Operation Caribe (37 page)

So, how could they fix the problem? Beaux pressed him. The submarine equivalent of a tripped circuit breaker had to be pushed back in place, was the ensign’s reply. Exactly where that breaker was located, though, was the question. There was so much redundant wiring on the
Wyoming,
it could be in one of a dozen places.

Beaux’s head began pounding. His stomach was starting to ache. He didn’t need this, not now, not ever. He barked at Smash to go with the CAAC’s electrician to locate the tripped breaker. Then he reaffirmed that Monkey should remain on deck and watch the sailors.

Then he and Ghost headed for the bridge to deal with the problems outside.

*   *   *

THE
WYOMING
WAS built in sections. The nose contained the sonar equipment. The next section carried the torpedoes. Then came the CAAC, the crew’s quarters, the reactor, and the forest of Trident missiles. Toward the back of the boat was the maneuvering room, the atmospheric control room and the engine room. All of them contained some sort of circuit breaker.

Smash and the electrician made their way through each compartment, aided only by a single flashlight. It took twenty long minutes, walking the whole way on a tilt. But after examining all the breakers and finding none had tripped, the electrician said they had to check out the main electrical room, way at the end of the boat.

It was here they finally found the cause of the blackout—and it had nothing to do with circuit breakers.

The sub’s primary power cable, looking like an anaconda and nearly a foot around, was lying on the electrical room floor, smoking and in pieces.

It had been blown in two.

*   *   *

SMASH AND THE electrician quickly headed back to the CAAC, barely able to navigate the darkened passageways. Along the way, the sailor told Smash that to repair the severed cable would take days, and that was under the best conditions. But until then, they could not access any of the power stored in their batteries, nor could they restart the reactor.

This meant the only electricity available to them would have to come from a handful of small diesel generators that were normally used only for short periods of time when the sub was in port. And even with these generators running, everything aboard the sub, from the air circulators to the ballast tank blow mechanisms to the missile launchers, could only draw about one-tenth their normal power.

Smash and the electrician reached the CAAC where the sailor went about starting the auxiliary generators. Then Smash climbed the conning tower ladder to report the bad news to Beaux.

He opened the hatch to find himself in the midst of a gun battle—with a ferocious storm going on around it. Bullet rounds were ricocheting all over the open bridge. Beaux and Ghost were cowering in one corner, their battle suits drenched, trying to return fire, but failing miserably. Their trouble lights had been shot away. The wind was absolutely howling. The rain was coming down in buckets.

Fort Apache … in a hurricane.

That’s what it looked like to Smash.

Clearly 616 was in a fix. The bridge itself was narrow with a lot of thick, bulky cover around it. Like a parapet on a castle wall, it would be almost impossible to get shot up here if one was properly behind cover. But, it was just as impossible to return effective fire, as doing so made the shooter woefully exposed in all directions. Yet whoever was shooting at them, 616
had
to defend their position somehow—that’s what their SEAL training told them to do. And the bridge was the only place they could do it from.

Trying his best to be heard above the appalling conditions, Smash yelled his report across to Beaux. The 616 commander was not happy to hear it.

The boat’s main power cable? Blown in half?

Sabotage …

Beaux immediately suspected the submarine’s crewmen were responsible.

He pulled Smash out onto the bridge and gave him his M4.

“Provide counter fire when needed,” Beaux yelled to him before starting to crawl down the hatchway.

Smash stopped him, though. “But, sir,” he yelled over the gale. “
Who
are we shooting at?”

Beaux just shook his head and said, “I got no idea.”

*   *   *

BEAUX QUICKLY RETURNED to the CAAC, feeling like his whole body was on fire.

Despite the auxiliary generators being turned on, the control room was much darker than before; even the emergency lighting was beginning to fade. Beaux dropped his battle gear and checked himself for any hidden wounds. Finding none, he tried to get his thoughts straight, but was struck with a sudden wave of claustrophobia. The darkened, tilted boat was throwing off his equilibrium, making him dizzy. It took a couple minutes before the unpleasant feeling finally passed.

His body behaving again, he managed to grill the electrician’s mate about the damaged power line. The sailor confirmed what Smash had told him. The cable had been blown in two, cause unknown.

“Was it done on purpose?” Beaux asked him sharply.

But the sailor didn’t reply. He simply put his flu mask back on and returned to his station.

This convinced Beaux the cable had indeed been cut. But all the ailing sailors on the control deck were under guard
before
the lights went out. None of them could have sabotaged the power line.

This meant someone laid up in the sick bay had to be responsible.

Beaux marched back down the dark passageway to the infirmary and confronted the corpsman a second time. The medic denied anyone had left the sick bay, saying no one was strong enough to. But Beaux brushed his explanations aside and made a pronouncement instead: Until the person who cut the cable came forward, the corpsman was to withhold all medication from every sailor under his care. If that meant some of them died, then so be it.

The corpsman just shrugged on hearing the edict.

“That’s not a problem, sir,” he said. “Because we ran out of medicine a long time ago.”

*   *   *

BEAUX HAD TO see the damaged cable for himself.

With Monkey still guarding the control room, the SEAL commander made his way through the murky passageways, heading aft toward the power locker. It soon became tough going. It was extremely cramped and trying to walk on a tilt made a bad situation worse. The sub’s emergency lighting was of little help, too, being so dull and lifeless. And while Beaux had a flashlight with him, it started to fade about halfway to his goal, forcing him to shut it off.

At one point, it became so dark, he had to get on his hands and knees and feel his way along the slanted passage. His claustrophobia returned, the fear running through him like a knife. In the midst of the anxiety attack, he heard weird noises all around him. People mumbling, whispering, crying softly—and someone walking close by as if with a peg leg. All this on top of the sound of bullets and raindrops hitting the exposed hull. But anytime he stopped and listened closely, the strange noises went away.

It took a long time to reach the electrical room. When he finally arrived, he turned the flashlight back on and discovered the power line really
was
blown in two—and the destruction was worse than he’d thought.

He knew no sick sailor had done this. Only a trained saboteur could have destroyed the cable, probably using an explosive charge.

That only meant one thing: Someone
else
was aboard the sub.

*   *   *

BEAUX TRIED TO rush back to the CAAC, but with his flashlight barely working, he was forced to rely on the feeble emergency lights for illumination. They were more hindrance than help.

He became lost almost immediately, crawling through some areas he knew were not part of the sub’s regular passageways. After what seemed like forever, he felt a door in front of him. Hoping it was the portal to the next section, he opened it to discover it was an equipment locker close to the torpedo room. As the door opened wider, he was touched by something warm and wet.

He tried the flashlight one more time and in its weak glow, he found a body hanging inside the equipment locker, held in place with electrical wire, not three feet away.

Beaux collapsed against the far wall and immediately vomited. He remained there, flashlight off, for a long time. Only when he regained his composure did he turn the failing flashlight back on and direct it back at the bloody body. That’s when he realized it was Elvis.

His throat had been slashed and he had multiple stab wounds in his chest. Most disturbing, his other ear had been cut from his head and stuffed deep into his mouth.

*   *   *

BEAUX SCRAMBLED ALL the way back to the CAAC, tripping and injuring himself many times. When he finally reached the control room, the only SEAL there was Monkey. Ghost and Smash were still up top.

Monkey was startled to see him. Beaux was in a full-blown panic, not the usual state of affairs for the 616 commander.

“What the hell is it now?” Monkey asked him.

But Beaux could barely talk. Monkey made him sit down and only then was he able to croak: “They’re inside the boat.
Someone
is inside the boat.…”

Monkey immediately checked the clip in his assault rifle. “I gotta go get Elvis then,” he said, starting to run off.

“
No!”
Beaux yelled, stopping him in his tracks. “Go up top with the others. I’ll take care of things down here.”

Monkey thought the order was puzzling, but he complied. Once he had gone, Beaux’s fear slowly turned to anger. His perfect plan was coming apart at the seams and he needed someone to blame. He scanned the control room, his eyes falling on the young ensign, the last officer remaining on deck.

Beaux took out his .45 automatic, staggered over to the junior officer and put the muzzle against his head.

“Open the security safe and get me the missile launch keys and codebook, now,” he told him.

The ensign hesitated just for a moment … so Beaux pulled the trigger, shooting him through the temple. The young officer crumpled to the deck.

Then waving his gun in front of him, Beaux looked at the rest of the shocked sailors and said, “Who’s next?”

34

NS Norfolk
0200 hours

IT HAD BEEN twelve hours since Admiral Brown had spoken to Commander Beaux.

Except for trips to the head, Brown had not moved from his seat in the Rubber Room, praying for the phone to ring again.

In the meantime, despite a lot of bad weather, a growing fleet of search planes was scouring the Atlantic and the Caribbean looking for the
Wyoming
. So, too, was every available U.S. Navy and Coast Guard ship. But so far, there were no results.

Brown had even arranged to have some spy satellites drawn away from other missions to join in the search, but again, he knew what they were up against. U.S. subs were so quiet, they were almost impossible to detect while underway. And the experts in the Rubber Room were convinced the
Wyoming
was underway.

What Fleet Forces Command faced now was waiting for whatever supplies the sub still had on board to run out, forcing the hijackers to reveal themselves. But that could still take days, even a week or more. And in his previous phone call Beaux had indicated that whatever was going to happen, was not going to take that long.

Everyone with a need to know had been briefed on the
Wyoming
problem, right up to the White House. But this was just one more crisis on the President’s plate. There were still dangerous situations ongoing in North Korea, in Iran and on the India-Pakistan border, all of them involving rogue elements trying to get control of nuclear weapons. When word of the
Wyoming
’s seizure reached the White House Situation Room, only one definitive question came back: Is this connected to the other three crises? Brown had to reply that no, he didn’t believe so. So the White House basically replied: “Keep us apprised, but solve it on your own. We’ve got our hands full already.”

After that, an idea was floated around the Rubber Room that maybe the best way out of the dilemma was to quietly agree to the hijackers’ demands. Pay them the money, get the sub and the crew back, then deal with the fallout later. After all, that’s how the majority of Somali hijackings were resolved.

As time dragged on, opposition to this idea became less and less.

*   *   *

THE RUBBER ROOM had already gone through numerous pots of coffee and two deliveries of food that no one bothered to eat. It was now 2
A.M.
and, resigned to a long stay, Brown was about to request some cots be brought to the basement office when his phone rang.

The caller ID indicated it was coming in on Narrowband IP.

It was Beaux.

The FBI men started their recorders. The other experts gathered around, pens and paper at the ready. The room became absolutely quiet.

Brown answered the phone.

Beaux’s opening comment was: “I thought we had a deal, Admiral…”

Brown was thrown for a moment. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied.

“I told you what would happen if you sent any special ops teams against us,” Beaux said. “That was the agreement.”

But Brown really
didn’t
know what Beaux was talking about. He looked at the gang of experts and shrugged. They all shrugged back. The Navy had no idea where the sub was. How could they send any special ops units against them?

“I assure you, Commander,” Brown said, “we have not dispatched any special operations forces anywhere. How could we? We don’t know where you are.”

“I don’t believe you, Admiral,” Beaux shot back. “One of my men has been killed already, someone set off a bomb inside the boat, and we’re in the middle of a God damned firefight outside. These aren’t freaking ghosts doing these things. So you
must
know where we are!”

The people in the Rubber Room were more confused than ever. A SEAL had been killed? A bomb had gone off on the sub? Gun battles outside? Where the hell
were
these guys?

Beaux started coughing, and didn’t stop for ten long seconds. This was noted by the hostage experts. Finally, he spoke again. “I’ll be honest with you, Admiral. Before all this started I would never have fired these nuclear missiles—at my own country or anyone else’s. But I can’t guarantee that anymore.”