The Line

CHAPTER 27

Through his night vision goggles, the navigator on the lead Zodiac spotted their strobe on shore. He steered directly in, slowing as they approached the rocky shore. A soldier in the prow threw a line to the woman waiting on shore. The party scrambled ashore, the last man opening the boat’s valves, letting it slip back under the water.

The second boat came in and unloaded. The team leader walked up to the guide, “Major Keyes,” he said, identifying himself.

“Sergeant Vasquez,” the guide replied, taking his hand and returning his grip squeeze for squeeze.

Keyes broke off first.

“All accounted for.”

“I’ve got a van to take you on the final leg to your target, sir,” Sergeant Vasquez said, pointing inland.

“All right.” Major Keyes turned and gave a hand signal.

His team spread out and they moved forward.

Eighty miles to the south, men began loading out of the submarine.

Their target was less than a half-mile away, but totally oblivious of their presence. The captain had crept up slowly, on silent running, taking the entire night to cover six miles underwater.

The men were experts at this task as they formed up on their SDVS and mini-sleds. In a V, their team leader at the head, they slowly began to traverse the last of the distance to their target.

Boomer felt exposed as the sun continued rising over the hills to the east and shone down on the harbor. They were hidden in tall grass right next to the water, but already two naval launches had gone by with security personnel on board. Boomer checked his watch again. It was getting close — too close.

“Maybe they were already in when we got here,” he suggested.

“If they are in, then we’re going to see some good fireworks soon,” Skibicki said, briefly pulling off one of the earpieces, then replacing it.

“But I don’t think they would have stayed in that long. They only have so much oxygen on the SDV. No, they’re still coming.

Several minutes passed, then Skibicki suddenly smiled.

“I’ve got a contact,” he said.

“Moving steadily at two knots.” He took off the headset.

“Time to get wet.”

Boomer slipped on his fins and pulled his mask down.

Together they slipped into the water, Skibicki in the lead.

He had another piece of exotic equipment in hand that Boomer had never seen before. The sergeant major had briefly described its function when Boomer had asked how they would pinpoint the Mark IX if and when it came through the entrance. Five hundred meters of dark water was a pretty wide area for two men to cover. Skibicki had shown him a small handheld device and explained that it would lock in on the OAR, obstacle avoidance radar, that the SDVS used and bring them right up on the craft.

The exercise of swimming through the water felt good to Boomer. His ribs still ached but the soreness wasn’t crippling.

He breathed in air through his mouthpiece, slowly exhaling in rhythm with his finning. Skibicki was a dark bulk just in sight. Visibility was less than four feet at their current depth of ten feet.

Agent Stewart could tell that the protocol officer for Pearl Harbor was extremely flustered. The folding chairs set up for the Joint Chiefs of Staff were prominently empty, except for the Marine Corps commandant, and the young officer didn’t quite know how to handle such an unprecedented breach of etiquette.

Stewart glanced about. There were a group of survivors of the Arizona gathered together on the other side of the memorial beside the media.

The surface of the harbor was perfectly still, looking like a dark sheet of glass. The distant chatter of security helicopters was the only noise breaking the tranquility of the moment.

“Even at this moment,” Stewart could hear one of the network anchors speaking, “fifty-four years ago, the first wave of Japanese planes was making landfall on the north side of Oahu, breaking into their attack formations.”

Since the fiftieth anniversary celebration in 1991, the memorial service had hardly made a blip on the major networks, but the President’s presence and the promise of a major policy speech had drawn the media.

Stewart glanced northward at the lush green hills. It was all so beautiful and peaceful. Then he looked back at the empty chairs. To him they were a bad omen. Last night, he’d talked to Rameriz his boss, and they had brought in extra agents from the second detail. He looked around the memorial and noted the additional security. If someone tried an attack, they were as ready as they could be.

All Trace knew was that they were in a van somewhere on the landward side of the Pearl Harbor Navy base. Their guards had told them to be quiet when Trace had tried asking General Maxwell what was going on.

She knew they were on the Pearl Harbor Reservation because she could see through a crack in the curtains separating them from the driver up front and had recognized a few landmarks.

The van had tilted, as if going down a ramp just before stopping, and Trace and Maxwell had been hustled out, down a long corridor, and into a large room with concrete walls.

There were two officers manning radios in the room and another officer dressed in camouflage fatigues standing at a map board. He turned as they were brought in and nodded.

“General Maxwell, Major Trace. I’m Colonel Decker.

Sorry for the inconvenience, but we need to talk.” He glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have time right now. Please, have a seat.”

“I demand to know why we were brought here,” Maxwell said.

Decker shook his head.

“I don’t have time right now, general. All your questions will be answered very shortly.”

He pointed at a TV on the wall that showed the ceremony just across the water.

“Watch and see.”

The two limousines had emptied their passengers fifteen minutes earlier. The boarding ramp was pulled back and the E-4B taxied the last few yards to the ready line. The pilot increased throttle and the plane roared forward, increasing speed until the wheels slowly parted company with the ground.

On the balcony of the V.I.P quarters. Hooker could see the silhouette of the E-4B disappear into the early morning haze, then he returned his attention to the harbor. The dark gray bulk of the Antietam was just making its presence known, coming out of the East Loch toward Ford Island and the memorial.

“All systems read green,” the navigator reported.

“Turn the beacon on,” the pilot ordered as he brought the propellers to a halt, having negotiated the final turn in the harbor entrance that would give them a line to the Arizona Memorial. They were just off Hospital Point, almost 2,000 meters from the target. It would be threading a needle, but if they got in any closer they risked getting picked up by one of the security launches.

The navigator transmitted a signal on the designated frequency and the beacon that had been hidden on one of the legs of the Arizona monument was activated. It began sending out its own signal.

“I’ve got target lock,” the navigator said.

With the lock, they were confident that they would not miss. The guidance system of the torpedo would home in on the transmitter.

“Five minutes,” he announced.

Eighty miles to the south of Pearl Harbor, the captain of the SHARCC was gratified to see that they had a secure link with the E-4B now airborne and gaining altitude to the north. He was less than gratified though, when his executive officer suddenly swore from his position near the sonar operator.

“Sir, we’ve got multiple small contacts off the starboard bow.”

“What is it? Dolphins?” the captain demanded, looking over the shoulder of the sonar operator.

“Negative, sir.” The technician frowned.

“They look like five or six small submersibles and they’re close.” He fiddled with the controls.

“Sir! There’s a large contact on silent running behind the smaller ones. I wouldn’t have picked it up if I hadn’t gotten the others on screen. It looks like a large sub — maybe a Los Angeles or Ethan Alien Class!”

On board the E-4B, General Martin had the crew run through their communications checklist for taking over all satellite transmissions one last time. The five-mile trailing wire antenna was slowly unreeling behind the aircraft as it passed 4,000 feet of altitude.

Martin also made last-minute contacts with various military forces standing by, awaiting his orders. The SHARCC had been the primary plan, so they hadn’t had a chance to do a run-through with the E-4B crew. He had no doubt, though, that the men and women on board would perform when the time came. They were all handpicked for their professionalism and even more so for their unquestioning loyalty.

Especially since only a select few knew the exact nature of their mission.

“Two minutes,” the navigator said, caressing the launch lever as he watched the red numbers turn over on his display.

Major Keyes checked his watch. Two minutes. His men were gathered together on the roof, the three-foot edging keeping them hidden from the ground below. They’d climbed up the back side of the adjoining building in the dark using collapsing aluminum ladders. Then they’d traversed across the gap between the two buildings using a line fired across from a crossbow.

They’d quietly manually drilled in anchor points for their rappeling ropes and securely attached the lines. Keyes slid the nylon rope through the snap link on the front of his harness, making sure it looped once so he could break. He edged up on his knees next to the wall. Three other men on lines watched him for the word to go. Behind each of them, four other men waited their turn. Vasquez. was there too, over the protests of Keyes, dressed in black with a submachine-gun, ready to go.

Keyes flipped his MP-5 submachine-gun off safe.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”

The President walked to the podium and looked out at the sea of faces and television cameras.

“Let us bow our heads in a minute of silence for those who died here in the service of their country.”

The torpedo was a large bulk on the top center of the Mark IX, dividing the pilot’s hatch from the navigator’s.

Boomer looked over the torpedo at Skibicki bobbing in the water and nodded. At the same moment they twisted the latch on the respective hatch below them. Skibicki leaned in and levered his arm around the neck of the pilot of the Mark IX, jamming the point of his knife into the soft skin under the man’s jaw, pushing it up into his brain, killing him instantly.

Boomer wasn’t so fortunate. The point of his knife glanced off the air hose of the navigator, severing it and leaving a gash along the left side of the man’s face. The navigator convulsed forward, sucking in a lungful of seawater.

Boomer dropped the knife, letting it dangle on its lanyard, and grabbed the other man’s arms with his own hands, pulling them away from the firing lever the man was desperately trying to reach.

It was a silent struggle, in the surreal green glow of fifteen feet of water. Boomer was half in the hatch, upside down, pressed up against the open latch, his hands on the other man’s forearms, holding them up and away.

Skibicki could only watch from the other side, unable to get in, blocked on the inside by the body of the pilot buckled into his harness and on the outside by the bulk of the torpedo. A steady spray of bubbles from the severed airline floated to the surface, the only sign of the battle going on underneath the placid harbor surface.

Keyes stood and hopped onto the edge of the building.

He pushed off and dropped out of sight, one hand on the rope, the other holding out his submachine gun ready for use. The other three men went over at the same time.

As soon as the ropes went slack, the next men hooked in and followed.

As the last one cleared, Vasquez followed.

The arms grew weaker and weaker and then Boomer felt no resistance. He looped one arm around the man’s chin and slid the blade of his knife into the man’s neck to make sure he was dead. A small burst of red clouded the water.

Skibicki leaned into the Mark IX and adjusted the controls, turning off the power and disarming the torpedo. The submersible slowly sank down toward the harbor bottom.

Skibicki then tapped Boomer on the shoulder and indicated for him to follow. Boomer turned to the west, but Skibicki grabbed him, shook his head and pointed east.

“Damn it, what’s going wrong?” General Martin demanded, staring at the television screen in the war room of the E-4B at the President who still stood at the podium.

“We don’t have contact with the SDV,” Admiral Hancock reminded him.

“They might have been held up. The President will still be out there for another twenty minutes.”

“And if the SDV mission has failed?” General Dublois asked.

“We still have the back up on Air Force One.” Hancock said.

Martin nodded.

“Contact the SHARCC and have them relay the order for our decoy to back out. Go to alternate plan Stingray.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Admiral Hancock turned to give the order, the E4B reached 10,000 feet of altitude. The air pressure indicator on the detonator of the bomb Skibicki had relocated to the E-4B’s inflight refueling inlet did what it was designed to do and exploded the dual blasting caps set into the ten pounds of C-4.

Those inside had a brief moment to wonder what the cause of the loud popping noise was before the explosion reached the auxiliary fuel tanks just above the main fuselage, and the entire aircraft became one large fireball.

“Our link is down with Looking Glass!” the SHARCC executive officer yelled.

“She’s gone!”

“What the hell?” the captain exclaimed. He tore his gaze from the sonar screen. Whatever the contacts had been, they were now too close to be picked up. The large contact was stationary off their starboard bow, about 1,000 meters away.

An alarm screeched.

“Torpedo lock!” the counter electronics officers yelled, indicating that the large contact had locked in a torpedo homing signal on their hull.

“Have they launched?” the captain demanded.

“Negative, just the lock.”

The captain had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was, none of it was in the intricate plan he’d been briefed on.

The SHARCC shuddered as an explosion reverberated through the hull.

“Status!” the captain screamed.

“I thought you said they hadn’t fired!

“We’ve got a breach in number three and four swim locks forward,” the damage control officer reported. He looked up.

“It wasn’t a torpedo. Someone’s at the hatches.

We’re being boarded.”

The SHARCC captain drew his pistol and gazed at the corridor leading to the front of the submarine. There was a chatter of automatic fire, then dead silence. The captain pointed his weapon at the hatch.

He never got a chance to shoot as the first Navy SEAL came through the hatch firing.

Hooker leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. The members of the staff were scurrying about, yelling into portable Satcom radios. Except nothing was happening, all communication with Looking Glass and the SHARCC was down. He could see for himself that the memorial was still intact and if he squinted, he could make out the figure of the President behind the podium, still speaking.

There was the sound of a shot on the first floor and all the men froze, looking at one another in confusion. Hooker was ignored as four men dressed in black swung down from the roof on rappeling ropes, landing on the balcony. They fired long sustained bursts from their silenced weapons into the room, killing all inside. Over a hundred years of military experience died in those seconds. Hooker’s bodyguards fought back and two of the men went down, but a second wave followed and the sheer number of the attackers overwhelmed Hooker’s men.

It was over in twenty seconds. Three black-clad men and one woman — Hooker could tell by her figure — were still standing. Everyone else other than Hooker was dead.

The leader of the men turned to the old man and pulled up his black balaclava.

“General Hooker.”

“Major Keyes,” Hooker nodded in return.

“We wondered where you had gone. We haven’t heard from you in six months.” He looked beyond, at the bodies strewn about the room and the shattered radios. His staff was now gone.

There was no one left but him.

Keyes shifted the lever on the side of his MP-5 to single shot.

“You’ve failed, you know that, don’t you?”

“I did my duty to my country to the best of my ability,” Hooker replied.

“I lost this battle, but there is a bigger picture.” His right hand was under the blanket covering his lap.

“Enough macho bullshitting,” Vasquez called out.

“Let’s finish it.”

Hooker’s blanket shredded as he pulled the trigger of the silenced Ingram MAC-10 concealed there. At 1,100 rounds a minute, the thirty-round magazine was completely emptied in under two seconds.

The shocked look on Keyes’s face was gratifying to Hooker as the major staggered back under the impact of bullets. Hooker’s right hand flicked a switch on the left arm rest and Claymore mines that had been wired into the ceiling exploded, spraying the other side of the room with thousands of tiny pellets. The rest of Keyes’s team and Vasquez died in the blast.

The roar of the F-16s built to a crescendo and the missing man formation flew by overhead. The bosun’s whistle on the Antietam blew across the water and the crew saluted in unison.

A lone bugler standing on the end of the memorial put his instrument to his lips and began playing Taps, a tune written by Major General Butterfield, West Point class of 1839, the soulful sound echoing through the hearts of the men standing at rigid attention. On the faces of some of the survivors tears flowed despite all the years that had passed. Tears for their young comrades in arms who had not known the blessings of the past fifty-four years.