Death Wave

“And Ocean Storm is set to go?”

“Affirmative. The Constellation is getting this feed, too.”

Dean nodded. All of the pieces were in place.

As the Yakutsk had traveled farther and farther west, eventually entering the two- hundred-mile gap between the island of Socotra and the southern coast of the Arabian Peninsula, the carrier battle group shadowing it had begun closing the range. The Lake Erie now was just under twenty nautical miles southeast of the Yakutsk, while the aircraft carrier USS Constellation was about thirty miles from the target. The Yakutsk’s radar likely was picking up both the Erie and the Constellation, as well as the other surface ships of the battle group, but these were crowded waters, with international sea traffic funneling in toward the narrow mouth of the Red Sea. With luck, the Erie had been dismissed as another freighter, the Constellation as a supertanker out of the Arabian Gulf. Not that secrecy was of particular importance now. The Yakutsk’s Russian crew would very soon be learning the truth, as would the pirates attacking them.

“Can we have some more detail there?” Dean asked, pointing toward the cargo ship’s deck amidships, just forward of the superstructure. A gun battle had broken out between the pirates and a small group of shipboard defenders.

“Those don’t look much like sailors,” Morrisey commented. “They don’t even look like merchant seamen.”

“Probably JeM,” Dean said, thoughtful. “Pakistanis riding shotgun on the nukes.”

“Makes sense that the JeM wouldn’t let such a valuable cargo go unprotected. The Russian seamen don’t care if the bad guys get the cargo. It’s in their best interests to just surrender and let the ship’s owners ransom them.”

“How many men in the Yakutsk’s crew?” Dean asked.

“About twenty,” Morrisey told him.

“Plus an unknown number of Pakistani gunmen. The pirates have their work cut out for them.”

“Captain Morrisey?” a sailor said from a nearby console. “We’re getting an SOS from the ship.”

“Record it, Tompkins,” Morrisey told her, “and transmit to both Citadel and Xanadu.” Citadel was the code name for the Constellation; Xanadu was Fort Meade.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Okay,” Dean said, relieved. “We now have official permission to board that ship.”

Permission to board and search the Yakutsk for the missing nukes had been repeatedly refused by the White House. Dean didn’t know for sure, but he strongly suspected that Bill Rubens was behind this somehow — a hint, a suggestion, in the right diplomatic ear might have gotten the Yakutsk noticed by the Somali pirates. If the United States Navy was not permitted to search a Russian cargo ship on the high seas, international maritime law required nearby ships to come to the aid of that vessel if it sent out a distress message. Rubens had told him to keep a close eye on the ship from the Erie’s CIC and stand by to coordinate a Navy SEAL assault — Ocean Storm — from the Constellation.

It was almost as if Rubens had somehow known that the Yakutsk was going to be attacked by pirates.

“Citadel has acknowledged,” Tompkins said, “and requested permission to deploy Ocean Storm.”

Dean nodded. “Go,” he said.

ASSAULT FORCE OCEAN STORM

NORTH OF SOCOTRA

GULF OF ADEN

SUNDAY, 1612 HOURS LOCAL TIME

The leading chief, Senior Chief Petty Officer Carl Raleigh, came to his feet. “Attention on deck!”

“Okay, ladies!” Lieutenant Commander Edward McCauley said as he walked into the compartment on board the USS Constellation. “As you were!” The men took their seats again, chairs scraping and clattering as they settled. “We have the word,” McCauley continued. “We are go for VBSS!”

“Hoo-yah!”

Forty voices shouted back, ringing off the bulkheads of the compartment designated as the SEAL Team squad bay. The men, dressed in black and with their faces painted green, were members of Alfa Troop, SEAL Team Three, headquartered in Coronado, California; their operational area was Southwest Asia, which included the Gulf of Aden. They’d deployed to the Constitution from Kuwait two days ago, under orders passed down from SOCOM, the U.S. Special Operations Command. Since that time, they’d been on a constant state of alert, waiting for the order to go.

“The objective of this op is to secure the ship, which is believed to be illegally transporting a number of small tactical nuclear devices. We do not have to worry about finding those devices. That is the job of the NEST people who will be following us in. Our job is to get on board that ship, take down the hostiles, and hold it so the techies can do their thing.

“We are clear to use lethal force. The hostiles on board include Somali pirates and members of a Muslim terror group, the Army of Mohammad. In addition, it’s possible that the members of the ship’s crew may offer resistance.

“Be very clear about this, people. While we have no wish to cause unnecessary casualties among the ship’s crew, while it would be useful to capture hostile personnel for interrogation, this is a shoot-first order. If anyone shows a weapon, if anyone offers resistance, if anyone even looks like he’s going to give you an argument, take him down, and take him down hard! The number one objective here is to secure those nukes, not to save lives on that ship, not to take prisoners. You have one order on this op. Secure those weapons! Questions?”

A hand went up, and McCauley nodded. “Petroski?”

“I was just wondering, sir … is there any chance of those nukes going off?”

“Beats me, Pet. What I was told was that it takes twenty minutes to prep one of these weapons, to arm it and set it off. If they do manage to detonate one … well, the good news is we’ll never know it, and the bastards won’t be able to use them against civilian targets. Other questions? Right. Let’s move out!”

“Hoo-yah!”

The SEAL battle cry rang again from the bulkheads as the men began filing out into the next compartment, the armory, where they drew weapons, ammunition, and various items of special gear. Minutes later, they stepped out into the glare of the afternoon sun above the Gulf of Aden, hurrying across the steel flight deck to the waiting helicopters.

“Now hear this, now hear this,” blared from the 1MC. “Commence helicopter operations on the flight deck.”

The rotors on the big HH-60H helos began to turn.

ART ROOM

NSA HEADQUARTERS

FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

SUNDAY, 0935 HOURS EDT

On the big main display in the Art Room, Rubens saw the image of the Yakutsk being relayed by satellite from the USS Lake Erie. The Yakutsk was just over 240 feet in length and thirty-six feet wide, with a draft of twelve and a half feet. Her bridge house was positioned amidships, just forward of the single, large stack. There were two tall masts, one aft of the stack, one just aft of the raised forecastle forward. Stays and rigging connected the two masts with one another and with various points on the deck and bulwarks.

Those masts and stays could be a problem.

“The first helicopters are away, sir,” a technician reported.

“Good,” Rubens said. “What’s their ETA?”