Seal Team Seven #20: Attack Mode (7 page)

“See that there isn’t, Mr. Inbrook.”

Shigahara called the kitchen to have an early breakfast sent up. He always had sent up a breakfast steak, a three-egg omelet, orange juice, coffee, a six-stack of pancakes, and a bowl of mixed fruit. Then he ate whatever part of it interested him at the moment.

The phone rang on the bridge at two minutes past six
a
.
m
. The helmsman waved the handset at Shigahara.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Shigahara, I’m afraid it won’t be possible to get underway. Well, it might be by noon.”

“What do you mean, Inbrook?”

“This morning I have been checking my equipment as I always do, daily, and I noticed a problem with my main engineering computer. Something isn’t working. I don’t know if the computer crashed or if it’s just a hiccup or what.”

“I thought the computers on the bridge ran the ship,” Shigahara said.

“They do, but my engineering computer is a slave to your computer. Your big one tells my smaller one what to do, and it does it. Only now when I tell my computer to give me readouts, for example, it suddenly shuts down and tells me I have done an illegal operation and the system must shut down. I don’t understand it. I’ve had my top computer expert on the ship down here since five-forty-five trying to figure it out. Until he does, we’re dead in the water.”

“Inbrook, if you’ve sabotaged your equipment, you’ll be shot and thrown overboard.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t do that. This is my baby. I would never harm any of the gears or bolts or any piece of equipment down here. We’re working as quickly as we can to get the computer up to speed.”

“If my computer tells your computer to start the engines and bring them gradually up to fifty percent power, what would happen?”

“I’m not sure, Captain. Punch in the order and I’ll let you know.”

“Done.” He talked to Matsuma. “Let’s test the engines. Give the order on the computer to start the engines and bring them up to fifty percent power.”

“Right, Captain,” Matsuma said. “Starting engines, and moving to fifty percent power. The orders are in, sir.”

Jomo picked up the phone to Engineering. “Well, Inbrook, what happened? The orders went in to start the engines.”

“My computer came on, took the order, then at once the red flags came up telling me I had done an illegal operation, and it shut down.”

“You mean we can’t move? We’re stranded here until you can fix the damn computer?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Shigahara. My man is working as quickly as he can. Ken Schafer says he has about twenty possible solutions and he’s been at it now since five-forty-five. I’d hope he can have the problem fixed by noon, or three
p
.
m
. at the latest.”

“Inbrook, you listen to me. I’m coming down to Engineering. If you don’t have that computer fixed by noon, I’m going to shoot you in your right knee. For every hour the computer won’t work, I’ll shoot you in another nonfatal spot. You better tell your expert to rush it.”

Mike Keanae had fixed up little nests for himself in four parts of the big ship, all in out-of-the-way places the crew never visited and where Shigahara and his goons wouldn’t think to look. One was in the Engineering Department, in back of some storage areas. Just now he had heard most
of the talk with Shigahara that Mr. Inbrook had put on his desk speaker.

Keanae grinned. He had put a minor virus program into the computer last night that shut down the slave computer when sent any order. It might be a day or two before the computer man on board thought to check for a virus. Anything now to delay the movement of the big ship. He had his orders. He could have put in the computer virus at any time, but he wanted the ship to be in an easily identified spot. Now the Navy wouldn’t have any trouble finding the
Willowwind
or the
Challenge
, as she was now named. Wouldn’t if he could find a way to get word to somebody. He wanted to bring a SATCOM, but his control said not a chance. He’d be discovered quickly. Not even a satellite cell phone. So he had to figure out how to get to the ship’s radio. Lately Shigahara had been posting three of his men on the radio every nighttime minute. The hijackers didn’t come off the radio watch until daylight.

Keanae thought of all the handy little gadgets that the Company had that he’d used in the past. Several would have been perfect. Now he Lad to figure out how to get into the radio room and use the radio on an international hailing frequency, hoping to contact someone who would talk to the U.S. Navy, and then get out of there without arousing any suspicion. As a last resort he’d have to barge in, knock out the hijacker guarding the radio, send his messages, and then leave. Or he could kill the hijacker and cut down the odds. He’d thought of doing that, reducing the number of bad guys. He wouldn’t have any trouble taking out one every night for two or three nights, until they really got paranoid. Trouble was, Shigahara might kill one of the Merchant Marine crewmen for every hijacker Keanae threw over the side. Might be worthwhile to do one and see if Shigahara was serious.

Twice Keanae had been through Shigahara’s seabag and his belongings. He had found nothing written down that would indicate there was a hijacking in progress, let alone the final destination. At least he knew where they
were now. This far northern island of the Marshall group was the closest to Hawaii.

He checked over the time they had been on the ocean. Going into the seventh day since leaving Hawaii. Those course changes by one of the crew had helped stretch out the cruise. The chief mate shutting down the engines twice had also aided the cause.

Keanae had no hideout close to the radio room. It should have been a nighttime move, say about three
a
.
m
., when the man would be tired and maybe dozing. It should have been done last night. He would get through on the radio to somebody. He could call the port master in Majuro Atoll if he could not contact anyone else. They must have an alert by the U.S. Navy by this time, about the missing ship. He patted the big .45 automatic in his waistband that he’d borrowed from the ship’s arms locker. At least he had the loyalty of the crew members. Three times now he had picked the padlock and taken baskets of food to Chief Mate Stillman. It had been quick and easy. He’d seen several members of the crew who had been working on assigned jobs outside the dayroom. They had grinned and waved silently at him and given him a thumbs-up.

He shifted his position behind the boxes and stores in Engineering. He had to get up to the radio room. No way around it, he’d have to do the takedown on the radio now.

The ship’s public address system came on, with Shigahara’s slightly accented voice. “You men all know we have a murderer on board. The seaman who calls himself Keanae shot down one of our crew in cold blood a week ago. He’s been hiding on board ever since. He’s becoming a nuisance. I am offering a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for any of you men on board who can catch or kill Keanae. Dead or alive, he’s worth twenty-five thousand dollars. You men in the regular crew, don’t let petty loyalties stand in your way. Help us root out this murderer and hold him for justice back in Honolulu, and at the same time pick up twenty-five thousand good U.S. one-dollar bills. Watch for him, then shoot him or call for help. We need to find this killer before he kills again.”

South Pacific

Carl Vinson CVN 70

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock settled down in his bunk in the four-man cabin in officer country and tried to relax. They had just landed on board the carrier after a hectic flight from San Diego to Hickam Field in Hawaii, then by COD to the
Vinson
, which was somewhere south and west of the Hawaiian Islands. Lieutenant (j.g.) Christopher Gardner lay in the bunk above him. The only other man in the transient officer cabin was an ensign awaiting assignment to the crew.

It was nearly 0400. So far nobody knew where the hijacked freighter was. Murdock couldn’t sleep. He lifted up and pulled on his cammies and his boots.

“So where are we?” Gardner asked.

“Not close enough to anything yet,” Murdock said. “This is the eleventh day of the hijacking. The carrier has been steaming toward the southwest for almost a full day. Which means we’ve covered about eight hundred miles. The Pacific is one hell of a big ocean. Over five thousand miles from San Diego to Tokyo.”

“I hear the satellite’s doing a great job of identifying freighters,” Gardner said.

“They better. There’s over six million square miles of Pacific Ocean out there just in this corner.”

Murdock headed for the hatch. “I’m going to the CIC. Maybe the Combat Information Center will have some data on just where we are. JG, come daylight, I want you to get down with the men and see if they need anything.
We could be out of here on an hour’s notice. We need all bags packed, ammo bags full, and all equipment double-checked. We’re all on standby. We might reclassify that after I check with the CIC.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” Gardner said, rolling over in his bunk. “Got my wrist alarm set.”

Five minutes later, Murdock stepped into the CIC and nodded at the CAG, the commander, air group, head man of all aircraft on board the carrier. He was an ex-F-14 pilot with an aviator’s style and still some of the old bravado. His name was Janos Olenowski. At forty-eight years he was on the top of his game and on the fast track to making admiral. He was a head shorter than Murdock, a little heavy, and always grouchy without a cup of coffee in his right fist.

“Captain, guess you couldn’t sleep either.”

“Never can times like this. Coffee runs my engine, Murdock. Here’s our latest. We’ve got two of our Hawkeyes working two-hundred-mile swaths out, as far ahead of us as their fuel supply will last. They’re in shifts working twenty-four. They can fly ahead of us two hundred miles and then scan out another hundred. With this big an ocean it doesn’t seem like much. But we’re making progress.

“Our F-14s have buzzed eighteen freighters so far and found that none of them match the configuration of the
Willowwind.
We’re still heading for the Marshall Islands unless we find some reason to change. Out last GPS puts us still about seven hundred miles from the capital of the Marshalls, Majuro Atoll.”

“Still too far to send out a stripped down F-14 on a recon?”

“Right. They max out at five hundred seventy-six miles for combat radius. We strip off all the missiles, we could push one to six hundred fifty miles coming home on fumes.”

Murdock pondered it. “Is there an airport on Majuro where an F-14 could land on a one-way trip?”

Captain Olenowski grinned. “Been thinking about that.
There’s an airport there, but we’re not sure how long the runway is. I’ve got some radio men working on that question right now. Yes, that would be an option. Have to wait for first light to watch for any freighters in the flight path. Should happen in about an hour, they tell me.”

“You’ve got two Seahawks stripped and ready to take our sixteen men?”

“We have. Radius there is about three hundred seventy miles. They will be ready by daylight.” Captain Olenowski shook his head and stared hard at Murdock. “You and your men are the point of our spear on this one. We can’t sink the ship; we don’t have the men to attack her from small boats. So it’s up to your SEALs. It isn’t often that I talk directly with the CNO. The chief of naval operations told me yesterday that this task force is yours. Whatever you and your men need, you get. Ammo, food, bunks, aircraft. You ask, you get. Must be a good feeling for you.”

“Yes, sir. But it also feels like I’m pulling rank on you. My only concern is that we get what we need to accomplish the mission, that’s the bottom line. When do you estimate that we’ll be in a position to take a run with the Sixties to check out any freighters that look like suspects in or around the islands?”

“We’re coming in from the northeast, which puts us a hundred miles east of the farthest north atoll, called Sibylla. It’s five hundred miles from the capital atoll. It’ll be west of our course, so we’ll stay on line for the capital. That’s the best bet for a big ship to land.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll hang out here and watch developments if it’s all right with you?”

“Be my guest. How about some coffee?”

Down in the compartment the Navy had assigned the SEALs, Kenneth Ching was having trouble sleeping, too. He still hurt over half his body. The officers hadn’t noticed anything wrong with him. Thank God. Senior Chief Petty Officer Sadler had noticed it right off that first day after his beating, when he reported across the Quarter
Deck. The senior chief must have seen the careful way he moved, not making any sudden direction changes, not talking as much as usual. The senior chief had nailed him at his locker.

“Ching, I can tell you’re hurting, and if it’s none of my business, you just keep your yap shut. But if you’re not ready to go do the whole O course right now, then you and me have something to talk about.”

Ching looked up at the senior chief, his face serious and a bit grim, but he didn’t say a word.

“All right then, you’re fit for duty. Don’t think we have anything too serious set up for today anyway.”

That afternoon they had flown out of North Island and he had time to get his system functioning again. He’d kill the next man who kicked him in the kidney.

Now, two days later, the hurt was half-gone, but the nagging anger, the fury at what Kwan Tung had done to him, burned brightly. There would be a payback. Kwan might not understand that, but he would. There would be a serious strike at the heart of the tong that would make them leave him alone. If he did it right, his hit at them would make the tong steer clear of him whenever they saw him. He had to decide exactly what that payback would be, and how he would administer it.

It was 0450 in the CIC that same morning when Murdock came back from the head. The unshaven CAG had stayed the course, checking the instruments, the readouts, and the screens.

Captain Olenowski nodded and looked over at Murdock. “All right, we’re getting closer. My men tell me we’re a little less than six hundred fifty miles from the Majuro. Two of our F-14s have been stripped down of all offensive weapons and ammo, and everything that wasn’t nailed down. They can make a six-hundred-fifty-radius flight and we’ll be cutting down the distance every hour. Be near dawn in thirty, and we’ll put our two birds up heading for Majuro. If they don’t find anything promising
there, they’ll check out eight or nine of the smaller atolls on the way back.”