Dressed in a battered leather flight jacket and a long red scarf that his wife had given to him twenty-two years before, General Scott waited on the dark airstrip for the team to arrive. The morning was cool, still, and fresh. A slim folder was under his arm and a vinyl map in his hand. The map was like a Twister game surface: large, flexible, and water-resistant. It was a two-year-old map of Antarctica that Scott had pulled from the files.
Major Bryan had been talking these past few days about perspective. Scott knew the major was about to get a lesson in perspective that would test him in a way few men had ever been tested.
The general was standing just outside the large hydraulically operated rear ramp of the C-130K Hercules transport. The Hercules was affectionately referred to as “the pelican of airplanes”—big, ungainly, but able to carry a lot in its craw. With 132-foot wingspan and four powerful turboprops, the aircraft had a range of nearly twenty-five hundred miles and a top speed of 385 miles an hour. The C-130K was the aerial refueling configuration; the aircraft would have to be topped off three times on its way to the Falklands. Ideally, Scott would have liked to get a longer-range C-130H variant, the HC-130H, to make the trip, but there hadn’t been time. Apparently, time was extremely short as it was. Minutes, let alone an extra hour or two, could matter. Reaching the Falklands, the crew would land at the RAF Mount Pleasant base, which was opened in 1984 to establish a fighter and transport presence in the islands after the Falklands War. Among the aircraft the British kept there were a Hercules C1, as well as No. 78 Squadron with Chinook and Sea King helicopters. While the C-130K was in transit, General Scott would be in touch with his old RAF pal Air Marshal Moss Holiday to get one of the Chinooks the team could use to fly south. Holiday had been one of Scott’s strongest supporters during the NATO showdown. He’d be happy to help. Captain Puckett was rated to fly the Chinook.
Scott heard the team before he saw them. He felt a flood of pride as he listened to their footsteps on the tarmac, double time. A moment later he saw them in the taillights of the plane, running forward in two columns, Major Bryan at the head. Scott had always referred to L.A.S.E.R. as “his” team, but it was Bryan’s now. The major had met them at the barracks and run them over in full gear. No slouched shoulders, no casually carried bags. Everything was trim, efficient, formal. Elite military units were always gung ho; they had pride in their heritage and a sense of duty and honor that transcended life itself. These soldiers didn’t have a past and were eager to establish a high-bar precedent. Scott had seen it in their efforts since they’d been together, which was probably why the major had taken the destroyer situation so hard.
General Scott knew that Bryan would put foot to ass on this mission, whatever the cost. He was confident that L.A.S.E.R. would do themselves proud. The general foresaw only one problem, which was the nightmare Admiral Grantham had tacked to the back end.
Major Bryan turned the loading over to Lieutenant Black, then walked to where the general was standing. Bryan threw off a sharp salute and General Scott returned it. Even in the dark, Scott could see the light in Bryan’s eyes. He was eager to go. Scott handed the major both the file and the map.
“There are some dossiers on the people, a little about the mission that was underway—all my handwritten notes, which I hope you can read—and a map that covers more area than you need and doesn’t give you enough on the area you do need,” Scott told him. “I’m sorry I don’t have more for you at this time. When I get it, you’ll get it.”
“Sir, not a problem.”
“No.” Scott hesitated. “There’s more, though. You’re going out on this because I received a call from Admiral Grantham at the Naval Office of Research and Development, Submarine Systems. They were in trials on a new submarine in the Weddell Sea when they lost the test vehicle, apparently in a collision with an overly friendly Chinese sub. We think the PLN vessel was one of their new Song-class ships. It sent out a distress call that was picked up by satellite. The admiral also fears we may have lost the science ship that was accompanying the test sub on its mission.”
“Has he heard from either of them?”
“Not a chirp from the surface ship, and they lost all telemetry from the sub when it hit bottom—where, they think, it may have been caught in an ice slide.”
“At least it survived the impact,” Bryan pointed out. “Is there ordnance on the test sub?”
“No,” Scott said. “We don’t know about the Chinese vessel, though it’s likely. I’ve got a call in to the military attaché at their embassy in Washington. I’m also trying to find out if the Royal Navy has a submersible in the region, something you can use. Initial reports are not favorable.”
“What’s the target depth?”
“That’s the good news,” Scott said. “They appear to be at about one hundred and fifty feet.”
“Wet-suit doable.”
“Yes. Major, the big problem with this thing, apart from just getting there in time, is the fact that the navy was testing a military vehicle down there.”
“With respect, sir, the Chinese were down there with a military sub—”
“Military proliferation is not the problem,” Scott interrupted. “A United States submarine was patrolling and collided with a Chinese sub on patrol. Politically, it’s a wash. The problem is that we anticipate a Chinese recovery effort, one that will get there before the navy can. DOD doesn’t want them to find our sub.”
A jeep purred in the distance. The purr became a growl as it neared. Bryan looked over. The jeep had a glow-in-the-dark no-smoking sign on both doors. He glanced back at the general.
“That’s from the quartermaster’s office,” Bryan said. “BUDs.”
“That’s right.”
“For the love of God,” Bryan said. He raised the manila folder. “This is not in the written orders, is it?”
“No,” Scott said. Despite the scarf and heavy jacket, the general suddenly felt very, very cold.
“You’re saying that if we can’t raise the submarine, we’re supposed to use the basic underwater demolition kit to blow her up,” Bryan said.
“Those are the admiral’s orders.”
“Even if there are crew members inside.”
“There are no alternatives to a failed reflotation,” Scott informed him. “I’m very sorry.”
“Complement of how many?”
“Seven.”
Bryan was silent as the Hercules fired up its massive T56-A-15 turboprops. The jeep stopped at the side of the ramp and one of the two passengers ran over. A lieutenant, he saluted the general and asked for permission to bring the BUDs chest on board.
“Major Bryan is in command,” Scott said. “Ask him.”
The lieutenant turned to the major and saluted. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Permission granted,” Bryan said. “See Lieutenant Black about the transfer.”
The lieutenant asked for the major’s signature on the bill of lading, then ran back to the jeep. Quickly but carefully, the two men brought the crate on board.
Bryan did not watch them. He was looking at Scott. “Do we know for certain that the Chinese have begun moving into the area?”
“No,” Scott said. “We believe they’ll make an aerial sweep of the area, which should occur several hours before you arrive. We’re going to try to get them to cooperate with whatever recon information they acquire. They won’t put a rescue team in by air, however.”
“Why not?”
“The admiral believes they’ll try and recover the vessel.”
“They will but we won’t,” Bryan said.
“The Song is a new class of submarine for them,” Scott said patiently. “Beijing will need to know why their ship hit one of ours. If the crew can’t tell them, they’ll hope the submarine can. With our vessel it’s different. It apparently functioned as planned. Admiral Grantham’s big concern is whatever they were testing. He doesn’t want the Chinese to get it.”
Lieutenant Black called down from the open bay, “We’re ready up here, sir!”
“Thank you, Lieutenant!” Bryan yelled back.
“You’d better hit it. Are there any questions?” Scott asked.
“None, sir.”
“I’ll e-mail undersea charts of the Weddell Sea as soon as I have them, along with any other pertinent information,” Scott said.
“Blueprints of the American submarine?”
“Tough one,” Scott admitted. “They’re highly classified.”
Bryan said nothing.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” Scott said.
“I appreciate the situation, sir. I’m going to concentrate on getting a brave crew out of a bad situation.”
Salutes were exchanged and then the general offered his hand. Bryan shook it. But the major’s manner was formal. Not special ops formal but cold, disapproving. Not of Scott but of the situation. As he watched Major Bryan head up the ramp, Scott did not doubt that Major Bryan would do whatever was necessary to fulfill his mission. But at what cost?
As the major was surely realizing, compared to this the destroyer incident was nothing.
Perspective. It could be a killer.