Chapter One

Hanson

 

The day Captain Kelvin Hanson graduated from the US Naval Academy at Annapolis was the best day of his life. A day that was far better than the one he was currently facing. For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted to be a sailor. Growing up on tales of pirates and wooden sailing ships, and then old enough to understand the excitement of technological advances, and then finally signing his commission papers. He was navy through and through and was pretty damn sure that if he were ever run through by a ceremonial sword, he'd bleed salt water.

Coming a close second to graduation day was the day he’d taken command of his present boat: the USS Brandyn, a Zumwalt-class destroyer that, despite her age, was still one of the finest and fastest ships at sea. But the Brandyn wasn't currently under his command, which was part of the reason he was having such a shitty day.

At 0800 hours the previous day, Rear Admiral J.T. White had boarded the Brandyn in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and had, as hierarchy demanded, assumed command of the vessel. For what reason, Hanson didn't know. He was aware, of course, of the ship's current mission: to seek out and destroy a fifty-foot vessel known to be somewhere off the coast of North Carolina. What he didn't know was why the hell it took a Rear Admiral to issue the destroy order. But one thing he did know was that White was one of the most abhorrent men he'd ever had the pleasure to meet.

Arrogant, demanding, and downright rude, White had alienated himself from the entire executive crew as soon as he'd boarded, by refusing to breakfast with them and requiring a tray served in his cabin. Which was actually Hanson's cabin. Not that Hanson necessarily had a problem with bunking with one of the other officers. But, he thought as he trod the first stair to the bridge, his back was paying from a night away from his usual hard mattress.

“Status report,” he barked as he stepped onto the bridge.

His anger at White cooled as he saw the deep blue, white-capped waves stretching out into infinity. He barely listened as his XO filled him in on the overnight status reports. He didn't need to. He'd checked the database before breakfasting. There was nothing he didn't know about his ship. And his crew. Take Johnson over there, yawning over his radar. The fact that he'd been screwing one of the petty officers every chance he got since the ship left dock in Florida was probably contributing to his exhaustion. Or the fact that the chow hall was almost certainly going to serve up broccoli at noon. Broccoli that Hanson would avoid, due to the fact that he knew with certainty that the galley had forgotten to restock it at the last port of call (and therefore had not offloaded the remnants of the last delivery) and so would be using cheese sauce to cover the mold. This was his ship. And he knew all her secrets.

Status report over, he dismissed the XO to go get chow and sleep, and took the helm himself, settling into his captain's chair. Around him was constant noise: low-level murmuring of official communications, the beeping of radar, the mild hum of the ship's engines. Mild because the Brandyn, like most non-eco ships, was limited to travelling at max half speed unless emergency dictated otherwise. President Silva's far-reaching environmental policies had made their mark even in the US Navy. But at least the Brandyn still sailed—better off than the older fossil-fueled ships that had needed to be decommissioned.

Hanson was watchful, waiting. Some might consider his watch boring, but not he. He lived to be at sea and was more than content to sit and watch the waves and listen to his men. The general training tasks they undertook at sea had been abandoned at the orders of White, so there was little to do other than run the ship and find the damn target. So Hanson watched the waves and wondered idly when they might get back to port. And whether, when they did, he'd have enough time to fly back up to Washington to see his wife and his kids. Timon, his son, had a game on Friday, and he was anxious to catch it if he could. And Tasha, well, he always wanted to see his baby girl. His wife, Kishanna, was the perfect naval wife, in that she had her own career and didn't envy him—or blame him—for his. The nights they spent together were as hot as when they'd first met, and the times they spent apart weren't marked by the recriminations he saw in the marriages of some of the other enlisted men.

He sighed, shifting in his seat and pulling his console closer to him. Given that there was little action, he might as well try and chip away at the mountain of bureaucratic paperwork that the navy was so fond of.

“Still no sign?”

“Hmm?” Half buried in his paperwork, Hanson didn't hear Executive Officer Chen's question.

“I said, still no sign?”

“Nope,” said Hanson, lifting his head.

He liked Chen. They'd been together for a little over a year now, and Chen was reliable, dependable, and very entertaining. Particularly when the whiskey bottle came out. He'd make a fine captain himself one day, and sadly, that day was coming up soon. Hanson would be sad to see the back of him.

“The sooner we find this damn boat and sink it, the sooner we can get rid of that ass White,” Chen said, his hands clenching involuntarily into fists.

“What's he done now?” asked Hanson, raising his eyebrow.

“He's got half the men out on deck scrubbing with toothbrushes,” Chen said.

And it was clear that though this was obviously annoying to him, he also found the idea slightly amusing.

“Scrubbing the deck with toothbrushes,” Hanson said. “Interesting. And did the esteemed rear admiral have a reason for this?”

Chen sucked breath in between his teeth before replying. “Apparently, one of the deck officers sassed him. White's word, not mine. And, well, from what I can tell, things sort of spiraled out of control from there. The officer in question started the scrubbing; then another sailor laughed. White yelled that it wasn't damn funny and ordered the sailor to join the officer, and, well, now we've got half the crew out there. Pretty sure half of the men are laughing on purpose to get in on the action.”

“Jesus,” said Hanson, shaking his head. “I just want to find this damn target and get the hell back to port so I can get my ship back. This is fucking insane.”

“Can't be long now,” Chen said, clapping a firm hand on Hanson's shoulder. “You can't hide from a ship with one of the best observation systems in the world. Not for long, anyway.”

“Let's hope not,” Hanson said, turning back to his console. “Let's really hope not.”

The noon report came in, and Hanson took the time to scan through it, finding nothing he didn't already know. And he was already considering hitting the chow hall, and still avoiding the broccoli, when Johnson piped up from the radar station.

“Possible target sighting, sir.”

“Still awake and with us then, Johnson,” said Hanson, getting out of his chair and stretching before heading to Johnson's console.

He wasn't overexcited. This was the fourth possible sighting, and the other three had turned out to be pleasure craft or merchant. He studied the radar screen for a moment, then nodded, giving the order to sight the vessel through the electronic telescope on board. Though several miles away, they should be able to get a sighting on the boat's IMO number.

Several minutes later, he had confirmation, and that was when his heart started to speed up. Just a touch, not enough that any sign would be visible, but enough to send a small spurt of adrenaline. This was why he'd joined up. More to the point, this would get that damned White off his ship.

“Send word to Rear Admiral White that the target is sighted and request his presence on the bridge,” Hanson said, returning to his chair.

He glanced at the telescope picture on his console, confirming that the IMO number was correct, and then sat back. This was what he loved about being in the navy. Not the destruction exactly, though the little boy in him loved explosions as much as the next man, but the sense of doing right. He would take off his cap in respect to the lives that had been lost on the boat he was about to target. But he would not regret doing what needed to be done.

The orders were very clear. The fifty-foot yacht was harboring a fugitive terrorist leader. It was not his job to verify this—that work had already been done. It was his job to ensure that this man would no longer be a threat to American lives or American soil. And it was a job he took great pride in.

“Rear Admiral White is on his way up to the bridge, sir,” said an officer.

And it was barely a minute later that the man stepped up. Hanson wasn't given to disrespecting his superiors. Nor was disobedience his mode of operation. But this was his damn ship, and White had done nothing but piss him off since he came on board.

“I hear you've been keeping my men busy, sir,” he couldn't help but say.

White grunted but didn't offer further explanation. “Got the target?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Verified the IMO?”

“Yes, sir.”

White sniffed, then nodded and turned to bridge. “Acquire target,” he said.

There was a flurry of activity as the ship prepared to lock onto the target and ready a missile for deployment. It would take several minutes before she was ready, since the ship didn't travel battle ready outside of war zones, and White took the opportunity to walk around the bridge and criticize several members of the crew as he did so.

“Sir?”

Hanson turned to see the young radar operator, Johnson, beckoning to him. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have tolerated such casual behavior on his bridge, but with White around he was willing to let it pass. Besides, it looked as though Johnson very much wanted to avoid White’s noticing him. Not that Hanson could blame him for that. Why get yourself reamed out if you didn't have to?

“What is it?” he said, stepping aside, closer to Johnson.

“Sir, um, I think there's something you should see,” Johnson said, his voice low.

As a rule, Hanson encouraged his crew to come to him with questions, comments, or even criticisms. No man was perfect, least of all himself, and listening to crew advice had saved his ass more than once. Sometimes a fresh set of eyes was needed on a problem. And while the weight of the responsibility for the ship at sea sat on his shoulders alone, he knew he couldn't even begin to do his job without his men. So he didn't question Johnson, simply followed him over to his console, where a live feed of the electronic telescope showed on a screen next to the radar.

“Sir, maybe it's just me,” Johnson began, “but this doesn't look like a fugitive vessel. Looks like a bunch of rich dudes getting drunk and high and partying. Take a look here.”

He zoomed in on the picture, and Hanson could clearly see a dark-haired man rather the worse for wear, bending over the rail of the yacht and vomiting into the ocean. Behind him was a table with various bottles on it, some of which Hanson recognized. Johnson was right. Hanson had encountered more than one fugitive vessel in his time at sea, and while there were no hard and fast rules, this yacht matched none of them. There were no huge antennae, designed to keep a foreigner in touch with a foreign land. There were no darkly tinted windows. And there was no hint of secrecy. Looking at the picture in front of him, Hanson had to agree with Johnson. This was nothing more than a pleasure craft. And even though the yacht's radar must clearly show the hulk of the Brandyn coming toward them, there was no attempt to flee.

“Show me the IMO again,” he said.

Obediently, Johnson panned the picture to the rear of the craft and zoomed in again on the numbers painted in dark red. The numbers matched. So what the hell was going on here? Hanson took a cold second to think. Perhaps the boat had been sold. Perhaps abandoned. Perhaps a mistake had been made somewhere along the line. Perhaps the IMO of the fugitive boat was a mere digit away from that on the boat in front of him. He could think of a dozen reasons to explain what was going on. But he wasn't looking for reasons; that wasn't his job. He was simply looking for reasonable doubt. And he could seriously, reasonably doubt that this was a terrorist vessel. Which meant only one thing: He'd have to confront White. There was no way he could in good conscience fire on this boat. Shit. The rear admiral was unlikely to be understanding. In fact, he was probably going to ream them all out for this. Perhaps, Hanson thought, as he thanked Johnson, White would be so apoplectic that he'd have a heart attack and then no one would have to deal with him anymore.

“Sir, target acquired. One minute, forty-five seconds until fire ready,” reported a sailor.

Hanson nodded understanding and approached White.

“Sir, may I have your ear for a moment?”

White's red face turned, his eyes narrowed, but he stepped away from the console he was examining, leaving a relieved-looking crewman behind him.

“What is it, captain? We've got less than two minutes before the shit show starts.”

Hanson didn't know how the hell to explain this. So instead he turned his revolving console around so White could see it, enlarging the telescope picture so it filled one of the screens.

“Sir, we have reason to believe that this is a civilian vessel,” Hanson said, as calmly as he could, though his pulse was racing.

White peered in at the picture, then shrugged. “So they're partying,” he said. “Even terrorists let their hair down.”

“One minute countdown, sir,” the comm officer shouted above the hum of the bridge noise.

“Sir, this vessel appears to be carrying white men and several white women,” Hanson said. He emphasized the skin color of the passengers, knowing it could matter to someone like White, and knowing that the terrorist on board was supposedly Middle Eastern.

“And others are below decks,” grunted White. “Forget about it, Hanson. We'll fulfil the mission.”

“Sir, I . . .”

“Enough,” White said, his voice very low. “Unless you want to end up in the brig, I don't want to hear another damn word about this. Understood?”

Hanson smoothed out his face, let it go blank. He'd faced enough drill sergeants and bullies to know that showing a response was the wrong thing to do.

“Sir, yes sir,” he said in a neutral voice.

White turned, settling himself in the captain's chair, and Hanson, behind him, could no longer see his face.

Now what? What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He should have guessed that White was unlikely to listen to reason. But sinking a civilian ship? Even the rear admiral couldn't go that far. And yet he apparently was willing to. Hanson didn't even begin to understand why White would do this. There was something more going on here, something he didn't like and didn't understand. With another rear admiral, with a man he trusted, he might be willing to follow the fire order anyway, believing that command knew information he did not. With White, though, he didn't think he could take that chance.

“Thirty seconds until fire ready,” reported comm.

Thirty seconds to decide what he was going to do. Trust White or not? Trust that the navy had given a command to a trustworthy man and follow those orders or not? He had never, in his entire career, disobeyed an order. Never. But his own eyes told him this was no terrorist fugitive ship. This was a party boat, and he couldn't be the one to give the order to sink it. He couldn't live with himself, and wouldn't.

“Ten,” the comm officer began the countdown.

So what was he going to do? If he disobeyed the order, one of two things was going to happen. Either White would ignore it and give the order himself, or Hanson would be court-martialed. Knowing White, it was probably going to be the latter of those two options. Could he face a court-martial? If the vessel did turn out to be civilian then yes, since he'd be found innocent and probably even given a damn medal for standing up and doing the right thing. If the vessel wasn't civilian, then he'd be kicked out of the navy at the very least. So all it came down to was what he believed. Did he truly believe this was a civilian vessel? Believe it enough to stake his career on it?

“Fire ready, sir,” reported comm.

Hanson saw White straighten up in the chair. “Give the order to fire, captain.”

He couldn't bring himself to say no, so he stood in silence. A second passed, two, three. White didn't move, and all Hanson could see was his back. Slowly, one after another of the bridge crew turned to look at their captain. And Hanson took strength from them. He was, in a way, protecting them. Not letting them commit what could be a very traumatic mistake. All was quiet, save the pinging of the radar and the hum of the engines.

Then White leaned forward and pressed the console button that opened the ship-wide tannoy.

“Masters-at-arms to the bridge. On the double.”

Finally, he turned the chair and faced Hanson.

“You have until they get here to give the order.”

He seemed calm. Not at all what Hanson had expected. He'd thought there'd be an explosion of temper, a big bang. But White simply sat in the captain's chair and waited, his body relaxed.

Hanson had no intention of giving the order. But what he didn't want was for his crew to get into the same trouble as he was in right now. If a lower-level seaman disobeyed a rear admiral, there'd be hell to pay. As captain, Hanson shouldered the responsibility of a vessel. And that responsibility came with a certain amount of leeway to make decisions. A younger, lower-ranked crew member was likely to be torn a new one if he disobeyed White's order.

“Men,” he said, quickly and loudly. “As US naval crewmen, you are honor and duty bound to follow a command when it is given. I hope you understand that and do not let me, or yourselves, down.”

Then he lowered his eyes to the deck and stood silent, waiting. He heard the feet of the masters-at-arms pounding on the metal stairs, then on the walkway, then bursting through the door. Then he looked up and almost laughed at the looks on the faces of the two security men. They had obviously been expecting some kind of violence, something that happened probably more often on a ship than it really should. Or perhaps a medical emergency, where their strength would be required to get a body down to sick bay. What they got was a quiet, calm deck, with two commanding officers relaxed and waiting for them.

“Captain Hanson. I have given you a direct order to fire on the vessel we have targeted. Do you intend to give that order?”

Now Hanson knew he had no choice but to speak. “Sir, no sir.”

“Captain Hanson, are you deliberately disobeying a direct order?”

“Sir, yes sir.” Not even a hesitation.

White stood. “Under naval law I am relieving Captain Kelvin Hanson of command of the USS Brandyn. I assume command of the Brandyn as both rear admiral and captain.” He glanced around, ensuring that the men on the bridge understood what was happening. Then he nodded in satisfaction. “Masters-at-arms, please escort Captain Hanson to the brig.”

White sat again, turning his chair away from what he'd caused. Hanson felt the two men come to either side of him, but they refrained from grabbing his arms as they would have done with another crew member. He took a deep breath, then forced himself to turn around, a man at either shoulder. He walked off the bridge of the USS Brandyn for the last time under his own power. He was scared. Terrified, even. His entire future hung in the balance. But he also knew he'd made the right decision. But, he reminded himself, just because a decision was right didn't mean that he wouldn't come to regret it.

He was barely over the threshold when he heard White give the command to fire.