable man, entirely unlike anyone she had ever been with before in many respects. Besides his physical prowess, he had an exceptional intellect combined with a wonderful sense of humor that made him exciting and fun to be around. She looked forward to the next time they could get together.
There was a knock on the door, and Haley turned to see Ben standing there with a smile. “Come in, XO. Let’s catch up. Tell me about your trip.” Ben settled in his stateroom/office to plow through the physical and electronic inboxes for an hour after the initial hello. As usual, Hopkins had monitored things in Ben’s world of work to make sure nothing important was overlooked in his absence, so it was not a heavy lift coming back.
“It was a wonderful time, ma’am. We ended up with quite an adventure, although not exactly what we planned.”
“Really? What, the flights didn’t work out or something?”
“No, we got there all right. But instead of touring for a week as we planned, we pitched in on a no-shit mystery.”
“No way!”
“Way. They had never met a data scientist before, much less employed one. Victoria was over the moon. And I can cross ‘run with a posse’ off my bucket list.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, ma’am. On the whole, they were pretty happy with our contributions, and the sheriff said they more than made up for the squad room windows.”
“The squad room windows?”
“Yes, ma’am. And the gazebo.”
“The gazebo. XO, is this a story I want to dig in on?”
He paused, deep in thought. “No, come to think of it. You probably don’t. How about I just say we had a fantastic honeymoon and leave it at that?”
“I’m very OK with that, XO.”
“Very good, ma’am. I’ve gone over the check-off lists on all the work orders. There are some outstanding items on this availability, but I think I can get those knocked out today.”
“Super. No problem heading out to AUTEC next week?”
“None, ma’am.”
“OK, let’s get it done, then.”
“Roger that. Excuse me, Captain.”
After he stood and headed to the door, Haley said, “XO?”
He turned and said, “Yes, ma’am?”
She smiled warmly at him. “I’m glad you’re back, Ben.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Me too.” He nodded and closed the door on his way out.
TORONTO. Quesnel Mining & Development Corp [QMD | TSX] revealed the formation of a joint venture today with the American firm Penobscot Engineering Ltd. [PEL | AMEX] to succeed Sino-American Mining Corporation [SMC | SGX] in the long-term lease of Ile Ste. Michel, Haiti, for Rare-Earth Element (REE) mining, effective 1 July. The new venture, called Pan-Antilles Development Ltd., headquartered in Toronto, is scheduled to begin operations within 60 days of the lease transfer. The announcement coincides with the formal approval of financing by the U.S. Export-Import Bank (EIB) to clear the outstanding balance of the Haitian government’s debt to the Silk Highway Fund, a state-owned investment fund of the People’s Republic of China, headquartered in Shanghai. This financing will be repaid via profit sharing between the EIB, Pan-Antilles, and the Haitian government.
Industry experts were surprised by both the formation of the new enterprise and the swift approval of financing by the U.S. government. The annual outputs of the REE mining operations on the island of Ile Ste. Michel, located 25 miles north of Haiti’s northern coast, have consistently fallen far below predicted levels, leading to speculation that original assessments of the richness of the REE find were flawed or fraudulent. The rapidity with which the lease was terminated by mutual consent of the Haitian government and SAMC has further stoked the speculation that China is seeking to cut its losses.
Responding to inquiries on whether filings estimating output at 8-11 times the current levels might be overly optimistic, Pan-Antilles CEO Lloyd Dunnington-Smith cited next-generation equipment, techniques, and management as making these forecasts readily achievable....
––––––––
Notes from the Author
None of the characters in this book represent any particular person (you got that, all you lawyers out there?). However, some of the best qualities of the fictional crew members of Kauai were inspired by many of the fine people with whom I had the honor and pleasure to serve while I was a part of the Coast Guard.
USCGC Kauai is fictional. There is no “D Class” of the 110-foot patrol boat series, and the last of those built was USCGC Galveston Island (WPB-1349). I created a fictitious D-Class to buy some extra margin of verisimilitude and get the nit-pickers off my back. The cutters Dependable and Joseph Napier are genuine and still in service as of this writing.
The island of Ile Ste. Michel, Haiti, is fictional. The geography illustrations at the beginnings of Parts II and III of this story were altered to show it off the northeast coast of Haiti.
The lethal encounter between the panga and the Coast Guard response boat is based on an actual event occurring on 2 December 2012. USCGC Halibut was operating in the Channel Islands off Ventura, California, when it detected a Mexican panga loitering off Santa Cruz Island. A boarding party led by Chief Boatswain’s Mate Terrell Edwin Horne III was dispatched in the cutter’s RHIB. When directed to stop, the panga rammed the Coast Guard RHIB, ejecting Chief Horne, who was struck by the panga’s propellers and died of his injuries. Horne was posthumously promoted to Senior Chief Petty Officer and awarded the Coast Guard Medal. The new Sentinel-Class cutter USCGC Terrell Horne (WPC-1131) is named after him. The suspect vessel was pursued by other Coast Guard units and stopped four hours after the ramming, and the two men on board were arrested. They were convicted in the death of Chief Horne on 5 February 2014.
The dialog between the Coast Guard people and in radio transmissions depicted in this story has much more “plain language” than what you would hear during actual operations. Including all the acronyms, jargon, and formal protocols vital for clarity and brevity in real life would have been more authentic. However, it would also be a great deal more tedious or confusing for the average reader. I ask all veterans and any other purists' forgiveness for this compromise for the sake of readability.
MAYDAY, MAYDAY – Request Assistance!
First of all, thank you for purchasing Bravely and Faithfully! I know you could have picked any number of books to read, but you chose this book, and I am incredibly grateful for that. I hope it gave you what you were seeking, be it a little extra enjoyment or just a chance to escape the trials and tribulations of life for a while. If so, it would be really helpful if you could share this book with your friends and family by posting a mention of it on Facebook and Twitter.
If you enjoyed this story, I’d like to hear from you and hope you could take some time to post a review or at least a rating on your bookseller’s website. Your feedback and support will help me as I work on future projects, and I am very interested in hearing your thoughts. Please visit my website when you have the time to provide your feedback, find out what is new, and grab the occasional freebie:
https://www.edwardhochsmann.com/
Very Respectfully,
Ed
Check Out the First Book in the Series
An aging patrol boat is all that stands between the world and nuclear annihilation!
The world is on the brink of war, with NATO mobilizing to counter a Russian threat to Poland and Lithuania and leaders openly discussing war options. In the midst of the crisis, a Russian bomber collides with a U.S. fighter off Florida, causing the accidental launch of a nuclear-tipped hypersonic missile.
A Coast Guard cutter finds a drug-laden sailboat smashed and adrift north of the Florida Keys. The boat’s damage is from a near miss by the Russian missile, which has not harmlessly flown deep into the Gulf of Mexico as initially thought, but crashed somewhere in the keys.
The Coast Guard crew is in a race against a vicious and powerful international crime syndicate to find and recover the Russian nuke before its discovery can trigger a nuclear war.
“Conn, Mount 51, sound of gunshots zero-four-zero relative, no visual target!” Hebert shouted through the bridge door from his position on the starboard machine gun.
“Conn, aye!” Hopkins replied.
Sam watched the scene ashore unfold in real-time in the video feed from the orbiting Puma. His heart pounded, and he felt rising nausea as he watched the SUVs split apart and then stop. Figures emerged from both vehicles.
“Kauai, Shore-One, we are taking fire; repeat, we are taking fire. Request immediate assistance!” Ben’s voice burst from the radio.
“Conn, Mount 51, sound of continuous gunfire zero-five-zero relative, no visual target!” came the redundant report.
“Conn, aye! Captain, one point seven miles to shoal water.”
Hopkins had called down to Drake at the two-mile point, and Sam saw the engine speed back down slightly to “normal” emergency ahead in response.
“Very well, prepare for crash back. Williams?”
“Nothing yet, Captain, sorry,” Williams said, shifting in his seat.
Hopkins announced, “Captain, one and a half miles to shoal water.” Into the telephone, she said, “Chief, stand by for crash back.”
“Very well, stand by,” Sam responded.
On the Puma’s video display, Sam saw Bill take the fatal hit and fall back dead. His heart was in his throat until he leaned forward to peer at the screen, then a wave of relief when he saw the long hair and beach clothing, apparent even in the low-resolution image. It must be the prisoner. He noted a pause in the action and saw the figures behind the westernmost vehicle aim a mortar-like device and fire it. The camera picked up a flash of a small object, then a burst overhead Ben and Simmons’s redoubt. Either Ben or Simmons—from the camera aspect and mist, he couldn’t tell which—fast-crawled to the other briefly, then returned to his position. Sam was unconsciously pounding his right fist on his thigh as the scene played out before him.
“Getting something,” Williams said. “Yes! Two targets on long-wave IR.”
Sam leaned in. “Surface action starboard, train on the target on the far left and standby. Deffler, illuminate the hostile vehicle farthest west.” Standing up, he shouted, “OOD, Crash Back Now!” He keyed his handheld radio. “Pickins, haul ass back to the boat deck now!”
Hopkins shouted into the telephone, “Main Control, Conn, Crash Back, all back full!”
“Unmasked,” Deffler piped up. “Target illuminated.”
Sam held on to the safety rail as the patrol boat pitched down and violently shuddered while shedding speed quickly in the emergency stop. He watched the firing resume on the screen, and the figures started moving from behind the vehicles and closing on Ben and Simmons’s position.
“Main Control, Conn, All Stop!” Hopkins shouted into the phone when the speed dropped to zero. The roar of the engines immediately died away.
“Conn, Mount 51, more continuous gunfire bearing zero-six-zero relative, no visual target!”
“Conn, aye!”
“Target identified, target confirmed, on target and tracking!”
“Batteries release. Commence fire!”
Drake held the phone to one ear and his finger in the other to hear Hopkins’s orders over the engine noise. Sweat poured down his face as he stared at the instruments—the engine room was sweltering during normal cruise conditions. After ten minutes at extreme speed, it was like an oven.
Hopkins held the line open. When Drake heard Sam shout the initial crash back order, he did not wait for Hopkins to repeat it—he just dropped the phone and smoothly but quickly closed the engine throttles. When the RPMs had died down enough, he declutched the engines from the propeller shafts, shifted to reverse drive, and reclutched. After a short spine-tingling shriek from the clutches, the propellers showed reverse turns, and Drake advanced the throttles. The propellers bit against the cutter’s forward speed and sent a fearsome vibration through the hull. The engine room was a cacophony of roaring engines, rattling tools, and the sharp pings of propeller cavitations. Holding the phone to his ear again while gripping a stanchion to stay upright, Drake watched the ship’s speed readout drop to zero. He retarded the throttles to idle and declutched when Hopkins’s “all stop” order came. He switched the engine control selector back to the Bridge, picked up the phone, and reported, “Conn, Main Control, engines at all stop. Returning engine control to Conn.”
Main Control seemed almost quiet compared to the last few minutes with the engines at idle. Brown had just started to relax when a series of loud thuds and sharp vibrations startled him. He looked frantically between the engines and instrument panel and shouted, “Shit, Chief! What now?”
“Relax, son.” Drake wiped the sweat from his forehead while staring forward with a worried expression. “It’s the main gun.”
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The Second Book in the Series
It’s the deadliest nerve gas ever made, and it has fallen into the hands of a murderous Caribbean drug cult!
The criminal 252 Syndicate has developed a game-changing battlefield nerve gas in a secret lab hidden on an oil rig servicing ship. But the ship has been caught in a drug war in a Caribbean country, seized by one of the most vicious drug cartels in existence, and held for ransom.
Alerted by a defecting 252 member, the U.S. government has no good options. It cannot mount an airstrike or an armed raid on a nominally friendly country, and there is no time for diplomatic action that preserves the secret of the new weapon—the 252s will launch their own attack in five days.
The best of the bad options is a covert raid led by young Coast Guard Officer Ben Wyporek and his crew aboard the newly-upgraded, stealth-equipped Cutter Kauai. But Ben's last lethal encounter with the 252s has cured his hunger for glory, and he has found his soulmate in the beautiful genius DIA analyst Victoria Carpenter. It is another deadly race against the 252s to save the world, and now Ben and Victoria have everything to lose.
Like Sam over on Kauai, Ben had to suppress the urge to jump every time lightning flashed out on the starboard side. The rain had passed entirely, and visibility was nearly perfect. Ben and Lopez had nothing to occupy their attention as the ships slowly moved out of the harbor, unlike their shipmates on the other vessel. He was thoroughly frightened and deduced Lopez was in the same state.
“So, Lope, when we were debriefing after the last one, Captain Mercier told us you would get some ‘special’ attention over at Law Enforcement School. Did that come to pass?”
“Oh, yeah, sir. While everyone else in my class was living the good life in Charleston every weekend, I was getting advanced small arms and personal defense training shoved up my ass!”
“I hear ya. I got the same thing up in Quantico. Like to freeze my ass off on that small arms range all day.” He winced again in the darkness as a long series of lightning flashes strobed across the starboard side. It was actually quite beautiful, the bolts weaving up from the surface of the Caribbean and then winding through and lighting up the clouds from within. He wished he could enjoy the view. “Quite a show.”
“No shit, sir,” Lopez said in a measured voice. “I’d prefer to see this movie in the next showing, though.”
Ben laughed, then looked forward in alarm as a searchlight lanced into the darkness from the promontory, followed by the sound of gunfire. “Shit!” He keyed his radio. “Alpha-Four, One, light off now!”
“Alpha-One, Four, roger, lighting off!” Brown replied.
As the first flare burst off to starboard, a muffled whirring sounded deep in the hull, followed by the rattling rumble from the smokestacks as the ship’s generator fired. The main engines needed a lot more power to turn over than the batteries could provide, so step one was getting a generator running. As the generator’s noise topped out, a second, louder whirring came up from the engine spaces. Ben’s heart sank when the initial rumble of the large engine died away. A second main engine start sequence sounded a few seconds later, with the same result. Ben was about to key his radio, then thought better of it. An inquiry at this point would just distract Brown from his work. The sound of automatic gunfire came up from the well deck—the SEALs joined the fight with their heavy machine guns.
The fight between Kauai and the promontory was heating up, and Ben could hear the ‘thumps’ every half-second from the main gun and see the tracers streak across the water. Williams was doing a good job keeping the pressure on. So far, nothing more than small arms fire was being thrown their way. Suddenly, a flash followed by an enormous boom came from Kauai, and the main gun ceased firing. “Shit, shit, shit!” Ben exclaimed, pounding his fist on the helm console. After a few seconds, the rapid thumping and twenty-five-millimeter tracer streaks returned, and Ben let out an enormous sigh of relief.
Ben was about to comment on a second flare that had appeared almost overhead when an enormous blast threw him to the deck. One moment he was standing there; the next, he was flat on his face, covered in broken glass. “Lope!”
“Here, sir! I’m OK!” the young petty officer said as he got to his knees.
Ben looked behind the Bridge. The rocket had hit the port smokestack, which was now shredded. He had just gotten to his feet and pulled Lopez up when the second rocket hit the foredeck. This time, the forward windows shattered, and the two men were thrown down again. Worse, shrapnel from the explosion sliced through some outer strands of the towing hawser. Given the enormous strain the line was under, there could be only one result: the cascade of individual strand failures in milliseconds merged into one loud “Bang.” The two new ends shot away from the breakpoint, one slamming into Carlos Rojas’s superstructure with a loud “clang” and the other falling into the water just short of Kauai.
Ben looked forward in shock as they got to their feet again, then keyed his tactical radio. “Alpha-Four, Alpha-One, we just lost the towline. We need main engines now, or we’re dead!”
“Almost there, sir! We’ve fixed the problem and are closing up now!”
“For God’s sake, hurry!”
“Yes, sir!”
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