State of the Union (26 page)

T
he Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, moved silently through the frigid waters of the Baltic Sea. It had been delivered to a secret Swedish naval base on the island of Gotland, via a U.S. Air Force Lockheed Martin C5 Galaxy cargo plane, in what the Swedish government believed was an impromptu, covert NATO training exercise. Harvath and his team flew by private jet to Gotland from Berlin, where they boarded the ASDS with their gear and rendezvoused with the
USS Connecticut
, a
Seawolf-C
lass nuclear-powered attack submarine, waiting two miles offshore. The ASDS was able to attach to the larger submarine via a lock in/lock out chamber in its floor and a dry-deck shelter mounted behind the
Connecticut
’s conning tower. This combination of watertight hatches allowed free passage between the
Connecticut
and the Advanced SEAL Delivery System while the
Connecticut
was underwater and approaching their target area.

The enormous nuclear-powered attack submarine was designed with emphasis on high-speed, deep-depth operations. Its engine quieting, combat systems, sensor systems, and payload capacity were greatly improved over its predecessors, the
Los Angeles
-class attack submarines. It was an investment in technology that kept the United States Navy on the cutting edge of maritime warfare and tonight, that investment had more than proven its value.

With an unusual number of vessels from Russia’s Baltic Fleet prowling the Gulf of Finland, all of the
Connecticut
’s extraordinary stealth capabilities had been called upon to maneuver it undetected into a position off the Finnish coast where it could launch the ASDS.

The bone-dry, completely enclosed, sixty-five-foot long minisub was considered one of the hottest pieces of equipment the United States Special Operations Command had ever put into service. It could travel at ranges up to 125 miles with a speed of just over eight knots on a series of lithium ion polymer batteries. Its integrated control and display systems, dual-redundant flight control computers, operational software, forward-looking sonar for detecting natural and manmade obstacles, as well as side-looking sonar for mine detection and terrain/bottom mapping, were all state-of-the-art. In addition to a Navy-certified submarine pilot and SEAL navigator, the craft could accommodate anywhere from eight to sixteen SEALs, depending on the amount of gear their mission required. Tonight, though, Harvath, Morrell, DeWolfe, and Carlson were taking up most of the room.

As they came within range of their objective, the pilot, whom Carlson had referred to incessantly as ‘Captain Nemo’ since they had boarded in Gotland, told his passengers to begin preparing to get wet.

Because of the amount of equipment they had to transport, they were limited to exiting in pairs from the lock in/lock out chamber in the floor of the ASDS.

All four of the men wore brand new amphibious diving suits developed by the Army’s Soldier and Biological Chemical Command lab in Natick, Massachusetts. The amphibious diving suits acted and looked like the typical dry suits designed to keep their wearers warm by preventing water from reaching the skin, but in this case, once the wearers climbed out of the water, the polyurethane-based, three-layer polymer membrane was also designed to soften and become more amorphous, so sweat molecules could pass through it and perspiration could escape, preventing wearers from overheating. Gone were the days of having to change into a separate set of clothes for land-based operations. That said, the waters of the Baltic were absolutely freezing at this time of year, and as added insurance, the men wore an additional fleece lined layer beneath their suits.

Their LAR VII closed-circuit rebreathers were complimented by military full facemasks with unimpeded field of vision, which provided added facial protection from the icy water. Rebreathers were always the system of choice for covert operations. Regular scuba equipment not only gave off clouds of large visible bubbles, but was also noisy. Closed-circuit oxygen rebreathers on the other hand were quiet, gave off no bubbles and filtered the user’s exhaled carbon dioxide, recharging the remaining nitrogen gas, which makes up a large part of the air, with pulsed oxygen. This economical system allows a diver to stay submerged for four hours or more. The main disadvantage, however, is that the diver is limited to operating in shallow water as pure oxygen begins to become toxic at depths greater than thirty feet.

Waterproof combat bags protected the team’s M4 machine guns, a light weight version of the M16, which possessed a shorter barrel and a collapsible stock.

‘Dummy corded’ to each man, to prevent it from being dropped while underwater, was a highly classified weapon made by Heckler & Koch that didn’t appear in any of their catalogs—the H&K P11.

The P11 was a special pistol, which could fire five 7.62-caliber darts both above and
below
water. But once those five shots have been fired, The P11 takes even longer than an antique black powder rifle to reload, as it has to be sent all the way back to the H&K factory.

To navigate the strong currents around Aidata Island, each man commanded a Farallon MkX DPV—Diver Propulsion Vehicle. The Farallon MkX model DPV was a result of a joint research project between the U.S. Special Operations community and Farallon to give American combat divers an extended mission range and greater top speed than normal commercial DPVs delivered. One of the greatest benefits of a DPV was that because a diver didn’t have to propel himself to an objective, he wasn’t doing any work, so his air could last up to fifty percent longer—essentially doubling his dive time.

The devices looked like minitorpedoes. Because they incorporated a revolutionary new hydrogen based propulsion system, as opposed to the silver zinc batteries being used by other companies, they were much faster than anything previously produced.

Once Harvath, Morrell, DeWolfe, and Carlson were all outside the mini-sub, they activated their waterproof night vision monocles, powered up their DPVs and followed their GPS displays on predetermined courses for Aidata Island.

T
hough he had long since deleted the message, the final transmission Frank Leighton had received from Berlin still floated in the forefront of his mind:

Frank Leighton had spent most of the last twenty-two hours wrestling with a multitude of questions.
Who had killed his teammates? Who exactly was watching him? Was it the Russians? What had happened to Gary Lawlor? How had the Dark Night operation been compromised? Who was this new player, Norseman? And why had his burst transmission been terminated so abruptly?

Though Norseman had managed to discover the emergency contact location and the code for the burst transmission, Leighton was still not one hundred percent convinced that he was who he said he was and decided to slant the playing field as much in his favor as possible.

When Norseman said, “we are coming to you,” undoubtedly he meant that he would be arriving with a team of some sort. If they really were concerned about being observed, they would probably arrive under cover of darkness and most likely via the water.

The first thing Leighton did was booby-trap the site where he had secreted his nuke. If worse came to worse and he was captured, he could at least march his captors into an ambush and maybe be able to escape.

Next, he made sure his boat was ready to sail. He went over the entire craft from stem to stern and made sure everything was literally shipshape. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait.

Hidden within a small outcropping of rock on the side of the inlet where his boat was moored, was a narrow fissure just big enough for Leighton to wedge himself into and be concealed. The waiting seemed to last an eternity, but he was patient. The night was dark and did not offer much ambient light, which greatly reduced the effectiveness of the old night vision binoculars now clutched in his hands. When he finally did notice something near the beach, he thought his tired eyes were playing tricks on him. Leighton squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, trying to dissipate some of the ‘orange burn’ so common with use of night vision optics.

When he looked back through the binoculars again, the shapes appeared not to have moved.
Probably just piles of kelp washed in by the tide,
he thought to himself. The Baltic was famous for the large seaweed forests that populated its sea floor. Then, as he was about to lower the binoculars and give his eyes another rest, he noticed it—
movement
. They were here.

As Leighton extricated himself from his hiding place, it took several minutes for him to get the blood flowing into his legs again. Though the site had provided an exceptional vantage point, he should have stretched more often. His body was not as forgiving as it used to be.

With his Finnish-made JatiMatic PDW drawn, Leighton quietly crept toward the beach. He picked his way along the jagged shoreline, slogging through frigid knee-deep tidal pools, while using the abundance of large rocks for cover as best he could.

When he neared the field of smooth, ocean-tumbled stones that functioned as the inlet’s beach, Leighton crouched behind the last large rock that stood between him and the wide-open space. As the waves splashed against the shore and further soaked his already drenched trousers, he once again raised the night vision binoculars and studied the two shapes he had been looking at before. Upon closer inspection, he still couldn’t tell if they were piles of kelp or something more. But he had seen movement. He was sure of it.

At that moment, a voice from behind and to the left caught him completely off-guard. “Mr. Leighton, I presume?” Leighton stiffened in surprise.

“Please set down your weapon and turn around slowly,” continued the voice.

Leighton did as he was told. As he turned around, the man who had addressed him lowered the M4 he had pointing at him, pulled off the strings of camouflaging kelp that were hanging from his dry suit, and stepped the rest of the way out of the water. “I’m Norseman,” the man said, holding out a gloved hand.

Leighton was speechless. He hadn’t even heard so much as a ripple from the water. Whoever this guy was, he was good. Though he cautiously shook the man’s hand, Frank Leighton still wasn’t convinced they were on the same side.

Harvath shouldered his weapon and removed his fins, tucking them under his left arm. Taking off his gloves, he slid them underneath his weight belt and then signaled the beach and the rusting trawler with a small, waterproof IR strobe. When his signals were returned, Harvath removed his facemask and said to Leighton, “It looks like a nice night for a boat ride. Let’s get going.”

On the beach, they rendezvoused with Leighton’s two piles of kelp, operatives Morrell and DeWolfe. Knowing that he had spotted at least part of the team made Leighton feel only slightly better. Though his skills were still good, they weren’t near what they used to be.

Forgoing the courtesy of an introduction, Morrell asked, “Where’s the device?”

“Let’s establish some
bona fides
first,” replied Leighton.

“I thought we already did that.”

“We’re off to an okay start, but if you think I’m going to hand my responsibilities over to a group of frogmen who show up and just happen to speak English without any accents and claim to be on my side, you’re quite mistaken.”

“Listen,” snapped Morrell. “Don’t try my fucking patience. This suit is good for only about ten more minutes and then my body heat, which you are prematurely raising, is going to begin leaching out. I’m sure our friends the Russians out there on the water are using thermal imaging to keep an eye on this place. If they notice more than one warm body on this island, they might think there’s a little beach barbecue going on and want to come in for a closer look. We can’t let that happen.”

Leighton, far from being a pushover, went toe-to-toe with Morrell and said, “Then you’d better keep your cool.”

Morrell raised his M4 and pointed it right at Leighton’s chest. “No, I think you’d better get with the fucking program.”

“This guy always have a mouth like this?” asked Leighton, turning toward Harvath.

“Not usually. He must have lost his thesaurus on the swim in.”

“Very funny,” said Morrell. “Now we’ve got nine minutes and counting. Either you’re part of the solution, or I’m going to spread you across the beach and you can become part of the landscape.”

“He’s serious, isn’t he?” asked Leighton.

Harvath simply nodded his head.

“I’ve got some questions I want answered first. And like I said, we’ll start by establishing
bona fides
.”

“And like I said,” returned Morrell, “we don’t have time for that shit. We’ve already proven ourselves. We’re all on the same team here.”

“Well, without me on the team, you’re going to have a hard time finding what you’re looking for, so I suggest you cooperate, take a few minutes, and answer my questions.”

Morrell removed a small handheld device. “I’ve got the GPS coordinates for what I’m looking for, so I don’t really need your cooperation, do I?”

Leighton smiled. “Those coordinates might get you there, but that’s about all they’ll get you.”

“Why? What have you done?”

“Let’s just say what you’re looking for is
very
well protected.”

Morrell’s eyes widened. “You booby-trapped it, didn’t you?”

Leighton remained smiling.

“Carlson,” called Morrell over his throat mike as he turned to face the trawler moored in the inlet. “I need you on the beach, ASAP.”

Carlson, who, along with Avigliano, was prepping the
Rebecca
with a special surprise, thought he had a better idea and voiced his opinion.

“No, I’m not sending Harvath to do it,” barked Morrell in response to the Carlson’s voice in his earpiece. “Fuck his SEAL training. You’re the demo expert, so get your ass over here now.”

Leighton looked at the men on the beach. “Who’s Harvath?”

“What the fuck do you care?” growled Morrell.

“You’ve got a SEAL named Harvath. I want to know who he is.”

“You want, you want, you want. You know what? Fuck you.”

“Easy, Rick,” said Scot, stepping in to separate the two men. “I’m Harvath.”

The binoculars had fried Leighton’s eyes worse than he had thought. After squinting a moment, he said, “Of course you are. You look just like him. You sound like him too. I can’t believe I didn’t see it right off the bat.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Morrell.

Leighton ignored him. “You’re Mike Harvath’s son.”

“You knew him?” asked Scot.

“Yeah, back in Vietnam when I was with Army Intelligence. Gary introduced us. We did a couple of joint ops together. He was a good man.”

“Yes he was.”

There was silence on the beach. Morrell raised his eyebrows and looked back and forth several times from Harvath to Leighton. “Have we established our
bona fides
now?”

Though he didn’t care much for Morrell, the resemblance Harvath bore to his father was enough to satisfy Leighton that these men were who they said they were. “We’re good. Follow me.”

“Fabulous,” sneered Morrell, who activated his throat mike and addressing Carlson said, “Scratch that last order. You and Avigliano finish prepping the boat. We’re going to get the package. Be ready to move.”