Joint Task Force #2: America (10 page)

Kelly lifted a set of binoculars from the small shelf to his right. He scanned the ship in the distance. After a minute, he lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “I can’t see anything topside that matches that description. Could be they put it belowdecks. Maybe in one of those cargo holds. May be the clouds that are rolling in.”

“Passing one thousand.”

“Thanks, Senior Chief. Tell me cherubs, now.” Most tactical aircraft reported their altitude in “angels” with each angel equaling one thousand feet. When an aircraft passed beneath the one-thousand-foot altitude, hundreds of feet were passed using the term “cherub.” Reconnaissance and transport aircraft followed the commercial practice of reporting altitude above one thousand feet by referring to the first three digits of the altitude. They had passed through the cloud layer at altitude one-zero-zero—ten thousand feet.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“Well, it’s kind of hard for him to give it to you in thousands anymore.”

“Lieutenant Kelly, let’s be serious for a few minutes so we can make this pass, get the data we need for our
report, and get back up where we can continue our dynamic discussions.”

Kelly brushed his hands together, knocking off the crumbs, before grabbing the yoke tightly.

The aircraft banked right again, putting the contact onto the left side of the P-3C. “Let’s bring the aircraft down to cherubs one before we fly by the contact.”

“I doubt if we’re going to surprise them,” Senior Chief Leary said. “Unless they have no air-search radar.”

“Why would they have air-search radar, Senior Chief? We’ve been flying all morning by these commercial ships. Commercial ships have little use for air-search radar. The first time they’re going to know we’re in the area is when we whip by their starboard side, wiggling our wings and displaying the huge American emblem on our port side.”

For the next three minutes, conversation was limited to gauge checks as they eased down to one hundred feet. At one hundred feet, an air pocket, a sneeze, could send the aircraft into the drink, ruining everyone’s day. The Senior Chief, in a low, steady voice, kept a running monologue of altitude as they continued their descent. When the P- 3C reached a one-hundred-feet altitude, the two pilots, pulling back on the yoke together, leveled the Orion aircraft. Atmosphere is thicker closer to the ground. The sea-level atmosphere buffeted the P-3C as it fought its way through the clear air.

In the rear of the aircraft, the remaining, twenty-one crew members were buckled into seats, survival vests strapped tightly around chests and waists. A crash at this altitude meant a short, “tight butt cheeks” stay-afloat time.

Lieutenant Maureen Early pushed the internal-communications-system button on her control. “Listen up, troops, we’re going to make an identification pass down the starboard side of the contact, cross her pointy end, and then come down the port side. Then, we’ll decide whether we need to do another loop. If we do, we’ll cut across her stern. Now, I know how much everyone loves to look out those small windows, but unless you need to be out of your seats, then stay in them until I set condition three.”

“Dropping pass sixty feet, ma’am,” Senior Chief said.

“Ease up on the throttle and bring the nose up.”

The specially modified P-3C slowed its descent. The strain of pulling out of the descent vibrated the aircraft. The rough weather moving into the vicinity added to the turbulence, jerking the aircraft violently for the few seconds it took to level out. A rough vibration settled on the aircraft as it bore through the thicker lower-atmosphere level. Early glanced out the small side window. The contact was stern on, about fifteen miles east. A spreading wake showed it heading on a northeasterly course. Probably toward the Mediterranean, or Portugal, or even the English Channel. It could be heading anywhere in that direction from this far away. Even with binoculars, the shaking and vibrating of the aircraft would stop her from focusing on it. She recalled the contact report LTJG Forrester had sent before they descended. The course of the ship had been accurately reported, she decided.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Maureen turned the yoke to the left, bringing the aircraft around and aligning it with the ship’s starboard side. She estimated they were ten thousand yards; five miles from the contact. A few minutes later, the aircraft commenced a pass down the starboard side of the vessel. Besides the windows in the cockpit, three windows marked viewing portals along both sides of the aircraft. Along the port side the window directly behind the pilot was occupied by the CTO communicator who controlled the satellite communications between the aircraft and various intelligence agencies. Farther back, near an electronic warfare laboratory, a window allowed the mission evaluator and communications evaluator a viewing portal they could use, if they bent over and braced themselves against the bulkhead. Then, in the tail section of the aircraft, was the last of the windows located beside a small table where the crew ate their packed lunches. The main hatch had a small porthole window in it, but it was useless for surveillance. This main hatch separated the windows along the port side of the P-3C and the “feeding area,” as the
crew called the small kitchen. This hatch was where they entered and departed the aircraft. It was also where they would bail out or ditch the plane, if necessary. No one ever expected to bail out or ditch, but at the beginning of every flight, they executed the drills for each event. If you had to leave an aircraft before it landed, then your training had to kick in, ride through the shock and fear of the event, to help the aircrewmen survive. You couldn’t trust your brain to figure it out in the short time available, so you trained and trained and trained, and hoped you never had to use it. A successful flight was one where you left the aircraft the same way you entered it. Alternatively, as Senior Chief Leary was fond of saying,
“A successful career is where the number of takeoffs equals the number of landings.”

Early pushed the intercom button. “You got the data you need, Win?”

“Doing fine, ma’am.”

“I didn’t ask how you were, Win! I asked if you had the information you needed to update the contact report.”

A moment of silence passed. “It’s a one-two hulled freighter, Lieutenant. Rusting red sides with even rustier white superstructure amidships.” A one-two hull was a commercial vessel with a forward structure on the bow rising notably above the main deck. The superstructure near the center of the hull, usually where the bridge and living accommodations existed, counted as the second structure rising above the main deck. If the hull design had been identified as a one-three, then it would have rising structures at the bow and stern with nothing amidships.

“That’s really nice, Lieutenant Junior Grade—
never to become Lieutenant at this rate
—Forrester. How about the important data?”

Lieutenant Early turned to her copilot. “Let’s take us across her bow.”

“There is something on the stern, Lieutenant. Could be that van we’re looking for? It’s covered with a tarp. We
might be able to get a view beneath the covering, if you can bring us down another notch or two.”

“Notch or two?” Kelly mouthed.

Senior Chief Leary rolled his eyes. “What would my mama say?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Okay, Win,” Early replied over the internal communication system. “We’re going to cross the pointy end of the ship; you get the name of this bucket of bolts so we have something for those pulling our strings from shore.”

“We’ve got the name, but there seems to be some disagreement back here. The white letters on the stern identify her as the
Rinko Steel
. We looked her up on Lloyds’ and it identifies the
Rinko Steel
as a Liberian-registered dry-cargo ship with a traveling crane.
Rinko Steel
is also a one-three hull construction. This
Rinko Steel
is a one-two hull with no visible crane structure.

“Sounds like a
bingo
to me,” she replied.

“Bingo? We heading back?” Kelly asked. Bingo was the aviation term for an aircraft with just enough fuel to head back home or to an alternate airfield.

“Not that bingo,” she replied, looking at him and seeing the mischievous smile.

“It could be, ma’am, but Master Chief Fremont seems to think it could be just another vessel with the same name. Plus, he did the scan analysis of the stern and saw no indications of a name change.”

Changing the name of a boat by painting over its original or sand blasting it off was a common practice for pirates and drug smugglers who wanted to hide the true identity of a ship—a ship for which the authorities may be on the lookout.

“So, we think if we can get a sneak-peep under the tarp we can see if it has this gray or black van we’re looking for.”

Lieutenant Early turned to her copilot and flight engineer. “Let’s go down the port side, so our crew can make their minds up.”

She turned the yoke to the left, pushing her feet against
the pedals. The sharp sound of the hydraulics answering her motions was followed by a dip of the left wing. Early pushed forward on the yoke, taking the aircraft lower. She hoped this provided those cryppies in the back what they wanted. “Cryppies” was a slang term used by fellow Navy officers to refer to any of the small number of cryptologic officers and technicians who made up the Naval Security Group, a small nondescript command with a legacy of covert operations. If something bad was happening, or if the Navy wanted to know what the enemy was thinking, it was the skilled, silent teams of cryptologic warriors they sent forward. On board the P-3C, their keen analytical skills combined with technology made them a formidable asset on the front lines of surveillance.

Lieutenant Early turned and peered at the front of the merchant vessel less than two hundred yards from the aircraft. Several sailors on the bow of the ship wearing white sleeveless T-shirts waved. On the rusting white bridge of the vessel a couple of men, one wearing what she thought of as a captain’s hat, trained binoculars on them. She half-raised her hand to wave back, but thought better of it.

Turning the yoke to the right, she leveled the aircraft for about thirty seconds and then put it into another left-hand turn to take them along the port side of the merchant.

“Damn! I’ve got a third
Rinko Steel
here. Naval Intelligence database lists
Rinko Steel
as a Greek-owned ship under Panamanian register,” said Lieutenant Junior Grade Forrester over the ICS. “But, she’s flying the Liberian flag.”

“Sounds to me as if she got up on a bad day,” Lieutenant Kelly broadcast back.

“Sounds to me as if she
ain’t
what she is dressed up to be,” Forrester replied.

“I’ve met some women like that in Naples,” Senior Chief Leary volunteered.

“Okay, Win,” Lieutenant Early said. “Take those photographs and let’s get that contact message off the plane.”

“We’ll have to ascend to re-establish radio communications. This storm is kicking the butt out of our comms.”

“Just think,” Kelly added. “Here we are flying several hundred thousands of parts screwed together for our safety, built by the lowest bidder—”

The P-3C hit a small air pocket, dropping about twenty feet, sending the loose items around the cockpit off the shelves and onto the flight deck.

“Holy
shit!
With loose things such as that—could cause systems not to function properly when needed. I’m sure somewhere at Naval Air Systems Command there’s a program manager who can explain why this is expected.”

“When we gain altitude, we can transmit them. Meanwhile, ma’am, I have the communicators storing the contact reports into their ’waiting-to-be-sent’ files for release.”

“At least our search-and-rescue frequencies work,” Senior Chief Leary said, replying to Kelly’s observation.

“That’s because they’re commercial and not government issued.”

“Okay, gents,” Early said, “less bad-mouthing our fellow aviators in Washington and more attention to the controls and readings. We’re at seventy-five feet, Senior Chief, so there’s not much room for error. Keep an eye on our gauges.”

Out the side of her window, the bridge of the ship passed directly to her left. Two men standing on the bridge wing watched the aircraft through binoculars. One of them stepped into the bridge. Within seconds, the object of interest on the stern of the ship replaced the bridge. A gray-black canvas tarp tied down by eight lines stretched tight over the object hid it from view.

“What do you think it is?” Kelly asked, leaning over so he could see out of the port window also.

Early shook her head. “Don’t know. Could be anything.” She pressed the TALK button on the ICS. “Win, you got enough data so we can gain some altitude and get off this jerky roller coaster ride?”

A gust of wind must have blown across the deck, for the edge of the tarp facing the aircraft raised slightly.

“Wheels!” shouted Kelly. “Whatever is beneath it has wheels. Look! They’re untying the covering,” he announced, pointing across Early.

She leaned back away from his arm. “How about grabbing the yoke and helping me fly this thing instead of acting like a kid on a sightseeing trip.”

She peered out the window, having to look over her left shoulder as the aircraft continued its bow-to-stern passage along the port side of the merchant. Several sailors on the
Rinko Steel
worked furiously on the lines holding the tarp. Suddenly, the tarp flew off, giving Early a glimpse of black. She was too far past the stern forward to get a good view.

“We got it!” Win shouted through the ICS. “Ma’am, can you turn right and make another pass along the port side?”

In front of the cockpit, the wake of the ship showed the vessel turning to starboard. She shrugged. What was it going to do? Put on full throttle and outrun the P-3C? Even though the huge reconnaissance aircraft was slow by aviation standards, it was still faster than any ship.

“Let’s put her into a right turn, Scott, and make another pass down her port side.”

“Ma’am, this low altitude is eating up flight time,” Senior Chief Leary announced.