Seawolf Mask of Command (56 page)

“Probable concussion,” Reed confirmed.

“What the hell happened?” Graves asked her, but Kristen could only shake her head tiredly as she struggled to catch her breath. She then understood why it had been so hard to bring Hicks back up. He’d been unconscious and unable to help. Brodie and Kristen had been pulling dead weight.

Brodie was next down. He was assisted to the periscope platform where the helping hands set him beside Kristen. His left hand was laid open to the bone and was bleeding badly. He sat on the edge of the platform, his head hanging wearily as one of Reed’s assistants wrapped a battle dressing around the wound. Then, after the last hatch was dogged down tight, COB appeared.

“Jason,” Brodie said weakly.

The XO knelt down in front of him. “Sir?” Graves answered, his voice filled with concern.

“The SU-17s, where are they?” Brodie asked, sucking air and appearing too weak to do much more than lift his head.

“The Hornets chased them off, Captain.”

“Get us down deep and out of here,” Brodie managed with an effort.

“Aye, Captain.”

United States Geographical Office, Incheon, South Korea

T
rent Weir was scheduled to leave South Korea in three days, part of the mass evacuation of nonessential Americans currently in the country. With DPRK provocations increasing daily, South Korea had called for mobilization, martial law had been declared in the northern provinces of the country following several raids by North Korean commandos, and the news was filled with reports of more American air, naval and land forces moving into the theater. Those South Korean citizens who could were leaving the area near the DMZ and heading south to safer regions of the country.

Weir couldn’t make any sense of any of it. He’d been at the Survey Station for three years. He loved Korea, and he felt he’d grown accustomed to the volatile nature of the South’s northern neighbor. But apparently he was in good company. As he sat at his desk, occasionally looking at his work, he was riveted to the local news broadcast. All of the stations were now running 24-hour “war” coverage trying to keep the people informed as the crisis escalated day-by-day. The news anchor was interviewing a Chinese official who was unable to explain the reason why the DPRK had suddenly chosen war. Apparently no one knew why. Chinese delegations hoping to broker a last minute deal to avoid war had been turned away at the North Korean border, which was even more puzzling since China had been North Korea’s biggest supporter for decades. Speculation as to why the DPRK had chosen this seemingly wild course of action ranged from insanity by their new Supreme Leader to an internal power struggle that led to an extremist faction of militarists seizing control of the secretive nation. Weir only knew he was glad to be on a plane out of the country. He just hoped he would be gone before any more shooting started.

The computer on his desk chimed, alerting him to a significant seismic event picked up by a nearby remote monitoring station. The United States Geographic Survey maintained hundreds of seismic monitoring sites across the globe. Normally these stations sent a steady stream of valuable scientific data regarding tremors, minor earthquakes and other naturally occurring seismic events. But besides this purely scientific function, the stations could also pick up manmade events.

Weir pulled his attention away from the television long enough to register what the computer alarm was alerting him to, and he saw the seismic event. Larger than the usual tremors that happened almost constantly, this event was big, and hinted at a probable earthquake in the vicinity. He checked several other seismic monitoring stations in the Pacific Rim, knowing the last thing the world needed was a natural disaster to add to the manmade chaos on the peninsula.

It took him less than thirty seconds to access data from the other monitoring stations and triangulate their readings to the epicenter of the seismic event. He felt the color drain from his face when the location was confirmed. There was no fault line in the remote mountain region of Hamgyong Province, North Korea.

He recalled a similar event in 2009, almost at the same location when North Korea conducted their last nuclear weapons test. Dutifully, he picked up a telephone that connected him with the USGS main office in the United States to inform his superiors about the event. Not that his information would be news to anyone in Washington, or any other nation’s capital city. His computer had already sent the information to the world that North Korea had just tested yet another nuclear device in violation of the world community’s demand to stand down their nuclear program.

Meir couldn’t help wonder if his scheduled flight out of the region in three days, was three days too long.

Wardroom, USS Seawolf

K
risten had slept right through her alarm and might very well still have been asleep if Gibbs hadn’t awakened her two hours after her alarm had first tried to. She’d just managed to make it down to the torpedo room in time to recover the two LMRS drones after the
Seawolf
had returned to collect them.

Now, with the information downloaded from the drones, she was seated in the wardroom preparing to assist Fitzgerald, the mine warfare expert, with the briefing for the SEALs on a possible route through the minefield. Kristen was present simply to handle the data and perhaps answer a question regarding the drones.

The four SEALs going ashore in the mini submarine were seated at the table and none of them looked too happy about the situation. The leader of the remaining four was a Chief Petty Officer named Grogan and he reminded Kristen of boot leather. Nothing about him appeared remotely friendly. His flaming red hair was long and he had a thick, bushy mustache. His green eyes seemed to say “don’t screw with me” at just a glance. Then there was the tall, athletic, bronze-Adonis team corpsman, Petty Officer Robert “Doc” Hoover.

Hoover looked like he’d grown up on the beaches of California surfing and chasing girls. But his intense blue eyes were sharp, and he moved with a quiet confidence that came with having faced intense combat and survived. Another SEAL named Alvarez was a former gang banger with tattoos all over his arms. He would drive the submarine. Finally, there was the broad-chested “Trip” Hamilton. Hamilton reminded Kristen of a bridge pylon—short and with a body that would intimidate a professional wrestler. Hamilton was the one who unnerved her the most. He looked like someone who enjoyed fighting and considered killing just one of the fringe benefits of being a SEAL.

She was thankful her experience with the four of them would be limited to a single briefing and then watching them sail away. After the previous evening on the bridge during the storm, the last thing she wanted in her life was any more excitement.

“The channel averages about one hundred yards wide,” Fitzgerald explained as he pointed at it on the map projected onto the screen. He then proceeded to point out latitude and longitude coordinates of the various turns in the channel. “Once in the channel, if you follow your waypoints programmed into your GPS receiver, you should have no problem,” Fitzgerald told the four tough-looking commandos.

Kristen thought Fitzgerald’s comment was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard. Trying to navigate a submarine through the minefield at night was borderline insanity at best and could hardly be considered “No problem.” From the expressions on the faces of the four SEALs, they thought the same.

“What is it, Spike?” Brodie asked COB, who was seated by the SEALs and clearly not liking what he was seeing.

“The channel is barely two hundred meters at the widest point, Skipper,” he pointed out, “and significantly tighter in some places.” He then looked questioningly at the group of SEALs, “Can you fellows navigate the SDV through something so narrow?”

“We should be able to manage it as long as the data is accurate,” Grogan replied. Besides being the new man in charge of the dwindling number of SEALs on board, he was also the navigator for the SDV.

Fitzgerald answered immediately, taking the opportunity to protect himself in the event something went wrong, “I cannot speak to the accuracy of these figures, since I wasn’t responsible for gathering them.” The SEALs exchanged tense glances; Fitzgerald’s comments were hardly inspiring confidence.

“That’s not a very comforting answer, Mister Fitzgerald,” Brodie pointed out, clearly picking up the vibe the SEALs were putting out.

“Sir, I’m sorry. But the information provided by the drones is only as good as the operator,” he replied, taking a direct swipe at Kristen.

Kristen was an expert at hiding her thoughts, and her face stayed impassive while she listened to Fitzgerald question her competence. Her contempt for him knew no bounds, but her facial expressions stayed impassive.

“Oh, that’s fucking terrific,” Trip Hamilton offered as he rolled his eyes.

Grogan looked across the table at Kristen. She’d seen him in the torpedo room with his men every time she’d been working on the drones. He’d also been there when they’d dragged Vance’s dead body off her. “Lieutenant Whitaker, isn’t it?” he asked, making sure he had her name right.

Kristen looked him in the eye, ignoring Fitzgerald, “Yes. It is, Chief.”

“You handled the drones, right?” he asked her as he pointed a meaty finger in her direction. She noticed he was missing a portion of his right earlobe.

“I did, yes,” Kristen answered, well aware what question he was about to ask her. She’d known it was coming the moment she told Brodie she could handle the drones nearly a week earlier.

“Then you tell me the confidence you have in its accuracy. Because if it isn’t accurate, there is no way me and my boys are getting wet anytime soon,” he said bluntly.

Kristen glanced at Martin who had his head down and was finding something to do on the computer. Every eye was now on her, something she hated. Kristen knew this was no game, and she couldn’t afford to be flippant. If she told them the information was good and something went wrong, then these four men would probably be killed before they realized she’d made a mistake. It was an uncomfortable position to hold the lives of others in her hand, and she glanced down the table at Brodie who—as captain—had to know exactly what she was feeling.

Over the past month, Kristen had begun to have some kind of understanding just how hard it had to be commanding the
Seawolf
with so many lives relying on his every decision. Like most people, she’d never considered the burdens of command. Now, as she looked to him hoping for some sign of his thoughts, she saw his face was completely unreadable—an iron mask of calm. She looked back at Grogan, hoping to hide the self-doubt that she felt ruled her day-to-day actions and said, “I’d bet my life on it, Chief.”

There was a few seconds pause as he decided whether or not he would trust her. Then, having made up his mind, he looked back at Brodie. “That’s good enough for me, Captain.”

Fitzgerald had been using a retractable metal pointer to help with his briefing, and he now closed it with a loud snapping sound. “That’s about all I have,” he said simply, never mentioning the minefield itself or the types of mines in the field.

“That’s it?” Grogan asked with a hint of disbelief.

Alvarez chimed in, “What types of mines are in the field? I mean, I’m the poor sap driving the goddamn SDV, and it would be nice to know if we have to worry about free-floating mines, magnetic mines, contact mines…”

Fitzgerald shifted slightly and glanced at Kristen who was looking across the table top. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and was doing her best not to say what she truly thought of Fitzgerald. The SEALs were preparing to risk their lives, and he was giving them nothing.

“Well, uh…” he stuttered, “...it is a fairly standard field with moored mines set at…uh… various depths.” Fitzgerald flipped through the thick report Kristen and Martin had prepared for him. The report detailed the density of the field, the mine types, and depths.

Kristen was now fairly certain Fitzgerald had only glanced at it. He was what the Navy called a careerist. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and a lantern jaw, Fitzgerald seemed the quintessential example of what a Navy officer should look like. But after working with Fitzgerald at Corpus Christi, she knew he was a fraud. He’d fooled his superiors by riding on the backs of his people and taking credit for the work of others. He was an opportunist of the worst sort.