9. (SECR) IMMEDIATE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THIS ORDER IS REQUIRED.
10. (UNCL) ADMIRAL POTTER SENDS.
//051459Z MAR//
//FLASH//FLASH//FLASH//
//TOP SECRET//
//TTTTTTTTTT//
Master Chief Ernie Pooler jabbed the message hardcopy with an angry finger. “Are you shitting me, sir? Are you shitting me? We play bird dog for a bunch of skimmers and they get to take the shot? Whose brilliant idea was this?”
Captain Townsend reached for the clipboard. “Don’t scram your reactor, COB. I’m not any happier about it than you are.”
“But, Skipper, they can’t do this to us!”
“Yes they can, COB. They can, and they have.”
The calm and rational quality of the captain’s voice made Ernie conscious of his own tone and volume. When he spoke again, his delivery was closer to normal. “This order can’t possibly have originated with SUBLANT. No way Admiral Potter would take the fight away from a 688 and hand it to a destroyer. This has to come from somewhere over his head. Some bright boy with too many stars on his collar, who doesn’t understand what happens when a tin can gets in a scrap with an attack sub.”
“You’re probably right,” said the Skipper, “about the first part, anyway. This isn’t something Admiral Potter would do unless the order came from the top of the chain. Which means he’s likely just as bent out of shape over this as we are.”
“If that’s true,” Ernie said, “it doesn’t come through in this message, sir. It sounds like he’s singing along with the rest of the band here.”
The Skipper flipped the cover page to the front of the clipboard, concealing the message hardcopy from view. “That’s because the admiral is a good officer. He follows lawful orders — even the ones he doesn’t like — and he treats them like they’re his own ideas. Doesn’t try to blame the bad ones on someone else.”
“Well, this is definitely one of the bad ones,” said Ernie.
“It looks bad to us,” said the Skipper. “But we don’t know what’s behind this. We don’t know what these non-standard weapons and tactics are supposed to be. Maybe it’s something that can’t be done by a 688 boat. Could be some piece of new hardware that won’t fit into our tubes, or our signal ejectors.”
“Maybe…” said Ernie grudgingly.
“Look at the bright side, COB. If this plan works, we may be able to provide an assist on the kill, and that’s better than nothing. If it doesn’t work, USS Bowie joins the Mahan and the Winterburn on the bottom of the Caribbean, and then we’re back in the fight.”
“To be honest, sir,” said Ernie, “I don’t like either option very much.”
“Neither do I,” said the Skipper. “Neither do I.”
CHAPTER 60
“Something’s wrong,” said Jon. “I can feel it.”
Cassy shifted in her lounge chair. “Is your spider-sense tingling, or is this a full-on psychic premonition?”
Jon reached over with his left hand and took a lazy swat at his wife’s knee. “It’s my Jarhead-sense, and it’s tingling like a son of a bitch.”
“Then you’re definitely imagining it,” Cassy said. “Jarheads don’t have any sense. I should know; I married one.”
“I’m not joking,” Jon said. “They should have been back by now. They’re in trouble.”
This elicited a sigh from Cassy. “Jonnie, they’re U.S. Marines. They can handle their share of trouble.”
“What if it’s more than their share?”
“You’re like a mother hen,” Cassy said. “I love the fact that you care so much. But you need to remember… They’re not your Marines, and this is not your mission. Our job is to provide transportation and a believable cover story. We’re doing that. Everything else is out of our hands.”
“I don’t like it,” said Jon.
“Of course you don’t like it. There are Marines out there somewhere, doing that Jarhead thing, while you’re lounging in the shade sipping on a cool drink. You want to be out there too, covering their six, or their flank, or whatever it is that Jugheads cover. I know you won’t admit it, but that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Maybe,” Jon said.
“No maybe about it,” said Cassy. “Listen to Old Doc Clark. She knows about stuff like this. Just lay back, enjoy the shade, and let the Marines take care of themselves.”
It was good advice. Jon knew that. Whether or not he could actually follow it was a different matter.
“Holy fuck…” said Fris in a whisper.
His words were barely audible to Elf, who lay under a bush not more than a yard away from his hiding place. Even so, the female Marine raised a finger to her lips, signaling for complete silence.
Although they were both corporals, Elf was marginally senior, and Sergeant Webb had placed her firmly in command of this scouting foray. Despite their equal ranks and nearly equal seniority, Fris didn’t chafe under Elf’s leadership. He accepted her orders readily, carried them out with few complaints, and rarely questioned her decisions. Beneath his sometimes mouthy persona was a solid Marine, who didn’t let a wonky sense of humor get in the way of accomplishing the mission.
There was a time for joking around and acting the fool, and a time for shutting the fuck up and being a serious grunt. This instance fell into the second category. Maybe seventy yards away — partially hidden by trees and foliage — was an enormous ten-wheeled truck, painted in the low-contrast greens, tans, and browns of a forest camouflage scheme. In a cradle on the vehicle’s back lay the unmistakable shape of a missile.
Fris could see parts of three other launcher vehicles in the distance. If the intel briefs were correct, there would be a total of six, but it wasn’t necessary to see all of them. Even one would have been enough. Point Green was a missile site, no doubt about it.
Elf had her cell phone out, shooting video for later upload via the sat phone. Smart girl. That hadn’t been part of the orders, but it was a damned good idea.
Fris was about to give her a silent thumbs-up when something moved in the bushes, much closer than the nearest truck.
He and Elf both froze, moving only their eyes as they scanned the greenery for the source of the movement.
It was a man, crawling out of a low camouflage tent that neither Marine had spotted earlier. The newcomer got to his feet and stretched, slinging the strap of a compact submachine gun over his shoulder as he did so.
Fris caught only a fleeting glimpse of the man’s face. Dark hair, Asian features, and the lean and hard look of one accustomed to difficult living.
The North Korean soldier gave his surroundings a slow and careful sweep, and Fris suddenly felt that his decidedly non-camo civvies must be glowing like a highway flare in the green-dappled undergrowth. His kabar and M9 Beretta were both in the ridiculous tourist backpack. He wondered if he could get to them without making any noise.
He looked sideways and met the gaze of Elf, who seemed to be reading his mind. Her head turned a half-degree to the right, and then a half-degree to the left, the most minimal headshake Fris had ever seen. Her expression told him to be patient, but to also be ready.