“It’ll be overhead in 15 minutes, Captain.”
Ashley and Conroy went below to CIC.
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The drone helicopters on the California are equipped with sound dampening technology, making it difficult to hear them when overhead. The drone sent to investigate the weapons camp arrived overhead at 1215 hours, flying at an altitude of a half mile. As the drone flew over the weapons site it transmitted real-time video to CIC on the California.
The Captain and Conroy watched as the video showed the camp. They could see the piles of weapons, surrounded by, “Holy shit, 12 Southern mounted cavalrymen,” shouted Ashley. The soldiers appeared to be chatting with the eight sailors. They were inspecting the weapons. “Move the cursor up and to the right and zoom in,” Ashley said to the drone pilot. She looked at Conroy and said, “What do those mounds look like to you, Frank?”
Conroy moved closer to the monitor and stared at the four mounds.
“Those are freshly dug graves, Captain. Someone was even thoughtful enough to plant a rifle with a SEAL cap on top.” He looked at Ashley. “My guys have been killed, Captain.”
“Increase altitude, Lieutenant.” Ashley said to the drone pilot. “I want surveillance of the immediate area.”
A farmhouse surrounded by hundreds of Southern infantry and cavalry soldiers came into view. That must be a headquarters of some sort, Ashley thought, probably Beauregard’s.
General Beauregard and Commander Bradley were having lunch at a table on the lawn in front of headquarters to escape the heat of the cabin.
“Drop down for a better look,” Ashley said. “Now zoom in on those two men at the table in front of the farm house.”
“You scumbag!” shouted Conroy, with an immediate apology for his profanity.
There was Commander Philip Bradley, Executive Officer of the USS California, dining with a Confederate General. From photos that Father Rick had shown her, Ashley knew she was looking at General Beauregard. “Photo this,” she said to drone pilot Nathan, who snapped a still photo of the scene for further identification.
Ashley yelled to a nearby officer, “Get me Personnel Officer Sobel and the Warrant Officer Ciano, the Master at Arms and get them here immediately. NOW!”
Within minutes, Sobel and Ciano were in CIC.
“We have evidence that XO Bradley has committed treason and is defecting to the Confederacy.” I want you to break into his office, confiscate all paperwork, and impound it in the lockup.”
As Sobel and Ciano were about to leave the room, Conroy said, “Excuse me Captain, a word with you please.” Ashley was miffed that Conroy slowed down the action.
“Captain, are we sure that this conspiracy is only ashore?”
My God, thought Ashley. She gave Conroy an attaboy slap on the shoulder and said to Sobel and Ciano, “What you are about to do is absolutely Top Secret. No word to anyone but me.” She wondered if there was anybody in CIC to worry about.
“Aye Aye, Captain,” they both said as they left the room to go to the XO’s office.
Chief Warrant Officer Dennis Ciano, as Master at Arms, was the ship’s law enforcement boss, the Top Cop of the California. He easily broke the lock on the door and they entered. Sobel went to the first pile of papers, Bradley’s out box. There, on the top of the pile, was a letter on Bradley’s stationery that began: “Dear Captain Patterson.” It was dated today. Sobel said to Ciano, “Dennis, collect all documents and bring them to impound as the captain ordered. I’m bringing this to her now.”
Sobel raced back to CIC. Not expecting her back so soon, Ashley said, “Karen, did you have a question?”
“Captain, I think you may want to read this immediately. It’s addressed to you. I haven’t read it.”
Ashley looked at the letter.
Dear Captain Patterson:
I resign my commission in the United States Navy, effective immediately. As you read this I shall have already made contact with the Confederacy, and I am now a servant of the Confederate States of America.
Captain, you chose to intervene in history and to fight a war that was long ago over. My Southern heritage and my conscience force me to take up arms against the United States, along with eight of my fellow crewmen, whose names are attached.
In the spirit of Robert E. Lee and other brave patriots who fought on the Southern side, I make this decision.
Very truly yours,
Philip Bradley, former Commander, United States Navy
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Ashley’s head pounded, her heart raced, and she was perspiring. She heard the sound of a whining little girl jumping rope. “You blew it Ashley,” said little Splashy. “You wanted to jump in and be a hero and now you’ve managed to fuck it all up. Why did you trust that asshole, just because he’s a man and older than you?” At ease, you little bitch, thought Ashley. I’m in command. Dismissed.
Ashley didn’t need a meeting. She didn’t need to talk to Father Rick, Jack, or Ivan Campbell. She didn’t need to talk to anyone. She had all the information she needed. Those weapons are now in enemy hands. They need to be destroyed. She has to act, now.
“Get me Battery 3 on the phone,” she said to Toliver. Battery 3 was the Cruise Missile battery, the most destructive weapons on the ship.
“This is Battery 3, Captain, Lieutenant Jamal Jacob speaking.”
“Arm one missile and aim for the target on the drone signal,” Ashley said.
“Missile one armed and ready, Captain.”
“Fire one,” said Ashley.
The California shuddered from the blast of the Tomahawk missile as it rocketed away from the ship. In CIC they had a visual from the missile as it raced toward its target.
The soldiers and sailors were chatting at the weapons camp. Bradley’s hand-picked sailors were explaining each weapon and its proper use. They were sipping fresh coffee, a few pots having just been made.
Three miles away at General Beauregard’s headquarters, the General and Bradley enjoyed a lunch of fresh chicken and collard greens while they discussed Bradley’s future and his role in the war effort. Beauregard drilled Bradley on the big weapons aboard the California. Bradley was proud of his foresight at having left aboard his main conspirator, Chief Ray. Bradley explained how Ray would disable the main weapons. Two other trusted sailors were with Ray, Bradley noted.
The men at the weapons camp, as well as Beauregard and Bradley, heard a strange sound in the sky. Bradley knew the sound very well, having taken advanced weapons courses. The men at the camp had no idea what it was.
The Tomahawk struck in the middle of the weapons cache with a ground shaking explosion, pulverizing the weapons and anyone near them. A plume of smoke and fire shot up 200 feet into the air. It left a crater 12 feet deep and 20 feet wide. No one survived the attack. All of the horses perished as well.
At Beauregard’s headquarters three miles away, the shock wave from the blast tore through the trees like a hurricane. Fifteen horses in a corral jumped the fence and stampeded. The dinnerware on the table bounced two inches into the air. Both men instinctively ducked under the table.
His ears still ringing, Beauregard looked at Bradley and said, “I believe, Commander, that you were just telling me about your colleague’s plan to disarm the weapons aboard the ship.”
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