A Northern Thunder (29 page)

“The Christmas lights are up,” said Moncrief.

“Yeah, Gunny, indeed they are.” A series of lights, like strings holding up a tent pole, circled the bell tower at Hickam. The small government-issue homes, mostly for the senior enlisted, were decked out in the reds and greens of Christmas.

Will looked at the lit bell tower, focusing on the gash marks on its side created by the spray of December 7th bullets.
Funny
, he thought,
we’re always in danger. North Korea just wants to do it in a different way.

As the caravan pulled up to the gatehouse that accessed Ford Island, the security for the
Florida
resembled that of a bank just after a robbery. Honolulu motorcycle police, in their wraparound Maui sunglasses, directed traffic past the long, two-lane bridge, the only link to Ford Island. Sailors and Marines in flak jackets, all armed with M-16s, stood near Humvees blocking the entrance.

“There’s some nice real estate here, boss,” Moncrief said, smiling.

“No doubt.” Will and Moncrief, having rolled down the windows, felt warmer as they passed over the open harbor. A tropical breeze blew inland across the bay.

“The battlewagons used to tie up to Ford Island like horses at a stable,” said Will.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, there’s a few quarters for senior officers, a monument, and an abandoned airfield,” said Will. The orange-and-white-checkered tower, with streaks of dark brown rust, stood out in the center of the field. Grass poked through the joints of a massive cement runway stretching several football fields long. The U.S.S.
Missouri
, the last of the great behemoth battlewagons, rested at her mooring, a tourist attraction temporarily closed for repairs. At least, that’s what its mainland tourist office told the public.

The Suburbans pulled up to a dock on the far side of the island. It had no buildings or structures, only a long, tall chain link fence. Will noticed a sandbag bunker on the left, and another on the right—camouflaged—then the faint movement of men. As he got closer, he realized they were Navy men. Dressed in gray shirts, blue trousers, bulletproof vests, and gray helmets, they were armed with pistols, shotguns, and M-4’s. It was then he noticed the steel-shaped structure sitting behind the wharf, rising above everything else, as tall as the few trees, but pitch black. A camouflaged pair of gray and black leopard-like periscopes rose above the main sail. The submarine’s huge mast gave some suggestion of its size, but it was misleading. The vessel stood six stories deep.

Scott led the way out of the vehicles and quickly pulled Will and his men together. “From this point forward,” he said, “use no names. All your names have been pulled from your packs and your uniforms.” They had been given a new issue of utilities and packs when they left Fallon. “Tomorrow, when you leave, all remaining identification of any kind must be turned in.”

“Mr. X, what about our bills and all that other crap?” said Moncrief, who loved this spy business.

“It’s all been taken care of. This is a special operations boat, and they’re used to handling that stuff. A few Tridents, refitted after the Cold War, were dedicated as special operation boats, with only a few anti-ship and anti-missile armaments, and not the usual array of missiles.”

“Sir?” A curly-headed and heavily freckled lieutenant commander interrupted Scott.

“Yes?”

“I’m Lieutenant Commander Mack Wade, executive officer of the boat.”

“Where’s your CO?” said Scott.

“He’ll be joining us shortly. He’s up at PAC.” It was rare for a Trident to visit Pearl, and the Pacific commander was a submariner by training. He would keep the Trident’s commanding officer for some time, as the two submariners exchanged stories like long-lost fraternity brothers.

“The team is welcome to come aboard,” said Wade.

Will grabbed his molle pack and led the way. Although the lieutenant commander instinctively wanted to salute, Special Operations had taught him to make no such military acknowledgment, particularly in the open, during daylight. Pearl Harbor had many advantages, but one great disadvantage was its open, easily scrutinized harbor. The north end of the harbor was encircled with a small mountain range dotted with thousands of homes within easy view of ship movement. According to military scuttlebutt, the GEO orbit over Pearl had more than its share of visiting satellites, so not much in Pearl went unnoticed.

Wade came up the gangplank and stopped at an armed chief. “Permission to come aboard?” said Wade.

“Aye, sir.”

Wade turned to the standard American flag on the vessel’s tail and saluted. Each of the men did likewise and followed.

“You, sir, are the team leader?” He addressed Will.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir, please come with me. The others will go to berthing in the aft section.”

The team did not mind this minor distinction, not only because Will was their boss, but also because submarine duty was well-known for treating everyone well. All the bunks would be snug and fairly quiet, and the food would be good and unlimited.

Will followed Wade past the mast, looking up at it from the main deck and taking in its enormity. Immediately beyond the sail, the young officer climbed down into the vessel. Waiting at the bottom of the ladder, he signaled Will to pass his pack down through the hatch.

Inside, Will was amazed at the array of cables and pipes, small and large, that surrounded him. He could only sense the vessel’s actual proportions when he crawled down to the first deck. Beyond the cables and pipes to the bow, the bulkhead curved out, giving the sense that its nose extended well beyond and below.

“Excuse me for playing tour guide,” said Wade, “but the
Florida
is over five-hundred sixty feet long, and it displaces almost nineteen-thousand tons when submerged.”

“Yeah, I’m happy you’re on our side,” said Will.

“Follow me, sir.” He led Will down a short hall, past side rooms with men by computer screens and beyond the control and periscope room. As they passed, several young officers, along with a well-wrinkled boat chief, looked up from a chart board. Their eyes reflected their curiosity. The boat chief nodded. The crew had received no orders other than logistics and stocking requirements. The
Florida
’s officers had only a general sense that this mission involved something in the Sea of Japan, or perhaps Russia.

“This way, sir.” Wade hopped down a short steel stairway to the next lower deck deeper into the submarine’s bow. Will glanced down the stairs, which continued down several more flights.

“This is you, sir.” Wade stopped at a door marked “Executive Officers’ Quarters.”

“I’m bunking in with you?” Will asked.

“No, sir. You’ve got it to yourself. We got word to provide quarters to a colonel, no questions asked.”

“Doesn’t that violate your protocol?”

“Well, sir, not to be too glib about it,” said Wade, “but I figure you’re going to earn your paycheck on this one more than me.”

Will smiled. Though he never expected special consideration because of his rank, Wade’s sense of appreciation helped. Once, after September 11th, Will took over a badly demoralized unit. He called them all together, closed the door, looked each in the eye, and thanked them for their service to their country. Will loved his Georgia hometown, but each time he had returned after some dangerous mission, no one in town said anything. A reservist rarely benefited from a parade, so a “thank you” here was much appreciated.

Will’s room—no bigger than an oversized bedroom closet in a new upscale suburban home—somehow squeezed in a small desk, computer terminal, chair, and bunk bed, onto which he tossed his pack. Wade was providing him the only luxury on the boat—privacy. These quarters were no more spacious than those assigned the commanding officer, but in all boats, just about everyone shared rooms.

“Attention, CO arriving.” The loudspeaker echoed throughout the boat. Will wandered back upstairs to the command and control room, where the men stiffened up.

A six-foot man was climbing down the front ladder where Will had entered. He removed his pisscutter hat, a naval term for the Boy Scout-styled cover, and turned, showing bright silver eagles on each collar.

“Attention,” Wade yelled out.

“Carry on,” said the CO, his unhesitating voice that of a leader. His brown hair was accented by slightly gray sideburns, his eyes were bright green, and his face was tanned, surprising for a submariner.

“So, you’re our guest,” he said to Will.

“Yes, sir.” Will did not need to add the term of respect, but did so absentmindedly.

“Welcome aboard, sir.”

“Yes,” said Will.

“Chief, my hat.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the well-wrinkled chief, his head well on the side of pudgy, retrieving a washed-out blue hat marked with a bright orange “AU” and the words “Auburn University.”

“Excuse me—my old school,” the CO said.

“Yes,” Will smiled.

Captain J. D. Hollington, the commanding officer, graduated Navy R.O.T.C. with honors from Auburn University. “Skipper,” as he was nicknamed, had a broad smile, and always stood by his friends, earning him respect in the submarine fleet. It still was not easy for a non-boat school graduate to get command of a Trident. The Naval Academy, or “boat school” as it was commonly called, risked losing its supremacy when engineering students from Auburn were given such prestigious commands, but this was Hollington’s second tour, and one for which he had been requested.

“This is the Gold Crew,” said Hollington. “Gentlemen, the mission requires our not mentioning names, so this is Colonel, and let’s just leave it at that.”

“Welcome aboard, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir, welcome.”

“Okay, Colonel, let’s go down to my room and discuss a few things,” said Hollington.

Will followed the lanky captain down the stairs to another door, immediately adjacent to Will’s room. Hollington’s bunk bed had been pulled down to accommodate a couch. Hollington closed the door and turned to Will.

“Will Parker, you sonuvabitch,” he said. “Why in the hell did you tell them you wanted the
Florida
and its Gold Crew?”

“Two reasons, Skipper,” said Will. “Reason number one is that you’re the only submariner I know who could pass Naval War College, and. . .”

“Yeah?”

“Two, the only one I wanted behind me in a fight.”

“Just my luck,” he said, smiling, “to have such friends.” They had been roommates at the Naval War College in Newport, where they went on daily ten-mile runs around the points and mansions of the Rhode Island city. Some of the races became quite furious, and others at the college quickly realized not to accept their innocent invitation for an “easy” jog.

“I know,” said Will. “Why’s Krowl involved?” said Hollington. “That snake would trade in his sister for a promotion.”

“Not my choice. He came up with this.”

“Okay, but watch your back.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Will, well-prepared on that point. “When do we sail?”

“After dark, we have to float across the harbor to a SEAL base and pick up the ASDS.” The SEAL mini-sub had been noticeably missing from the main deck when Will came aboard. “We’ll leave right after that. It sort of telegraphs your mission to the world when you pick it up in Pearl. They’re leaking the cover that SEAL Delivery Team One is doing some sea trials.”

“That makes sense.”

“It’s supposed to rain tonight, which is a big plus,” said Hollington.

“What’s latest departure?”

“Zero-hundred.”

“I need to get out of here for a few hours,” Will said. “I’ve got a few errands, and I want my men to get one last beer at Duke’s.”

“This Scott guy is not too high on that.”

“Keep him busy.”

“I’ll get someone at PAC to work on him, but be back by twenty-two-hundred max.”

Will smiled. “I can handle that.”

“And here’s the keys to my car, with a CO’s pass,” said Hollington. “I’ve got some civilian clothes if you need ’em.”

“No, I’m fine. Let me get mine and go.”

The black Tahoe with a blue and white eagle sticker pulled out of Ford just before dark. The windows were tinted, but as it passed security at the Ford Island Bridge, the sentry saw four figures inside. He sharply saluted the driver. A half hour later, the Tahoe stopped in front of Duke’s.

“I’ll be back at twenty-one-hundred,” Will said. “At twenty-one-oh-one, this vehicle is moving. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, boss.”

In another half hour, Will was back at the airbase, cutting through the backdoor entrance to Hickam. The black Tahoe cut up to Vickers Avenue, and then a side road near the flight line. There, as Will’s Tahoe approached, a man stepped out. The sun was setting, causing the shadow of the building to stretch across the side alley.

“Hey,” said Will.

“This wasn’t easy, sir.”

“I can imagine.”

The Marine lieutenant colonel, in green-black checkered utilities, climbed into the front seat. “Go around back of the CIL,” he said.

Will drove the half-block around a modern one-story brown-brick building to a side entrance and loading dock. One of the doors was open. Above the door, the tan and blocked letter sign said, “U.S. Central Identification Laboratory.”

“We had to do a lot of talking to our local contact, but they helped,” said the lieutenant colonel.

“You know this is important,” said Will. “It’s also life or death that nothing is ever said.”

“Yes, sir.”

Will turned the Tahoe around, backing it up to the loading dock. Nothing more was said. Another man on the dock, with gloves on, lifted a black oil drum onto the rear of the Tahoe.

“Watch out. It’s cold,” said the lieutenant colonel.

“Got it.”

“Other than that, you can’t hurt it.”

“Thanks,” said Will. “Oh, let me borrow two sets of gloves.”

“Borrow, sir?” He smiled. “I don’t think I’ll be getting them back.”

“You may be right.”

The Tahoe pulled out the main gate at Pearl, heading to the far end of the island. It took nearly an hour for Will to reach the last state park at Kaena Point. Highway H-1 was crowded with traffic exiting the football stadium at Aloha Stadium after a University of Hawaii game. It made Will realize how far he had come. The South would be in late fall, leaves changing, college tailgating parties winding down after a long season. He was a long way from what he had left.