Captain Buck Rodgers had his brain trust in his cabin.
Forty hours, they’d been at the bottom of the ocean, waiting.
Time was running out.
They had heard noises against the hull, like scrapings.
The Captain had asked for two volunteers to go outside.
It was basically a suicide mission at this depth.
Four men volunteered.
Rodgers picked his best diver and his newest dive recruit.
Their mission was simple – go outside and see if they could manage to get power to the sail cameras.
The two men put on their deep-diving gear, called JIM suits.
They looked like spacemen.
The airlock cycled, and the two men floated out into the black seas.
Radio communication was out onboard the ship.
The JIM suits could communicate between themselves using hand signals and touching their helmets together.
They carried spare parts and batteries.
Forty-five minutes into the mission, the junior man signaled his JIM suit was malfunctioning.
He made it back into the airlock, but just barely.
Since the electronics were off, all the hatches and airlocks had to be manually actuated.
When the crew finally had the airlock hatches open, he was dead, drowned by the water that had seeped into the suit from a tiny crack in the helmet seal.
The senior man, unaware of the fate of his partner, soldiered on into the darkness.
He followed the hull contour and managed to gain the sail.
Climbing to the access port, he unscrewed the port and removed the battery and com module.
He checked the camera fittings by feel, satisfied they were intact.
Finally, he pressed the test button and was rewarded by green lights.
At least, he knew, the circuitry in the sail was working.
There might still be issues in the pressure hull, but that wasn’t his job.
He began to retrace his way back to the airlock when something bright caught his eye.
The diver spun his JIM suit around, turning his lights onto full, and hoping his cameras were recording the astounding sight.
A Chinese-marked submersible, as big as a supertanker, hovered above them, in the calm waters surrounding the USS Betsy Ross.
The bottom looked as though it had opened bay doors, and he could see racks with mounting catches and winches.
There were also two large bladed arms, one near the bow, and the other amidships.
As he watched in horror, the vessel sank towards them, the arms coming closer.
More mechanical arms swung down and clamped onto the hull near him.
He just avoided being crushed by one arm.
Quickly figuring out the purpose of the vessel, the diver made a short video description of his observations.
He went back to the sail and found the camera bay again.
Inserting a special probe from the JIM suit, he attempted to load the file into the ship’s computer network.
The light turned green.
He assumed his message was sent and received.
Then, he moved to where another arm was coming down to clamp onto the hull.
Maneuvering so that his JIM suit was between the arm and the hull of the Betsy Ross, the man began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
He was at “Thy will be done” when the mechanical arm crushed the JIM suit flat against the pressure hull.
—————
“What the fuck was that?” said XO Chastain.
The men sitting in the Captain’s Cabin looked at each other.
All of the men had the tension on their faces.
A hull puncture at this depth was completely fatal to the ship.
The Captain and XO both began the process of preparing to scuttle the ship, should that occur.
The automated self-destruct was non-functional, as all the electronics were fried.
“I am opening my safe to retrieve the detonator, XO,” said the Captain.
He spun a combination lock and opened his safe.
Reaching inside, he pulled out a small box, about the size of a carton of cigarettes.
The submarine had been nudged, hard, by something outside in the deep ocean.
A few minutes later, there was a second nudge.
The Captain opened a small door near the floor.
He pressed some buttons, and it popped open.
Shortly thereafter, a third nudge.
“XO, I am in possession of the key to the self-destruct device. Do you wish to proceed?” asked Captain Rodgers.
Chastain gulped.
“Yes, sir. I have the lockbox key around my neck, as per SOP, Sir,” he replied.
He reached beneath his uniform and pulled out a chain with his ID tags, and a small key.
“Here you are, Sir,” he said, giving it to Rodgers.
The Captain took the key and used it to unlock the lockbox he had taken from his safe.
Then, there was a nudge that felt different than the others, almost as if it did not connect as squarely.
The Captain pulled out a small cylinder, that had a mechanical dial on it.
He set it to one minute.
“Captain, we have visual from the sail, and limited network connectivity. It looks like there’s a message from JIM 1. Shall I play it?” asked the Com Officer.
“Go ahead, Coms,” he said, sliding the cylinder into a prepared space for it in the compartment near the floor.
The message from the diver began to playback, the audio scratchy and buzzy.
“This is Officer James Morton, Senior Diver, USS Betsy Ross, 42-809, reporting the sighting of a large submersible descending onto the pressure hull. It seems designed to hold missiles, there are block and tackle, winches and mechanical arms attached near the bow and amidships. The vessel also has two large bladed arms. Captain, it looks like they mean to cut Betsy apart and take the missiles. I’m going to try to get between the arm coming to attach off the port bow. Wish me luck. It’s been a genuine pleasure serving with you all…tell my wife I love her. Morton, out.”
The men stared at each other, the horror on their faces as they realized what their diver had managed to do.
“Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be …” they heard coming from the speaker.
There was a loud coughing sound, and then dead silence.
“Jesus Christ!” said one of the Officers.
“Morton sacrificed himself to give us some time. Gentlemen, let’s not waste it,” said Rodgers as he safed the detonator.
—————
The two jets touched down on Guam, where Wernher and Kevin were able to quickly take showers, attend to their personal needs, and then gear up.
“Fuckers stole my Kimber!” Kevin fumed.
“Sir, we have a selection of sidearms if you want to take a look,” said a Lieutenant.
He escorted Mitchum to an armory.
Kevin looked around a bit.
“I’ll take these, son!” he said, smiling hugely.
“Yes, sir!” said the armorer.
“Holsters, mags, and gear are next door, Sir!” he added, pointing with his thumb as he began to fill out the paperwork.
—————
“Vas ist das?” asked Wernher.
Kevin Mitchum wore tactical clothing, including a ballistic vest, two bandoliers of shotgun shells, and two leg holsters.
In each one was a .45 caliber H&K Mark 23 SOCOM, complete with the suppressor kits.
Magazines festooned his pouches, and he also carried a large fighting knife.
“SOG Tomcat, pal!”
Pulling it from its sheath, he showed it to Wernher, smiling.
“Tsk. Such a heavy thing,” he replied.
“You are Rambo, nuh?” he said, with a smirk.
“Yeah, well if I’d a had me one of these last week, you’d a found an empty room, buddy!” said Kevin, expertly sheathing the knife without looking.
“Just do not fall overboard, Mr. Mitchum. I am not jumping in the ocean after you,” said Wernher.
Kevin wasn’t sure if he were joking or not.
—————
They were taken to an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, the USS Milius.
Putting out to sea, they set out to the last known coordinates of the USS Betsy Ross, accompanied by three Zumwalt-class destroyers.
A fighter squadron and an AWACS observation plane accompanied the battle group as it departed NB Guam, with another squadron being readied on the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson, staged in the Pacific, off the Philippines, with the full complement of their battle group placed on “ALERT”.
—————
Fifty-six hours after they had been attacked, the submarine crew were desperately trying anything to extend their chances of survival.
The air was becoming stale, so some of the engineers came up with a way to recirculate the air, using sheets from the sleeping quarters, bungee cords, weights, and pulleys.
It provided a rudimentary way to move the air around in the ship and kept a complement of men busy as well.
They had broken out the chemical CO2 absorbers and tried to rinse them in any available water to extend their service life.
The men would survive longer without potable water than they would with non-breathable air, so it seemed a pragmatic trade.
Another group of sailors had managed to harvest the indicator lights from some of the consoles, and hooked them up to a home-made generator, using forks and copper wire to create an armature.
In the flickering light, the men’s spirits were raised a bit.
It was one thing to have a flashlight or bioluminescent torch, but another to see your efforts rewarded by actual lights.
Little victories kept occurring.
Some of the sailors went through the ship, singing and playing instruments, to keep morale up.
They hadn’t been sliced in two, so they counted that as a win.
—————
“Captain, the Chief has an idea,” said the XO.
“Go,” said the Captain.
“Sir, the nuclear reactor scrammed, but I think we can bring it back online, and harvest some power for the weapons,” said the Chief.
“Make it happen, Chief, but let’s get a plan on what comes on, and in what order, Okay?” the Captain responded.
“XO, can we launch any of our missiles?” asked the Captain.
“Aye, sir, but it might be very dangerous,” the XO replied.
“I want you to work out the following problems,” the Captain said.
The two men listened closely.
“I want to know if we can blow the ballast tanks, manually or electrically, and on a definite time schedule. I want to be able to launch four or five of the missiles, using the compressed air ONLY, and not have them armed to detonate. I want to be able to fire torpedoes that will only arm after a five-minute delay, and have some way to safe them if they haven’t impacted anything within four minutes and thirty seconds after they arm themselves,” said the Captain.
“Get to work, men,” he said.
—————
“Okay, people, here’s the plan,” said the Chief.
“We are going to raise the reactor power back up, but just enough to see if we can trip the breakers. Any that trip, we turn back off and kill that circuit. If they don’t, we see what we can use that power to run, ok?” he said.
The engineering and electrical crew muttered.
“Sir, what about grounding?” asked one man.
“Leave that to me and the torpedo room, son,” he said.
—————
The test went well.
The Chief discovered that, by judicious use of the manual valves, they could indeed blow the water from the ballast tanks.
“Tell the XO, Paul,” he ordered one of his men.
—————
“It’s like this, Chief,” said the Senior Torpedo Weapons Officer.
“We flood the tube with air, and shove the fish into the ocean, right? Each time we do, we lose air. Now, normally, we can either recharge the tank with the compressors, or use some of those chemical chargers to blow out the tubes. Without power? It’s a real chore,” he said.
“What if I can get you a compressor?” the Chief asked. “And, the power to run it?”
“Well, in that case, I might ask you to marry me, but I might not,” said the TWO, joking around.
“You’re not my type, Stevens,” said the Chief. “But, I’ll bring the compressor up to you.”
—————
“Okay, Gentlemen, sitrep,” ordered the Captain.
It was now sixty-one hours after the attack.
Food had been prepared and served.
The boat was falling into a routine.
That was good for the men.
But, the Captain was worried about what the rest of the Navy would be doing.
“Report, XO, give it to me straight,” he said.
“Captain, we’ve got twelve percent power being diverted from the reactor,” began Chastain.
“That means we can compress air for the tubes, although not all of them, the ballast tanks, and some for life support. We can open the airlocks, again, because the Chief bypassed the controls with some very rudimentary switches he scrounged up,” said the XO.
“We can fire eight missiles if by fire you mean launch on compressed air or the gas cartridges. We’ve got enough for all twenty-four tubes, but we only need the ones closest to the sail,” he continued.
We’ll use two wire-guided torps that can act as grounds since they will still be attached to us. That solves the breaker issues,” he said.
“Of course, we’ve got no targeting for them, so we will set them to self-destruct one kilo from the boat,” he added.
“Finally, there’s no way to delay the arming of the other torpedos more than two minutes, unless we completely remove all the safeties. And, that’s pretty dangerous. We can blow the front of the boat off if something goes wrong, like an outer door not opening completely,” he concluded.
“Awesome work, men,” said the Captain.
“Now, here’s what I want you to do,” he said.
As he outlined the plan, he watched the men.
Most of them didn’t seem too surprised or shocked.
But, when he told them what he wanted to use the missiles for, he got some pushback.
“Are you sure that is going to be safe, Sir?” asked Weps.
“Well, Weps, they are solid fueled, and the launch phase is only compressed air. I think one of two things will happen – it’s going to work, or we’ll all be dead and won’t really give a fuck,” said the Captain.
“Yes, Sir,” Weps answered, reluctantly.
“Let’s go, people, we’re on the clock!” said the XO.
—————
The Captain's plan was extraordinarily dangerous.
They still had no really good idea of who or what had actually set off the EMP torpedo.
Or if there were more…
—————
The AEGIS attack group cruised over the Pacific Ocean, racing towards the last known coordinates of the lost submarine.
Wernher and Kevin practiced drills with the Seabees and Marines on board.
During the cruise, Wernher had managed to reach Derek, and he’d told them about the ‘Miss T’.
Kevin remarked on the Zumwalt-class ships.
“They sure are ugly, but I understand that they are carrying the latest in rail-gun technology, instead of the traditional gunpowder cannons, or Tomahawks,” he told Wernher.
Wernher, nonplussed, looked at Kevin.
“The Nazis had that perfected in the 1930’s, and the Russians in the 1960’s,” he yawned.
“Hell of a lot of good it did them…” muttered Kevin.
Wernher laughed a cold, harsh hissing sound.
“Mr. Mitchum, don’t believe everything you read,” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Kevin.
“Well, one might make a pointed observation about some aspects of your Space Program, if one wanted to be … unkind,” Wernher replied.
“What are you talking about?” asked Kevin.
“The two shuttles you lost, that was very odd, don’t you think?” said the German.
“Such immense effort at secrecy, and yet those particular two were lost,” he added.
Wernher looked at the ‘Zoomies’.
“It is truly a pity that so much of history is never told to the masses,” he opined.
“But, it is probably for the best. The would not believe it, even after having seen it happen with their own eyes,” he concluded.
Kevin watched as the German grinned his Death’s head grin, and walked below decks.
—————
“Okay, gents, you all know the drill. Let’s do this by the numbers!” said Captain Rodgers to his anxious crew.
“Torpedo room, flood all tubes!” he ordered.
“Flood all tubes!” repeated the XO.
“Missile room, stand by to launch tubes three through eight on my command,” the Captain ordered.
“Missile room, prepare tubes three, four, five, six, seven and eight for launch on my mark!” said the XO.
“Pilot and nav set the planes to twenty degrees positive, I want this boat to sail right up to the top! Blow all tanks on my command!” said the Captain.
“Twenty degrees up, or best effort, boys. We know it’s touch and go without the electricals. Prepare emergency blow! On my mark!” ordered the XO.
The Captain watched the second-hand sweep around on the analog watch he wore.
It was a Rolex Submariner.
The EMP hadn’t affected it one bit.
“Three…two…one! Launch torpedoes!” he shouted.
“Torpedo room, fire all tubes!” ordered Chastain.
The sub shook slightly as the torpedoes exited.
Watching the second hand, the Captain waited for two minutes, and as the sweep hand covered the four on the dial, he gave the next order.
“Missiles fire! Now! Now! NOW!” he shouted.
“Missiles fire! Tube three! Launch! Tube four! Launch! Tube five! Launch! Tube six! Launch! Tube seven! Launch! Tube eight! Launch!” shouted the XO.
The sub rocked from side to side as the alternate missile launch sequence ran its program, and the compressed air forced the huge weapons from their tubes behind the sail.
“Blow all tanks, emergency blow! All hands brace for impact!” the Captain ordered.
“Emergency blow! Now, now, now! All hands, brace for impact!” repeated the XO.
Now, all they had to do was pray, he thought.
—————
The Russian sub had been monitoring the Betsy Ross for almost three days and had fallen into a routine.
The sonar office reported that they could hear some activity, but nothing other than rudimentary noises.
The EMP had done its job, killing the sub’s power grid.
It was like a dead fish, and soon the crew would suffocate.
They’d been dead already, thought the Capitan, if the stupid Chinese had not fouled up the salvage efforts.
Apparently, from the reports, a lone diver had managed to insert himself between one of the grapples and the hull of the American vessel.
The grapple failed to obtain a seal within tolerance, and the Chinese could not proceed until it was corrected.
They debated removing and attempting another grapple, but the mechanicals in the affected arm were damaged beyond immediate repair.
The American diver had succeeded in preventing them from cutting the submarines’ nose and tail sections off.
Well, that was not his problem, and none of the blame could be laid at his feet, the Capitan thought to himself.
He was satisfied that he was not the commander of the Chinese recovery vessel.
That worthy was probably on the way to at least a court-martial, and the stripping of his command for his incompetence.
The Capitan observed the routine workings of his crew and made some log entries.
The sonar officer reported that he had heard some mechanical noises.
The Science Officer station indicated that the reactor had scrammed.
There was some slight temperature rise in the surrounding ocean, but nothing that meant they had managed to bring the reactor online at anything approaching full power.
There was no thermal signature indicating reactor outflows were anywhere near nominal power.
“Capitan, there are hull-popping noises, and the torpedo tubes are being flooded,” said the SO, suddenly.
The Russian Capitan examined his instruments and frowned.
Surely, they were not going to launch on an unknown adversary?
That would certainly be suicide.
Perhaps they were going to scuttle the ship.
That would save him the bother, he thought to himself.
“Sir! We have torpedoes in the water!” shouted the SO.
“Battle stations,” ordered the Capitan, calmly.
The lights on the bridge turned red, and his XO repeated his commands.
Just like the textbook, the Capitan thought.
“Prepare countermeasures!” he ordered.
“Countermeasures!” repeated his XO.
“Sir, they are launching their missiles!” shouted the SO.
“What? Are they insane?” said the Capitan, shoving his cup of coffee off his console,
It crashed to the deck, shattering.
He frowned.
That was his favorite cup!
“Sir, the Chinese are being hit by the missiles! They are reporting heavy damage, although the missiles have not ignited,” said the Communications Officer.
“Take us to periscope depth, flank speed, fifteen degrees up plane, now!” ordered the Capitan.
He began to sweat.
The American was clever.
They’d sat on the bottom almost four days, and now was the moment he had chosen to begin an attack.
He felt a small amount of admiration for his enemy, but it was far outweighed by his general contempt of US Naval officers.
He thought them weak and ill-disciplined.
Not at all like the glorious Russian Navy!
“Range to target, Weapons Officer, XO tell torpedo room to load two torpedoes, tubes one and three, all safeties on, fire on my command!” he yelled.
The XO repeated the orders to his crew as the submarine began to move towards periscope depth.
“Track those enemy torpedoes!” the Capitan ordered.
“Sir! Emergency blow from the American! The Chinese report they are taking on water, and are in danger of structural failure along the keel!” the CO reported.
“Fuck them! Move to periscope depth!” he shouted.
“Sir, sounds of the Chinese vessel imploding!” reported the SO.
Those stupid fuckers!
That clever American son of a bitch!
“Sir! We have been acquired!” yelled the Sonar Officer.
—————
“It’s working, Sir!” said Chastain.
“Cross your fingers, and pray!” said Weps.
—————
The torpedoes from the Betsy Ross ran far past the Russian submarine, dragging their guidance wires behind them, and after two minutes, armed themselves.
The torpedo room crew, working with the engineers, had managed to delay the target lock and arming function far longer than they had hoped, by removing key modules and disarming the safeties.
Now, the fish began active pinging, and the only thing they saw was the Russian submarine rising to the surface.
—————
The Chinese submarine was hit from beneath by the missiles, pushing it up and away from the Betsy Ross.
The mechanical arms were never designed to handle such stresses, and sheared away, falling past the American sub and into the trench beneath.
The USS Betsy Ross began its emergency ascent, the escaping air helping to shove the carcass of the Chinese vessel aside.
The Chinese sub split along the keel, drowning everyone on board as the pressures of the ocean forced water into every crevice of the ship, flattening the men into paste.
It fell to either side of the American sub, which rapidly shot for the surface.
—————
“Sir, we are getting reports from the AWACS of emergency communications and EPIRB beacons, both in Chinese and Russian, about twelve nautical miles due east of the last reported location of the Ross!” came the report to the Fleet Commander.
“Make course correction, flank speed, heading one nine five,” he ordered, checking his charts.
“Sir, Radar reports four Chinese S-055 class destroyers on that bearing, fourteen nautical miles from our current position!” the RO barked.
“Get me the ‘Zoomies’, and tell them to be ready with those rail guns!” he said.
“And tell the Carl Vinson to send that squadron now!” he ordered.
Things were heating up fast.
—————
As the USS Betsy Ross cleared the ocean surface, the men inside cheered.
They could tell from how the boat rocked that they were on the top, now.
“Open all hatches, prepare to abandon ship!” ordered the Captain.
He and his Officers would stay aboard until the last minute, in case they had to scuttle the boat.
The men raced out of the submarine’s open hatches, the life rafts filling up as they came topside, and then shoved off into the waves of the Pacific.
“Sir, we’ve got visual contact of an AWACS at bearing nine four degrees. It’s dropping sonobuoys!” said the XO.
“Captain, lookouts report Chinese warships within four nautical miles, in visual range, bearing nine-nine degrees!” reported Weps.
“It’s getting hot, gentlemen!” said the Captain.
“Look!” shouted a crewman on deck.
They all followed his outstretched arm to see a periscope emerging from the ocean on the port side, perhaps four thousand yards away.
—————
“Sir! We have been acquired!” yelled the Sonar Officer.
“That’s not possible!” said the Capitan.
“How?” he shouted.
“Enemy wire-guided torpedoes were decoys! They have active-sonar on us!” the SO said, his face telling the story to the Capitan.
“Brace for impact!” said the Capitan over the intercom.
—————
Suddenly, two explosions rocked it, and the Capitan knew they were finished.
—————
The Russian submarine flew into the air, buried under huge waves of water and oil.
“Our torps must have hit it!” said Weps.
The Captain and the XO looked at each other, worried.
They still had four fish in the water.
—————
The AWACS flew overhead, followed almost immediately by three F-35s.
The crew on the Betsy Ross cheered, throwing their hats into the air.
Suddenly, there was an explosion at the stern of the boat.
One of their own torpedoes had hit them!
“Abandon ship!” ordered the Captain.
The hull had been breached near the propeller shaft, and water poured into the ship, causing it to raise the bow.
Men jumped overboard, the life rafts sliding down the deck towards the sail.
“Let’s go, Bobbo!” yelled ‘Buck’ Rodgers to his XO.
The two men slid down the ladder alongside the sail and leaped off the deck into the ocean.
Crewmen in the lifeboats next to them grabbed onto them and dragged them into the boats.
The USS Betsy Ross rolled on the surface, not sinking quickly.
Suddenly, there was cannon fire!
Shells exploded past the stern, making huge geysers in the water.
“It’s the Chinese destroyers, Sir!” yelled Weps.
The F-35s flew past, low and at supersonic speed, racing toward the trio of ships.
One of them exploded as a surface to air missile hit it.
The debris rained all over the ocean surface, splashing and smoking.
The other two aircraft peeled off, heading away from the ships at Mach Two.
—————
“Commander, our submarine is under attack, and we’ve lost one F-35 to enemy fire!” shouted the Comm Officer on the AEGIS destroyer.
“Tell the ‘Zoomies’ to fire for effect!” the Commander ordered.
—————
The Captain, XO, and Weps watched as the Chinese destroyers closed in on them, guns firing round after round.
Two of their lifeboats were hit and disintegrated, the men riding in them blown into the sea.
“You godless bastards!” yelled Chastain, shaking his fist at the warships.
Suddenly, there was a weird, loud noise and what looked like a giant meteor falling from the sky!
It landed directly on the bridge of the lead destroyer and was immediately followed by three more missiles.
The Chinese ship exploded, and the pieces flew into the ocean near them.
Then, the other Chinese two destroyers were hit, the meteor-like weapons crashing into them, blasting through their hulls and sending them to the bottom.
“‘Zoomies’, Sirs,” said Weps. He was grinning ear-to-ear.
“Fucking ‘Zoomies’!” laughed Chastain.
—————
Captain Rodgers was brought into a conference room with his XO, the Weapons Officer, Sonar Officer, and Communications Officer.
Dr. Wernher Hartmann and Kevin Mitchum were also summoned, and a secured line was set up to allow the Alpha Team and Black Dog members access to the proceedings.
“Captain Rodgers, we would first like to commend you for your bravery, and that of your crew, in the face of hostile action,” said the Fleet Commander.
Rodgers stood at attention, his XO next to him.
“In addition, it was commendable that you had managed to outsmart the enemy,” he added.
“The Navy is very interested in the capabilities of the Chinese salvage vessel, and also in why the Russians and Chinese seemed to be cooperating in this particular exercise,” said the Fleet Commander.
On the monitors, the Secretary of the Navy, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were silently watching.
“You will all be receiving the appropriate commendations upon your return to duty, which will occur after debriefs,” said the Fleet Commander.
“Good work, men!” he concluded.
Rodgers and Chastain let their breaths out.
They weren’t sure about whether their involvement with Admiral Decker was going to turn this into a court-martial or not.
“One moment, gentleman,” said the Secretary of the Navy.
The two men looked at each other, thinking the other shoe was about to drop.
“It has come to our attention that diplomatic attaches from the three involved countries have supplied our Office with information that directly implicates the Commander in Chief in these proceedings,” he said, gravely.
“At this moment, the President is being detained and held under arrest for treason against the United States of America”, said the Secretary of the Navy.
Everyone in the room gasped, except for the Joint Chiefs, and the SecNav.
“We are going to have some very interesting questions answered thoroughly by you Officers, and there will certainly be a Congressional Hearing, in light of this,” he said.
“The Senate is already drawing up the Articles of Impeachment, and we anticipate that the Vice-president will be sworn-in within the hour,” he said.
“Your cooperation in this will be appreciated,” he said, looking at the two Navy Officers.
“One final thing and this is directed at the Alpha Team,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” Derek responded.
“You have orders to find and capture Jonathon Reighland, and Harlon Calloway, using whatever means at your disposal, and at the disposal of the US Armed Services. This includes whatever intelligence assets we can provide to assist in identifying other members of the organization known as Mandarin,” he said.
“Sir, we would like to request the men of Black Dog Security Services, and their leader, Captain David Spalding, to assist us, and arrange for liaising with us,” Derek said.
“Permission granted, Vice-Admiral White,” he said. The SecNav smiled.
“Congratulations, son,” he said.
The men of Alpha Team cheered over the monitor speakers, and Travis and Walt were clapping Derek on the back so hard he almost fell down.
“At ease!” he barked.
“One final request, Sir?” he finally managed to get out, trying not to gasp for breath from all the pounding his teammates had given him.
“Yes?” said the SecNav.
“Well, Sir, it’s like this. We need to get our friends out of jail,” said Derek.
The Secretary of the Navy raised an eyebrow, as the Joint Chiefs chuckled amongst themselves.
“And, just whom might these ‘friends’ of yours be, son?” the SecNav replied, already knowing the answer.
—————