As Jack looked at the HMS
Dauntless
, he noted that it was a strange-looking ship. The ordinariness of its pragmatic bluff bows and grey paint served only to emphasize the two significant differences between it and most any other warship afloat. Firstly there was the huge tower amidships, capped with its unwieldy looking radar dome. The tower housed one of the most advanced tracking systems on earth, capable of sensing and tracking the tiniest of objects over the greatest of distances, and it was the nerve center of the ship. The second thing that made the ship stand out amongst other warships was its apparent lack of onboard armament. There were no great artillery guns on board like on the various ships that crowded the busy harbor, only large grey boxes like cubist sheds. But the strange-looking grey structures that covered the deck were in fact the housing for the vast and deadly array of missile systems that made the new destroyer such a powerful beast.
It could track and intercept incoming missiles and planes at vast distances, guiding and controlling multiple warheads simultaneously in complex vectored intercept patterns to shatter the path of anything unfortunate enough to incur its wrath. It did not even try to be a conventional warship, thus freeing every member of its highly skilled crew to be dedicated to the identification and destruction of anything the HMS
Dauntless
did not want flying in its airspace. That said, this singularity of purpose left it quite vulnerable to torpedo attack by another ship or by a submarine, which was why it always travelled in complement with at least a small but lethal orca-class attack submarine.
The submarine in question remained carefully hidden in one of the covered sub-docks of the harbor, entering and exiting its berth without ever showing its head above water, just like its larger nuclear cousins it shared the dock with.
Gathering his thoughts back to the moment, Jack nodded to himself, tapping his head as if to reset it on the task at hand. OK, time to go. Tonight he was going to be getting his hands very dirty indeed. And in order to accomplish the seemingly insurmountable task at hand, three men were going to be joining him, among whom was the alien Agent John Hunt.
The base was vast, and it was a long walk back along the pier and across the large parade ground to the barracks where he and his team were being put up. He had refused the offer of officer quarters from the dockmaster, preferring to stay in a small private room in the large barracks where the master had placed his men. It would give him more freedom to get the job at hand completed. Entering the barracks, he headed to his room, closing the flimsy door to the small, sparsely furnished bedroom as he stepped in. He poured himself a small glass of whiskey and settled down to calm his nerves. He was about to embark on the closest thing to espionage he had ever undertaken and he found that up close it really wasn’t as glamorous as he had thought.
He looked at the two other glasses he had procured from the mess and thought of what he was about to do. The plan seemed simple. John and an operative that Admiral Hamilton had assigned to the operation were going to head over to the shed where the new warhead casings were being stored and commandeer the two trucks that Jack had ordered his men to load with twenty-six of the large crates they had arrived with earlier. They would then drive to the Royal Navy pier to unload their contents on to the HMS
Dauntless.
But the plan was far more convoluted once you got into the details. Firstly, British naval warships did not let other nationals, even members of allied military organizations, on board without the express written permission of the captain. Secondly, the loading of large pallets onto the ship was always orchestrated by either the boatswain or the ship’s engineer, Bill Shadley, without exception. And of course, like a perverse cherry on this mountain of obstacles, there was also a satellite cruising above them watching their every move, and if it spotted John Hunt doing something it did not consider appropriate, even the Agent would not be able to survive the destruction it would rain down upon him.
Their plan to counter these obstacles was fraught with risk and it was going to require some less than officer-like behavior on the part of one Major Jack Toranssen of the United States Air Force. Jack knocked back the last of his whiskey then reached for a refill. His glass full, he placed the half-empty bottle back on the table and picked up the small metal vial Ayala had given him before he left Hanscom. Inside were several small pills. He took two of them and dropped them into the neck of the bottle of whiskey and watched the pills dissolve in the potent brown liquid.
He was still swirling the bottle to dissolve the last of the soporific draft when there was a knock at the door. He put the bottle down, grabbed his own glass, and went over to open the metal door to his austere quarters. Two men in British Navy uniform stood in the hallway outside.
“Major Jack Toranssen, right?” said Lieutenant John Hunt, “We met at the naval strategy conference in San Diego a few months ago.”
Jack nodded, “Yes, that’s right. Wait, don’t tell me … John, right?”
John smiled, “Yes, that’s it. How’ve you been? Hey, sorry to drop in on you like this, but I saw your name on the duty roster when we came into dock and thought I would drop in and see if you wanted to join me and my friend here for a drink?”
Jack nodded and looked at John’s ‘friend.’ He was a big burly man in his forties with a rugged face that had been hardened by countless years of salt air. He was clearly also English, and they discreetly sized each other up while John introduced them.
“Major Jack Toranssen, United States Air Force, this is Warrant Officer William Shadley, chief engineer of the HMS
Dauntless
,” said John. Jack put out his hand as Bill Shadley instinctively saluted the senior officer. Jack smiled, politely returned the salute, then put his hand out again.
“No need for that, William,” said Jack, trying to establish a relaxed tone, “we may be on the same side, but we have very different bosses.”
They both chuckled conspiratorially and Bill, relaxing a little, took Jack’s hand and said, “Very kind of you, sir. In that case I’d prefer it if you called me Bill. Only me ’mam calls me William.”
They all smiled at each other and Jack waved them into the room, feeling a pang of guilt at abusing this clearly good man’s trust. But he did not let it get in the way of his objectives, and his smile remained warm as he said, ‘Bill’ and ‘John’ … that sounds good to me. After all, I can’t drink with people who call me sir.”
“Listen,” he said as they seated themselves, “before we go out, I’ve just poured myself a whiskey. Why don’t you two join me for a quick one and then we’ll head out.” He indicated the bottle and two glasses and said to Bill, “Help yourself, and don’t be shy, I get it free from the officer’s mess.”
Bill wasn’t known for being shy with whiskey, in fact, they were very close friends, and he half-filled the two glasses. Jack went a bit wide-eyed, worried for a moment about the strength of the draft, but they all raised their glasses, took a sip, and then sat down, Jack sitting on the single cot, and Bill and John taking the two metal chairs that came with the small room.
John decided to hasten proceedings and looked at Bill, “Looks like we’re playing catch up to the major, Bill. Shall we?” He raised his glass and downed it with aplomb, following his mammoth gulp with a satisfied gasp and a mischievous smile.
“You’re a bugger,” said Bill, staring a little disconcertedly at the two or three shots of whiskey in his glass. He had suffered more than once from trying to keep up with the young lieutenant, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and admit he was less of a sailor than the boy in front of him.
“Your health, Major,” said the chief engineer, then, raising his glass, he grumbled, “why do I listen to you, John? Jack, I hope you know what you’re in for with this one.”
“Oh, I am painfully aware, Chief.” said Jack, thinking that it was Bill Shadley who was sadly innocent of what he was signing up for. He watched as the big man knocked back his drink and smiled sympathetically as the stocky British sailor cringed at the burning in his throat. The chief engineer of the HMS
Dauntless
whistled and looked into the bottom of the empty glass appreciatively as the alcohol singed his throat, unaware of the powerful soporifics already working their way into his body.
* * *
Ten minutes later, John and Jack were walking out of the barracks, leaving an unconscious Chief Bill Shadley snoring on Jack’s bunk. John had examined him and estimated that they had about ten hours. Ten hours to get twenty-six half-ton crates on board the HMS
Dauntless
without her captain knowing. Then they had to get back in time to return the British naval uniform Jack Toranssen was now wearing to its owner, who was sleeping happily in his underwear.
For reasons known only to the administrators and planners of the world’s great military forces, the US is virtually unique in that its soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines have nametags on their uniforms. Jack had praised the lack of nomenclature on British uniforms as he had quickly slipped on the Royal Navy breeches and jacket, knowing that the guard detail on the HMS
Dauntless
would have no way of recognizing the uniform of their chief engineer later that night. The insignia on his sleeves and collar would only tell them that he was a relatively senior warrant officer. They would hopefully then take the word of the well-respected and well-liked Lieutenant John Hunt to bolster the realism of the fake Royal Navy ID Ayala had procured for him.
But getting past them was probably still the easiest challenge they faced tonight.
* * *
Entering the low, almost surly looking shed where the missile casings were being stored, they were greeted by a bright flashlight in their eyes. It hesitated only a moment on the major before concentrating on John Hunt. But the light did not faze the Agent, both because his eyes saw easily passed the torch’s beam and because he had been expecting the greeting.
“He’s with me.” said Major Toranssen with a sternness that hinted at the urgency of the situation.
The man holding the torch lowered it and stepped forward, coming up to face the stranger with the full might of his muscular presence. John met the other man’s stare in the night without flinching, but spared the man the humiliation of simply brushing him aside. Master Chief Mike Lombardi of the Navy Seals believed he had faced death in his life. Twenty years beforehand two frightened officers in the Iraqi National Guard had pulled three of Mike’s fingernails out and crushed one of his molars with a pair of pliers. After two months in a clandestine prison, the ‘war’ had ended and Mike had been released, but the ordeal had proven to him that he was immune to anything short of actual death. Pain is weakness leaving the body, the Seals said. But standing face-to-face with the young and soft-looking John Hunt, the Seal could have no idea he was facing death incarnate. All his training and conditioning, the burnished shield earned through years of pain, none of it would protect him for a second if John Hunt were to accept the implied threat that Mike Lombardi was making.
The master chief had been told in absolute terms by the single most senior officer in the United States Navy that he should trust no one but Major Jack Toranssen, and he was ready to kill this stranger in front of him if the major gave even the slightest hint of an order. John Hunt waited patiently while the major figured out that he had to intervene, the hot breath of the master chief in his face as the Seal attempted to dominate him. Eventually Jack figured out what was happening and said, “It’s OK, Master Chief, he’s on our side. Mike, this is John. John, Mike.”
John held his ground until Mike stepped back a touch and then they both shook hands, Mike somewhat hesitantly. But with the same speed at which Mike’s ire had risen, it dissipated. For now, he was attached to Jack like a proverbial guard dog, and with Jack’s approval John became persona grata. They turned and set to, their task clear, all working quietly and efficiently to get ready.
* * *
Two lumbering M927 trucks grumbled across the yard. The dark green, canvas-topped, 6x6 army trucks growled as their monstrous diesel engines drove them up onto the long, wide wharf that the HMS
Dauntless
was moored against. It had taken considerable coordination to align the arrival of Major Toranssen, his team, and his assistant Mike Lombardi in Pearl Harbor with the brief stopover of the HMS
Dauntless
. In the end, Jack, Colonel Milton, and Martin Sobleski had had to work through the night getting the final shielding components ready for shipment once the
Dauntless
’s schedule was confirmed. But when you had the explicit support of the US Navy’s senior admiral, and thus the Pentagon Security Council, you could open a lot of doors. Jack’s orders had been written and rewritten in order to factor in the plans of the HMS
Dauntless
, though neither the crew of the
Dauntless
nor the satellites watching them all had ever been aware of it.
But orders from the US Navy could only get them so far, and while they had debated getting some of the Royal Navy’s senior command involved in the plot, they had decided that this would open up the group too much to the risk of discovery. Once they had destroyed the satellites, they could start to disseminate the news of the coming attack more widely, but if the deaths of their friends in India, and the more recent confrontations in DC and Florida, had done nothing else, they had taught them that the need for secrecy was paramount.
The two trucks pulled up next to the
Dauntless
, and John jumped down, running up the main gangway to the two armed ratings zealously guarding the top of the gangway. The two men presented arms as John approached.
“No, no, lads, no need for all that, it’s just me. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask. Bill and I were supposed to get these pallets on board today for stowing before the captain rejoins the ship tomorrow morning, but they weren’t ready on time. Now they are, and if the captain finds out they are ready and we haven’t loaded them, it will be my arse. I’m going to sign them in and get them loaded, OK?”