Seawolf Mask of Command (69 page)
The heart monitor sounded an alarm and Reed stepped in front of Brodie who relented, stepping back as Hoover grabbed an AED and pushed past Kristen, ripping the container open. Kristen stepped back as Choi’s eyes continued to stare at her. Reed was already doing emergency chest compressions while Hoover began placing the electrodes on the doctor’s unmoving chest.
Brodie glanced at Charles Horner who was staring in disbelief as Hoover and Reed began trying to revive the doctor.
“Send it all,” Brodie ordered, but Horner seemed transfixed by all that had happened and didn’t respond. “Do it now!” Brodie barked, startling Horner who bolted out of the sickbay.
Kristen sat down in a chair along the wall. She looked back at Choi whose eyes—now glassy and lifeless—managed to still stare at her accusingly.
Captain’s Cabin, USS Seawolf
B
rodie rubbed his sore eyes. He’d never known such exhaustion. Over the years he’d slowly conditioned himself to the long hours required of a submarine captain. But ever since he’d received their mission over a month earlier he’d struggled to sleep, and since leaving Bremerton, what sleep he’d managed had been brief and seldom restful. Once more beyond North Korean waters, the
Seawolf
was out of immediate danger, and he could turn his attention to making repairs and seeing to his crew. However, none of this good news meant he could rest yet. His boat was damaged, and Graves was finishing the damage report.
They’d been lucky.
The torpedo had detonated above them and far enough from the hull to cause only superficial damage. There had been some minor flooding and a few injuries. “The Dry Deck Shelter is badly damaged,” Graves explained as he completed his damage report. Brodie’s best friend and XO was seated in a chair, “but with the SDV destroyed, I don’t think we’ll be needing the DDS again.”
This was hardly the end of it. The bean counters in Washington would want Brodie to account for the actions that resulted in the loss of the very valuable SDV, not to mention the death of the two SEALs back in Korea, and—of course—Dr. Dar-Hyun Choi. “We’ll worry about the DDS when we get back to Sasebo,” he said and handed Graves a recent message from COMSUBPAC ordering them to the joint US naval base in Sasebo, Japan. “For now, let’s worry about patching ourselves up.”
Graves shook his head, exhaling tiredly. He looked as worn out as Brodie felt. “Damn, that was close,” he mused thoughtfully, referring to their orders to launch a nuclear strike that had been quickly rescinded after they’d reported what Choi had revealed. “I’ll be honest with you, buddy,” Graves admitted, “I haven’t been sleeping very well.”
Brodie nodded thoughtfully, feeling the same sense of relief. He could think of few things he wanted more than the two nuclear weapons removed from his submarine.
“Any other word on what’s happening in North Korea?” the XO asked.
Brodie assumed it was the same question everyone back in Washington was asking. None of it made sense. The DPRK had brought the world to the brink of war simply as a bluff. He shrugged, too tired to think about it anymore. “Insanity? Some sort of power struggle within the DPRK? Your guess is as good as anyone’s.”
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Graves commented in frustration as he rolled his head on his shoulders to loosen his neck muscles.
Brodie nodded in agreement, thinking of the report he had to prepare for Washington. There had been a steady flood of messages demanding answers to an even greater flood of questions. The short run to Sasebo would barely give him enough time to gather the facts and prepare his report, and there would be no time for sleep. “How’s the crew?” he asked, knowing they’d all been on the ragged edge for weeks.
“Relieved to be out of DPRK territorial waters,” Graves admitted. “I cancelled training temporarily so everyone can catch up on their sleep.”
Brodie agreed without saying so. Graves knew what he was doing and didn’t need Brodie micromanaging him. “The SEALs?”
“The two survivors were both wounded, but should be okay. Doc Reed said they’re already back on their feet.”
Brodie nodded, appreciating the good news. “They need to prepare reports of what happened in North Korea. Top Secret, of course, so keep the circle of people in the know to the minimum.”
Graves concurred and then said thoughtfully, “It must have been one hell of a brawl.”
“Yeah,” Brodie agreed, thinking of Kristen who’d been thrust into the middle of it.
“Lieutenant Whitaker is on bed rest for the next few days,” Graves explained. “Her injuries are superficial and are mostly minor cuts from rock shrapnel, a couple of cracked ribs from where her body armor stopped a couple of AK bullets, and a badly twisted ankle.”
Brodie didn’t want to think of her at the moment. “Keep an eye on her,” he advised his friend. “She’s already been through hell on this patrol.”
Graves agreed and then turned quiet, slowly assessing Brodie.
“What?” Brodie asked, too tired to play games.
“You knew about her, didn’t you?” Graves asked.
“Hmmm?”
“When you called Beagler and requested her, you already knew our mission, and knew her unique skill set. Your requested her because you knew she could handle the LMRS drones and that she spoke Mandarin.”
Brodie offered a shrug. “Beagler had confided to me that she was special and would come in handy on this mission, yes,” he admitted. “Although neither of us ever imagined her going into North Korea or handling the drones by herself.”
Jason smiled thinly, shaking his head in wonderment. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
Brodie leaned his head back and explained, “When I first received the mission, it read like a damn nightmare,” he admitted. “Then Beagler said he had an officer who was highly skilled with sonar, had graduated at the top of her Academy class, spoke Mandarin, and had spent some time in Corpus with the drones, it was an easy call.”
“Even if that officer was a woman…” Graves pointed out.
“At the time I wouldn’t have cared if she were from Mars. We were heading into deep trouble, and I reckoned we needed all the help we could get,” Brodie admitted. He seldom revealed his inner thoughts to others. Mostly because he trusted few people and also because he didn’t think it was anyone’s business what he was thinking. But Jason was the brother he’d never had, and he kept few secrets from the lanky African American.
They were quiet for a few minutes as each of them slowly came to grips with how close they’d come to jump starting World War III.
“Well, she sure earned her pay,” Jason finally admitted.
Brodie nodded in agreement, never having expected Kristen to be as essential to their mission’s success as she’d proven to be. “Just keep an eye on her for me,” he said without further explanation. “We’ll have a few days in Sasebo before we return to sea. Make sure she gets off the boat and blows off some steam, would ya?”
Graves nodded in the affirmative, “No sweat, bro. Anything else?”
Brodie made eye contact with his friend, wondering if he suspected anything about himself and Kristen. They’d known one another a very long time. “Keep the men working,” he said, changing the subject so as to avoid talking about her further. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I have the suspicion this whole blow up in North Korea is one big sham, and the real trouble is to come elsewhere.”
“Any intelligence reports to back that up?”
“Just my gut,” Brodie admitted. “But whatever happens, I wanna be ready to head back to sea as soon as we’ve completed repairs in Sasebo, so do what we can now. Anything we can’t repair ourselves, I want enumerated and radioed ahead of us to Sasebo so the workers there can come aboard as soon as we tie up pier side to expedite repairs.”
Graves stood. He was so tall, his head nearly touched the overhead. “Anything else?”
“Get some sleep, XO,” Brodie suggested, knowing full well Graves would get little rest until the
Seawolf
had been repaired. His friend left the tiny cabin and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Brodie alone.
Brodie opened his eyes as he set his right hand on the table. The hand was trembling uncontrollably. The tension, the stress, all of the responsibility that was part and parcel of a captain’s existence was finally getting to him. Four years in command was a long time. He exhaled tiredly. He liked to think the worst was behind him, but as he stared at the far bulkhead, contemplating everything that had transpired, he feared the worst was yet to come.
The End
The Friends From Damascus Series
Absence of the Normal (Coming Summer 2013)
Seawolf: Mask of Command
Seawolf: End Game (Coming Summer 2013)
Book 1 in the Friends from Damascus series
Haunted by a past she can’t escape, CIA’s top assassin Talia Cavalieri is facing her most dangerous assignment to date. She must neutralize an international team of eight special ops commandos. Known simply as the friends from Damascus, the rogue unit continues to elude her on a world-wide chase. Talia uses every trick in her considerable arsenal before the final showdown. When things get personal, she must make a decision that promises to change her life forever.
The Ural Mountains, Russia
T
he military convoy weaved its way up the narrow mountain pass. Sheer, rocky slopes dominated both sides of the road as the trucks labored up the steep grade. Major Andre Popov had made the trip a hundred times—always the same route, always the same number of vehicles, always the same number of security troops. He’d made the long, boring trip so many times he found himself slumbering in the cab of the lead truck.
“Complacency kills,” Popov had once told his men, and it certainly did in his case. As his driver shouted in sudden alarm, Popov managed to open his eyes long enough to see the streaking RPG round just before it struck his truck. Popov and half of his fifteen men in the vehicle were killed instantly.
More rocket propelled grenades rained down on the trucks loaded with Russian security troops as withering fire raked across the vehicles, finishing the job. The soldiers who managed to escape the fiery trucks were cut down in a well-prepared crossfire by the Chechen rebels hidden among the rocks on both sides of the road.
The three vehicles in the middle of the seven truck convoy were hardly touched. But with the road in front and behind now completely blocked with burning troop transports, the large tractor-trailers had nowhere to go and stopped. The drivers were civilians who simply drove the trucks, and realizing what was happening, they saw no point in resisting, hoping to be spared the fate of Popov and his security troops.
The leader of the rebel force opened one of the sealed containers in the rear of the lead tractor-trailer to verify its contents. He saw the single stainless steel pressurized canister surrounded in a cocoon of foam. The warnings on the canister made clear what it contained. The thirty nerve gas canisters the convoy had been carrying were just the latest in a series of shipments to a destruction facility high in the mountains and far away from a population center. The guerillas handling the cases wore gas masks in hopes of protecting themselves in the event of an accident. But the leader of the rebels knew better and wore no mask. If someone was careless, and one of the canisters ruptured, no gas mask would protect them from the topical nerve agent. Less than five micro liters on the skin would be enough to kill and there was no antidote.
