Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (23 page)

Where are you, God?

Reverend Luther’s voice echoed in his mind.
God is always in the same place. We’re the ones who move closer or farther away.
Chris wanted to be closer, but the dark cloud of discouragement hovered over him.

Thousands of innocent people will die.

As his sorrow swallowed him deeper and deeper, he felt more and more like the helpless boy at the bottom of the abandoned well. He’d used his belt buckle to scratch off a tally of each day. After three days, he’d still had no food or water, becoming so feeble that he’d known he was near death. He’d prayed to be rescued, but when he’d received no answer, he’d scratched a message on the wall telling his parents that he loved them.

Then he’d heard something that sounded like a voice coming from above. He had looked up. The night sky had seemed lighter, but no one had been there. But he’d heard the voice again. It had been a small, mild voice that shot to his heart like a diamond bullet, making his body tremble. In an instant, he’d known it must’ve been the voice of an angel. Or God. He’d feared that he might melt in the presence of such a holy being or be struck by lightning. And although he’d wanted to crawl under a rock and hide, there had been nowhere to go. The voice had spoken again, and that time Chris had understood:
Fear not. On the morrow, when the night cometh, you will be saved.
The sky had become darker after that, and the voice hadn’t returned.

During the next day of captivity, Chris had barely had enough energy to think about the voice. Although he’d thought he might’ve been hallucinating, he’d believed his experience had been real. Weakening further, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness. In the evening, he’d tried to stay awake, but he’d realized that his salvation might be death. He’d fallen asleep waiting to be saved, only to be awakened by the sound of the air being beaten. For a moment, he’d thought it was angels, but when he’d heard gunshots and machine gun fire, he’d realized it was helicopters. Minutes later, a light had flashed down on him, and a voice had called to him, “Chris Paladin, are you down there?”

He’d tried to cry out and wave, but his voice had come out faint, and he’d barely been able to lift his arms.

“Chris, I’m a Navy SEAL. I’m here to rescue you.” A shadow had descended the well, and when it had touched bottom, the man had strapped Chris into a harness, hooked them together, and then they’d ascended.

Chris sat in the mall trying to make sense of it all. He remembered his sermon before leaving Dallas, how the man who’d wavered between belief and unbelief had finally sided on belief, which resulted in the healing of his son. On the mission to stop Mordet, Chris had wavered, too—struggling to be both a minister and a SEAL. His sermon had been more for himself than it had been for his congregation, he realized now. Since childhood, his personal relationship with God was always his key to overcoming doubt. Once again, it was time for Chris to believe. It was time to save those thousands of people.

His phone rang then, and he glanced at the screen.
Young
. Chris answered.

“Just did another cross-data check, and one word was significant,” Young said.

“One word?” Chris asked.

“
Aegis
. In the IT world, the Aegis handles a computer network’s authentication, but I can’t figure out how they’ll use that to blow up the game.”

Chris was quiet for a moment as he thought.
In Greek mythology, Zeus and Athena carried a shield called
Aegis
. But what does that have to do with the stadium?

He thought some more. Then the realization hit him. He swallowed. “Jim Bob said that he believed the Department of Defense weapons systems were vulnerable and that if Mordet obtained the black box on the Switchblade Whisper, he could use the crypto, security, and authentication to hack into the Department of Defense. The Navy developed a missile guidance combat system called Aegis. It’s all computerized.”

“So Mordet needed the Switchblade Whisper in order to hack into Aegis,” Young said. “Wouldn’t he have to pilot the ship within missile range of the Redskins’ stadium?”

Chris stood and hurried to the nearest exit. “Naval Station Norfolk has plenty of ships capable of carrying missiles that can strike the Redskins’ stadium or beyond. I’m on my way there right now. We’ve only got a few hours. Let me know if you get anything new.”

“Will do.”

Chris arrived at the rental car, only to remember that Hannah had the keys.

Damn
.

At least he knew how to pick a lock and hotwire a car.

_______

C
hris sped south on I-95, anxiously checking his side and rearview mirrors, looking for police who might try to pull him over or slow him down. If only they could slow down his thoughts, instead.

Is Hannah okay? Am I going in the right direction? Will I make it in time to stop Mordet? I can’t let those eighty-five thousand people die. I’m losing my mind.

“Shit. Shit-shit. Shit, shit-shit…” He repeated the same words aloud over and over. The repetition gave him a sense of stability and took his mind off losing his sanity.

Chris’s phone rang again, and he answered it.

“Norfolk just experienced a cell phone outage in areas that include the Naval Station,” Young said.

“Shit,” he said again. “If Mordet hits a ship’s quarterdeck, communications and armory all at the same time, no one can call for help, and the security team will have no access to their weapons.”

He slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

Three hours and two hundred miles south later, Chris arrived in Norfolk.

Most of the naval station’s security faced inland, and their training centered on planned exercises at scheduled dates and times that seemed more of a dog and pony show than a true test of security. It often left the water unwatched, or at least not watched by careful eyes. Once when he was in the Teams, he’d forgotten his military ID card, and he’d actually swum onto base. He hoped to do the same today at Naval Station Norfolk.

Chris parked his car on the north shore of Willoughby Bay and studied the base across the water. Although it would be a shorter swim to the heliport, that was a restricted area and probably more difficult to infiltrate, so he chose to swim to the Navy’s recreational marina, nearly a kilometer away.

He left his rifle and Little Kale’s things in the vehicle, but he kept his pistol in its concealed holster. Both the pistol and holster could take the water, but his cell phone couldn’t. He pulled out a waterproof bag, and before he sealed his cell phone in it, he checked to see if he had a phone signal. He did.
Good. The utilities must’ve already fixed the cell phone outage.
He placed the phone in his bag, sealed it, and returned it to the thigh pocket of his cargo pants.

Chris slipped into the water and swam a combat sidestroke, which gave him a low profile without splashes. Nobody on the base seemed to notice him yet, and as he expected, there was no visible security facing the bay. He swam until he reached a mound of rocks that formed a seawall protecting the marina from being eroded by small waves in the harbor. His pace had been fast; it had only taken him eighteen minutes. He wasn’t the same kid who had walked off the street into the Navy, that was for sure. And now the stakes were infinitely higher.

Chris stepped out of the water scanning the area for onlookers. He didn’t see any, so he walked inland across the wall of rocks and stepped onto the base.

Here I am. Now what?

He set the timer on his watch: T-minus sixty minutes until missile launch. He took off his shirt, wrung the water out of it before donning it again, and walked past a family in civilian clothes. They gave him an odd look as if wondering why his clothes were wet. Then a pair of sailors passed, paying him little attention, if any. They either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. He continued south along the wharf. After passing nearly three kilometers of piers with ships tied to them, he still had three more kilometers of piers to go. Not knowing exactly what he was looking for, he felt lost.

As he proceeded to Pier Nine, a sunless mood came over him. The USS
Normandy
, a guided missile cruiser, was moored by itself to the north. He passed the pier, and the shadowy feeling brightened. It was as if a giant dark cloud hovered over the
Normandy
itself.

Mordet. I can feel you.

He returned to Pier Nine. The pier security guard’s gaze narrowed on him as he approached. Chris examined the sailor quickly. The guard’s hair came slightly over his ears. Either he was a sailor pushing regulations or an imposter. Chris suspected the latter.
He’s too alert—unlike a sailor who has stood too many watches in home port, and nothing happens. But something is about to happen, and this guy knows it.

“Sir, this pier is temporarily on lockdown for a security drill,” the guard said.

“I’m investigating a terrorist threat in the area,” Chris countered, “and I’d like to know where you went to boot camp?”
Every sailor remembers where he went to boot camp, and whoever says it’s classified information is lying.

“Huh?” the guard asked.

“Did you go to boot camp in South Carolina or Texas?”

“Texas.”

Chris took a step toward him. “Wrong answer.”

The guard’s hand inched slowly in the direction of the pistol on his hip. “I’m sorry, I meant South Carolina.”

“Wrong again,” Chris said.

The guard reached for his pistol, which Chris realized had an extended holster, probably for a sound suppressor. There was nothing Navy about the man other than his uniform. Chris stepped forward and struck him with an open-handed chop to the throat, stunning him. Chris grabbed his head and wrenched it around until the guard’s spine snapped, and his body dropped to the ground like a sack of elephant shit.

He proceeded to the 173-foot cruiser.
It’s the weekend. Most of the crew will be off the ship.
He walked up to the brow, a portable metal plank that connected the ship to shore. Partway across the brow, he stopped and stood at attention facing the US flag aft, then he continued to the end of the brow and stopped at attention facing the older of two sailors on the quarterdeck. “Request permission to come aboard,” Chris said.

Instead of asking for Chris’s ID and granting permission, the older sailor said, “We’re under lockdown right now, and you can’t board the ship.”

Similar to the imposter on the pier, his holster wasn’t regulation.

“Are you the OOD?” Chris asked.

The sailor hesitated. “Yes.”

Chris pointed to the other guy. “Is that your Petty Officer of the Watch?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your Messenger?” Chris asked.

“I told you, we’re under lockdown.”

“Why are both of you armed instead of just one?” Chris asked. “Why sound-suppressed pistols? And what are these stains all over the quarterdeck?”

The fake OOD reached for his gun, but Chris got to his own first and let the air out of the imposter. Meanwhile, the other “sailor” was drawing his sound-suppressed weapon. Chris’s bullets swept him aside.

His pocket vibrated.
Damn.
If he’d been sneaking up on someone and his cell had gone off, he’d be a dead man. After taking his phone out of his pocket, he noticed the caller ID: Young.

“What?” Chris whispered.

“You were right! Mordet hacked into the USS
Normandy’s
Aegis combat system, and he’s uploading GPS coordinates and TERCOM leading to
two
targets.” TERCOM was the Terrain Contour Matching navigation system used for cruise missiles. Each missile would follow the pre-recorded contour maps, use its internal radar to record its current locations, digitally match the uploaded map with its current location, correlate for accurate flight, and adjust for any deviance until it reached its target.

“We know that he’s targeting the Redskins’ stadium. But you just said two targets.”

“Just a sec. He’s going to fire a Block II TLAM A.”

Chris’s heart sank. Each Tomahawk Land Attack Missile could travel distances up to 2500 kilometers at a speed of 890 kilometers per hour. They delivered an air-burst of four hundred fifty kilograms of high explosives, enough to kill all eighty-five thousand people at the Redskins-Cowboys game.

“Where’s the second target?” Chris asked.

“Oh, no.”

“Where?”

“The White House.”

Chris continued to scan the area for immediate threats. “Mordet said he was going to kill someone special. He must’ve meant the president. We’ve got to stop him.”

“When Mordet hacked into the Aegis, he left a back door open. I’m into the C&D, but he’s blocking me from the Weapon Control System. I need access to that in order to terminate the launch.”

“I’m heading to the CIC to shut him down.”

“What’s the CIC?” Young asked.

“Combat Information Center. It’s the tactical center of the ship.”

“I’ll keep trying to shut him down, too,” Young said. “Be careful.”

“Out.” Chris turned off his phone, zipped it in the bag, and put it back into his thigh pocket.

He opened a grey hatch, not knowing what would come next but hoping he’d rise to the occasion. He walked forward, aiming his pistol at each danger area, and as he reached the ladder leading up to the CIC, a beastly thug with a submachine gun came down the ladder. The beast lifted his weapon, but Chris squeezed the trigger of his pistol, giving him open-heart surgery. Someone else’s bullets sprayed down the ladder in his direction, and he jumped back to avoid the projectiles.

“I was expecting you, Chris,” Professor Mordet called from the top of the ladder. “You had me worried for a little while. I thought you might be late for the show, but you are just in time.”

Submachine guns poked down the ladder as if searching for Chris. His heart rate flicked to full auto, and his palms became slick. He squeezed his pistol tighter. When the first tango appeared, Chris fired, but he missed. He fired again, but the tangos’ weapons withdrew. “Glad to know I’m not late,” Chris said.

“You cannot stop the rain from falling,” Mordet said. “You can put up an umbrella to keep yourself dry, but others are going to get wet.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But you cannot help it. I have already taken over the ship’s Weapon Control System and set it on an automatic program timed to launch two Tomahawk missiles at kickoff of the Redskins-Cowboys game. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” There was a cruel happiness in his tone. “Whether the president attends the game or watches from the White House, the outcome will be the same. The Weapon Control System can no longer be manipulated from the CIC. No one can stop the rain now. Not even you.”

Chris maneuvered around to a ladder on the port side, hoping to find another way to the CIC, but three men had already descended the steps and declared open season on him. He hastily shot back at them to slow their advance before he ducked out of their line of fire. He had to get there before Mordet’s men trapped him in the passageway athwart ship. He aimed his weapon chest-high as he turned the corner and ran into a tango. The abrupt encounter startled Chris, and he jerked the trigger, but at point-blank range, he didn’t miss. He continued to pull the trigger rapidly: surprise, speed, and violence of action. Point-blank’s body collapsed on the man behind him, and they both fell to the floor. More shuffling noises came from the top of the ladder.

Meanwhile, the port side gang reached Chris’s passageway and lit up the air around him. He stepped aft, out of their firing lane, but it occurred to him that the portside gang might circle around and trap him, so he went farther aft, returning outside to the quarterdeck, where the OOD and POOW imposters lay dead. Now he had more room to maneuver, but so did the enemy.

Chris opened a starboard hatch facing aft and went through. When he reached the first ladder, he descended two decks. Blood splatter stained the deck, bulkhead, and overhead. As he changed directions and headed to the bow, toward the CIC, a voice shouted behind him in broken English. “Stop! You, stop!”

Chris turned into another passageway athwart ship and ran to the port side, desperately clinging to the increasingly impossible hope of sneaking into the CIC and stopping the missiles. He took a ladder up but only ascended one deck before he heard someone coming down the ladder from above. Chris stepped off—to the approaching sound of more tangos.