SEAL Team 13 (SEAL Team 13 series) (3 page)

He suddenly knew that he wasn’t going to get the ship loose, and also that he’d waited too long to order an evacuation.

He still had to try.

“All hands, abandon ship! I say again, all hands abandon ship!”

The order given, Captain Izerman watched as the water climbed up and swallowed the deck of his ship. Those in the bridge knew they weren’t getting out when the water rushed past the windows and they found themselves staring down into a murky sea.

Izerman reached out one hand toward the window as the first crack formed and let out a single whispered word.

“No.”

Then the glass shattered and the ocean rushed in.

The beat of the rotors washed out over the sea as the helo’s powerful searchlights scanned for any sign of the SEAL team in the waters below. The crew had trained for this a thousand times, but the stakes were always higher in real life—they knew that they were all that stood between the men below and a watery grave.

“Sir, something’s going on back at the
Fitz
.”

Commander Gavin glanced over at his copilot. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, sir, but their lights are weird.”

“What?” The pilot frowned, leaning over to glance in the direction where his copilot was looking. “What are you talking about?”

“Just look for yourself.”

Gavin turned the helo around, then frowned and tipped its nose forward as he circled back toward the ship.

“Hey! We haven’t cleared the area yet!” the rescue swimmer yelled from behind him.

“It’ll have to wait!”

As they got closer, the scene below them became more and more bizarre, until the reality of the situation finally dawned on them. None of them could quite believe it. They were seeing the lights of the USS
Fitzgerald
as they shone from twenty feet down. The ship was sinking.

“Holy shit,” Gavin said in a stunned voice. “What the hell just happened?”

There was no response other than the beat of the Seahawk’s rotors and the shimmering light refracted from the water below.

“Where are they going?” Rankin asked, his voice husky.

“Don’t know, brother,” Hawk said as he clung to the remains of the raft, fatigue beginning to seep through the adrenaline and numb his arm.

He looked around before his eyes returned once again to where the
Fitz
had been, focusing on the eerie glow that was fading into the distance. It had to somehow be coming from the
Fitz
, but he couldn’t imagine how they could have gotten that far away so quickly. The glow didn’t look right either, more like some ghostly apparition fading into the night than the lights of a US destroyer.

The lapping of the waves against the wreck somehow seemed louder in his ears as the sound of the helo rotors faded in and out in the distance. He pulled himself up a bit higher, then secured the Chinese national a bit better before slumping against the partially inflated rubber membrane.

They’d started the night with a full squad of real-deal US Navy SEALs, now all that was left were two battered SEALs and a Chinese national who looked like he’d been drowned twice and put away wet.

“Anyone have a freaking clue what the hell just happened?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

CHAPTER

WASHINGTON, DC, THE PENTAGON
PRESENT DAY

The man walked through the halls of the E-Ring, ignoring those around him as he locked his eyes on the entrance to the tank. The case cuffed to his arm barely swung with the motion of his walk, and he moved more stiffly as he got closer.

At the security entrance to the tank he paused as the two marine guards eyeballed him, then directed him to the security station.

“Rear Admiral Karson, reporting as ordered.”

“Yes, sir. Please look into the scanner, sir,” the marine ordered him politely, one hand not quite resting on his weapon.

Karson grunted but leaned over and stared into the retinal scanner, letting the infrared beam do its work. It paused for a moment, then chimed as his identity was confirmed.

“Very good, sir. You’re cleared to enter.”

Karson nodded and waited for the doors to begin to open, slipping through as soon as there was room. He walked over to the conference table, nodding to the men who were already seated there, then saluted.

“Admiral Karson reporting, sirs.”

“At ease.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Karson said, depositing the case on the table. “I have the recordings from the North Sea Task Force.”

The president nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Is it as we feared?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

A soft murmur rose up around the table, the two- and three-star admirals and generals unable to quite keep their thoughts to themselves in that moment. Karson understood the temptation, but his nose didn’t quite bleed enough yet to join them.

“That’s the fourth incident this year,” the president said.

“Confirmed, you mean,” was Karson’s reply. “There have been several incidents which defy our attempts at classification. And that’s just in the navy’s jurisdiction, don’t forget.”

“Yes, yes,” the president agreed, “
confirmed
incidents. And that’s not even accounting for civilian losses, and attacks on other nations’ militaries. I can’t believe that we’re the only ones suffering these attacks.”

“Certainly not,” General Brewer, a US SOCOM (Special Operations Command) commander spoke up. “The Russians lost a carrier three years ago, and that submarine the year before. We’re pretty sure the story they sold to the public about reactor malfunctions is a cover. While we’re almost certainly losing more ships, it’s most likely because we’ve got a lot more to lose. Reports from land units are more spotty, but it’s clear that something strange is happening there too. I lost a team last month in Brazil, and all that was left of them was their gear and kit. The rescue team didn’t find any sign of their bodies, even though we dropped on their position less than six hours after the mayday call. The scene looked like something out a movie, and it wasn’t one of the happy ones.”

“Keeping this quiet is rapidly becoming a larger strain than we’re prepared to handle.”

The group turned to look at the one man other than the president who wasn’t in uniform, many of them paling slightly at the thought of the public finding out about a problem they couldn’t yet explain, let alone resolve.

Eric Durance, the CIA’s case officer for the incidents, met their gaze with an even look.

“We might have a better chance at keeping a lid on things if we could get some reliable intelligence on the situation,” General Cullen, military liaison to the White House, growled at the CIA man.

“I’m sure we would,” Eric replied in the same calm tone he’d used earlier, “but whatever is behind these incidents doesn’t use electronic communication, which basically cripples ninety percent of my surveillance capability. We don’t all get multitrillion dollar budgets, General.”

“Enough.”

The single word from the president quieted the table as he looked up from the file he had been skimming.

“I think you’re all missing something important here,” he said tiredly.

The table’s focus was unwaveringly on him as everyone began to rack their minds for what they might have missed that would have caught their president’s attention.

“These events seem to be on the rise,” he said after a moment. “Over the past decade, we’ve seen at least a twenty percent increase each year.”

“It’s been more like thirty most years, sir,” Eric Durance said wearily. “On average, at least. In reality, the increase is speeding up. This year was an almost fifty percent over last year, so we might be looking at the start of a geometric escalation.”

That was a bomb he’d been saving for another time, but the president’s words had given him the opening he needed to be taken seriously, and Durance wasn’t the sort to waste opportunities.

“If that’s true, we won’t be able to keep this quiet for more than another five years, and we’d better have some answers for the public,” he said, finishing off what his previous bomb had left standing.

The table descended into chaos as the generals and admirals began to argue over what could be done. It was all a joke in Durance’s opinion, since a military response wasn’t terribly useful when you didn’t know what the hell you were shooting at, where it was, what it wanted, or basically anything else about the enemy.

The president let them go on for a few minutes, then slapped his hand down on the table.

“Enough!”

They quieted down, sitting back as they returned their attention to the commander-in-chief.

“Does anyone here have a plan of action that might stand a chance in hell of doing something other than losing us more men and women?”

The assembled men looked at each other furtively, and no one answered, not until Karson quietly cleared his throat.

As one the table looked at the most junior man there, their expressions ranging from incredulous surprise to near malicious disapproval. The president, however, just nodded. “I’m listening, Admiral.”

“The first confirmed case was ten years ago,” Karson said, taking a deep breath as he mustered his courage. “The USS
Fitzgerald
was lost in the South China Sea, leaving only a handful of survivors. The initial investigation took over a year, and wasn’t really bumped up to this department for three years. Most of the survivors went with the official story, which was that there was a training accident and a fire on board the ship.”

“We’re aware of this.”

“Yes, sir.” Karson looked down at the table, avoiding the censorious gaze of the vice admiral on the other side of it. “The
Fitzgerald
was in that area on a retrieval mission, picking up a SEAL team that was coming back from a penetration of Chinese territory. Only two of the men survived, although they did achieve their mission of extracting the agent we’d flipped.”

Karson took out a folder and tossed it open onto the table.

“Meet one Harold Masters, team name ‘Hawk.’ He was an up-and-coming lieutenant in the Teams before that mission, on a fast track to command his own squad. He refused to go with the official story, except in public. In his reports he stated categorically, time and again, that his team had been attacked by something resembling a giant squid.”

Karson looked up at the assembled men, his eyes landing on Durance. “The CIA handler who was overseeing the extraction recommended that he be silenced before his ravings could spill over into other operations. Masters’s security clearance was revoked, and he chose to retire rather than being drummed out on a dishonorable.”

“What does this have to do with anything, Karson?” Durance asked.

“Look at what he’s been doing since that mission,” Karson said quietly, pushing a folder toward the other man. “We keep tabs on people like him, in case they need to be reminded of their confidentiality agreements. He hasn’t. However, he has been doing a lot of research since then.”

“Old copies of the Bible, Talmud, and Koran?” Durance asked, looking over the report. “Prophecy texts from 100 BC? Books on mysticism, new-age bullshit, and so-called cryptozoology? He’s a nut.”

“Fact. Masters’s SEAL team was destroyed by some kind of giant squid. His account agrees with his teammate’s, and even the Chinese national swore the same thing when we recovered him. And what they’ve said has been backed up by later encounters with similar creatures. Yes, his research isn’t exactly conventional, but these are the sorts of things we’re here to discuss, gentlemen,” Karson said firmly. “Masters has also read works on exobiology, genetic mutations, and paleobiology. This is a man who’s looking for answers, and he’s been looking for them for at least five years longer than we have.”

“We have resources he can’t even imagine. Anything he’s learned, we can find in seconds.” Cullen snorted derisively.

“True, but we would still need five years to build up that kind of knowledge,” Karson said in return. “Sirs, please, I’m not suggesting that we throw out everything we’ve done. What I’m saying is that it’s time to start thinking outside the box, at least until we can determine how big the damn box is. Masters was no fool—he’s cast a wide net, and I say we go ask him if he’s caught anything in it.”

The gathered men grumbled quietly, but went silent when the president leaned forward.

“You think this will get us anywhere, Admiral?”

“I don’t think we can afford to ignore the possibility that it might, Mr. President.”

The president nodded. “Very well. Go see your Mr. Masters.”

“Sir?”

“It’s your idea, Karson. Run with it.”

SUITELAND, MARYLAND
OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE

“Problems?”

The question had probably been an attempt at levity, but Samuel Karson growled unintelligibly at the speaker as he slumped in the chair behind his desk, staring at the far wall.

“I take it that it went well, then.”

His eyes rolled over to where his secretary was standing, stabbing at her with all the lethal energy he could muster. Immune as always, she just smiled pleasantly and handed him his correspondence and phone messages.

“You’d better clear my schedule for the next week at least, Jane,” he said with a weary sigh. “And book me a flight to Montana.”

Jane gave him a strange look, but didn’t comment beyond giving him a simple nod as she made a note on her pad. “Anything else?”

“Bring me everything we have on former Lieutenant Harold Masters from the Teams,” he said. “And I mean everything. Not the edited file I already have.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“Thank you. That’ll be all.”

The woman slid silently from his office, vanishing into the outer rooms to do what she did so well, and Karson found himself wondering what he’d gotten himself into. He’d wanted Masters to be consulted, of course, but he hadn’t expected to be assigned to do it himself. He was both too junior for the scope he suspected this project might take, and too senior for the immediate job that needed to be done.

Not that it mattered, not now that the president himself had asked him to do it.

There were things in the files that he hadn’t mentioned at the meeting, things about Hawk Masters that worried him. The man had been one of the bright stars of the navy before the
Fitzgerald
incident, a rising star by all accounts, the sort of man who had the physical stamina to survive BUD/S, the US Navy’s SEAL training course, and the mental chops to do just about anything in the world that he wanted.

After the incident, though, he seemed to have suffered a breakdown as far as Karson could tell. The man had dived into occultism and mystic nonsense like he was looking for religion. If that was what he’d been seeking, though, he didn’t seem to have found it. Karson was wondering what it would be like to meet the man face to face for the first time.

A navy sailor who’d seen too much? A broken soul, like many of the other “survivors” of similar incidents, including several from the
Fitzgerald
itself? Or something else entirely?

Admiral Sam Karson was betting on something else.