Sending Messages

Chapter 6 Assembling Assets

The red-eye flight from San Diego to Washington was not Hammond’s favorite, but it was the quickest way to get involved that he knew of. The minute he got off the Kings Mountain in San Diego, he had been surrounded by security. Back in his office, they briefed him on the man following his car and a plan was hatched. A senior officer in the security detail was given the keys to his car and his home. While everything was getting set up, Hammond got a briefing from his staff on all that was known about the incident so far. The CNO’s office had personally made sure they were in the loop for anything that came up. Hammond was told that his boss, the Commander in Chief, Pacific, had ordered him to temporary duty in the office of the Chief of Naval Operations until the situation was over. He was also given a reservation for the evening flight leaving San Diego at 8 pm. By 5 pm, a bag had been brought from his home back to the office. The senior officer, a Navy Commander, was now dressed in a vice admiral’s uniform, and went out of the building. He climbed into Hammond’s car and drove back to his home. Just as expected, the tail followed him. Hammond, now in civilian clothes, was placed in the back of one of the security cars and driven to the airport. There was a two hour delay in Los Angeles, but finally he was in the air headed toward Washington.

Hammond tried to sleep, but the events were too much to handle. He was still trying to run things through his mind, going through details over and over again. The movie was some comedy about college teens which usually ended with a prank played on some unsuspecting character. Searching through the seatback pocket, he pulled out a magazine and began leafing through it. He was interrupted by someone kneeling beside his seat.

“Admiral, how are you holding up?” asked the person kneeling.

Hammond looked over to see Petty Officer Golden beside him with a concerned look on his face. Seeing one of his crew brightened his whole evening. “Golden! What are you doing on this flight?” Hammond asked with a grin as he shook his hand. A quick nod to the federal marshal sitting across from him in the aisle kept Golden from being grabbed.

“Couldn’t hang around this time. My wife called and our son is in the hospital with a bad appendix. I’m making a quick dash in to make sure things are okay before I head back,” Golden said.

Hammond got a surprised look. “Going back? Okay, what are you and the rest of the crew up to?”

An innocent look crossed Golden’s face. “Oh, nothing. Some of us are going to hang around in case we’re needed. You never know, Captain, you might need some help. Besides, it’s always good to carry a big stick,” he said referring to the Iowa.

Hammond chuckled. “Just like last time, huh? Well, I appreciate it, but right now I doubt we can use you. This is a whole different situation from the last time.” He said.

Golden grinned. “Just let us worry about that one. Have you heard anything new?” he asked.

Hammond shook his head. “No, still no word on who has them or where they are. I’ve got some ideas, but we need a little more information. I’m on the way to Washington to help out where I can.”

Golden patted Hammond on the arm. “That’s probably the best way to go right now. Just do us a favor. If you do find out anything, let us know. You’ve got a lot of guys pulling for you back on the ship and around. If we can help, call on us.”

Hammond smiled and offered his hand again. “Don’t worry. I know. I’ll get the word to you guys as often as I can. Now you get home to your family. They need you more than anything right now.”

Golden nodded. “Okay, I get off in Houston, but if you need to talk a while, come on back.”

“Thanks. I’m going to try to get a little sleep, but if I can’t, I may join you,” Hammond said.

“You’re more than welcome,” said Golden as he stood. He waved as he walked toward the rear of the plane.

Hammond glanced at the Marshal. “He’s one of my former crew. Nice guy.”

“I kind of figured that. Good thing he kept his hands where I could see them,” said the Marshal with a grin.

Hammond chucked, “I guess so,” he said as he sat back in his seat. As he sat in the darkened plane, he thought back about the times he and his men and shared during the war. Golden was a good Boatswain’s Mate and one of his helmsmen. He had always been eager to help out around the ship. The thoughts helped put his mind at ease, and although he didn’t sleep, they helped him feel more rested.

The padded envelope with a DVD disk was delivered to the Señal Colombia, a Bogotá television station just one half hour before the evening news. The outside of the package was covered with the message, ‘Open immediately, news item.’ A young news team member opened the package. Inside was a typewritten note from the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), announcing their capture of fourteen American hostages. The young man let out a yell and immediately placed the disk into his computer. By the time the first image appeared on the screen, there were a dozen people around his desk. The video clearly showed the Americans in some sort of cell. Their clothing was wrinkled and there was straw clinging to hair and clothing. One older man looked a little ill, but the rest seemed to be doing well. On the audio portion was the voice of a man proclaiming that the FARC could no longer abide by the capitalist ventures of Colombia, and especially its ongoing relationship with the United States. The person blamed the United States for all the ills of South America and demanded that Colombia release its leaders from its prisons and the ouster of the United States from its embassy in Bogotá.

Within minutes, the video was ready for broadcast. At the same time, it was passed to the CNN office in the same building. By midnight, Washington time, the world was convinced that the FARC had committed a terrorist act and was holding the American mayors. The Colombian government acted quickly. FARC offices were raided and leaders detained for questioning. Mounds of paperwork and computers were seized and units fanned out throughout Columbia to every place the FARC was known to operate. Three hours later, a second bulletin was released by the Venezuelan government stating they too would assist in weeding out the FARC organization and finding the American hostages.

In America, the media immediately went into a frenzy. Reporters were called in and sent out to find anything they could about the FARC. Plane tickets were purchased to head to Colombia and flights were filled with reporters and crews to get down to where the action was. Families of the hostages were re-interviewed and in some cases, reporters camped out near the homes so they could be there in case the worst happened. Images and video from the Iran hostage crisis in the 70’s were pulled out and references made to the longest hostage situation in American history, not to mention how it had condemned the Carter Administration in the next election.

Roger Hammond’s neighborhood had been peacefully quiet. Suddenly a local television news truck pulled up into the driveway. A microwave antenna was extended on the top of the truck and turned to lock into the home station’s receiver. A second truck pulled up, followed by a third and two cars. Reporters rushed to the front door and began ringing the doorbell and knocking loudly. A light came on in a bedroom and in a minute, a groggy man opened the door. Immediately the lights came on and reporters shoved a microphone towards the man, who made the mistake of saying he wasn’t Roger Hammond. When reporters questioned who he was, the man caught his mistake and said there would be no interviews. One of the reporters called back to his technician in the truck saying, “He isn’t here.”

The old man seated in his truck had been the second one to watch Hammond’s house. He heard the comment. Wondering what had gone wrong, he watched as the news reporters ambled around the yard, themselves wondering what to do. He picked up his cell phone and dialed a telephone number to report that Roger Hammond was not in his house. Inside the car of the naval security team, the mobile receiver immediately picked up the cellphone signal and not only identified the number, but recorded the conversation. Of interest, was an instruction to go back to San Pedro and watch ‘the ship.’ The old man started the truck and moved off toward the main road. He didn’t notice one of the several cars moving that seemed to be going the same direction he was.

The morning news brief had turned into a zoo. With the news about the FARC, everyone was clamoring to find out what the United States was doing to bring these people to justice and free the hostages. Greg Messer, the White House Spokesman condemned the act and the apparent conditions the hostages were in. He assured reporters that they were working closely with the government in Colombia to ‘bring a rapid end to this situation,’ but reporters had heard that before and weren’t having it. They wanted details and facts, where there were none. One of the reporters asked why Vice Admiral Roger Hammond was not at home and if he was going to be sent on a mission. The automatic reply that the government did not respond to questions on military operations seemed to indicate that Hammond was being brought in. Nearly every reporter was determined to get the real story and immediately sent out a request to find Hammond.

Roger Hammond’s plane was just landing at Reagan National Airport. It taxied to its terminal ramp and people were asked to remain seated as one person was escorted off. The Marshal and Hammond exited the plane and out a side door to enter a car on the tarmac. Within minutes, they were rapidly making their way through a security gate and into the traffic of Pentagon City. Entering the freeway, his car, with escort, made its way to the Washington Navy Yard and to the senior officer’s quarters that had been prepared for him.

Hammond looked beat. The plane flight hadn’t allowed him to rest much. The drawn face and baggy eyes told that story, but he was invigorated by the thoughts of finally getting involved. After a quick shower and a change into his summer white uniform, Hammond reentered the car and was driven to the Pentagon. Admiral Perry Johnson was waiting for him.

“Roger, it’s good to see you,” Johnson said warmly as he came from behind his desk to greet him.

“Same here, Boss, you doing okay?” Hammond asked.

Johnson could see the wear on the man, but knew better than mention it. “Oh, peachy,” he said with a grin. “You’re still trying to keep us busy around here. You all set up in your quarters?” he asked as the men sat down.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Just tell me what I need to do to get our people back,” Hammond said.

Johnson noticed that Hammond was thinking about the whole group and hadn’t mentioned his wife. He was on mission. “Did you see the hostage video?”

Hammond nodded. “In Houston. At least they’re alive and well. Do we have any plans yet?”

Johnson nodded. General Richardson has a special operations team gearing up and we have all kinds of eyes on the area, but so far, except for that video, we haven’t a clue. Can’t do much if we don’t know where they are.”

Hammond gave a sigh. “Sounds familiar,” he said, referring to the last war when the USA didn’t know who started it for a number of days.

“Well, the Colombians are going crazy rounding up every FARC member they can get their hands on. Even if it’s a splinter cell, we might have information relatively soon,” Johnson said.

“I doubt it,” said Hammond sitting forward in his seat. “I don’t think the Colombians or the FARC had anything to do with it.”

Johnson got a questioning look on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Because, Perry, this isn’t about the FARC or politics in Colombia. They’re going after our Boss,” Hammond said plainly.

They were interrupted by the CNO’s aide. “It’s time for the morning brief, sir.”

Johnson thought a moment. Hammond had thought something through. He usually wasn’t wrong. He wanted to hear more. Johnson waved to his aide. “Admiral Hammond is coming with us. Contact the White House and let them know he’s coming.” He turned to Hammond. “Roger, tag along with me. Your buddy wants to see you anyway. You can explain it to all of us.”

Jim Mitchell was looking very pale. The heat and humidity were working on all of the people in the room, but it was worse for him. He had already been over a day without his heart medications and he could feel it in his chest. The nitro glycerin tablets helped, but he was going to run out of those soon. He looked around the room which was their prison. The rest of the mayors were sitting in various places with their backs against a wall. Occasionally someone spoke, but most of the time it was quiet. It simply took too much effort to say anything.

Sweat was pouring off each person in the room and already everyone tried to ignore the smells coming from both the people and the chemical toilet in the corner. At least the guards allowed them to change the toilet out every few hours. There was plenty of water too, although it was the same temperature as the room, so there was little refreshment. Most of the mayors were resigned to sit and wait. Only Patricia Crowell made the effort to cheer the others up or be concerned about their well being. She was always going back and forth with an encouragement or simply to offer support. That brought a smile to Mitchell’s face. Of all the people in the group, she was the one he would elect to office. She really was concerned about others.

The pain in his chest started to grow again. As always, he reached for his nitro bottle and began struggling with the cap. A pair of hands took the bottle from him and got the cap off. Crowell smiled as she shook a pill into his hand and he placed it under his tongue. She glanced in the bottle. “Not too many more. Do you have another bottle?”

Mitchell shook his head. “In my hotel room,” he chuckled. Already the pain was subsiding.

“We need to see about getting your medicine,” she said as she sat beside him in the straw.

Mitchell held up his hand. “I’m too hot to complain. Don’t worry too much about me, we all need to get out of this place,” he said. “Besides, every time we see our sergeant, he seems to get a little more cross with us.”

“At least he has air conditioning,” she said. They could all hear the small window unit across the court struggling with the heat. “Maybe next time he’ll be a little more sympathetic,” she said with a grin.

Mitchell chuckled. “Just don’t get hurt. I don’t think he’s known for his empathy.”

She shrugged. “You do what you can.”

“Tell me. What makes you so confident?” he asked.

Crowell looked at the floor and gave a faint smile. “If you think I don’t worry, you’re wrong. This situation is a hot mess and we could be here a long time. But at the same time, I know something our captives don’t.”

“You’re clairvoyant?” Mitchell joked.

The smile grew wider. “No, but I know that somewhere there is a man doing everything he can to get me home,” she said. “You see, I married a man who I know is a lot smarter than most people and has ways of getting a lot of things done.” She motioned toward the young guard standing in the outer hall. “These guys have no idea what’s about to happen to them,” she said.

The sound of a door banging shut and footsteps across the gravel courtyard told everyone in the room to get to their feet. Within a minute the Sergeant was standing smugly at the cell door. He glanced around the room and a smile crossed his lips. “That is much better. When you show the proper respect, I feel more generous. This evening, after your dinner, each of you will be allowed to shower and clean up. I have a change of clothing as well. As long as you are compliant with my wishes, you will be allowed to bathe each day,” he said.

The sound of more footsteps across the courtyard highlighted the arrival of their meal. The two young soldiers opened the cell door and slid the pots into the cell, along with bread, paper plates and plastic utensils. The regular guard held his rifle toward the door to stop any idea of creating a disturbance. The mayors stood silently. Crowell raised her hand.

“You wish to speak to me?” asked the sergeant. There was an edge to his voice that warned her he might take their meal again.

Crowell nodded. “Yes, Sergeant. I would like to respectfully ask if there is any way to help this gentleman here…” she said pointing to Mitchell, “to either get some medicine or to see a physician. I know you said earlier that he should do without, but I am worried about his health and would not want to see him harmed. He is already running out of the one medication he has. If you could do anything, it would be a great help,” she said quietly. Crowell made sure that the anger she felt was not in her voice. It had its desired effect.

A smile crossed the sergeant’s face, almost as if he knew something was going to happen. “Now, you see? When you ask respectfully I can be most generous. Tomorrow your friend will be taken to a physician to take care of his needs. After that, he will have nothing more to worry about,” he said smugly. “Now enjoy your meal,” he said as he turned and abruptly left the building.

The people in the cell looked around at each other. They all thought the same thing — it was too easy.

Sharon Roberts crossed the room as everyone sat back down. She kneeled next to Mitchell and Patricia. “At least you didn’t piss him off,” she said with a grin.

Mitchell chuckled and Patricia shrugged her shoulders. “Remember, you told me I needed to cool it down some. If some sweet talking works, the better for us,” she said.

Roberts nodded. “Yea, but somehow I don’t think that’s why he gave in. Maybe, I’m being a pessimist, but I don’t see the sergeant becoming a saint. Something’s going on,” she said.

Patricia took a breath. “I actually agree with you, but Jim needs his meds and if we can somehow get them, he’ll be better off. I just figured we didn’t have anything to lose.”

Mitchell sat back and placed his hands on his chest. “It’s nice to have two nice looking colleagues worrying about me,” he said with a grin.

Roberts poked him in the arm. “Keep dreaming, old man,” she said with a note of sarcasm. “I don’t think you have enough brownie points yet.”

Several of the group laughed and the air in the room got a little lighter. But Patricia Crowell knew Roberts was right. She wondered what was really going on.

In Washington, the President arrived at his military brief to see his friend, Roger Hammond, standing at the foot of the table next to Jim Butler. O’Bannon nearly ran across the room to embrace Hammond before ushering him to one of the chairs. Everyone in the room knew Hammond and was glad he was there. After the pleasantries were over, the group got down to business. The Chief of Naval Operations started first.

“Mister President, I requested to begin this session because as we guessed, Roger, here, has something to add to the pot that I am in agreement with. As you know, we have been trying to look over all of the northern part of South America. After last night, more effort was placed on Colombia. But Roger says we are looking in the wrong place.” He turned to Hammond. “Roger, explain what you’ve come up with.”

“Mister President, it’s just like a young ensign said to me yesterday. We can’t figure out who did something until we figure out why it was done. Look at the facts. We have been able to establish some pretty good relationships with most of the South American countries lately. Good trade agreements, some strong political alliances and we’ve been able to help out on occasion when they really needed it. There’s no real reason for something like this to happen. This isn’t even a religious thing. The program the mayors were there for is one of the most popular programs around. Both sides benefit. So it begs the questions, why now, why there and why these people?” Hammond stopped a moment to let the questions sink in.

“A simple target of opportunity? I mean, people have been kidnapped like this in the past,” said General Foote.

“In the Middle East about ten years ago maybe, but we are at peace down there. Have been for a long time. So now let’s ask, what do they want,” said Hammond. “This thing last night about political prisoners, from what I have heard, Colombia doesn’t have any, except for the ones they are rounding up now. Then the demand to throw the US out of Bogotá. Everyone knows that’s meaningless. Remember, we’ve been at peace with Colombia for as long as I can remember. Then the claim that it’s the FARC. Since it has gone legit, the FARC is a lot better off than it ever was and gaining in political power. None of it makes sense. So let’s figure out what is really being done here. Someone has kidnapped fourteen mayors, something guaranteed to get attention around the world. Why Americans? But more importantly, why now? Remember, this has happened one time before.”

O’Bannon’s eyes shot wide. “They want me out of office. Just a month before an election, they know that if they play their cards right, the hostages won’t be rescued in time. There will be a new American administration.”

Hammond sat back. His point was made. “Now who down there would benefit most?”

“Parente!” General Black almost shouted. “Not only does he hate America, but he sided with North Korea in the last big one. He’s been known to brag about what a big man he is in South American politics. What if he could silently demonstrate that he could really dictate what would be happening in the United States? He would be king of the hill down there,” Black said.

“The last nail has to do with distance,” said Hammond. “Remember, they said the majors were drugged. Moving them around would be a nightmare. The truck fitting the description crossed into Venezuela. Someone can check me on this, but the roads are not that good down there. On a long trip, these guys would be banged around a lot. But if you look at the video, they don’t really look that bad, so they can’t have gone that far. The video was back to us within 24 hours and it was shot in daylight. That means we need to look somewhere within about 200 miles from the border.”

“What if they got them on some plane?” asked the CNO.

“Then all bets are off, but we’ve been monitoring air traffic and nothing appeared out of the ordinary and from the radar images, nothing took off anywhere near the border,” said Hammond.

General Bradley chimed in. “Okay, say it is the President they are after. That will all go to pot when anyone finds out he did it. There would be an outpouring of sympathy for the United States and a cry for Parente’s head. I can’t see that helping him.”

Hammond took a deep breath. “Yes, sir, so that means he plans on cleaning up all the evidence. I don’t think he plans on ever letting those hostages out alive.”

“Makes sense,” said O’Bannon. “He can say the FARC killed them all. Who would be able to dispute it?”

“And despite it all, there would be ways for Parente to discreetly let the other leaders know he pulled it off,” said Hammond.

The mood in the room had suddenly turned somber. The prospects of losing the hostages had turned into a stark reality. It was silent in the room for a moment.

“At least that gives us our marching orders,” said Foote. “We’ve got to find them and go in and get them out before he has a chance to complete his plans. I take it we have a couple of satellites looking around?”

The President nodded. “And some people on the ground.”

The men in the room looked around and were nodding in agreement. The President broke the silence. “Okay, it looks like this is the best avenue to go on. Let’s follow Roger’s advice and concentrate within 250 miles of where this happened. First priority is to find where these folks are. Once we do, what can we do about it?”

“General Richardson has already selected one of our Special Forces units to be on standby,” said General Black. “She came up with an idea to get them there covertly, but getting them out still needs a little work. This will be classified way above top secret. No sharing the information. I have asked for a completed plan ready within the next 48 hours. Once we find out where this place is, we can hone in the fine details and shove off.”

“Good,” said the President. “Everyone coordinate and make this perfect. I don’t want to lose anyone. Let’s plan on daily briefs, but nothing over a phone line. Let’s keep it tight.” He turned in his seat. “Now what about Roger?”

Hammond put up his hands. “Put me in coach. I wanna play,” he said with a grin. There was another chuckle around the room.

“I figured that. Can he fit in?”

The CNO nodded. “I know we probably shouldn’t, but I want him on the team. Claire Richardson will be the one in charge, but this guy’s too smart to leave in the cold. Besides, now that the cat’s out of the bag, we need to use him where we can.”

Hammond got a puzzled look on his face. “The cat’s out of the bag?”

The President nodded. “The bad guys found out you weren’t at home. Interesting enough, they sent your tail to keep an eye on your ship.”

“The Iowa? Do they think I might go back there?” Hammond asked.

“Actually, we found out that someone’s keeping an eye on all the battleships south of Norfolk. I think they are afraid of what you might do,” said the CNO.

A twinkle came into Hammond’s eyes. “So you want me to lead them on a wild goose chase,” he asked.

“We have some plans,” said the CNO with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re gonna love it.”

The message arrived at 6 am, local time and was passed to the Lieutenant Commander in charge of the Iowa detachment. The Iowa reserve unit was being called up and would report within four days. Any Iowa vets wishing to take part are authorized to accompany the ship. The orders were to make all preparations for getting USS Iowa underway.