Operation Caribe

29

Blue Moon Bay

AGENT HARRY BELIEVED the USS Mothership was haunted.

Or cursed.

Or both.

He had a small cabin on one of the lower decks, something usually reserved for a junior officer. Besides a bunk, the biggest thing in it was the massive computer suite, complete with three monitors, all of which were streaming continuous lines of intelligence on what had been dubbed “Operation Caribe.”

Harry tried to spend as little time in the cabin as possible, though. It felt claustrophobic and was always cold and damp, and anytime he managed to fall asleep there, he awoke to loud banging noises or the sounds of people talking in gibberish.

More than once he caught himself thinking, What the hell did the Israelis do to this ship?

To get away from it all, he’d found a place up on the Mothership’s bow. It was forward of the bridge, right up on the snout, not far from the starboard side anchor housing.

He was sitting here now, just before dawn, anxiously going over a stack of intelligence reports. Too many, as it turned out—and that was a problem. There was so much intelligence being generated by the land and the sea missions of Operation Caribe, it would take weeks to get through it all. Yet the pirate attack was supposed to happen within the next few hours.

The Mothership was heading east; Harry was waiting to be bathed in the bright early morning sun when he heard an odd mechanical noise.

He looked up to see a tiny helicopter approaching from the north. It was moving at very high speed, too fast for its size. And it was heading right for him.

He knew who it was right away.

Whiskey.

“What the hell is this about,” he groaned.

The copter screeched over his head, did an abrupt turnaround and then came in hard and hot, violently slamming down on the cramped confines of the Mothership’s bow. Harry could see Nolan and Batman Bob Graves inside. It was obvious they wanted to talk to him.

A squad of the Mothership’s plainclothes Marine guards hurried up to the bow to investigate the unauthorized landing, but Harry waved them away.

Nolan and Graves jumped out of the copter and approached him.

“This better not be a complaint about your fee,” Harry told them.

“Hardly,” was Nolan’s reply. He looked around the open space of the bow. “Is this a secure place to talk?”

Harry held his hands out as if to say, Who could be listening to us here?

“Where’s your ship?” he asked them.

“It’s on its way,” Nolan replied. “But this couldn’t wait. There’s some weird stuff going down, and you’ve got to get your head around it ASAP.”

Harry just sat back down in his chair and said, wearily, “Lay it on me.”

Nolan proceeded to tell the ONI agent everything that had happened to them since they’d left the Mothership less than thirty-six hours ago. From their weird journey that first night and losing their secure radio antenna, to finding Ramon, hearing his story, then the trip to Big Hole Cay and finally finding the Russian sub and its murdered crew. He finished the report by quickly briefing Harry on Whiskey’s previous dealings with the Muy Capaz pirate gang and how the bizarre way they’d been killed matched the method used on the Russians.

“We’ve been trying to figure out what it all means,” Nolan concluded. “We heard a few rumblings about pirates up where we just were—but then, wham! we find this sub, and…”

Harry was baffled by the news. “At the very least, we have to let the Russians know we’ve located their boat,” he interrupted. “And that it’s not too pretty inside. But…”

He was stumped for a moment.

“… it’s like we’re dealing with pieces of a puzzle,” Batman continued the thought for him. “But we’re not sure if it’s the same puzzle everyone else is working on.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “Does this Russian sub thing have anything to do with what we’re dealing with here? Or is it a separate thing entirely?”

The Whiskey guys were at a loss.

“All I can do is run it up to Higher Authority then,” Harry said. “I hope someone up there can figure it out.”

He stood up, gathered his things and started toward the ship’s CIC.

“Actually, there’s more,” Nolan said, stopping him. “Also a little weird.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m getting used to weird,” he said.

Nolan began: “I know we don’t have to regurgitate our resumé for you. But when you hired us to do this gig, you must have been aware that we had experience in saving a large cargo-type ship, in saving an LNG ship, and even saving a cruise ship.”

“Yeah, so?” Harry answered.

“Well, it just seems strange to us that we weren’t the ones to look into those areas,” Nolan went on. “I mean, instead you sent us out to the Bahamian boondocks to find a guy who has trouble staying awake past lunch. Maybe it’s an ego thing, but still.”

But Harry was looking back at him like he had three heads.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

Batman told him. “The freighter recon in Havana? The LNG carrier off Florida? And that big-ass cruise ship? Those three things are right up our alley. Why weren’t we assigned to them?”

But still Harry seemed authentically perplexed. “I’m sorry, guys. I’m just not following you.”

“The SEAL team,” Nolan said, reaching for his sat phone. “We know what they’ve been up to. Look.”

He showed him Crash’s text. Harry’s brow wrinkled dramatically.

“Freighter in Havana? LNG carrier off Florida? The f*cking Queen of the Seas? What the hell is this crap?”

“It’s what the 616 guys have been doing,” Batman told him. “Our guy is with them, remember? That’s his firsthand report.”

But Harry just shook his head emphatically no.

“This is not the case,” he told them. “Impossible.”

Nolan and Batman looked back at him, totally confused.

“Now what the hell are you talking about?” Nolan asked him.

“SEAL Team 616,” Harry said forcefully. “I helped prepare their mission statements. Those guys are supposed to be setting out radio buoys, checking the sea lanes, interfacing with the drone fleet—and basically standing by in case we need to board a ship in a hurry. This stuff you’re telling me was already taken care of. We’ve had that Russian freighter under surveillance for weeks. And that LNG carrier had an army of DEA agents waiting for it in Camden. And there are so many CIA operators aboard that ‘mother of all cruise ships,’ they’re getting group rates on dinners and drinks.

“So, believe me, these things you just told me? That’s definitely not what 616 is supposed to be doing out there.”

The three of them just stood there speechless.

“Unless…” Harry added worriedly.

“Unless what?” Nolan asked.

“Unless … those SEALs know something we don’t.”



Aboard the SDV mini-sub

IT TOOK FIVE minutes for the lockout chamber’s water pressure equalizer light to come on.

When it did, Beaux opened the bottom-mating hatch of the SDV to find just what they wanted: an empty missile tube full of seawater.

At more than twenty feet in circumference, it was big enough for all six of them to float down into at once. There was a ladder to help them get to the bottom. As they were wearing scuba breathing gear but no flippers, the ladder would came in handy.

They started their descent, Beaux going first, Crash bringing up the rear. It was a slow climb down, as each 616 member was carrying his gear in a bulky waterproof case and the water was very cold. Once they reached the bottom of the chamber, Beaux hit the fluid depressurization panel and the seawater started draining out. This took another two minutes. When the water was gone, everyone removed his breathing apparatus and handed it to Monkey, who was in charge of collecting the gear. Then, on Beaux’s signal, they took their weapons out of the waterproof casings.

Following the Plan 6S-S specs, Beaux used a universal lock wrench to free the hatch leading into the submarine itself.

“Once this opens,” he told them, “we move quick.”

Now came a moment where everyone collected his thoughts. Crash took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This wasn’t like busting in on some Somali mooks or stepping on Zeek the Pirate’s hired army. This was big time. Something was wrong aboard this sub—and he prayed the 616 team, with his help, could end it quickly, for many reasons. The words bouncing around his head now were from Beaux’s conversation with him about rejoining the SEALs when all this was over.

Maybe it will happen, Crash thought.

Everyone checked his weapon. Then they lowered their helmet blast shields. They waited one more heartbeat—the five members of 616 at the hatch; Crash behind them, the video camera catching everything. Then Beaux finally twisted the hatch lever free. Ghost and Smash used their combined strength to push the lockout chamber’s door open. A great rush of greasy steam enveloped them.

Beaux gave them a hand signal and then he burst out of the chamber and into the dark passageway. Elvis, Smash and Monkey followed, carrying all of the team’s underwater gear. But at that point, Ghost put up his hand, telling Crash to wait.

Crash froze in place. Had they spotted someone hostile on the other side of the hatch? He fingered the knife hanging from his belt.

Ghost turned and took the video camera from him. Then he stepped into the passageway and started to close the hatch on Crash, this at the same time Beaux hit the chamber’s outside water pressurization panel.

The water started gushing in. Crash’s first thought was he hadn’t moved quickly enough. He started to push forward on the hatch—but with no emotion, Ghost and Beaux pushed it back against him, keeping him in the chamber, which was filling quickly with seawater.

Crash panicked. He jammed his hand between the hatch and the seal, stopping them from locking him in. But the water was rushing in so quickly, some of it was spilling out into the sub itself.

Crash couldn’t understand what was happening. Again, he tried to push against the hatch to force it open, but now all five of the SEALs were on the other side, pushing the hatch against him. Crash tried to scream but nothing came out. He was suddenly holding on for dear life, but the hatch was closing on his hand. His fingers were being crushed; he could feel the bones breaking in his knuckles.

Then Beaux yelled to him: “Just give it up, man. It’s over.”

With that, the hatch was jammed so tight, Crash had to let go.

He was thrown backward and found himself totally immersed in seawater, with no way to breathe.

* * *

COMMANDER SHEPHERD WAS on the other side of the sub’s lockout chamber, alone, watching all this unfold.

From his point of view, the hatch swung open and these five soaking wet men in black camos and huge helmets, and carrying huge weapons, tumbled out—while one man was forced back into the chamber to drown. It didn’t make sense.

Up to that moment, Shepherd was ready to shake hands with the first man through the door—but now he realized something was terribly wrong. He felt a chill again, but this time it was different. Could there really be a security problem on his boat?

The SEALs pushed past him and took up positions in the dark passageway beyond the chamber.

Shepherd finally grabbed the first man out of the lock—the man he identified as the team leader.

“I’m the captain,” he said. “And I must know, right now—is this a drill?”

Commander Beaux took out his handgun and shot Shepherd twice between the eyes.

“No, Captain,” he said as Shepherd crumpled to the deck. “This is not a drill.”