He took off his glasses and began to wipe them with a tissue. This was a ploy that he long ago developed to buy time while he formulated his thoughts. He began slowly. “Remember back in the Cold War days when we both were commanding boats. If something bad happened at home, we weren’t told until we came home. Cold, calculating and cruel. But it kept us at our job. That’s what we have to do here. Don’t tell him until everything is resolved and he is on his way home from the mission. It’s the only sensible thing to do."
Hughes let his glasses fall to his chest, hanging from a long black cord draped around his neck. The finality of this small act was a more effective emphasis than anything else.
"He can’t do anything about this except worry over it. We have to have him working at his peak. It's far too important.”
Admiral O’Flanagan acquiesced, “You’re right, Chief of Staff. That is what we will do. Make sure that no message goes to SAN FRANCISCO about this. Get PACOM involved so that Jon doesn’t find out through some inadvertent slip somewhere.”
Captain Hughes shook his head just a bit. “It’s going to leave Hunter mad as hell. When he gets back and finds out about his family, no matter how it turns out, I wouldn’t want to be in the blast radius.”
O’Flanagan answered, “I guess that’s my job.”
21 Jun 2000, 0520LT (1620Z)
The hostage response plan was swinging into high gear. A temporary headquarters was set up in the harbor control tower, atop a water tank high above the Pearl Harbor Shipyard. This afforded the local commander a panoramic view of the house and all approaches, without being seen by the terrorists.
Colonel Johnson was in command of the local team. His boat from Ford Island rushed across the placid harbor water, landing at the shipyard docks. A staff car hurtled down the narrow shipyard streets to deliver him to the water tower. He charged into the command center just as the MH-53’s from Kaneohe landed at nearby Hickam Air Force Base. Two huge C-17's roared down Hickam's runways to cover the noise of the incoming MH-53's.
Johnson busied himself setting everything in place for the long slow process that would, hopefully, result in the release of the hostages. He could not afford to think of the hostages as friends and neighbors. Megan and Maggie had slept over with Sally many times. He and his wife had been frequent guests at the house he was now observing. That all had to be set aside; forgotten for now. It would only cloud his judgment.
Looking down at the house, he could see that all the windows were still dark. This was unusual. On a normal morning, the lights would be coming on as the household arose to greet the coming day. They should be listening to the sounds of a happy family making plans for the day’s activities from the microphones that his people had planted. There were no lights and no sounds.
“Colonel, we have the infrared scan results" one his assistants reported. “We are seeing seven hotspots that equate to seven people. Looks like four terrorists and the three hostages.” Looking toward a computer monitor, he continued, pointing out blobs of bright yellow-white against a background of darker reds and blues. “Look here. This is the master bedroom. Looks like three people close together. I’m guessing they're sitting on a bed. Someone's standing over here by the back window and someone else by this side window. When we move to the front bedroom, we see another person standing by a front window. One last person downstairs. Over here in the enclosed lanai.”
“That gives us some idea of what we're up against,” Colonel Johnson answered. “I make out the three women are sitting on the bed, two guards at the windows in that room, a guard covering the front of the house from upstairs and one guard downstairs. Neat and efficient, professional. Looks like the women are all still alive. You can see movement. Still no contact?”
“No, sir. Not a word out of there, yet,” another member of the team answered. He was wearing earphones and sitting in front of a bank of switches and dials, monitoring the telephone circuits into the house and the dying cell phone. Other people were setting up high power tripod mounted binoculars and sensitive directional listening devices. The makeshift command post was taking on the look of a high tech bunker.
“I think it’s their move. For now we sit and wait,” the Colonel said, more to himself that to anyone in the room.
21 Jun 2000, 0800LT (1900Z)
“It’s time,” Ashad told Peg, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number that was supposed to be known only to a very few top submariners.
The private red phone in Admiral O’Flanagan’s office began to buzz loudly. Mike O’Flanagan reached for the receiver. He was not expecting a call on this line. It was almost never good news when it rang. The last time had been over a year ago. That time had been the report of a submarine in trouble off San Diego.
Peg Hunter was on the other end. She sounded tense, but in rigid control. “Admiral, they are holding us hostage. They’re armed and tell me
