“Aye,” came the answer. “Captain, we have a secure communiqué from Fleet, your eyes only.”
“Send it up,” Thorne said, wondering what sort of maniacal order he was now being given.
A boatswain mate popped his head up through the hatch and handed Thorne the message flimsy on a clipboard. He signed for it and then read. He read it again. He let out a pent-up breath and then hit the intercom once more.
“Gary, somebody’s got a real seashell up their ass. Inform Shiloh that she’ll be taking on representatives of National Command Authority in about half an hour. If whoever they are make it through the hurricane, that is. Inform them to make ready helo recovery. Also, inform De Zeven that she’ll have to be close aboard for any sea rescue operations that may have to be conducted.”
“Aye, aye.”
Thorne adjusted his view of the 130-mile wide eye and spied the heavy, roiling clouds that made up the outer fringes of the killer hurricane. It was like they were inside a glass jar with a menacing swirl of twisting black clouds marking the circular boundaries of life or death. His binoculars went to the ancient battle cruiser Simbirsk. He could see the Shiloh’s riggers were still securing her towline and maintaining the strain. The men were having a much easier time of it than they had before entering the eye. Thorne relaxed.
Thus far, they had not had another blast of electromagnetic pulsing as they had before. The Simbirsk sat lazily behind the Aegis cruiser as if she were nothing more than a normal disabled ship being assisted. The darkened silhouette of the Russian warship gave the captain a severe reaction. It was one of fear, and that was something Captain Thorne was not comfortable with. Once more he hit the switch on the intercom as the cool spray of seawater washed over him.
“Weapons, keep a running track on our Russian mystery. If she does something I don’t like, I want to be able to put two fish into her fast. Warm up two ASROCs.”
“Already done, Captain,” Gary Devers called up.
Now, he had not only torpedoes targeted on the battle cruiser, he had the sophisticated antiship missile system targeting the phantom. Still, Thorne didn’t feel safe. His eyes moved to the swirling hurricane. The cylindrical pattern reminded Thorne of a cage. A very violent cage. His eyes settled on a spot to the north. He wondered if there were any surprises waiting to emerge from the dark skies circling around the small grouping of ships.
“Okay, let’s button her up. Dive, dive!”
Within fifteen seconds, the bow of Houston slowly sank beneath the waves.
At twenty-two thousand feet, the ride was rougher than any of the men aboard had ever faced. The Royal Marines were in no better shape, and it made the Americans wonder if they would be any good at their jobs if and when they would be needed. Jack was wondering the same thing about him and his own people. The only ones who seemed to be handling the rough weather well were Henri Farbeaux, Jason Ryan, and Carl.
The V-25 hit a bump in the road, and every man aboard went high in their seats until their safety harnesses stopped their flight to the Night Owl’s roof. They all heard the whine of the turbofan engines as they spooled up to regain the altitude they had just lost. Jack closed his eyes and held his belly pack tighter to his chest. It was Everett who noticed the colonel’s discomfort. Henri did also but kept his eyes neutral.
Everett leaned over and nudged Collins on the arm. “Having a rough go of it?”
Jack looked briefly at Carl and then shook his head. The Kevlar helmet kept Carl from seeing Jack’s eyes, but he knew the colonel had just lied to him. As far as Everett knew, he and Sarah McIntire were the only two people on the planet who knew that Jack had become terrified about flying. The man had over two hundred parachute jumps in his career, with eleven of those combat jumps, and now after all these years, it had finally started to overwhelm the career officer.
“Give me the music and I’ll have the pilot pipe it in back here,” Carl said as he watched the colonel. Collins shook his head once again. “What, you don’t have any music?”
“Left them all in England,” was all he could say.
Carl looked at Jason Ryan, who was sitting straight across from them next to the master chief and Charlie Ellenshaw. Charlie looked even paler than he usually was, and the mess of vomit at his feet and many others’ attested to the fact that none of them were used to this. Then Carl’s eyes roamed over to the Royal Marines, who were off in their own worlds of misery. He spied them and then made a choice. He unsnapped his harness, and it was Collins who looked at him as if he had lost his mind. The V-25 shook and rose. It then fell and rose again as Everett crashed across the small aisle and leaned into the man he had chosen.
“Any of you men bring any music with you?” he shouted, catching the attention of several others next to the marine.
“Excuse me, sir?” the young white-faced sergeant asked above the whine of engines and the rage of the hurricane.
“Music. Did you men bring any music?”
The sergeant shook his head while his look asked Carl if he had gone nuts.
“I think Blavey has some,” a large man said as he leaned over and faced Everett.
“Who is that?” Carl asked.
“That’s him, sir. He’s a Karaoke nut. Brings his CDs everywhere. Against regs, but he tends to forget about protocol when it comes to his music. He’s a bleedin’ Elvis impersonator.” The large corporal nudged the slight man next to him. Carl saw the kid looked as if he weighed no more than one hundred pounds. What kind of Elvis impersonator was he? “Hey, Blavey. Wake up. The captain wants one of your CDs.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide as if someone had just informed him they were crashing into the sea. He jerked awake fully and focused on the men around him. Everett could see that the kid hadn’t been dozing; he had been praying. With a zombie look on his young face, the kid reached into his pants pocket aligned along the side of his calf and produced several silvery CDs. He held them out to Carl as if he didn’t care one way or the other if he accepted them or not. Carl took one and then handed the rest back to the kid. He took it to Jack.
“Looks like Elvis is all we have,” he said, holding out the one CD he had taken. Jack just stared straight ahead.
Charlie Ellenshaw nudged Jason Ryan, who was busy smiling at all the sick humanity around him. He knew them all well — every one a landlubber. He smirked. Charlie nudged him again, and Jason’s eyes rose to see what had attracted Ellenshaw’s attention. He saw a white-faced colonel and was shocked to realize that the colonel had become terrified of flying. He had suspected it for quite some time, but he and Will Mendenhall had yet to see it for themselves. He was so shocked he wanted to turn away at this very strange sign of weakness that had developed in the man he respected most above all in the world, the bravest officer he had ever even heard of. He silently told Charlie not to look. Now, the reason for the colonel playing music during stressful times became evident. It was his way of taking his mind off his situation.
Jack didn’t seem to hear Carl. He knew the problem was getting worse, and he had been able to hide it for the past few years as it slowly developed, first in his subconscious and then displaying itself in the most inopportune moments. He knew now that flying was quickly becoming a real phobia for him. The Overlord experience he knew had finally cemented his fear in unrepentant terms. It was a fear he would have to deal with upon the completion of this mission. The colonel didn’t notice Carl leave his side and advance toward the cockpit.