Balance of Power: A Novel (4 page)

The two F-14B tomcats streaked westward. The S-3s had been scouring the area for over an hour, but couldn’t pick the
Pacific Flyer
out of the dozens of surface ships. Messer had plotted its last-known position, charted a circle that described the maximum distance the ship could have traveled since the transmission, and started at the outer limits of that circle. The S-3 had reported the southeastern quadrant clear.

“See anything, Messer?” Caskey asked over the ICS, the internal communication system.

“There are ships all over the place. I don’t know how we’re supposed to pick out one.”

“Supposed to be a big ship, or sort of big anyway,” Caskey reminded him.

“Well, they all look pretty much the same on the radar,” Messer replied.

“Choose one, and let’s go look,” Caskey said, scanning the horizon.

“Roger that. Come left to 280. There’s one about…twenty miles off.”

Caskey brought the nose around five degrees in a gentle turn. They stayed at five thousand feet: high enough for a good radar horizon and low enough to quickly descend and check out any ship they found. “Range?”

“Seventeen.”

Caskey squinted as he looked toward the ship, but saw only the blue unbroken ocean. No ships. The radar screen made the Java sea look crowded. To his eyes it looked empty. They flew toward the contact at five hundred
knots, carefully watching their fuel and distance from the carrier.

“Ten miles,” Messer said.

“Tally,” Caskey said, seeing a large whitish ship on the horizon. He couldn’t tell what it was, other than a cargo ship, and big. He lowered the nose of the F-14 and pointed at the ship.

“Five miles,” Messer called.

“I’ll take him down the starboard side,” Caskey said. “He’s heading south—not a good sign,” he added.

“I don’t think they’d be heading back to port,” Messer said.

They leveled off at five hundred feet and five hundred knots and flew down the port side of the ship, keeping it on their right. They could see quickly it was the wrong ship. It had a white superstructure, like the
Pacific Flyer,
but it wasn’t the right shape at all. They couldn’t make out the name as they passed by, but they could clearly make out the Red Star on the stack, from the famous Russian Red Star line, formerly one of the largest cargo lines in the world—state owned, of course. Crewmen standing on the decks looked up at them as they flew by. Caskey could see the white faces turned upward. They waved and the crew waved back.

Caskey pulled back on the stick gradually until the Tomcat was pointing straight up. As soon as they reached four thousand feet he rolled the plane over on its back heading south again, then rolled wings level at five thousand feet. “Next,” Caskey said.

“Thirty right, fifteen miles,” Messer replied immediately.

“Tally,” Caskey said coolly. “It’s bigger than the last ship. Can’t tell if it’s the one,” he said as he lowered the nose.

They approached the second ship from the bow. It was headed directly toward them, but not fast; the bow wave was small.

Caskey breathed in sharply. “I think this is it, Messer. Set up the camera. I’m coming left, then right. I’ll take it down the starboard side.”

“Okay,” Messer said as he checked the settings on his camera.

“Here we go.” Caskey banked hard left as the Tomcat continued its descent, then hard right. They flew by the ship a quarter mile away at five hundred feet and five hundred knots. No one was on deck. With a telephoto lens on his hand-held 35mm camera Messer took as many pictures of the ship as he could while looking for evidence of a missile launcher. They passed the ship and banked hard right. The G forces pushed them down into their seats. Caskey saw the ship’s name in large white letters against the red hull:
Pacific Flyer
. Caskey pulled up sharply to get away from the ship without passing down the other side. He went into afterburner to keep the Tomcat climbing at a forty-five-degree angle and increase the distance from the ship.

As they reached ten thousand feet Caskey rolled the plane over on its back and pulled hard. The G forces built up again as the nose passed through the horizon and he pointed the Tomcat directly at the ocean. Caskey looked straight up and back through the canopy to the ocean and picked out the ship, stark in its white and red against the blue sea. Caskey kept his eye fixed on the ship and held the stick back; he held 7 Gs as the nose came up toward the other horizon, completing a split S. As the nose approached the ship he relaxed the back pressure on the stick and pushed the throttles into full afterburner. “Speed,” Caskey said.

“Passing six hundred knots, sixty-five hundred feet,” Messer said.

The G forces left the airplane as Caskey bunted the nose down to keep the Tomcat pointed at the target. They came out of their seats as the plane went to zero G—weightless. The engines chewed up the jet fuel and threw blue flame out the back of the plane as they pushed the Tomcat forward with more pounds of thrust than the plane
had in weight. They could accelerate going straight up. But at zero Gs and pointed down, they could
really
accelerate.

“Super,” Messer said matter-of-factly as they passed through the sound barrier.

“Rog,” Caskey replied. He kept the nose of the plane on the ship as they lost altitude.

“Passing one thousand,” Messer said.

“Rog,” he said, holding the throttles in max afterburner.

“Mach 1.2.”

“Stand by to mark their position.”

“Ready,” Messer replied as he leaned forward to see the ship a half mile ahead. They were approaching the ship from the stern at 1.2 times the speed of sound. They would be there in three seconds.

The ship flashed by on the left. “Mark,” Caskey said curtly, and Messer immediately pressed the waypoint button on their computer navigation system. Caskey pulled back and the Tomcat’s wings bent under the G forces. The moist air condensed behind them and left a vapor trail in front of their sound.

“Break left!” Messer yelled. Over his shoulder he could see a missile tearing straight toward the Tomcat.

Caskey immediately put the F-14 on its side and banked toward the ship in a 7 G turn. The wings were already fully aft since they were still supersonic.

“Come out of burner!” Messer said as Caskey retarded the throttles, already thinking the same thing.

Caskey and Messer were thrown forward into their shoulder harnesses as the airplane slowed without afterburners as if hitting a wall of air.

“Where’d it come from?” Caskey asked through clenched teeth as he fought the G forces and tried to keep the color in his vision.

“Open hatch just aft of the bridge,” Messer said, watching the small missile. “It’s not gonna make it. It’s
out of gas,” he added as the missile petered out and headed toward the ocean.

Caskey reversed course, headed away from the ship, and descended to just above the water to ensure he was out of the envelope of whatever other surprise might be aboard the
Pacific Flyer
. “That was unpleasant,” he said checking his fuel and the clock.

“One day, we may have to show them what a
real
missile looks like,” Messer said, annoyed at his moist armpits and dry mouth.

From the bridge of the
Pacific Flyer,
the man who called himself Washington watched the F-14 disappear over the horizon. “He not attack us,” he said, quickly recovering his composure after two bridge windows imploded from the sonic boom.

“He’ll be back,” Bonham replied hopefully.

Washington shook his head and frowned, suddenly very angry. “Never. They don’t want you hurt.” He looked up through the broken windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the Tomcat.

“They’re probably waiting for you to contact them,” Bonham said. “You should use the radio.”

Washington shifted his gun to his other hand. “Destroyed.”

Captain Bonham looked at him, worried. “Why?”

“Won’t need.”

“How are you going to talk to them?”

“Nothing to say.”

“No demands?”

“No, not yet.”

Bonham felt a chill go down his back. “What is it you want?”

“You see. Soon enough.”

“No, tell me now!” Bonham spoke louder than he meant to. “Tell me what you want! Maybe I can help,”
he said, choking on the idea of helping Washington do anything.

Washington stood directly in front of Bonham as he quickly scanned the horizon for other ships. “This is just beginning, Captain. Soon, fourth largest country in the world will get respect it deserves.”

“What are you talking about? Are you Japanese?”

Washington turned his back on Bonham as he walked to the other side of the bridge. “You Americans are so stupid. So
arrogant,
” he said with venom. “You learn the hard way.”

L
IEUTENANT
J
ODY
A
RMSTRONG STARED IN DISBELIEF
at Bud Cooper, captain of the
Wasp
. “In broad daylight?”

Cooper nodded as he leaned back on his heels, trying to seem authoritative. But he did not have the confidence in his orders he would like. “We don’t know what they’re doing. We can’t wait until dark.”

The
Wasp
was the center of the other half of the
Nimitz
Battle Group, the amphibious half. The Amphibious Ready Group, the ARG. The half that carried the Marines, the helicopters, the SEALs, and the people who wore green and went ashore with guns. The
Wasp
was the newest amphibious assault helicopter ship in the Navy. Its design was unique. Not only could it operate Marine Corps AV-8B Harrier jets, the CH-53 and CH-46 helicopters, but the aft end of the ship contained a well deck in which hovercraft or landing assault craft could be launched and recovered. When the time came, the back of the ship was flooded and the assault craft went ashore carrying the Marines, trucks, and occasionally tanks. Armstrong’s SEAL platoon operated off the
Wasp
in support of the ARG.

“We?” Armstrong frowned. He wore his distinctive SEAL insignia on the left breast of his camouflage uniform, the insignia affectionately called the “Budweiser” because of its resemblance to the symbol on a Budweiser can. His uniform was perfect, and his tan highlighted his
rugged appearance. He had been interrupted in an inspection of his men, something that occurred only once during each tour at sea, and always with only twenty-four hours’ notice. He was not in a good mood.

As the Officer in Charge, the OIC, of the SEAL platoon on the
Wasp
, he expected hard problems. But nothing like this. They usually had days to plan an operation. Now they were expected to leave in half an hour.

“We just got a good position on the ship,” Captain Cooper continued. “An F-14 found it. Here’s the lat/ long.” He crossed to a chart of the western Java Sea on the bulkhead tack board. He pointed to a spot sixty miles north of Jakarta. “They’re still heading north, but seem to have slowed.”

“Where are we?”

“Right here.” The captain pointed. “Just north of Bawean.”

“That’s three hundred miles,” Armstrong said, rubbing his do-it-yourself buzz cut.

“Right.”

Armstrong studied the chart and thought. He looked at the overhead and thought some more. Finally, he turned to the ship’s intelligence officer, Lieutenant Commander Tyler Lawson, a black officer and graduate of The Citadel. “What do we know about numbers?”

Lawson was widely respected by the SEALs. He was a former SEAL who still wore his “Bud” on his chest. After breaking his back on a parachute jump three years before, he was no longer fit enough to be a SEAL. He applied for a change of designator to intelligence and now worked as an intelligence officer, specializing in amphibious warfare, special operations, low-intensity conflict—the use of SEALs. The SEALs trusted him, which was more than could be said for other intel officers who had no warfare specialty and treated intelligence like academic work.

“All we know,” Lawson began slowly, “is that there are at least twenty, maybe thirty terrorists.” He looked up
at Armstrong. “Maybe more. Everything’s based on one call from a radio operator. We got a photo from the F-14 that the
Constitution
scanned and sent to us over the satellite, but you can see only a few men on the bridge.” He tacked the photo onto the wall next to the chart. He put his hands on his hips and looked at the chart, then the ship. He stared at the
Pacific Flyer
’s position, where the captain had stuck a pin. “Where the hell are they going?” he asked no one in particular, noting the position and direction of travel. “Why out there in the blue water instead of near the coast?” He shook his head as he pondered his own question. “They’d have a lot more leverage and a lot more options if they’d anchored in Jakarta harbor…. I don’t get it. Unless they’re rendezvousing with some other ship. But who? Some combat ship from some navy? Whose? We know where every combatant is in the Pacific, and there isn’t
one
that can even be a factor—at least not before we get there.”

Armstrong stared at the chart. “If we have to go now, there’s only one way we could do it.” He looked at the captain. “Are the 53s up?”

The captain nodded.

“We’ll have to take the whole det. I can’t take one squad onto a ship with twenty or thirty terrorists and…” He looked at Lawson. “How many ship’s company on the
Pacific Flyer
?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Thirty terrorists and twenty-six hostages?” Armstrong shook his head. “Shit! Who wants us to go so soon? We aren’t even giving ’em a chance to play their hand.” He paused. “This should be a job for USSOCOM,” he said, frowning and fighting against the urge to say something he would regret. He knew the Special Operations Command was not only the right command to run such an operation, it would be salivating to get the chance. “This is their op!”

Lawson hesitated. “I think Washington has some info we don’t have.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. I’m trying to read between the lines in the messages I’ve read. Maybe they’ve intercepted something. Something that makes them either think, or know, that these boys aren’t going to be around for very long. Like maybe this isn’t the usual hostage deal. Maybe the terrorists have something else in mind.”

“Like
what
?”

“I don’t know. All I know is we’ve got to go, and they say so.”

“
Who
says so?”

“National Command Authority.”

“Roger that,” Armstrong said, immediately recognizing the brick wall that had just been erected in front of him. “And what
exactly
are our orders?”

“Hostage rescue. No casualties.”

“Jump in the ocean, but don’t get wet.” He thought some more. His arms flexed involuntarily against his taut sleeves as he considered the details of the mission forming in his head. “We’ll have to go right at them. I sure can’t promise no casualties. That’s up to them.” He looked at Lawson and Cooper. “Agree?”

They nodded.

“They didn’t ask us to
guarantee
no casualties, did they?”

“No, they just said no casualties,” Cooper echoed, getting uncomfortable.

“Well shit, sir, excuse my French. What the hell does that mean? Are we supposed to go unarmed?”

“I don’t think so. I expect it means to minimize casualties. I’m sure they expect you to be able to defend yourselves….”

Armstrong stood up straight and shook his head. “It doesn’t
work
like that. We’re not going there to chat—we’re going there to get the Americans off the ship. If they won’t let them go, we whack them. Simple as that. Is that what I am authorized to do or not?”

“I don’t know really,” Cooper said softly, frustrated. “I can’t give you any guidance….”

“Maybe we should ask for clarification—”

Cooper interrupted. “No time.” He looked at his watch. “You’ve got to get going now.”

“This is a shit sandwich.”

“Do the best you can.”

Armstrong stared at him coolly. He wasn’t angry at Captain Cooper; he was angry about the orders he had received. “I’ll bet Lieutenant Commander Becker would push back at these orders.” Becker was the Naval Special Warfare Task Unit commander in charge not only of the SEAL platoon, but also the RHIB Det (Rigid Hull, Inflatable Boat Detachment) and the MCT, the Mobile Communication Team. But Becker had flown ahead to Thailand for the upcoming Cobra Gold exercise.

“Maybe. But he’s not here. This one’s on your shoulders.”

Washington clicked on the microphone on the bridge of the
Pacific Flyer
. He listened for the sound. He blew into it until he heard his breath on the ship’s loudspeakers. He began to speak in his native language in a way that made it clear he was giving orders to his men. He spoke for thirty seconds and set the microphone down. He turned to the captain. “Come here.”

Bonham looked at him but stayed where he was.

“Here, Captain,” he said with more intensity.

“Why?” Bonham asked. “What’s going to happen? Are you afraid the U.S. Navy is going to come get you? They will, you know. Look what happened on the
Achille Lauro
.”

Washington dismissed Bonham’s words with a wave of his hand. “Come here.
Now
.”

Bonham crossed over to Washington and stood directly in front of him. “What?” he said.

“Put out hands.” Washington bent down and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his bag.

“What are you, some kind of coward?” Bonham said gruffly. “Afraid I’m going to attack you or something?”

“Shut up.”

“You shot one of my men like a dog. You’re a spineless
murderer
,” Bonham said, his eyes blazing.

“You not speak!” Washington screamed as he roughly tightened the handcuffs around Bonham’s hands behind his back.

“Why are you doing this?” Bonham asked.

“No talk,” he said, inches from Bonham’s face as he brought his gun up.

“Go ahead and shoot me,” Bonham taunted.

Washington took a roll of heavy tape out of his bag and tore off a piece six inches long. He taped Bonham’s mouth and looked at him from two inches away.

Bonham stared at him with contempt.

Washington spoke to his men on the bridge, who pulled handcuffs from their bags and handcuffed Bacon to the ship’s wheel. He spoke again to one of them, who opened his bag on the deck of the bridge and pulled out a heavy round device.

Bonham had never seen anything like it.

The man carried it outside to the port bridge wing and left it there in the open.

Washington and the others then reached down and unzipped their bags all the way. They pulled out more of the heavy metal devices. They were gray, circular, eighteen inches or so in diameter and five inches thick. They looked like UFOs. Washington reached under his and threw a switch. He carefully placed it on the deck near Bonham. It touched the deck with extra force—more than just gravity.

Beads of sweat rolled down Bonham’s face as he watched the other terrorists remove identical devices from their bags.

Washington glanced at his watch to note the time and began moving faster.

Armstrong checked his op-gear and ordered his chief to inspect that of the other platoon members. They were as trained and ready as anyone could be, but this mission was screwed up from the start. Not enough time, too rough a plan, too much light, too many targets. This could be a disaster, he thought. I could be famous like the SEALs who died in Operation Just Cause in Panama by getting shot up while being forced to push a bad situation. But this was what they had been told to do, so it was what they would do.

“All set, sir,” said QMC Lee, his chief petty officer.

“Thanks,” Armstrong said.

The SEALs and two Explosive Ordnance Disposal techs, wearing their EOD badges, sat quietly on the webbed seats of the Sikorsky CH-53E, a three-engine behemoth of a helicopter. The remainder of the platoon was in the other CH-53E flying equally fast and parallel to Armstrong’s, five hundred feet to the side. The CH-53E could carry more cargo farther than any other helicopter in the Navy or Marine inventory and could refuel in flight. It streaked over the dark blue ocean, less than one hundred feet off the water. Armstrong could smell the JP5 jet fuel from the engines in the humid air pouring into the helicopter through the open hatch.

The pilots spotted a large ship and leaned forward to see if it was the
Pacific Flyer.
They thought they had a decent fix on the location of the
Flyer
from the GPS mark relayed from the F-14, but couldn’t know for sure. They couldn’t approach the ship close enough to check its identity without being seen, but they had no other way of confirming its identity. The helicopters slowed and descended lower as they approached. Armstrong watched out the side window as the ocean grew closer; it looked as if the helicopter was going to smack into the water any
second. He couldn’t judge how high they were. The only reference point was the horizon and he had learned a long time ago that the ocean can look the same from five thousand feet as it does from one hundred.