Joint Task Force #2: America (26 page)

“It ain’t pleasant,” Leary offered as he rubbed his hands together. “You two, stop looking at your hands and rub them together. Squeeze them into fists. It ain’t gonna be pleasant, but the alternate is less so.”

Early followed the Senior Chief’s direction, even though as her hands rubbed against each other, it was as if they were touching someone else’s. She could see them entwined but could barely feel them. Minutes later, the pain seemed to ease. For a brief moment, several tears flowed down her cheeks, not from the pain but from realizing they at least had a chance. A poor one, but if you’re going to die, then any chance is a good one. Their captors were planning to kill them. To believe otherwise was to overlook past events. If they were going to die then at least they could go down fighting. She recalled her father telling her after September 11th that deep within each American burned that spark of bravery that, once stirred, rose and burned with patriotic fever. The war
on terrorism, now in its twelfth year, had revealed one startling difference between the United States and countries such as Britain and Israel in the fight against terrorism. Other countries took out individuals; America took out whole countries.

“Eventually they are going to bring us more water and food. When they do, that’s when we do it.”

“Do it?” Kelly asked, looking at the Senior Chief.

“Yes sir. Here is what I suggest . . .”

TUCKER WALKED SOFTLY UP THE STAIRS LEADING TO THE
observation room at the top of the tower. He had been unable to sleep, and after tossing and turning for most of the night, he had finally reached over, pushed the clock alarm off, and rolled out of bed, knocking over the neatly aligned combat boots. This new pair he would have to break in. The other pair was sitting near a radiator drying out. Three-thirty.

A dark compartment greeted him at the top of the stairs. He didn’t know why he expected the tower to be manned. The green glow of a radarscope drew his attention. During the daylight hours, a rubber eyepiece shielded the scope, but at night, the green glow helped light the darkened compartment. Rain drummed against the windows with rising and falling intensity. When it slackened for a second or two, Tucker could see the faint lights of the distant shore that made up Hampton Roads.

Tucker set down the cup of hot coffee. A gray color when he’d put in the instant creamer told him the coffee had been there for quite a while. The First Class manning the quarterdeck had mumbled apologies but hadn’t offered to make any fresh. And Tucker hadn’t felt up to doing it himself.

He crossed to the set of windows overlooking the piers beneath. Bright harbor lights lit the double piers running at a ninety-degree angle to the dock. As he watched, MacOlson emerged from the shadows near the end of the first pier and with his leading Boatswain Mate walked
along it, checking the lines. Both men had a hand across their hats, holding them against the wind.

He had been gratified to hear that the young sailor he had rescued was going to live. The man had drunk a lot of harbor water—and from what he’d heard, that alone should have been enough to kill him. If it hadn’t been for his quick action and Sam’s emergency medical attention, the young man would be in a plastic bag somewhere waiting for the chaplains to knock on his parents’ door somewhere back in middle America. For that he was very thankful.

Tucker took a sip of the old coffee, grimacing at the heavy tannin taste caused by the after-perc drippings through old coffee grounds. He made a note to himself to tell the watch to remove the grounds after the coffee was made and then, just as quickly, told himself that it wouldn’t be appreciated by the enlisted troops who had to make it. Sometimes leadership meant leaving well-enough alone. Nothing was ever perfect. Not even Sam.

It had surprised him to discover the two of them in each other’s arms after the ambulance departed with the sailor. Was this moving too fast? She was attractive. He enjoyed her company and looked forward to the times they were together. She must feel the same way, otherwise why would she travel all the way down from Washington in weather such as this? Of course, she said it was because she was detached to Portsmouth Naval Hospital as part of Bethesda’s ready-response team, but did he really believe that? It raised another question—if he doubted her telling him the truth, then why was he so happy when they were together? The life of a Navy SEAL wasn’t a safe, honeymoon-making life.

He let out a very audible sigh.

“It’s nights like these that really make me glad to have made the Navy my life,” said someone from the other side of the tower, startling Tucker.

He looked to where the voice came from as a captain’s chair twirled on its single stanchion, revealing Commodore West.

“Sorry, Commodore, I didn’t know you were up here.”

West crawled down from his chair and made his way over to where Tucker stood. His head came up to Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker had the height on West, but the Commodore had the width.

“Sometimes you can do your best thinking up here. I sent John home to check on his family. Me? I’m a widower and this is my home,” he said, waving his hand around the compartment. “This, the small building I call headquarters about a mile from here, and those sailors down there who man those six boats.”

Tucker picked up his coffee.

“Anyone who’d drink quarterdeck coffee at this time of the night is a brave man, Commander Raleigh.”

“It is terrible, but it’s the only drink in town.”

West nodded. “Sometimes the only drink in town isn’t worth the effort. Now, why are you really up here, Commander?”

“Couldn’t sleep, sir. Thought I’d come up and see what was going on.”

West took a couple of steps to the table that occupied the center of the tower. “Not too much so far. The storm has slowed its approach from twenty-five knots to fifteen and started the slow curve northward away from us. Winds are still fluctuating between sixty-five and seventy knots. Hasn’t crossed that magical seventy-two knots for any length of time to where the National Weather Service could change its designation to a hurricane.”

Tucker joined the Commodore at the table. “Any news from Admiral Holman, sir?”

West shook his head. “Last intelligence report we got showed no contact. Joint Task Force America has turned back to the East Coast. Joint Chiefs of Staff are concerned that we may have acted in haste in deploying the fleet toward Europe based on a less than fully evaluated report by the missing Recce Flight 62.” Commodore West chuckled. “Admiral Holman is going to have to sail through this tropical storm on his way back. Don’t envy him one bit.” West glanced up for a moment at Tucker
before returning his gaze to the chart taped down to the old metal table. He tapped the chart a couple of times with his finger. “They’re having slightly less of a problem with the weather on his side of the Atlantic than we are here. According to another message I read, we, the British, French, Portuguese, and, I think, the Spanish also will be able to launch our maritime patrol aircraft tomorrow. With luck they will regain contact with the freighter that Recce Flight sixty-two reported before it disappeared.”

“How is the rescue operation going for the P-3, Commodore?”

The shorter officer cinched his teeth for a moment as he shook his head. “It isn’t. We haven’t been able to put aircraft out for the past forty-eight hours. With the storm turning away, my fine friend at Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico—Admiral Sagan—intends to recommence searching at daybreak.” He looked at his watch. “Which should be right about now for Puerto Rico.”

“I hope they made it.”

“We always hope they made it, whenever a plane crashes, even when we’re standing on the deck of a carrier and see the aircraft disappear beneath the bow. You always hope they survive even when you know there is little to no hope. It’s hard to accept mortality, especially your own. I think I was in my mid-forties when . . .”

Tucker nodded. The forlorn voice of the Commodore told more than his words. The man was speaking from experience; what experience, Tucker wondered. No one completes a full career in the military without encountering death at least once. Tucker could tell the older mustang officer would do more than what was expected if it meant saving sailors. There is a phenomenon in the Navy where you transition from being a member of the Navy to becoming part of it. No one could really tell you how long you had to serve in the Navy for that subtle transition to occur, or even how to recognize it, but standing here beside him was one of those who considered the Navy his. Tucker didn’t. For him, he worked for the Navy—a Navy he truly enjoyed. The Commodore mentioned Sam,
disrupting Tucker’s thoughts, bringing awareness back to the senior officer who stood beside him.

“Sorry, sir. What was that?”

“I said, I know this is personal and we’ve discussed it. The crew would have to be blind not to see that you and Lieutenant Commander Bradley have a very serious relationship.” Commodore West waved his hand, motioning Tucker to silence. “But for good order and discipline, I would appreciate if you two could dash some cold water on those raging hormones and act like officers when you’re around each other.”

Tucker didn’t reply right away. He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m telling you this off the record, Commander Raleigh, because you’re both attached to my command right now. It’s a small command. You and her keep this hanky-panky going on between these government walls, I’m going to be forced to take action. I would just as soon avoid emotional shit like that. Get my drift, Commander?” West smiled for a brief second.

“Yes, sir. We do have a close relationship, Commodore, and we both know what we can and can’t do within these government walls,” Tucker replied, miffed at the Commodore addressing him as if he was some school kid. Who in the hell was this man to be asking him about his personal relationship? Then, just as suddenly, Tucker calmed as he realized that West had already answered the question. West was Navy. Through and through, the old mustang was Navy. Anyone or anything that messed with West’s Navy or even hinted at a degree of disgrace on it would be forever the man’s enemy. Tucker wouldn’t be surprised if the Commodore pulled his sword and tried to run through anyone besmirching the Navy. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Glad you understand, Commander.”

“Sir, I better understand your position than mine.”

Commodore West, holding the message board under this arm, walked to the window overlooking the pier. “You see those men out there, Commander? Every day
we ask more and more of them. We tax their energy, emotional well-being, and right to a family life. In return for this punishment and the right to live just above the poverty line, we give them the honor of serving their country. As long as we call ourselves Navy officers, we must never forget that they are the reason we lead, for without them, we would cease to be the most powerful Navy this world has ever seen.”

Tucker nodded silently. The man was right. Every now and again, you needed a dose of patriotism and reality to steer you back on course and remind you of the reason you do what you do. He took another drink of the bitter coffee.

“Now, back to you, young man. It’s obvious you and this young lady are either in love or falling in love or—pardon my words, Commander Tucker, I don’t mean to be out of line—found the greatest sex you two have ever found.”

Tucker nearly spit the coffee out, forced himself to swallow it instead, with about half going down the wrong way. Tucker started coughing, spilling coffee as he put the cup down. He bent over, trying to clear the liquid from his windpipe. The Commodore hit him a couple of times on the back.

“Never knew I could surprise a Navy SEAL like that.”

“Sorry, sir, wasn’t expecting the question.”

“That’s okay, son. Wasn’t expecting to get an answer. Just being a nosey old codger now—a dirty one at that. Seems like only yesterday I was meeting my wife the same way, except it wasn’t on active duty. She was a reserve officer who came to visit a friend of hers. We were introduced, I was smitten, and two years later, we were married.” Commodore West leaned forward against the bulkhead, straining to see the piers beneath the tower. Then he leaned back. “I truly believe we’re put here on earth as a test by some Supreme Being with a misguided sense of humor. Every challenge we encounter is part of that test, including marriage. Rennie and I had a great thirty years. I still miss her.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Commander Bradley and I have only known each other about four months. I was wounded—”

“I know, Commander. I read the report when they sent you down here. You’re the one reason we thought this Abu Alhaul would try for Norfolk. Naval Intelligence believed this new terrorist leader would forego irrational terrorist acts for the rational opportunity of revenge. You.”

“Yes, sir. I have always enjoyed being bait.”

“Looks as if this time you weren’t.”

The radio crackled from the front of the tower, followed by a broadcast. “Hampton Roads Maritime, this is Freighter
Maru Tania
. We are ten miles from mouth of channel. Should we try to enter as scheduled?”

“
Maru Tania,
Hampton Roads; Request you remain out to sea for time being. Change to weather channel and get latest update. Weather is expected to deteriorate in next twelve to twenty-four hours. Try again this afternoon if you see the winds and seas decrease. Right now, we intend to reopen the port tomorrow morning.”

“Roger, out.”

“Bridge to bridge,” Commodore West said, nodding at the radio. “We keep it tuned to channel sixteen. It lets us keep track of the ships going in and out, plus it’s the primary warning system for the Department of Homeland Security in the event we need to seal the East Coast.”

“Ever had to do that?”

“You mean seal the East Coast?” The Commodore asked and then continued without waiting for an answer. “This has been the first time we tried it, and one of the lessons we’ve learned is that Mother Nature doesn’t always cooperate. Of course, you could say Mother Nature closed the East Coast ports for us.”

Commodore West glanced at the clock over the forward bulkhead of the tower. “Zero five hundred, Commander. We’ve been here an hour shooting the bull, and while you haven’t asked for my advice, I want you to know that failure to ask has never stopped me from giving
it.” He reached up and touched him on the shoulder. “Take your time.”