Twenty-four Days Page 25

  "Young man." Rowe turned toward Mr. Hussabi. The older man's eyes were deep with understanding, fear, and hope all at the same time. "You have something to say, say it. We're a military family. We know about bad news."

  Mrs. Hussabi snuffled as she placed Rowe's fresh coffee on the table in front of him. Rowe stirred cream into the dark liquid until it turned the color of caramel. He put the spoon down and finally addressed the Hussabi's.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Hussabi. You probably heard about the hijacked American sub? What the news doesn’t know and I’m asking you to keep to yourself is it’s Virginia." They said nothing, eyes bright with fear. "We think your son is involved with the terrorists."

  Ms. Hussabi clanged her cup into the saucer and Mr. Hussabi went completely still. Rowe doubted either of them had even a passing acquaintance with danger.

  Mrs. Hussabi found her voice first. "No, Dr. Rowe, you’re wrong. He's going to be an officer." This came out with pride. "His professor recommended him. Akbar, what was his name?"

  "Yes, I remember. Umm, Nasr Something?"

  "Yes! Nasr. Wonderful man. Dinar thinks highly of him. He wrote a recommendation for Officer Candidate School. He's an important man."

  Duck leaned forward. "Mr. and Mrs. Hussabi. Dr. Nasr Al-alah is responsible for blowing up HMS Triumph."

  The couple froze, and then both started talking at once. "No, no, it can't be true." Tears filled Mrs. Hussabi's eyes. "Dinar wouldn't know a terrorist.” “Dinar is a good boy."

  Rowe tried every tack possible to calm the couple down and find out what they knew about the terrorists’ activities, but gave up. He rose to leave while Duck planted a recording device inside a magazine.

  Back in the car, Rowe pulled out onto the quiet street. "Maybe NYU is coincidence and Dinar’s a hero, killed trying to deactivate the polarity.”

  Duck's eyes hardened, his face like flint. "Too bad about the hundreds of people destroyed by his friends. What do you make of Dinar wanting his Dad to take friends to Canada? D’you think that’s the escape route?"

  "Makes sense if whatever they have planned is near New York Harbor."

  Something nibbled at Rowe, but he couldn’t pull it out. “I’ll run it by Eitan and Bobby, see if they have ideas.”

  Rowe parked around the corner and activated the hidden bug. The parents were hysterical, pleading with each other. Neither made any phone calls or went outside. Finally, Rowe and Duck drove back to New York arriving as the sun peeked over the horizon.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Day Seventeen, Wednesday, August 23rd

  Englewood, New York, Zeke's safe house

  Rowe woke to the sound of pounding. He stumbled out to his living room and unlatched his door while he squinted at his watch.

  “9:50. Didn’t we go to bed three hours ago?”

  “Four. The President is on at 10, responding to accusations America must be reined in.”

  Rowe shook the dust from his head. “Who would think America would be blamed for getting her own submarine hijacked?” No wonder Rowe hated politics.

  “The Brits.” Duck flipped the TV on and started a pot of coffee while Rowe rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  “Who’s with Kali—”

  “You better not finish that sentence,” Duck said.

  Rowe felt sheepish. When the coffee pinged ready, Rowe poured a cup for his friend, one for himself and sat to listen. The President gave a quick overview of events the last three weeks and then laid out America’s strategy for dealing with the terrorists. He ended with words directed at Virginia’s hijackers:

  "We are prepared to fight with every tool in America's arsenal. Are you prepared for that? Give yourselves up or we will blow you out of the water."

  "Like a red flag to a bull."

  The talking heads exclaimed America came across strong in the face of our enemies.

  Rowe huffed. "Now the terrorists can show the world no one controls them."

  "At least then we’ll know where they are."

  Chapter Forty-three

  Day Eighteen, Thursday, August 24th, Midday

  Somewhere in the Pacific, CG52 Bunker Hill

  Somewhere west of Hawaii, Bunker Hill secured for heavy weather and steamed into the teeth of a forty-knot gale. The twenty-foot swells tossed the ship around like a politician’s promises during Primary season, at times bouncing the hull-mounted sonar completely out of the water.

  Paloma wrapped herself in the bright orange life vest and reported for watch. Thick gray thunderheads folded into the choppy angry seas. The rain tore at her hair and slashed her chapped face as she peered into the angry waters, wondering if a submarine lurked, biding its time, and caring nothing for the one-hundred-fifty plus earnest sailors who called this ship home. She laughed to herself. No one would find her ship in this squall, including Neptune himself.

  A day ago, they pulled into Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam for a BSF—Brief Stop for Fuel. Bunker Hill was on its way in three hours. The Captain didn’t explain the quick departure, but Paloma knew. Although North Korea’s missile would only reach the islands with a push from the hand of God, Third Fleet needed non-essential ships and people out to make room for additional ground-to-air defenses.

  Hawaii marked Bunker Hill’s last authorized contact until North Korea. Now, any radar blip would be considered a threat.

  "You got cabin fever, too, Ma’am?"

  She turned to see the lean muscular shape of Fire Controlman Second Class James Burlowe. He stood ramrod straight as he greeted her, rock-jawed with gunmetal eyes, a handsome man, weathered from too many days in too much sun.

  She tugged the brim of her cover in a vain attempt to block the driving rain. "Nice job, GM2, firing the MK 38 yesterday.”

  The Captain had raised the ship’s operating condition to II-AS—anti-submarine—which required extra lookouts, torpedoes armed and ready, sonar operators on duty 24/7, and live fire exercises.

  Burlowe laughed. "I always look good firing at a target that doesn't evade or shoot back, Ma’am." He turned toward her, steel in his stance, fierce determination on his face. "No one's getting this ship on my watch."

  His eyes were alert despite two hours of watch in a blasting rain that came down so hard it hurt your skin. Usually, that beat it out of a sailor, but not Burlowe.

  "How'd you end up on Bunker Hill, GM2?"

  "The further west, the smaller the seas, Ma’am. Katie bar the door crossin' the Atlantic, though it don’t compare to Tierra del Fuego at the tip of South America. Forty degrees, fifty-knot winds, thirty-foot seas. Add in the currents and narrowness of the Strait and you have a nightmare. Sailors toss a coin to the Virgin Mary as thanks for a safe transit. I tossed nine—one for each of my lives."

  The cruiser heaved. Paloma broadened her stance, but GM2 swayed easily. "I know things are dangerous, but dammit, Aegis exercises are fun."

  The ship’s Aegis Combat Training System had simulated an air-and-surface attack to give the crew defensive practice. They split into teams and engaged the threat with weapons of their choice. Paloma's team selected a layered defense— SM-2s and Harpoon RGM-84 Surface-to-Surface missiles to stop enemy combatant ships, 5” 54 caliber deck guns to support the SM-2s, ESSMs for incoming that got past the SM-2s, and CIWS for Hail Marys.

  "You were efficient, Ma'am. I'd follow your lead anytime."

  Paloma felt her face redden. "Let's hope it never gets to that."

  The phone was ringing. Paloma slapped around until she found it. “FCO.” She squinted. 1 a.m.

  “Ma’am, Captain needs you in the Pilot House.”

  “Enroute,” and Paloma leaped from her rack, threw her uniform of the day on and sprinted for the Bridge. The sky shone clear and the moon hung like a pale balloon at 270 degrees. The Frigate and the Destroyer copied Bunker Hill’s speed and direction. The SAG wasn’t under attack, so what was up?

  The Pilot House was kept pitch dark so the navigational lights of surface ships stood out against the d
ark of night. The Captain beckoned her over. He was a short, barrel-chested man, with a bull voice and an unflagging affection for his crew and his ship.

  "We’re commencing a Transit Under ASW Threat drill,” similar to yesterday’s drill, but the threat existed undersea. Normally, the crew had twenty-four hours to prepare, but it appeared the Captain worried as much as Eitan.

  “Paloma. Help the TAO in Combat. Create a formation with us as the Guide. Place the other ships between one and three nautical miles away at bearing zero-zero-zero to one-eight-zero degrees relative.”

  The Captain assumed she knew what else to do and she did. Bunker Hill would direct the Destroyer and the Frigate to patrol sectors generated by relative bearing and ranges to itself, search for underwater threats in the guise of a submarine, and prevent it from getting a weapons control solution on any ships in the formation.

  “A visiting Ohio-class sub agreed to play. Combat, enter ASW training mode.”

  Paloma sprinted to Combat, the Captain right behind her, and backbriefed the TAO.

  “Let’s get that helo launched.”

  Quickly, the crew removed the chocks and chains securing the Seahawk. The boatswain mate of the watch announced, Green deck, over the 1MC, initiating what Paloma knew would be a clattering, ear-splitting roar as the chopper revved up and lifted off, though muffled in the confines of Combat. They were expected to launch a helo in fifteen minutes, but tonight it took twenty-three.

  As she awaited the chopper’s report, the TAO’s watch team moved to the larger task of finding the sub. TAO made an announcement to the bridge to get everyone on the same page, called down to CIC to retrieve the latest intel, and reviewed emergency torpedo evasion procedures with the crew.

  The Hawklink buzzed. "Bunker Hill, this is Redlion 616. Stand by for MAD device and sonobuoy data.”

  The Ohio-class shot a red flare.

  “Torpedo in the water! Range seven thousand yards, bearing one-zero-zero."

  “Evasive action! Launch ASROC!”

  The simulator threw an ASROC at the sub’s last known bearing, then the Helmsman performed a series of hard banks to port and starboard that left ‘knuckles’ in the water which they hoped the enemy fish would confuse with the ship. They also simulated the launch of Underwater Counter Measures, which included streaming nixie to simulate the noise of Bunker Hill's propellers and energizing MICM—magnetic influence countermeasures—to mimic the ship’s magnetic signature.

  The captain listened silently, feet spread beneath his stout body, hands locked behind his back as one communication after another flooded the comm lines.

  After what felt like hours, TAO announced, "FINEX. Sub’s gone.”

  The Captain nodded, face impassive. “Well done, everybody. Debrief in the wardroom.”

  Paloma dragged herself to the officer’s mess hoping someone made coffee. Part of her wanted to go back to sleep, but a bigger portion saluted the Captain for wanting to make his crew ready for a sub attack.

  Chapter Forty-four

  The Virginia

  Somewhere in the world’s oceans

  Four days put them at August 29th, the day before the hijackers’ deadline, and Joey Najafian had a headache, the early warning of CO2 poisoning. A Chief had managed to sabotage the scrubbers before one of the Kenyans stabbed him. Then, with the knife poking out of his neck, the Chief had damaged the snorkel mast before dropping dead. Without the snorkel mast, they couldn’t ventilate at periscope depth and would have to surface or die of CO2 poisoning.

  Joey figured he could handle a headache.

  The real sleeper must have told the hijackers about the O2 candles, portable devices that could re-oxygenate the air if the sub couldn’t surface. Luckily, the crew could only locate enough for four days.

  But something worse than stale air and headaches worried Joey. He feared he’d been discovered.

  Machinist Mate Dinar Hussabi had approached Joey, introduced himself as a sleeper ready to join the jihad. Joey persuaded him to stay undercover as backup, but then Hussabi stumbled on Joey sabotaging the mechanism that provided drinkable water. Joey convinced him he was repairing it and finished destroying it when Hussabi left. Since Virginia had no replacement parts, they would have to surface.

  That problem paled in comparison to what Joey found out this morning. The hijackers were planning to test the weapons again, on the next unarmed ship they came across. Joey needed to disable the warheads or the delivery system—or both—and get a message to Command to destroy Virginia.

  Through whispered meetings, the Captain told him he had a plan and to be ready. When the cook set a fire in the deep fat fryer, alarms shrieked and smoke quickly billowed into the sub. All eight terrorists raced to the galley to staunch the flames.

  Joey’s chance had arrived. With everyone busy, he fled to the torpedo room, jumped through the water-tight door separating the engine room from the rest of the sub, but pulled up short as he passed the reactor. For the first time since the hijacking, the door stood open. In their hurry to staunch the fire, they forgot to close it. He poked his head inside to see what they had been up to for two weeks.

  There, surrounding the reactor, were bricks of C4, enough to blow the reactor and bury everything within a hundred miles in nuclear contamination.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Thursday, August 24th, morning

  Englewood, New Jersey, Zeke’s house

  5 a.m. and already Rowe had finished five sets of fifty hanging sit-ups, three of thirty dead arm pull ups, and two of twenty one-handed push-ups, all with a plastic bag tied around his waist to make him sweat more.

  It didn’t help.

  He pulled a sweatshirt over his head, laced up his Nikes, and went for a seven-mile jog to let his mind work. Even with Virginia against them, the Surface Action Group’s three warships could take on the entire North Korean air force without breaking out of training mode, leaving Bunker Hill to stop the missile.

  Unless the SAG was dismantled as seemed to be the plan.

  He spent most of yesterday following up on the only clue from Mr. and Mrs. Hussabi. If Dinar wanted to escape via Canada, the target was on the eastern seaboard.

  With nothing else to show for a day of thinking, he checked in with Kali, then James, and then got ready for lunch with Cy.

  Known as Admiral Cyrus Xibon to the rest of the military industrial complex, they met when then-Captain Xibon dropped Rowe's SEAL team in the Arabian Sea to free an imprisoned American. The SEALs accomplished their mission except Rowe got himself shot, twice, and Xibon got annoyed when Rowe bled all over his clean sub. Xibon stayed in touch, often asking for Zeke’s take on a situation. He claimed too many advisors were afraid to use their brains, preferring to quote experts. Rowe never suffered that malady.

  Rowe showered, dressed conservatively in navy blue cotton twill pants, an off-white long-sleeved linen shirt open at the collar, tasseled loafers, and a blazer and left to meet Xibon. Despite the congested DC traffic, he got to the restaurant early and took a table in the back. At exactly noon, a tall, distinguished officer dressed in crisp summer whites arrived, cover in the crook of his left arm and a warm smile on his face. His coarse salt-and-pepper hair was short and freshly cut, his face clean shaven. He greeted the maître d’ and strode over to Rowe’s table with the confidence of a man who held the lineal number five—fifth highest naval officer in the country.

  "Zeke. Nice to see you." He turned toward the waiter hovering at his elbow. "The usual, Mike," and the man hustled off.

  Xibon placed his cover on the chair, exuding the aura of a man born to lead. "You want to rejoin, Zero? It hasn't been the same since you left."

  Rowe smiled at his old friend, one of the few people who knew Rowe’s nickname. It felt right hearing his throaty voice, seeing the twinkle in his eyes, the efficiency of his movements, the quiet authority in everything he did

  "After the President's vainglorious bluff, you may need all the warriors you can get."
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  Xibon's drink arrived—seltzer water with lime—and the two men engaged in small talk for thirty seconds before Xibon dove in.

  "I suspect we're not here to swap war stories." His slate-blue eyes turned dark and solemn. "I'm glad you're on my missing sub, Zero. How can I help?"

  "We're closing in on it, Cy, but—"

  "Wait.” The word came out soft, but unassailable. “The President said we found it,"

  Rowe paused, deciding the best way to explain this. "Found it, yes, when it shot two dead bodies out its torpedo tubes. Lost it when the outer doors closed." Rowe lowered his voice and explained, "You know about the sub’s sonar shield?" Xibon nodded. "The inside of the tubes aren’t painted so when the doors open, sonar can find our boys. We get ten seconds."

  Cyrus narrowed his eyes. "But you have a solution."

  "Do you remember Kali Delamagente?"

  Xibon raised an eyebrow. "The beautiful scientist with the AI—what’s she call it? Otto? Weren’t you seeing her?"

  Rowe dodged the question. "She says the shield will wear off in seven days." He fell silent as the waiter distributed the food—fish and salad, dressing on the side for the Admiral and a club sandwich with fries for Rowe.

  When the man left, Xibon responded, “A lot can happen in seven days.”

  "I agree, and the hijackers have demonstrated a willingness to fire the warheads. We need a way to disable them."

  Xibon stopped eating, fork in one hand, intense gaze locked onto Rowe. "What are you asking?"

  "I need the codes, Cy,” how the Navy communicated with an active warhead should the target change and a closely guarded secret. “If the hijackers launch a missile, we need the ability to tell it to self-destruct."

  Rowe's phone chirped, as did Xibon's.

  "Hey, Bobby—"