Richard P. Henrick
Sea Devil
The real threat to society is not the launching of bombs between the U.S. and the USSR…. The real threat is a terrorist orientated country or group gaining possession of a nuclear bomb. They are not responsible people and have nothing to lose in using it to further their goals.
Out of Ireland have we come Great hatred, little room Maimed us at the start I carry from my mother’s womb A fanatic heart.
Chapter One
Three hours out of Oahu the weather began to deteriorate.
From the jump seat of the specially configured AV-8B Harrier, Commander Brad Mackenzie anxiously scanned the line of dark clouds that seemed to fill the entire southwestern horizon.
“Looks pretty ominous,” broke the gravelly voice of the pilot over the intercom.
“From what the weather boys back at Pearl say, that low-pressure system has all the makings of a full-fledged typhoon. I sure hope it keeps tracking to the north.”
Brad Mackenzie, who was known simply as Mac to his friends and coworkers, could see only the back of the pilot’s head as he responded.
“I was thinking the same thing. Two years ago I rode out a typhoon while I was stationed at Guam. And believe me, it’s not an experience I’d like to repeat.”
“I read you loud and clear. Commander,” returned the pilot.
“Just hang in there a little bit longer. We should be sighting some of the islands of the Ratak Chain shortly. From there on, Kwajalein is practically around the corner.”
A pocket of turbulence shook the Harrier. For a sickening moment the jet plunged downward. The cockpit filled with the throaty roar of the aircraft’s single RollsRoyce vectored-thrust turbofan engine as the pilot fought to regain the altitude they had just lost.
It seemed to take an eternity for them to reach more stable air. Only then did Mac issue the barest sigh of relief. Even under ideal conditions, flying played havoc with his nerves. He was the type of individual who liked to have complete control of a situation. And since he didn’t know how to pilot an aircraft, whenever he was airborne he was forced to put his destiny into someone else’s hands.
Back on terra firma this obsession was particularly noticeable, especially when it came to driving. He could never relax in the passenger seat of an automobile. He thus avoided taxis whenever possible, and did all the driving when it came time for commuting, shopping trips, and the family vacation.
Yet another gust of unsettled air shook the aircraft, and the thirty-six-year-old naval officer’s grip on his hand rest instinctively tightened. Sweat lined his forehead as he guardedly turned to peer out the cockpit in an effort to see how the Harrier was meeting this punishment.
He could barely see the wing, which was mounted into the central portion of the upper fuselage. It was a stubby structure that held a pair of elongated pods slung beneath its length. Stored inside these external drop tanks was the extra fuel that allowed the Harrier to attain this unusually long range.
As he watched the tanks quiver slightly, a familiar voice sounded from the intercom.
“We’ve got land dead ahead of us. Commander. It’s not much, but I’ll stake a week’s pay that we’ve arrived in the Marshalls.”
Mac diverted his gaze in time to see a small, circular shaped island pass down below. He could just make out the protected lagoon of the atoll and its surrounding reef.
“Most likely that was Ailuk Island,” added the pilot.
“If so, that would put us at our rendezvous point in another ten minutes.”
“How’s our fuel situation?” Mac asked.
The pilot answered a bit hesitantly.
“I’m not going to b.s. you, sir, but the way it looks, we should just make it. I figured that it would take all four external tanks to get us here. Fortunately, we had a tailwind for most of the trip, though this turbulence that we’ve just encountered could make things interesting.”
Mac spoke up while watching yet another minuscule coral atoll pass below.
“At least we can always land this baby on one of those islands if our fuel state gets critical.
That would sure as hell be better than dropping into the drink.”
As the Harrier shuddered in the grasp of another pocket of rough air, the pilot replied, “Don’t worry, sir.
As long as that storm keeps its distance, I’ll get you safely to your destination. Besides, I’ve got a date back in Honolulu tomorrow night with this Thai chick who’s really a looker. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to stand her up.”
Again the airplane shook violently. This was followed by an abrupt drop in altitude that caused a nauseating knot to form in Mac’s stomach. Instead of pulling the Harrier out of this unexpected dive, the pilot allowed it to drop a full 10,000 feet before leveling out. This put them only a few thousand feet from the ocean’s surface.
Their forward velocity was much more noticeable at this height. The surging blue waters of the South Pacific passed in a blur as Mac’s gaze returned to the horizon, where black storm clouds continued to gather.
Less than five hours before, the mere idea of a visit to such a remote corner of the globe had been unimaginable.
In fact, Mac was still at his condo on the North Shore of Oahu, sipping his morning coffee, when the fated call arrived that was to send him rushing off on his current assignment.
Marsha was seated beside him on the porch when the telephone began ringing. His wife intuitively sensed that whoever was calling would be the bearer of bad news, and when Admiral Long himself somberly greeted Mac, he knew that her guess had been correct.
Mac had only just returned from a three-week stay at the Mare Island Naval Station outside San Francisco.
He had a week’s leave due him and was planning to take his family on a driving tour of the big island of Hawaii.
All he needed to do was type up a report detailing his stay on Mare Island before this much anticipated leave was to begin.
If things had gone as scheduled, the report would be just about completed by now. Unfortunately his superiors had other plans for him.
The call sent him packing for the Marine Corps Air Station at Kaneohe Bay. Here he was met by Admiral Long and given a rushed briefing. Though the details were sparse, Mac knew the admiral had no choice but to send for him. For if the marks found on the seafloor outside Kwajalein indeed proved to be manmade, his long trip would certainly be justified.
With his gaze still locked on the cloud-filled horizon, Mac contemplated the implications of his mission.
Though he hated to have to disappoint his family once again, he found himself with no alternative. As project manager, it was his duty to personally inspect each suspected sighting as soon as they were reported. Only in such a way could the pieces of the puzzle that had taken him over a year to gather together be finally assembled.
“Harrier one-zulu-alpha, this is Iwo Jima control. We have you on radar lock. How do you copy? Over.”
A static-filled voice emanated from the intercom.
With his thoughts abruptly brought back, Mac listened as the Harrier pilot answered.
“Iwo Jima control, this is one-zulu-alpha. You’re a bit fuzzy, but we copy that. Over.”
“Roger, one-zulu-alpha. You’re free to begin your approach. You’ll find us on bearing two-six-zero, on the other edge of that squall line in front of you, approximately three-five nautical miles distant.”
Mac peered out the cockpit just as the first raindrops began pelting the plexiglass. Seconds later they were completely enveloped in a shroud of thick gray clouds.