Hostage Read online

  Very respectfully,

  D. G. Vandergrift, LT, USN

  Watch Officer

  FIRST ENDORSEMENT

  1. All squadrons are instructed to comply with subject message, to provide written response to radio room, within one hour.

  Respectfully,

  J. E. Wesson, CAPT, USN

  Commanding

  Quasay dropped the paper to the floor. "Then it is true." His eyes met Alhad's. "After all this time. After all this planning." He felt, then saw, goose bumps on his arms. The message had been reviewed and endorsed by the commanding officer of the Harry S. Truman, officially ordering all squadrons on the ship to be on the lookout for the call sign only he and Alhad knew was from the Council of Ishmael. Oh, to be alive, to have been called to this very moment in history! Allah had called him for this. He took a deep breath, hoping to prevent Alhad from seeing his tears.

  "Our duty is clear," he snapped at Alhad, his voice stern in an attempt to jolt his emotions back into check. "We are but a few days away now. We will say nothing more of this until we arrive off the Israeli coast. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir," Alhad said.

  "You are dismissed."

  Radio Communications Center

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Western Mediterranean

  Lieutenant Doug Vandergrift surveyed the impromptu gathering of the Truman's most powerful officers.

  The Truman's commanding officer, Captain William Constangy, informally convened the meeting. "What's our situation?" He looked to the Truman's air wing commander. "Air Boss?"

  "Cap'n," the commander said, "we've surveyed all our squadrons. No such radio check from any pilot on board."

  "Intel?" Constangy eyed his senior intelligence officer, Commander Trent Fox. "What do you make of this? Anything we should be alarmed about?"

  "Odd, sir," Fox said. "On the one hand, we have a benign combination of the sephamore alphabet. Oscar, India, and Golf. Seems like a harmless combination at first blush. Spoken in English, as opposed to, say . . . some language like Arabic, Russian, Chinese, Korean, or the language of any other potential enemy. So assuming this was something more than a routine radio check, it doesn't seem like they were trying to hide anything from us."

  "Could this have been an aircraft?"

  "No, Skipper," the carrier's radar officer responded. "No aircraft in the vicinity of the triangulation. Has to be a surface vessel."

  The captain frowned. "Or maybe a submarine?"

  "That would mean the Russians," Fox said. "We'd know if any allied subs were in the area."

  "What's your hunch, Intel?" the captain asked. "You think this might have been a radio check?"

  "No, sir, Skipper, I don't."

  "Shoot." The commanding officer took a sip of coffee.

  "Three problems with that theory, sir. First, a radio check would not ordinarily occur at such regular intervals over time like this. Second, a radio check would ordinarily be specifically identified as such. Finally, there's no response from any other radio. So it's not like we have two vessels out there, maybe separated five miles apart, and one calls for a radio check, and the other responds, 'loud and clear,' or anything like that."

  "Agreed," the skipper said, sipping more coffee. "I think the radio check theory is bogus." Another swig. "It's almost like they wanted us, or somebody on board, to hear them."

  "Us or perhaps one of the other ships in the battle group," Fox added.

  "But why?"

  "That I can't say, sir."

  "Recommendations?"

  "Sir," Fox said, "we've got an approximate triangulation on the source of the broadcast, at least as of thirty minutes ago. I think we should launch an aircraft to investigate."

  "Where?" the skipper pressed.

  "About seventy-five miles east southeast," Fox responded.

  The captain turned to his senior JAG officer, Lieutenant Commander Dewey Rouse. "If I send a chopper out with a SEAL team on board, and if we can pinpoint the source of this broadcast, what are our rights under international law? Can we board the vessel?"

  "Under the law of the high seas, Skipper, we can board if we can make the argument that the broadcast threatens either this ship, one of the ships in our battle group, or the United States. Otherwise, we could have an international incident on our hands."

  "Come up with an argument, Commander," the captain said.

  "Aye, sir." The JAG officer grimaced.

  "Let's get a chopper up."

  U.S. Navy helicopter

  Special Mission 448

  52 nautical miles ESE of USS Harry S. Truman

  Altitude 500 feet

  Western Mediterranean

  The bright morning sunlight was already bathing the eastern horizon when the copilot of the U.S. Navy SH-60B Seahawk helicopter saw a trail of freshly churned water marking a short streak in the vast expanse of the dark blue Mediterranean.

  "Small craft in the water at nine o'clock, Skipper," the first officer, a lieutenant junior grade, announced.

  The chopper's commander, a navy lieutenant wearing an olive-drab flight suit and a white flight helmet, turned his head to the left. "I see him," he said. "Let's go in for a closer look." The chopper banked left and completed one full orbit of the small craft's position; then the pilot pushed his call button.

  Radio communications center

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Western Mediterranean

  Truman, Seahawk 434." The pilot's voice was being broadcast into both the ship's air traffic control center and its radio communications center. In the room were Lieutenant Doug Vandergrift and his staff along with the ship's skipper, its air boss, its executive officer, and its senior intelligence officer.

  "Go ahead, Seahawk," Vandergrift said. Every eye in the radio control room was glued on the silver and black speaker.

  "Truman, we've spotted a small craft, maybe a forty- or fifty-footer, flying the Spanish ensign. Speed, approximately eighteen knots. At present course, she appears to be making for the Balearic Islands. Awaiting your instructions. Over."

  There was an exchange of glances.

  "Any other craft in the area?" Vandergrift asked.

  "Negative, Truman. We've swept the entire area. Nobody else here."

  "I think we've found our source," Fox said.

  "Yes, but what are we gonna do about it?" the captain asked, as if talking to himself, then turned to his JAG officer. "Lieutenant, have you come up with a theory that will allow us to board?"

  "This might be a stretch, Skipper" -- Rouse toyed with his chin -- "but if the radio contact that we received could be interpreted as a distress signal, or a call for help by someone on board . . . this would give you grounds for boarding."

  Captain Constangy's eyes twinkled as he scanned the room. "Dewey, you just might be on to something."

  "With due respect, Skipper, this vessel appears to be Spanish. As you know, sir, Spain is a member of NATO. If the vessel is legitimately Spanish, and if there is nothing sinister about her intentions, we could be risking an international incident, possibly even a formal protest by the Spanish government, which we would certainly hear about, to say the least, sir."

  U.S. Navy helicopter

  Special Mission 448

  54 nautical miles ESE of USS Harry S. Truman

  Altitude 300 feet

  Western Mediterranean

  The navy pilot, LT Bill Cameron, USN, lowered the Seahawk to three hundred feet from the water's surface, orbiting the slow-moving small craft on the rippling sea below.

  His first officer, LT (JG) William Jonson, USN, kept watch with a pair of binoculars, while the aircrew chief opened the chopper's main cargo door. The six-member SEAL team, wearing combat fatigues, their faces painted black, checked their M16s as they awaited the call from the Truman to board.

  The small craft, flying the flag of Spain, had already failed to respond to the chopper's attempts to make radio contact. This fact was radioed back to the Trum
an.

  "How's our fuel, Bill?" the pilot asked the first officer.

  "Forty-five minutes, Skipper," Jonson said. "Gonna be tight."

  Cameron checked his watch. Avgas was okay for now, but within the next fifteen minutes, things would get tight. Cameron had flown back to "the boat" on fumes before, but nothing taxed his nerves more. Navy choppers don't float well.

  "Seahawk, Truman. Do you copy?"

  "Roger that," Cameron said. "Copy you loud and clear."

  "Seahawk, Cap'n Constangy here."

  Cameron's eyes met Jonson's.

  "Yes, sir, Captain," Cameron said.

  "Is the Spanish vessel still unresponsive to radio contact?"

  "Roger that, Captain," Cameron said. "Three attempts, all negative."

  "Copy that, Seahawk. Stand by for instructions."

  Make up your mind, guys. It's a long ways to swim.

  The sun was now 10 degrees or so above the horizon, shining almost horizontally along the water below the chopper, illuminating the choppy ripples. Cameron made five more slow loops, and then static came over his radio again.

  "Seahawk, Truman," said LT Vandergrift, the radio room officer.

  "Truman, Seahawk. We copy."

  "By order of the captain, you are to intercept Spanish vessel, ordering it to halt. If vessel does not comply, SEAL team is to prepare for possible boarding to halt the vessel by force if necessary, investigate, and report. Do you copy?"

  That brought a collective vocal burst from the adrenaline-charged SEAL team, all of whom were monitoring air traffic control on their headsets.

  "Copy that we are to attempt aerial intercept, and if unsuccessful, SEAL team to board."

  "Seahawk, Truman. Negative. SEAL team to prepare for boarding. Repeat, prepare for boarding. Do not board unless ordered by the commanding officer, USS Harry Truman. Repeat, do not board unless ordered by the commanding officer, USS Harry Truman. Do you copy?"

  "We copy, Truman. Attempt aerial intercept, and if unsuccessful, SEAL team to prepare to board. No boarding until authorized by CO of USS Truman.

  "Your copy is correct. Execute orders immediately."

  "Roger that. Executing." Cameron dropped the chopper to one hundred feet and brought the bird to within twenty yards off the vessel's bow.

  CHAPTER 16

  United Flight 392

  Altitude 31,000 feet

  Somewhere over northeastern Arizona

  Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States . . . Thank you, Lieutenant Brewer . . . Death to America! . . . This court-martial finds you, of all charges and specifications, guilty . . . In the court-martial of the century today, the death penalty . . . Today I will be with you in Paradise . . . I hope to see you again, Zack . . . Death to the U.S.Navy! . . . Help me, Zack!

  "Diane!"

  Amid the whining hum of jet engines, a few passengers, obviously light sleepers, punched on their overhead reading lights.

  The slight hint of perfume wafted around him, and a gentle hand touched his shoulder. "You okay, Lieutenant?" a soft, feminine voice whispered in his ear.

  "My apologies," Zack said to the flight attendant. "I was dreaming."

  She drew her hand back. "Could I get you anything? Maybe a blanket?"

  "A blanket and maybe another pillow would be nice."

  "Here you are." She placed a pillow under his neck and spread the blanket over him. "Anything else I can do for you?"

  "You're kind." He smiled, still whispering. "I'll be fine."

  Zack closed his eyes again, praying that the revolving images -- of President Williams shaking his hand in the Rose Garden, of the chaplains' eyes before they died, of Diane crying -- would stop. But the image, the dream, that was the most poignant, the most emotional, was that of Diane Colcernian, in her white uniform, reaching to him, her auburn hair flaming against a mysterious dark abyss. In the dream, she screamed, crying to him for help. She was so real that cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Why did he let her leave on her own? Surely he could have done something. He should have called Captain Rudy or Commander Awe and pleaded with him to order a marine escort to take her back to San Diego.

  Why wasn't he more insistent? It all happened so fast.

  Because of his stunning victory over Wells Levinson, the New York Times called him "one of the brightest young lawyers in America." The San Diego Union claimed he was "the navy's best JAG officer." How he wished none of it had ever happened. The publicity had made him a marked target. His association with Diane made her a target too. A bull's-eye was on her back.

  His dreams over the last two nights brought with them the full realization of what she meant to him. Zack did not feel like the navy's best lawyer as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Diane's abrupt absence had brought him face-to-face with his emotions. In the last two days, his feelings for her had either grown or perhaps been exposed in a way he never before fully realized.

  But against that growing passion within him, he felt a wrenching foreboding he could not explain.

  CHAPTER 17

  Radio communications center

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Western Mediterranean

  Truman, Seahawk 434."

  "Seahawk, Truman," Lieutenant Vandergrift said into the microphone. The ship's cadre of senior officers closed into a tight semicircle behind his station. "Report your situation."

  "Truman, be advised small craft has refused -- repeat, refused -- to halt."

  Captain Constangy, standing behind Lieutenant Vandergrift, grunted an obscenity, which brought all eyes in the room squarely on him. A slight burst of static followed by another message from the helo's commander.

  "Small vessel appears to be a sixty-foot civilian cruiser operating on twin inboards. Cruising speed approximately twenty knots, still maintaining a course directly for the Balearic Islands. Three persons spotted aboard. Unknown if others are below deck. Awaiting your instructions, Truman.

  Another grunt from Captain Constangy. "What kind of small craft won't stop for a U.S. Navy helicopter? Lieutenant Vandergrift, may I borrow your microphone?"

  Vandergrift handed his microphone to the skipper.

  "This is the captain speaking. Do you copy?"

  "Yes, sir, Captain, you're loud and clear."

  "Can the SEAL team hear me?"

  "They all have their earphones on and are giving me the thumbs-up, Skipper."

  "Good. Listen up. Drop as low as you can, insert SEAL team, detain crew, and take control of vessel. You are to search vessel and report. Use force only if necessary to defend yourselves. Do you copy?"

  "This is Lieutenant Kemp, SEAL Team 3." The chopper's engines and the sound of wind competed with Kemp's voice, making him barely audible. "Acknowledge: Board, take control, and search. Force only if necessary for self-defense."

  "Roger that, SEAL team. Execute boarding orders now."

  "Bringing the bird in close for insertion," Cameron said. "Stand by."

  Room 442

  Hilton Wilmington Riverside

  301 North Water Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  She drove to the hotel under the cover of darkness, parked her rental car on the street, checked into her room, and slipped under the soft cotton sheets, hoping desperately for some precious rest before the sun rose.

  But her thoughts, churning like the fast cycle of a washing machine, made her quest for sleep next to impossible.

  Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come here. She wasn't sure she could preserve her anonymity. And her presence could pose a distraction for the family, which worried her.

  Still, she felt compelled to be here. It was as if some invisible force, perhaps the hand of God, had drawn her here. Maybe it was just her guilt.

  She flipped on the bedside lamp and reached for the remote control. News of the execution, which she had deliberately avoided, would still be fresh. She would avoid the news, if possible. Maybe she would find an old movie.
Something romantic to get her mind off things.

  The Sony responded instantly to the remote control, and the muted image on CNN nearly made her heart stop.

  Under a flood of television lights, Zack, looking breathtakingly handsome in his service dress blue uniform and wearing his white officer's cover, was stepping out of a building into the night. At his side, Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole, Captain MacDonald, and the judge advocate general of the navy.

  A message superimposed across the bottom of the screen read, "Navy chaplains executed at Fort Leavenworth."

  The officers disappeared in favor of Sally Wu, the Asian-American CNN evening anchor. Closed-captioning scrolled across the bottom of the screen, and behind Sally's image, official U.S. Navy photos of the three executed chaplains.

  So much for avoiding the news. She punched the off button. With the lamp still on, she rolled over in the opposite direction and closed her eyes, thinking only of Zack, missing him, and wishing it had been her -- not Wendy Poole -- at his side.

  U.S. Navy helicopter

  Special Mission 448

  58 nautical miles ESE of USS Harry S. Truman

  Altitude 50 feet

  Western Mediterranean

  Lieutenant Bill Cameron brought the Seahawk down to just fifty feet from the surface, as close as he could come without entangling his rotors with the boat's high-rising radio antennas.

  He reduced his airspeed to twenty knots, matching the boat's surface speed. With the bow of the Spanish vessel directly below the cockpit, the aircraft's rotors were blowing wind downward, making an artificial circle in the water, almost like a moving spotlight blinding a running rat.

  Cameron glanced into the cargo bay to check on his SEAL team's readiness. One member manned the chopper's fifty-millimeter machine gun. Three others cocked their M16s. All gun barrels were pointed directly down, ready to pour fire onto the craft should any threat arise. Lieutenant Gregory Kemp had strapped himself into a harness and was about to be lowered to the boat by the chopper's mechanical winch.