“NAV, when do we hit the CHOP line?”
“We out-CHOP in seventy-three hours,” the voice came back. Lieutenant Commander Lopez let out a sigh. Three days until a new unit from 7th Fleet took over patrolling these waters, and the USS Ernest E. Evans could go home. The Arleigh Burke class destroyer had been in Condition III, wartime steaming, for months, and the crew was exhausted. Now they were heading to Jebel Ali, just south of Dubai, to resupply before the long journey home to Mayport, Florida.
“Scuttlebutt is once we get into Jebel Ali we’re on restricted liberty,” one of the sailors carped. “Probably some hyped-up terrorist threat again.”
“Beer on the pier?” his buddy replied. “You’re shitting me. We’ve been confined to the ship for weeks, and now our only shore leave is the sandbox.” The sandbox was the derogatory term for the U.S. Navy’s recreation area in Jebel Ali. It was a parking lot converted into the food court from hell: white plastic chairs and tables on asphalt, blaring rock music, warm beer, and chewy steaks, all under the Arabian sun.
“Another fine navy day!” another said sardonically. “Beer, boom box, and kebab.”
Lopez had had enough, even though they were right. “Stop your bellyaching, or I’ll administer some fan-room counseling sessions,” he said.
That shut them up. Lopez was the Tactical Action Officer and the senior man on deck. It was 0126, and they were pulling watch in the Combat Information Center, or CIC, the ship’s brain center. Large color monitors with charts lined the bulkheads, while smaller screens glowed green with text. The crew worked electronic consoles, monitoring everything above, below, and on the sea.
Silence again, Lopez thought. Alleluia. A cruise in the Persian Gulf was like being a goalie: boredom interspersed with brief moments of terror. Tonight was boredom. That was good, from Lopez’s point of view.
A sailor stepped through the hatch carrying a folder marked TOP SECRET in large red letters.
“Sir, radio just received a flash message from fleet.”
“What is it?” Lopez asked, taking the folder.
“They’re looking for a ship traveling through these waters, highest priority.”
“Details?”
“It’s a small group-three freighter. Out of Pakistan, heading to Yemen. Flag and name unknown, probably a flag of convenience. Intel thinks the crew changed both flag and vessel name after they hit international waters.”
“Cargo?”
“Possibly nuclear contraband, sir. That’s all we’re being told.”
“Nukes in Yemen?” one of the sailors said. “Oh shit. Sounds like the Big Bang Theory.”
“Sounds like Operation Haystack Needle,” another added.
Lopez turned in his chair and shot them a glance. “No one said nukes,” he snapped. “They said nuclear contraband: probably rods or cylinders for centrifuges, something like that.”
Nobody responded. Good men.
“What was the last POSIT and heading?” he asked, meaning the last known position, identification, and time.
“Unknown, sir. The message is fleet wide.”
“Shit.” Lopez knew their shore leave would be canceled and their return home delayed until the fleet found the mystery freighter, but he dared not tell his watch team. “I’ll take it to the captain myself.”
Lopez took one last sip of navy coffee and winced. It was as cold as the devil’s dick. How would you know, Chief? came the imagined reply from his ensign. You been getting friendly with Bee-el-ze-bub?
He stepped through the hatch, leaving the red-light dim of the CIC, and entered the harsh fluorescence of the passageway. He climbed a ladderwell and entered the bridge. The skipper was slumped in the captain’s chair, boots on a console, staring at the night horizon.
“Captain,” Lopez said. “We just received this flash traffic from fleet.”
The captain snapped out of his daze. He had spent most of the last few weeks in this chair, missing meals and his bunk, chasing Iranian warships in the Strait of Hormuz.
“What is it, Lopez?”
“You better read it for yourself, sir,” Lopez said, handing him the folder containing the top secret message.
Turner scanned it, then shoved it back in the folder with disdain. Lopez could see the captain’s displeasure.
“The men are calling it Operation Haystack Needle, sir.”
“They’re not wrong.” The captain leaned forward, right hand rubbing his forehead in sleep-deprived thought. Small freighters of this description were ubiquitous in the Indian Ocean. “Where are the gaps in my satellite and SIGINT coverage?”
“Here, here, and here,” the chief said, pointing to the map on the NAV console. “And here, too.”
The captain rubbed his forehead again. “Come to 165 at thirty knots. Have the slick-32 look for J-band emitters. Request a shift in our operational box to compensate for those gaps. We need better coverage.”
Lopez nodded and turned to leave.
“And Lopez.”
“Yes sir.”
“Better cancel shore leave.”
“Yes sir,” Lopez said, as he started to walk back to the CIC.
“And Lopez, get the Fire Scout ready. We’ll need to see in the dark.”
And shoot in the dark, Lopez thought. Fire Scout would hunt and kill anything they told it to.
Ten minutes later, three crew members rolled the large rotary-wing Fire Scout drone onto the destroyer’s flight deck. The rotors began to turn and the machine took off, zooming toward the dark horizon.