Joint Task Force #2: America (22 page)

“So what happens if the line breaks?” Tibbles-Seagraves asked.

“If he keeps asking questions, we’ll be here forever,” Sam whispered.

“Sometimes people die. That’s why we have that small piece of line running between two points on each line. It’s hard to see here, but we call that the ‘tattletale.’ When the tattletale is stretched tight, then you run the risk of the line breaking from the tension on it. When a line breaks, it whips out”—he raised his left arm and brought it around in a large semicircle from right to left—“and around like a razor, cutting through anything and everyone in its path. Right, Boats?”

“Yes, sir. Remember last year?”

“Yes. Last year one of the cruisers at Norfolk Navy base had a line part, and it cost a chief petty officer both his legs. The line cut through him like a knife through butter.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Sam said.

“How can you be sick? You’re a nurse,” Tucker whispered.

“They relieved the commanding officer,” Jenson added softly.

The rain rode across the landscape like cascading waves of theater curtains, rising and falling to the wind,
the noise whipping around the buildings, trees, and vessels like some earthly applause to its performance. Most times the slight angle of the rain hitting the sailors barely changed. They kept their heads down, their gloved hands playing the lines like musicians, lifting the eye of one line up and over the bollard, while on the boat another couple of sailors untied the figure eight, pulling it tighter, while others, standing in tandem, worked together weaving the lines around the bollards. Tucker could see the lips of the Boatswain Mate in charge moving, the noise of the storm drowning the words. As the mariner spoke and pointed, three sailors on the pier hopped and shuffled in choreography as old as when sailors first went to sea. They expertly and quickly adjusted the mooring lines of the six dark boats, moving from one to the other as a team. Each boat had six lines across. The bow and stern lines ran directly from their cleat on the ship to the pier, while the other four lines made a pair of X’s as they connected to the pier. The X type of mooring played the movement of the tide and current against itself, helping to keep the boat steady. Even Tucker knew that, and he was a Navy SEAL.

Every few minutes, a strong gust danced through the tableau, rippling the edges of the rain curtain, raising the water parallel with the earth. When that happened, the rain hit the sailors squarely in the face or the backs of their heads, chins involuntarily tightened against heaving chests, as they fought the elements to protect the boats. The boats were all that were in the minds of the sailors out there. Everything else was secondary, shoved to another part of their minds. Even the rain and wind pelting them were elements the working party fought to ignore. They focused on the job, getting it done, and having a quick break before starting over again; for storms never played the same act twice. The winds and seas forever evolved in a storm, as if eagerly seeking an opening to wreak havoc on those who would challenge it.

“With synthetic lines, when they’re wet you can see when the tension on them increases. First it squeezes the water out, and then, when they are nearing breaking point,
actual vapor rises all along the length of it caused by the heat generated when the tension actually vaporizes the moisture.”

The gusts sneaked under the pulled-down soaked watch caps of the sailors and blew water from the slicks. Vaguely, Tucker heard MacOlson correct something Tibbles-Seagraves said and then explain again what the sailors were doing. Bet ol’ Tibbles-Seagraves wished he had never asked the Surface Warfare officer “What was going on?” Tucker grinned at the thought.

“Five-point-six seconds.”

With the exception of the sleek, low-profile warships rolling alongside the piers, the scene could have been from the age of sailing vessels. Securing a ship alongside a dock or a pier was more than wrapping a line around a cleat and a bollard and hasting off home for a meal, a beer, and a quick romp in the sack before Monday night football started. It was an art—an art only learned by hands-on experience. Storms were the final exams that separated those who had truly mastered their art and those with still much to learn. If they lived.

Lieutenant MacOlson explained what it meant when each line was “doubled up,” and immediately went into details of how a ship “singled-up” all lines in preparation to get underway. Tucker glanced at Tibbles-Seagraves. The man politely nodded at Lieutenant MacOlson. The Royal Air Force officer’s eyes were beginning to glaze over.

Tucker laughed, catching the attention of Tibbles-Seagraves who smiled in return. In that fraction of a second, it was apparent to Tucker that MacOlson had long ago lost Tibbles-Seagraves, who had drowned in the mariner chatter and was only politely listening to something he failed to understand and minutes ago had lost interest in.

The room was growing warmer. Tucker shifted his survival knife farther back on his belt so it wouldn’t jut into his stomach when he sat down. He lifted his foot and rested it on the vent beneath the window, bent down, and
retied the boot, making sure the pants leg was tucked tightly into the green socks. He liked the camouflage uniform. Even without the rain slick, they had certain chemically treated fabrics that made the outfit water-repellant.

Finished, Tucker looked back out the window as a strong gust ripped open a sailor’s rain slick, causing the mariner to drop his grip on the forward line of the boat at the end of the pier. The second sailor who was supposed to be grasping the line also was running over to another work party.

“Oh, shit!” P.T. shouted. “Boats!”

The bow of the boat edged away from the pier.

The Boatswain Mate in charge dove for the flapping line, missing it. Two sailors farther up hurriedly tossed the eye of the line they had over the bollard and ran toward the boat. The wind pushed the bow of the boat away from the pier. The other five lines held, but as Tucker watched, the number two and three lines began to smoke as water vapor rose.

The bowline flopped back across the pier. The nearest sailor grabbed it and quickly wrapped it around his wrist, while shouting at the Boatswain Mate supervisor. The Boatswain Mate began to shout, waving his arms frantically as he ran toward the sailor. The Petty Officer’s watch cap blew off, tumbling over and over as it rose above the row of boats behind him and then disappeared into the wind, heading farther inland. The Boatswain Mate slipped on the wet pier. Even from this distance, Tucker saw the fear and horror in the Petty Officer’s face. His mouth contorted in what appeared to Tucker to be shouts. The Petty Officer’s hands stretched toward the young sailor even as he scrambled on all fours toward the sailor, who now stood, his head turning side to side as if trying to figure out what was wrong. The supervisor’s face glowed red as he screamed at the man, his feet slipping as he fought to regain his footing.

The door to the quarterdeck flew open as P.T. and the Boatswain Mate dashed out of the building.

On the pier, two other sailors reached the Boatswain
Mate. One grabbed him under the arms as he passed, pulling him upright. The other, the rankings of a Second Class stenciled in black on the right sleeve of his rain slick, hopped over the two sailors in a headlong dash toward the sailor with the bow line. The smile of the sailor who had thought he had saved the line faded into fear as the boat pulled him toward the edge of the pier.

Tucker gasped, “Oh, no! Come on!” He watched the sailor futilely fight to unwrap the line from his wrist, his feet slipping on the pier as he attempted to dig in against the pull of the boat as it eased away from the pier. The number-two line parted, whipping out, passing harmlessly over the Boatswain Mate in charge and the sailor helping him up. The two of them dove for the pier, throwing their hands over their heads. The other sailors ran up the pier away from the whipping mooring line. The snapped mooring line reached its limit to the left and immediately whipped back to the right, riding safely over the two sailors lying on the pier and barely missing the struggling sailor as the bow line pulled him toward the edge. The line whipped around, and a gust of wind changed its trajectory enough that it caught on the number-five line, wrapping itself around and around it.

Tucker and Tibbles-Seagraves ran down the stairs leading to the wharf, taking them two at a time. Behind him, he heard Sam shout, but her words were lost in the mayhem.

Tucker looked up into the rain as he stumbled on the last two slippery concrete steps. The sailor was gone. The other three sailors were running toward the end of the pier, looking over the side between the pier and the Mark V boat. He knew if the wind twisted slightly and pushed the boat back toward the landing, it might crush the sailor between it and the pier. There was no space beneath the piers where someone could take refuge, and with the heavy mooring line wrapped around the young man’s wrist, most likely the sailor would be unable to swim to the surface.

The Boatswain Mate in charge grabbed the two sailors
and sent them scurrying aboard the drifting Mark V. They had to reset the lines. Right now, only four lines held the craft to the pier.

By the time MacOlson, the senior Boatswain Mate, Jenson, and Tucker hit the end of the pier and started sprinting toward the scene, several other sailors had fenders from nearby boats and were doubling them up between the loose craft and the pier, trying to keep the bow from crashing back against it.

Tucker glanced around Tibbles-Seagraves who was directly behind, surprised and glad to see Sam following. If they rescued this sailor, her services would be needed.

The supervising Boatswain Mate pushed his shoes off with his feet and ran toward the edge of the pier.

“No, Jacobs!” MacOlson shouted. “Don’t do it.”

The man looked back at them. It was hard to tell from the rain whether those were tears running down his cheeks, but the man’s face was scrunched in a look of terror.

A cry rode across the wind, reaching their ears.

“Jenson, get that boat secured!” MacOlson shouted as he ran toward the end of the pier. He touched Jacobs on his shoulder. “Come on!” Along the piers were wooden pillars that ran several feet above the pier through the concrete and deep into the waters beneath. Hanging on each of them were life rings. MacOlson grabbed one. Tucker Raleigh reached MacOlson as the Lieutenant stopped at the end of the pier. At the bottom of a wave about ten feet out, the head of the young sailor appeared, his free left hand waved wildly as he fought to keep his head above water. He screamed once and then quickly was jerked beneath the surface.

MacOlson drew back and slung the life ring. It sailed into the wind for a fraction of a second before the storm grabbed it and took it end over end past the spot in the water where the man had disappeared.

Tucker dove from the end of the pier into the water, the scream of “No” from Sam Bradley ringing in his ears before the water engulfed him. This was home to a Navy
SEAL, but cammies weren’t the uniform of choice for diving. He dove deeper, trying to dive through the current pushing him away from the direction in which he had seen the young sailor disappear. Tucker struggled east in the exit direction of the small channel the boats used. Visibility was limited. The motion of the water steered up the sediment on the bottom. Lights came on above, filtering into the water. Without warning, a line bopped up from beneath and whipped across his face, bringing pain with it and causing Tucker to involuntarily crunch his eyes tight.

He felt the line near his hand and grabbed it. He opened his eyes and started pulling on the line. The effort moved him along it. A hand appeared, flapping at the wrist in the water. The line was wrapped around it. Tucker reached down to his ankle for his knife. His fingers searched for several seconds before he recalled strapping it to his waist earlier. He pulled his survival knife out and with a couple of quick slices cut the sailor free. The man’s face was back there somewhere in the murky water. Tucker’s lungs ached.

Tucker pulled the man to him, flipped him around, and wrapped the sailor’s neck in the crook of his arm. Tucker swam toward the surface, kicking his boots as fast as possible, aware of the water filling them, weighing them down and threatening to drag both of them down. He released a few bubbles of air. Then, just as suddenly, Tucker was above the water, gasping for breath even as he pulled the sailor over, freeing the man’s face from the water. Several life rings bopped around him. He grabbed one, looped his free arm through it, and then turned, lifting the sailor’s face further out of the water. A wave washed over them, disrupting his paddling and causing his boots to drag downward. The edge of the life ring pulled down for a second, then Tucker felt the tension on the life ring as those on the pier pulled him in.

He reached forward and pulled the sailor’s face to his. He opened the young man’s lips. In that brief moment, Tucker took in the freckles and glazed eyes. The eyes
were always the first thing to go in death. One moment they sparkled and shined with vitality, and the next, a fine dull gray clouded over them like someone closing a door on a party. The sailor couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, he thought. He pushed the drowned man’s lips apart and began a makeshift CPR, forcing air into water-filled lungs. Tucker quit trying to stay afloat, depending on the movement of the life ring to do the job. He had to keep up this happenstance CPR until the man was ashore where proper medical attention could be administered. Where Sam waited. She could save him.

His head bounced lightly against the ladder at the end of the pier. Hands reached from above, grabbing and hastily pulling the drowned sailor onto the pier. Tibbles-Seagraves’s face appeared above Tucker’s. The SAS’s hand reached down and gripped Tucker’s wrist. “I say, my friend, time for you now.”

With Tibbles-Seagraves holding his left wrist, pulling upward, Tucker climbed back onto the pier. Water spilled from his boots as he stood atop the cement pier, the wind whipping around him. Ahead of him, Sam knelt beside the man. One of her knees positioned between the man’s legs with the other to the victim’s left, she pushed with both hands on the sailor’s diaphragm; down and up; forcing air in and out of the lungs. The wind drowned out her counts. Riding the winds came the faint sound of an ambulance approaching. Tucker sat down on the pier, looking up at the tower. Down the steps came the Commodore in his soaked khakis, the rain giving them a dark, dirty color. Behind the mustang Captain walked the French Special Forces officer Captain Marc St. Cyr, his head moving from side to side as if he was a spectator of some morose event to be assessed and weighed.