Operation Barracuda

37

Once again I sleep through a series of transitions. My dreams are troubled and feverish. Part of the time I believe I’m back in Towson, Maryland, working out in the gym or practicing Krav Maga with Katia. Then I’m teaching a very young Sarah how to swim in the military base’s pool in Germany. Images of Andrei Zdrok and Yvan Putnik interrupt the serenity and suddenly I’m dodging bullets. The final part of it is terrifying. I dream that Third Echelon has Protocol Sixed me and left me to rot in a Chinese prison. I see myself growing old and thin, wasting away until finally there’s no reason for me to keep living.

And then I wake up. The first thing my eyes focus upon is the face of Colonel Irving Lambert. He has a goofy grin on his face and he says, “There you are. Welcome aboard, Sam.”

My tongue feels heavy and my mouth is dry. “Hi,” I say. What did he mean by aboard? Then I’m vaguely aware of a gentle rocking motion. “Where the hell am I?”

“You’re aboard the USNS Fisher,” he answers. The Fisher? How appropriate. I recall it’s one of Military Sealift Command’s LMSRs, a large, medium-speed, roll-on, roll-off navy ship, mostly used for transporting armies, equipment, and vehicles. “How long have I been here?” I ask.

“About eight hours. We flew you to Hawaii yesterday afternoon and gave you a sedative to help you sleep. We then dropped you onto the Fisher a few hours later and here we are.”

“Where are we going?”

“California. We’re three hours away. How are you feeling?”

I take stock of my body. There are aches and pains everywhere. My stomach is the worst but it doesn’t seem as bad as it was.

“Okay, I guess.” I try to sit up and realize I’ve got an IV in my hand and there’s a tight bandage wrapped around my middle. “What’s going on?”

“We’re building up your strength, Sam. You were dehydrated and had gone without substantial nourishment for what, a week?”

“Something like that.”

“You’ll be happy to know that your insides are all right. Nothing badly damaged. You had a ruptured peritoneum but by some miracle you didn’t develop peritonitis. The doc says you should have received a very bad case of it and perhaps even died, but someone upstairs is looking after you, Sam. The tear in the peritoneum began to heal on its own and you’re well on the way to recovery. Doc says it’s most likely due to your healthy lifestyle, the fact that your abdominal muscles are in tip-top shape and you do a million sit-ups a day, or whatever it is you do. You’re living proof that exercise and diet can save your life. What happened to you, anyway?”

“Andrei Zdrok punched me in the stomach with brass knuckles.”

Lambert almost laughed. “I understand you paid him back with interest.”

“Yeah? What’s happened to him?”

“The Chinese have him in custody. He’s in a hospital in Fuzhou and probably not a very good one. You messed him up pretty bad, Sam. The front of his facial bone plate is broken and the orbit of his right eye dropped. If he doesn’t die then he’ll stand trial for terrorism and espionage in China. He and Eddie Wu, too. They caught him trying to run away from General Tun’s base.”

“Wait. What happened at the base? The Triad—”

“Your little talk with the head of the Lucky Dragons apparently did some good. The Triad brought an army of three hundred men up from Hong Kong and bombed the place with some Stinger missiles and mortars before rushing in and taking it over. Of course by then most of Tun’s men had already moved out. The Lucky Dragons didn’t know it, but the Chinese army was three miles away, standing ready for orders from Beijing to do something about General Tun. Those orders never came. When our spy satellites picked up on what was going on, the CIA got together a crew posing as a Red Cross team. They asked for and received permission from China to do a reconnaissance flight over the base for the sole purpose of locating you. We knew you were still alive. Those implants told us that.”

“Why didn’t you get a message to me? Colonel, I thought I had been… I thought you had abandoned me.”

“Sam, I won’t lie to you,” Lambert says. “We almost activated Protocol Six. If Tun had attacked Taiwan and forced us into a skirmish with China, then that’s what would have happened all right. We would never have been able to get you out. We couldn’t communicate with you because Mason Hendricks was monitoring our transmissions. We had to stay silent. I’m sorry, Sam.”

I nod and shrug. “And the Triad?”

“Most of them got away. When they attacked the encampment, Beijing gave the orders for the Chinese forces to storm the base. That happened shortly after the CIA got you out. The Triad dispersed because technically they’re traitors. It’s a very strange situation. We think China wants General Tun to fail in a big way before he attacks Taiwan so they don’t have to lose face in stopping him. If he doesn’t mess up, then they’ll have to appear as if they’re supporting their general. The hard-liners in Beijing agree with Tun’s motives. Anyway, some of the Triads were caught and will most likely be tried for treason.”

“What about Jon Ming?”

“As far as we know he got away.”

“And nothing has happened in Taiwan?”

“Not yet. It’s been a standstill for twenty-four hours. Tun has threatened us with his nuke off the coast of California — he won’t say where exactly. I’m hoping you have some things to tell us.”

“That I do.” I proceed to relate everything I learned. That Tun’s submarine launched three MRUUVs off the coast of Los Angeles. One of them is armed with the nuke. Since the control panel at the base in Fuzhou is destroyed, the MRUUVs are operated solely from the sub. Lambert confirms that the U.S. was aware of the Chinese sub when it approached American waters but now it’s moved out to international waters where it can’t be touched. However, Naval Sea Systems Command provided Anna Grimsdottir with all of Professor Jeinsen’s MRUUV specifications. She’s currently working on how the guidance system can be altered if the correct “barracuda” can be found. Certain satellite technology will be instrumental in locating them in the water.

“And what are we going to do with those fuckers when we find them?” I ask.

Lambert winks at me. “Let me ask the doc if you can get out of bed. I have something to show you.”

The LMSR is Military Sealift Command’s newest class of ship and provides afloat prepositioning of a heavy brigade’s equipment and a corps’ combat support, as well as surge capability for lift of a heavy division’s equipment from the United States. LMSRs can carry an entire U.S. Army Task Force, including fifty-eight tanks, forty-eight other track vehicles, plus more than nine hundred trucks and other wheeled vehicles. The ship carries vehicles and equipment to support humanitarian missions as well as combat missions. The new construction vessels have a cargo carrying capacity of more than 380,000 square feet, equivalent to almost eight football fields. In addition, LMSRs have a slewing stern ramp and a removable ramp that services two side ports, making it easy to drive vehicles on and off the ship. Interior ramps between decks ease traffic flow once cargo is loaded aboard ship. Two 110-ton single-pedestal twin cranes make it possible to load and unload cargo where shoreside infrastructure is limited or nonexistent. A commercial helicopter deck is used for emergency daytime landing, which was how I was brought aboard. The Fisher is a prime specimen of an LMSR.

After the doc removes my IV and clears me to leave sick bay, Lambert leads me through a dozen passageways and hatches to one of the storage decks. Aside from an assorted allotment of military vehicles, I see three strange-looking contraptions that look like wet bikes from the future. Lambert speaks to a crewman, who turns on some lights so we can examine one of the devices up close.

“This is what the U.S. Navy calls a CHARC,” Lambert says, pronouncing the word as “Shark.” “Or, to be more specific, a Covert High-speed Attack and Reconnaissance Craft. Have you heard about it?”

“I vaguely remember reading about it being developed,” I say. “Tell me more.”

“Lockheed-Martin designed and developed it to protect the navy’s surface vessels from high-speed armed boats and submarines. Ideally the CHARC will help provide a lethal response for some of the emerging littoral threats that face naval forces today, including small-boat swarm attacks and diesel-electric submarines. Remember what happened to the USS Cole? The creation of the CHARC is a direct response to that incident.”

“It looks awesome,” I say. And it does. The CHARC is about twelve meters long and consists of two levels of hydroplanes topped by the actual boat in which one or two men can ride. “I imagine it’s portable?”

“That it is. The entire thing can be collapsed to fit into a 3.6-by-3.6-by-12-meter box and transported on deck or in a cargo hold. Think of it like an attack helicopter, only it’s in the water on a high-speed platform that uses SWATH, or Small Waterplane Area Twin Hull, technology. It’s small and stealthy and is plated with bulletproof material. It can attack on a moment’s notice using an array of Hellfire missiles, twenty-millimeter guns, forty-millimeter grenade launchers, and torpedoes. We added drop-mines that will sink to the bottom of the sea and knock out anything in their paths. The navy will use it to loiter, patrol, and attack in shallow littoral waters. What’s really nice is that it sits low in the water for long periods and can then pop up and dash to suspected threats when speed is needed. And it’s fast, too.”

I run my hand along the side of it. “Very nice,” I say.

“Now here’s where it gets interesting,” Lambert says. “The designers installed several intelligence-gathering tools that are helpful to us. For one thing it has mine-hunting capability — it’ll sniff out and destroy mines as it encounters them in shallow water. By the same token it can detect other objects and zero in on radiation. The Geiger counter and sonar equipment will let the rider know when he’s on top of dangerous material or even vehicles.”

“So it’ll find the MRUUVs.”

“Precisely. Another cool feature is the homing beacon. The pilot wears it in his belt, so if he leaves the CHARC for any reason, such as a dive, the CHARC will follow him along the surface on automatic.”

“Damn, it’s like a loyal dog. Great, let me at ’em,” I say. “You have the owner’s manual handy?”

“Whoa, hold on, Sam. You’re not well enough to do this. I was just showing you—”

“What do you mean I’m not well enough? Are you out of your mind?” He can’t keep me out of the fight. Not now. Not after what I’ve been through.

“Sam, we have some Navy SEALS aboard. They’re going to pilot the CHARCs.”

“I’m a Navy SEAL, too, Colonel. You know damn well that I have to do this. I need to do this.”

“It’s been more than twenty years since you were a Navy SEAL, Sam. And you just got up from a hospital bed. Be realistic! We’re going to have to launch these things at sunrise. That’s only four hours from now.”

“Oh, come on, Colonel! You know I can do this. I’m fine. I feel great. You know me.” I didn’t feel great but I wasn’t about to let someone else do this job.

“Sam, if we find the MRUUVs, it’s going to take someone to dive down there and disarm the bomb. That means scuba gear and the works. You’re just not up for it. You’re not healed. The mission is too important. I’m sorry, Sam.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m so angry I could slug the guy but of course I’m not going to do that. Deep down I know he’s right. If I were in his shoes I’d make the same call. With a sigh I simply nod my head and walk away.

“Sam…”

“It’s okay, Colonel. Just have someone show me to my quarters, if I have any.”

A loud knock on my compartment door disturbs my sleep. At first I think the bulkhead is collapsing but then my senses spin me back to reality. I turn on the overhead light above my bunk and say, “Come.” The digital clock tells me I’ve been asleep for two hours.

Colonel Lambert takes a step into the small quarters and says, “Sorry to disturb you, Sam. May I come in?”

“Sure.” I sit up and rub my eyes. “What’s up?”

Lambert sits on the end of the bunk and replies, “I’ve come to eat crow. And apologize.”

I wait for him to go on.

“One of our Navy SEALS… he… well, hell, he’s got goddamned food poisoning. Or something. He’s throwing up every half hour and is running a temperature. Doc says it’s either food poisoning or a stomach virus. That, uh, leaves a vacant seat on one of the CHARCs.”

I’m suddenly wide awake. “Are you telling me…?”

“The job’s yours if you still want it, Sam.”

“Of course I still want it!”

“Get dressed and meet me on the same deck where we were earlier. You’ll suit up in diving gear and we’ll run you through the basics on how to operate the CHARC. We’re an hour outside of Los Angeles so we’ll be launching as soon as we can.” He stands and goes for the door. “I just hope I don’t regret this.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” I say. “And thanks.”

The two Navy SEALS are young guys — well, young compared to me — named Lieutenant Junior Grade Max Carlson and Ensign Ben Stanley. When I walk onto the deck I can feel the skepticism oozing from them. They look at me as if to say, “Who the hell is this old guy?” I introduce myself and shake hands with both of them and they reply politely, but I can tell they are not happy about me joining the team.

Colonel Lambert stands on the sidelines trying to be as unobtrusive as possible while the commanding officer, Lieutenant Don Van Fleet, welcomes me and then addresses the three of us.

“Men, we don’t have much time. I just received word that Taiwan has been attacked. Our forces are holding back until we find that nuke and neutralize it. So for every minute that goes by, more Taiwanese are dying. I understand that General Tun’s forces bombed Taipei with a warning volley to get the Taiwan government to surrender. Of course they refused. A sea assault followed and now Tun’s armies are storming the island’s beaches. It’s not pretty, especially with our navy sitting there with thumbs up their asses. Lieutenant Carlson, I’m giving you five minutes to teach Mr. Fisher everything he needs to know about the CHARC. We launch two minutes after that. Before I turn over the floor to Colonel Lambert, are there any questions?”

We shake our heads. Lambert steps forward and says, “You’ve been supplied with schematics of the MRUUVs. The CHARCs’ reconnaissance capabilities have been set for picking up metal that measures the approximate size of what we believe the MRUUVs to be. In addition, the Geiger range depth has been set to fifty feet below the surface. Hopefully the damned things aren’t swimming deeper than that because we lose effectiveness beyond fifty feet. Your best tool will be the sonar, which will give a return of any object of that size. Unfortunately you’ll probably also pick up sea life — sharks, maybe some dolphins, but hopefully no whales. The NSA is monitoring three suspect areas of the coast. According to some initial readings from some of our intelligence buoys we’ve narrowed the logical points of interest to Santa Monica and Venice, Marina Del Rey, and Playa Del Rey. From a tactical standpoint, we believe these three areas make the most sense for targets. Lieutenant Carlson, you’ll patrol Playa Del Rey. Ensign Stanley, you’ll cover Marina Del Rey. Fisher, you’ve got Santa Monica and Venice.

“Once you’ve located a possible MRUUV, you’ll have to put the CHARC on automatic standby and take a dive to confirm. Make sure your homing beacons are working. Once you’ve confirmed you have an MRUUV, you report in and we’ll give you further instructions. Any questions?”

Carlson speaks up. “Sir, is it possible this bomb will go off while we’re there?”

Lambert replies, “General Tun has said that he’ll detonate the nuke only if his forces are attacked by anyone outside of Taiwan. But you never know. There’s always that risk.”

Stanley asks, “Will we have to disarm the bomb?”

“My team in Washington is working on that. What we do when we find the bomb will depend on a number of factors. Just report in when you’ve found it.”

There aren’t any more questions, so we go to it. Carlson reluctantly takes me through the CHARC’s controls and it seems pretty straightforward. Anyone who has operated a wet bike should be able to handle it. I’m also issued standard SEAL diving equipment. Along with a military wet suit, I have an upgraded LAR-V (Mod 2) rebreather with a large oxygen gas cylinder, a military diver broad that integrates with a compact depth gauge, a G-shock watch, an underwater compass, and a built-in adjustable chem-light holder. I try on a new Aqua Sphere SEAL diving mask that is supposedly leak-free and surprisingly comfortable; AMPHIB boots, which are all-terrain multifunctional boots that work well in and out of water; Rocket II fins that are designed to be worn over the boots; and HellStorm NaviGunner water ops gloves. We each have a single tank of air and a tool belt containing various items we might need when we encounter an MRUUV.

The CHARCs are lowered into the water with each of us sitting in our respective vehicle. Like the MRUUVs, a CHARC uses SWATH technology to propel it. SWATH gives a craft the ability to deliver big-ship platform steadiness and ride quality in a smaller vessel and the capability to sustain a high proportion of its normal cruising speed in rough head seas. The waterplane is the horizontal-plane cross-section of a ship’s hull at the water surface. Thus, the CHARC has two submarinelike lower hulls completely submerged below the surface; above the surface the CHARC resembles a catamaran with a wet bike on top of it. Ship motions are caused by the waves on the ocean surface, which produce forces on the hull that decrease rapidly as the hull is moved farther below the surface, as with a submarine. Wave-exciting forces can also be made smaller if the amount of waterplane area at the design waterline is decreased. However, the objective of SWATH is not to minimize ship motions at the expense of speed/ power or payload capabilities. Instead, the relative proportions for the strut waterplane area and submerged hulls are selected to reduce motions and accelerations well below accepted criteria for seasickness or onset of degraded performance of personnel or equipment. All SWATH crafts will have less than 50 percent as much waterplane area as a monohull of equal displacement.

We never had cool toys like these when I was a SEAL!

The weather is typical southern California — breezy, sunny, scattered clouds. The sun hasn’t been up too long and it’s still winter, so riding at a fast speed would be quite chilly if I wasn’t protected from the elements. The driver’s seat is inside a bulletproofed canopy so there’s a bit of a jet cockpit feel to it. It’s soundproofed, too, so all you hear is a pleasant whir that could easily lull you to sleep if you were so inclined. The controls are brightly lit and intuitive; a monkey could pilot the thing. And best of all it smells like the interior of a new car. I love it!

The CHARC handles so smoothly that it’s hard to believe I’m on the surface of the Pacific. The water is choppy but the CHARC seems to glide right over it. Before long I’m within a mile of the Santa Monica Pier and I can see the Ferris wheel and other amusements glistening in the early dawn. I reduce speed and concentrate on what the instruments are telling me. There are schools of fish moving underneath me. A large stationary metal object lies at the bottom, most likely a sunken speedboat.

“I’m in position,” I say into the intercom. The two SEALS and I are hooked up to a ComLink originating at the Fisher. Lambert and the Third Echelon team in Washington are also monitoring the mission through my implants. I guess I’d better watch my language.

“Roger that,” Carlson says. “I’ll be in my position in about twenty seconds.”

“Same here,” echoes Stanley.

And so it begins. The search is tedious and painstaking. After thirty minutes all three of us comment on how the job is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Each of our sections encompasses thirty or forty square miles of ocean.

“Colonel, is there any chance of getting more men and CHARCs to help with the search?” I ask.

“We’ve already tried, Sam,” he says. “More are on the way but by the time they get here it will be noon.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to take us longer than that just to locate something worth diving for.”

“Just keep looking.”

Anna Grimsdottir comes on the line and says, “Our intel buoys have picked up a total of sixteen objects that might be MRUUVs in the three sectors. I’ll give each of you the coordinates for your respective sector. At this point it’s difficult for us to tell if they’re moving or not. You’ll have to determine that.”

She gives the three of us separate coordinates to check out. It takes me three minutes to guide the CHARC to my first one only to find that the object is stationary. Another sunken wreck. Grimsdottir calls out the next location, which turns out to be a mile closer to shore. I reach it in forty seconds and once again am disappointed by the discovery.

This process continues for the next hour until finally Stanley calls out, “Hey! I think I have one.” Grimsdottir quizzes him on some of the instrument readings and he answers promisingly. The object is moving with the speed of a barracuda and is the correct size and shape. “I’m going for a dive,” he says. Carlson and I continue our search as we wait with anticipation for good news. Six minutes pass and finally Stanley’s voice rings in our ears.

“Affirmative,” he says. “It’s an MRUUV.” Grimsdottir asks him about Geiger readings, but this time his answers are negative. There’s no indication that this is the one with the bomb.

“Blow it out of the water,” Lieutenant Van Fleet commands. Stanley confirms the order and tells us that he’s activating the drop-mines. They’re powerful explosives but nothing so serious that he’d be in danger by being on top of them.

“Mines released,” he says, and we wait for the sound of fireworks.

But the tremendous noise we hear in our headsets is shocking, overamplified, and distorted. After a few seconds we hear nothing but static. Then everyone talks at once.

“Stanley? Ensign Stanley?”

“Oh, my God!”

“What happened?”

“Did you see that?”

“That geyser was sixty feet high!”

Lieutenant Van Fleet quiets everyone down and says, “I’m afraid the MRUUV was booby-trapped with a powerful explosive. When Stanley’s mines hit it, the MRUUV blew the CHARC to pieces.”

Well. I guess that’s going to change our strategy.