Quantum

55

The Sharon S cruised effortlessly over the glassy waters of Saginaw Bay, the twin Detroit Diesel engines pulsing within the fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft Constellation. The boat belonged to Harsen Smith, a shipbuilder from Algonac and a close friend of Martin Kilkenny’s since the 1930s. While it appeared that the two friends were alone on board, Jack Dawson’s SEALs were preparing for battle on the enclosed stern deck.

‘I think we’re getting pretty close,’ Martin said.

‘Almost,’ Smith confirmed as he glanced down at the GPS receiver mounted next to the boat’s compass.

Far overhead, a constellation of global positioning satellites girded the earth, each transmitting its signal down toward the surface. By receiving signals from at least three of the satellites, the GPS receiver was able to calculate, within a few inches, the boat’s location anywhere on the surface of the planet.

Smith eased back on the throttles, and the Sharon S glided to a stop. The coordinates displayed on the GPS matched those given to Smith by Dawson.

‘We’re right where you wanted to be, Admiral,’ Smith announced as he switched off the engines.

‘Thank you, Mr Smith,’ Dawson replied. Then he stepped over to the doorway between the bridge and the stern deck.

As Harsen Smith watched the SEALs prep for their mission, Martin walked over to his friend and draped an arm across his shoulder. ‘With a little luck and some prayers, everyone might just get out of this mess unharmed.’

Smith had brought the Sharon S to a stop about a mile from shore, with her bow aimed at the point where the Rifle River emptied into the bay. From shore, the stern of the boat was hidden from view. The waters were calm, and they’d made good time cruising up the Saint Clair River from Algonac, into Lake Huron, around Michigan’s Thumb, and into Saginaw Bay. It was now 8:30 in the morning on what promised to be a hot, sunny day.

On the way up from Algonac, the seven-man squad had reviewed specific segments of their mission plan. They had covered what they could expect during their underwater approach to the target area, including water conditions, currents, and underwater topography. Lieutenant Edwards had briefed the squad on the mission plan and each man’s task assignments. Once the ideal plan was laid out, they had reviewed the contingency plan to deal with unknowns that might leave the ideal plan in ruins. Lastly, the SEALs had completed their check of weapons and equipment.

As this was a hostage-rescue mission, Dawson designated the squad Angel. The Sharon S, Dawson’s flagship and base of operations, became Heaven. The hostages, Kelsey and Elli, were identified as Halos One and Two, respectively. By tradition, the hostage-takers were known as Tangos, and the SEAL sniper team as God.

The earpiece on Dawson’s headset crackled with an incoming transmission. ‘God to Heaven. Over.’

Dawson reached down to the unit clipped to his belt and flipped the SEND switch, allowing two-way communication. ‘This is Heaven, God. Say status.’

‘God is on station.’

‘We read you, God. Heaven out.’

Dawson flipped the radio back into receive mode. ‘Edwards, you copy that?’

‘Aye, sir. God has found a perch near the target and is ready if we need him.’

‘All right, men,’ Gates boomed out, ‘it’s time to saddle up.’

The SEALs zipped into their formfitting, black Neotex wet suits to protect them from exposure during the mile-long swim to shore. Over their chests, the SEALs donned Draeger LAR V oxygen rebreathers — a type of closed-circuit scuba gear that left no telltale bubbles on the surface to give away their position. They then attached a variety of weapons and equipment to their backs, waists, and thighs, transforming each SEAL into a mobile arsenal.

Once the squad was suited up and equipped, Gates, the dive supervisor, checked each man to ensure that the dive gear was right and that the weapons and other equipment were secure. The squad then performed the predive purge, ridding their bodies of built-up nitrogen before switching to pure oxygen for the dive. This last step was done for safety, reducing the possibility that one of the divers might suffer from oxygen deprivation should exhaled nitrogen pass through the CO2-absorbing crystals in the Draeger rebreather and take the place of life-sustaining oxygen.

Edwards checked his dive watch; it was time to go.

‘Admiral, Angel will be on station at oh-nine-thirty and awaiting your signal.’

‘Good hunting, Angel,’ Dawson replied, loud enough for the entire squad to hear.

One by one, the SEALs stepped off the stern jump deck and into the water. Smith and Martin Kilkenny looked on. When all seven were in the water, Edwards flashed a thumbs-up at Dawson and the two elderly men. Then the SEALs disappeared into the lake.