[Earth II] Killswitch Engage I: The Storm

[Layarteb]

Killswitch Engage
Part I
The Storm

January 8, 1990 - 19:30 hrs [UTC-5]
North Atlantic Ocean
MV Blue Star
(38° 44' 4" N, 70° 50' 52" W)

Captain Clovis Bonneville, age 43, was a man who spent the last twenty years at sea. If he were to calculate just how much time he spend at sea, versus how much time he spent on land, Bonneville wouldn't have been surprised to know that he spent two-thirds of his life on the water. He was a man had difficulty sleeping on anything steady and he was a man who looked nearly sixty years old, thanks to the harshness of his job. Bonneville was the captain of the MV Blue Star, a 7,800-ton, 430-foot long refrigerated cargo ship. It was his second command since making captain with his shipping agency, which he had been employed with since he turned 20 and left the Hirgizstanian military. He was a fan favorite amongst the crews of Consolidated Shipping, Inc. but he was far from everyone's favorite on this particular cruise.

Bonneville's ship had departed Abidjan fifteen days and forty-five hundred nautical miles earlier. They spent the first four and a half days on the way to Cape Verde, where they docked for only a day, refueling and restocking their supplies. From there, it was across the North Atlantic, towards Newark, New Jersey. Bonneville was intent on getting there as fast as possible simply because of what he had been told just prior to his departure, "Get there before the eleventh and you'll get a special bonus." He'd never met the man before but the way he was dressed frightened Bonneville deeply. He was evidently an important man in the Hirgizstanian government but he had an air of military about him, an air that screamed secret police…or worse.

Bonneville was racing against time for one other reason too, the same reason, which made his crew revile him at present. That reason was a powerful nor'easter that was slowly making its way northeast along the eastern seaboard of North America. The storm wasn't supposed to form until the eleventh and even then, it was only supposed to be in the outer banks, not along the coast of New Jersey, crawling towards Cape Cod, where it was expected to pass over with considerable rainfall and snowfall. The nor'easter, being called the January Blizzard of 1990 was churning up the seas in the North Atlantic for thousands of miles, especially since the storm itself was nine hundred miles wide. Bonneville's speed had dropped to just over four knots and in the past sixteen hours, they had traveled just seventy-two nautical miles. With two hundred nautical miles to go until they reached Newark, Bonneville was cursing his foolishness. He had raced across the North Atlantic to meet the deadline and, in the process, raced right into hell.

Bonneville's foolishness was only compounded by his stubbornness. Despite having two skilled and accomplished pilots, Bonneville had been unwilling to take a break. He had been at the wheel of the ship of the past sixteen hours, kept awake only by foods with a high content of sugar. Whenever he felt his body crash, he would slam down a cup of black coffee that was so strong it could have peeled the paint from the side of his ship. To augment the sugar and the coffee, Bonneville had smoked four packs of cigarettes in the past sixteen hours and he realized that he had only four left. Nothing was worse than running out of cigarettes while at sea, nothing… He supposed that he could commandeer some from the crew but with how much they hated him at present, that was an ill-conceived and mutiny-inducing idea.

No, Bonneville would make it, even at his present speed of four knots. That meant fifty hours and he doubted that the seas would get any worse than they were. The weather advisory had reported that a ship further away reported a single wave of sixty-three feet but that average seas were thirty-three feet. Where Bonneville was, the seas were forty to forty-five feet. Sustained winds were in excess of sixty knots and with it being night, it was beyond taking on his body and mind. Bonneville was fatigued beyond comprehension but adrenaline was keeping him awake when the nicotine, caffeine, and sugar weren't. Ahead of him, the sea was full of white foam and the spray was almost too much for his ship's furious windshield wipers. These were violent conditions, nearly hurricane force conditions and though he had been piloting ships across the North Atlantic for the better part of the last ten years, he wondered if he had ever faced conditions like this before. Suddenly it made sense why the most powerful navies in the world never conducted military exercises in the North Atlantic in winter; storms like this were more common than not. Only two hundred miles to go… just two hundred… He thought to himself as he saw a faint shape out in front. Fatigued, he rubbed his eyes, knowing that there was nothing out there.

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FORECAST DISCUSSION FOR MIDATL
NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE ATLANTIC CITY NJ
1930 EST MON JAN 8 1990

DANGEROUS OCEAN STORM..PROBABLY ONE OF THE WORST SINCE THE BLIZZARD OF 78...IS
HEADING NNE ALONG COAST...SEAS CONTINUE TO BUILD ALONG COAST...WILL CONTINUE
GALE WARNINGS...

ALREADY 3 DOZEN BOATS BEACHED OR SUNK ALONG EASTERN COASTLINE...SHIP REPORT AT 41/59
OF 63 FOOT SEAS WHICH IS PROBABLY HIGH BUT A SIGN OF THE PROBLEMS UPCOMING.
THAT SAME VESSEL REPORTS SEAS OF 33 FEET. AVN MODEL SUPPORTS STORM CENTER 171 NM
SOUTHEAST OF CAPE MAY. STORM TRACK CONTINUES ALONG BEARING 019 NO EXPECTED
CHANGE IN DIRECTION IS ANTICIPATED FOR 8 HOURS. WIND SPEEDS AVERAGE 45 KTS AT
COAST AND 65 KTS AT SEA. GUSTS OF 80 KTS REPORTED IN CAPE MAY NJ.

HEAVY SURF ADVISORY CONTINUES ALONG EASTERN COASTLINE. WAVES IN EXCESS OF 15 FT
ON COASTLINE. MAJOR BEACH EROSION EXPECTED.

STORM TO CONTINUE ON COURSE AT 5 KT FORWARD SPEED. CHANCES OF STORM
INTENSIFYING OVER NEXT 48 HOURS HIGH. STORM COULD PRODUCE WINDS AND WAVES
OF HURRICANE STRENGTH IF THIS OCCURS. MAJOR PROBLEMS FOR COASTLINE.

ALONG COASTLINE HEAVY RAIN ASSOCIATED WITH STORM. INLAND HEAVY SNOW IS BEING
OBSERVED WITH SNOWFALL TOTALS IN EXCESS OF 20 IN.

FORECAST MODEL SOMEWHAT INCOMPLETE CONCERNING STORM. EXPECT STORM TO GROW
AND POTENTIALLY STALL AS APPROACHES LONG ISLAND. CURRENT STORM DIAMETER NOW
900 MI.

WILL TRANSMIT NEXT ADVISORY AT 2100 EST.

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---

• |- 1 -| •

[Layarteb]

December 23, 1989 - 18:00 hrs [UTC-5]
White Plains, New York
Zeta Facility
(41° 5' 3" N, 73° 44' 9" W)

"They did a good job on this place," remarked Captain Jack Delaney as he walked towards the secure briefing room. Buried underneath Great Island in Rye Lake, Zeta Facility was the new home to the 1st Black Operations Group, secretly known as "Force Falcon." The facility had been constructed in the 1950s, when the Republic of Layarteb was forming its continuity of operations plan but since the early 1970s, the facility had fallen into disrepair. The 1st BOG had just spent the better part of the last four years upgrading the facility to modern standards and it was – because of this – the most modern facility in the country. Force Falcon, responsible for the protection of the Emperor was a shadowy group of only sixty persons. Thirty-two of those were operators and the rest were all support and command. Force Falcon consisted of four, 8-man teams that were made up of the most elite men in the country.

Team One was led by CPT Delaney and consisted of men from his Delta Force squad from the days of the Venezuelan Civil War. Team Two consisted of other Delta warriors. Team Three consisted of elite warriors from the SEALS and Ghost Recon and Team Four was a mishmash of all three groups. These were men without identities, without fingerprints, and without names. They were merely faces and they were committed to protecting the Emperor at all costs. These were his bodyguards and all four teams rotated constantly. One was always off-duty, tonight that would be Team Three. One team was always at headquarters, tonight that would be Team One. One team was always at Governors Island, the Emperor's home, tonight that would be Team Four. Lastly, one team was wherever the Emperor was, tonight that would be Team Two.

Force Falcon was a unique organization. Hidden beyond any realm of sight, they were primarily tasked with protecting the Emperor but they had an even more secretive, secondary mission, which was to follow the Emperor's orders, regardless of what they may be. In that regard, Force Falcon was the Emperor's personal combat force. If he ordered them into a combat zone to destroy a target, they did it – though this wasn't common. Force Falcon was mainly meant to carry out the missions and operations that no special forces unit could carry out, wanted to carry out, or were allowed to carry out – hence the beauty of black ops.

CPT Delaney, the rest of his team, four members from the support staff, two members from the headquarters staff, and a liaison with the Ministry of Intelligence all entered the conference room and took random seats around the table. It was big enough for all of them plus another five men. "All right, everyone here recognizes each other?" The commanding officer asked and heads nodded. The MOI liaison had been with Force Falcon for a year already. Her cover name was Charlotte Miller and Charlotte was definitely past the age where she could be useful in the field. At fifty-two years of age, Charlotte had been there and done that more times, than she could count and now, this cushy posting to liaise with the premier black operations group in the Empire was just what she would be doing until she retired at the age of fifty-five. She was considered the most trustworthy spy in the entirety of the MOI and that was why she won this posting. It would have been highly coveted if people actually knew it existed but outside of the Minister of Intelligence himself – who appointed her directly – it was unknown.

"Charlotte, I'm going to turn it over to you then," the commanding officer said as he took his own seat.

Charlotte stood up and walked over to the podium. Despite the complete lack of formality, she dressed in purely business attire all of the time, perhaps to show some sort of commanding authority but it didn't work on these men and women in the 1st BOG. The military and special forces might be men-only but black ops was an entirely different realm. Force Falcon had four women on its 60-person staff, which didn't sound like a lot but it was huge. Two more had only just recently left the group after reaching their age of retirement. One was a translator and the other an imagery analyst. "In ten hours the M/V Blue Star will be departing port in Abidjan, Ivory Coast. She's a 7,800-ton, 430-foot long refrigerated freighter and her port of destination is Newark.

"The freighter is carrying a crew of fifty-four men, including the captain. She will move first to Cape Verde to refuel and then across to Bermuda, to refuel again. Then she will make her way to Newark. Transit time is to be determined, based on conditions and the captain's willingness to burn out his diesels but we expect her in port on or before January 11th.

"An agent with the MOI will meet with the captain just prior to his departure and offer him a large incentive if he can get the boat here by the 11th. There's no reason for that except we want them to hurry across the North Atlantic.

"The National Weather Service believes that a winter nor'easter will form along the eastern seaboard on or about January 4th and it will trudge up the coastline. Conditions favor a slow-moving storm and for that reason, we have just fed the captain and will feed the captain bullshit weather reports assuring him that the storm will not arrive until the end of the week starting January 7.

"The cargo of the freighter is largely perishable goods, fruits and what not for the winter months here. However, also inside of the freighter will be sixteen ounces of a brand-new, classified bioweapon produced by the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan. This bioweapon is destined not for the Empire but rather for the Romans to the north – for what purpose we do not know. This is a bioweapon of tremendous potential and we want it. The Commonwealth has denied to us that this weapon exists but we have actionable intelligence that it does and it is on this ship. Refrigeration is necessary to keep it from activating.

"Now men, you're going on this little op." She paused and smiled. "Your mission will be to fly out to this ship during the middle of a nor'easter, secure the cargo, and return to here. Based on the expected course, we will not hit the ship until it is within our two hundred nautical mile limit, around this location," she said as she pointed to a spot on a digital map behind her. The graphics were crude but for 1990, this was state-of-the-art. "The water depth here is around ten thousand feet still, we don't want it reaching the continental shelf, the water will be too shallow.

"We have an MH-53J Pave Low out of Naval Air Station Cape May, which will ferry you out to the vessel and drop you off. They will orbit and bring you back. An MC-130P Combat Shadow will be on station to refuel the helicopter but it'll be during a storm so speed is of the essence. They have the range to get there and back and orbit for approximately twenty minutes without mating at that tanker. That might not be a lot of time but hey, no one said these things are easy, sorry boys." Grumbles filled the room.

"Twenty minutes isn't a lot of time to search a ship and neutralize its crew. Do we know exactly where the cargo will be held?"

"No we do not but it will be in a nondescript container with a biohazard symbol on it. It will be easily accessible, that much we know for sure but other than that it's a guess. The crew of the helicopter will be trying their hardest to hit that tanker. If they can mate and refuel, you will have forty to forty-five minutes."

"Well let's make sure the crew are practicing from now until then," CPT Delaney added. "I don't want to be on this ship without any way to get off of it."

"We have a backup plan in place Mister Delaney," Charlotte said spitefully. Her and Delaney did not, under any circumstance, get along. She had been involved in an incident in Venezuela when her "surefire" intelligence had been completely wrong. Two of Delaney's fellow operators were killed because of it and he never forgave her but she was the liaison now and her rank and rate was higher than his was. "A Los Angeles class attack submarine will be on position for two purposes. Its first purpose will be to recover you and the bioweapon, should you have to take a swim; and its second purpose will be to sink the freighter. We want no trace of this. The official story will be that the vessel went down with the storm at an unknown location. From Bermuda to the coastline, we are going to be jamming the ship's electronic systems. During your assault, all communications will be jammed. The ship will be in a communications blackout, which will be blamed on the weather."

"So where's the hitch? Is the crew armed? Are there agents onboard?"

"The crew will probably have basic firearms to resist any sort of boarding party but no one expects a boarding party in the North Atlantic in January. There are no pirates in these waters. We surmise that there will be one or two agents of the Hirgizstanian secret police aboard. They are expendable, the entire crew is expendable."

"What are we going to do with the bodies?" CPT Delaney was persistent now; he wanted every detail of the operation.

"Leave them where they lie, make sure all of the hatches are opened so that when the ship sinks there won't be any air bubbles. The bodies will be taken down with the ship. The submarine will be hitting it with no less than two Mark 48 torpedoes, each with enough power to split a destroyer in half, let alone a freighter. Is that satisfactory?"

"For now," Delaney said, glaring. This op had come straight from the Emperor, as he was the only one who could authorize it so it wasn't as if they weren't going to do it, they just wanted more information. "When will the mock-up be complete?"

"It was finished twenty minutes before this briefing began," Charlotte said, adding a point in her favor. The mock-up was a scale design of the ship built out of cardboard and plywood sitting in a large hangar-sized area in the facility. This area had been a hangar, big enough to store a slew of helicopters but the landing pad has since been overgrown by Mother Nature and Force Falcon decided that it was unnecessary to keep so they completed its demise with the construction. The elevator systems had been disabled and this would serve as their training area where they would rehearse operations. For the next week or more, Team One would be drilling this operation relentlessly. "Any further questions?"

"Not now, let's see the mock-up," CPT Delaney said to nodding heads around the room.

---

• |- 2 -| •

[Layarteb]

December 28, 1989 - 10:00 hrs [UTC-5]
White Plains, New York
Zeta Facility
(41° 5' 3" N, 73° 44' 9" W)

"All right, let's run it again!" Delaney yelled out as he reloaded a magazine of paint rounds into his MP5SD3 submachine gun and cracked his neck. Despite it being only ten in the morning, Team One had run the course nine times already and this would be the tenth. Their movements were in sync, there was no doubt about it but Delaney wanted total muscle memory. As he and the squad climbed to the top of the exercise area, which would simulate landing from a helicopter, he noticed a red light flashing at the top of the stairway. That was the signal for the phone. Since the rehearsal area was usually alive with gunfire, no one would ever hear a phone ring but a flashing red light might be seen. "Phone, take five guys," he said as he sprinted ahead and picked up the phone, "Delaney, all right you got it, I'm on my way." Delaney put the phone down and hid his disappointment. "All right that's enough for the morning, briefing wants me now."

Delaney, ignoring the weapons and gear he wore, passed from the rehearsal area into the main command center, which was only a few meters and two corridors away. It wasn't unusual to see the men of Force Falcon in full kit when they were moving around the base. It became so common that the range safety officer, a man whose job was safety, just sat in his office and filled out paperwork rather than yelling at the men for unsafe weapons or hand grenades in the ammunition room. Delaney's figure was certainly imposing whenever he walked around but when he walked around in full kit; he was a figure of pure horror. When he entered the briefing area, he ignored the double glances; they were all too common for him.

"Jack, are you seriously coming in here like that?" Brigadier General (BG) Thomas Queen, the commanding officer, said as Delany entered.

"Yes I am, you called me off of the course urgently. I had one more run through so if you're going to call me off, this is how I'm going to be," in Force Falcon, rank meant nothing. The men all spoke as equals and for that reason, BG Queen laughed and just nodded his head. Charlotte, the MOI liaison didn't appear fazed at all. "All right what gives?"

"Intel's changed," Charlotte said, "the Blue Star isn't going to make the coast by the 4th like we were saying." There was a lot of back and forth when the M/V Blue Star would reach the coastline. Delaney's bet was on the 9th; Charlotte had the 4th, and several of the men were sharing days. The pool was up to §400. Each man of Team One, Charlotte, and the CO put in §40 each. The winner or winners would obviously share the pot with §40 going into the team's discretionary fund, which was a nice way of saying "beer money."

"Okay that's fine, tell me it's the 9th and I'll be happy," Delaney said with a laugh.

"Don't think so, the 7th or the 8th." Charlotte said, meaning that either Wilkins or Steel were the winners. It made sense, Wilkins nearly always won the pools, his date was the 7th and Steel had the 8th.

"Okay that gives us more time to practice then, I want to see if we can get some actual training on an actual ship. Do we have anything we could stick out there fifty miles off the coast even?"

"Charlotte's working on that actually. The MH-53J is down there in Cape May performing hookups with the tankers three times a day so we're solid on that aspect. With this situation, if we cannot get a ship down there for you to train landing on you'll go down the 6th. If we can, it'll be sooner. How are the men doing?"

"We're good, one team as usual but practice makes perfect and perfect is all I demand." He said it as if "perfect" was a minor achievement. For Force Falcon, perfect was their best opportunity for success. Anything less meant mission failure and/or dead bodies. Neither was acceptable to the unit.

"Have you and your men dropped onto ships much?" Charlotte asked, somewhat insensitively, not that it was going to hurt anyone's feelings.

"We've practiced it before but we usually leave the boarding missions to the SEALS, that's what they're there for. So yes and no, we have but only in training conditions and never in the middle of a nor'easter. That ship is going to be tossing left and right and up and down, we know what's at risk. Our only hope is that we can get onboard before a wave washes us over the side."

"I presume you're taking that into account?"

"We are," Delaney said coldly. He hated when Charlotte questioned any one of his operations and she made it a habitual habit to do so on every one of them. She just nodded, paying little attention to his actual words, a rather common action on her part.

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January 2, 1990 - 20:00 hrs [UTC-5]
White Plains, New York
Westchester County Airport
(41° 4' 1" N, 73° 42' 27" W)

Westchester County Airport had three sections. In the southwest corner was the private aviation section where Learjets, Gulfstreams, and Cessnas sat. The main, public terminal area was east of the main runway and to the south of the military section, which was east of the main runway too. The military section wasn't meant to be very large and it wasn't meant to handle major aircraft, such as fighters. It was instead of VIP transports and it was here that the Imperial Layartebian Air Force had six of its C-20A Gulfstream III aircraft. Each one was configured to hold fifteen passengers and four crewmen, consisting of two pilots and two stewards. They were comfortable aircraft for transporting around politicians and generals but they weren't as lavish as some of the other transports were. For Force Falcon, who frequently hitched rides on them, they were more than comfortable enough to suit them.

The eight men of Team One and Charlotte had taken their own cars to the military section that evening, passing on only after showing their military badges. The operation's officer, Major (MAJ) Allen Peterson, and two communications personnel were already waiting for them. Whenever Force Falcon went on an operation, wherever they would set up their temporary HQ would always be staffed by the MOI liaison, the operation's officer, and two communications enlistees. One would communicate directly with the team, the other directly to Zeta Facility. If more equipment was needed, it was brought but operations were usually small and meant to be that way so they didn't like to bring a huge footprint with them. Also for their flights, they dropped the two stewards and had only the pilots for crewmen. Set to take off at 20:20 hours, the C-20A Gulfstream III was fully ready to go when everyone climbed aboard at 20:00 hours.

After the normal spiel, the cabin door was closed, the occupants buckled in, and the pilots contacted the tower for taxi clearance. Because of the looming storm to the south-southeast, air traffic was considerably light. The C-20A taxied to the beginning of runway 34 and held short as a Boeing 737-300 bound for Toronto took off and just barely made it to the end of the runway before its wheels left the pavement. The Boeing 737 normally had a takeoff run too long for this airport but for a short trip with a reduced fuel load, they could get off with about fifty meters to spare. The C-20A Gulfstream III taxied onto the runway and held there while the Boeing 737-300 gained speed, altitude, and turned to its proper heading, clearing the path for the smaller C-20A. The wake turbulence subsided, the tower gave its clearance, and the military C-20As two engines roared to maximum power from idle.

The C-20A roared down the runway with 20° of flaps. At 114 knots, "V1" was called out by the co-pilot. Three knots later, at 117, "VR" was called out and the pilot eased back on the flight yoke slightly, bringing the nosewheel off of the ground. Then, at 128 knots, "V2" was called out and the aircraft left the runway, accelerating now that its wheels weren't providing any friction on the asphalt runway. The co-pilot retracted the landing gear on command and the aircraft accelerated as it climbed past 500 feet. The flaps were retracted and the aircraft banked to the south for its flight to Cape May, which was only 155 miles away. They would be there in a matter of minutes thanks to the high speed of the C-20A and the fact that they wouldn't climb all the way up to 36,000 feet to cruise. They would skip through at barely 18,000 feet, at the very most.

For the short flight, the aircraft's occupants largely kept quiet. Delaney opted to read a novel, Charlotte and the command staff took a nap, and the rest of the men of the team listened to music, napped, read, or in the case of Mark Wilkins, completed a book full of crossword puzzles. Wilkins, a first lieutenant (1LT), was the team's executive officer. If something were to happen to Delaney, he would take over and lead the team. Furthermore, whenever the 8-man team broke into smaller, 4-man elements, he would lead the second element. Blue Team was the first and Gold Team was the second. 1LT Dennis Rigalo was the radioman of the outfit and 1LT Luke Wilson was the demolitions expert. The rest of the men were all second lieutenants (2LT). Roger Howard was the medic, Steve Jackson was another demolitions expert, Mike Steel was the sniper, and Sandy Milton was the spotter.

These traditional roles didn't always play out that way and it entirely depended on the mission. Most of the time, since they were running unconventional missions, their roles were much different from what their specialties were. There were situations where Delaney was the sniper, where Rigalo was the medic, and so on and so forth. They were all cross-trained and they could do each other's job perfectly as if it were their own so there was little worry if a substitution had to be made.

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---

January 2, 1990 - 20:45 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape May, New Jersey
Naval Air Station Cape May
(39° 0' 31" N, 74° 54' 30" W)

Naval Air Station Cape May was quiet and very empty. Because of the season, there weren't any major aircraft based there. Instead, the main aircraft had been brought inland where coastal storms were weaker and where the risk of flooding wasn't so great. During these winter months, the Imperial Layartebian Defense Forces normally put a Coast Guard rescue helicopter squadron in Cape May to help boaters and lost fisherman. All four of those HH-60J Jay Hawk helicopters were sitting on the tarmac, silent and still. The C-20A passed them by and went from runway 19 down the main taxiway all the way to the tarmac area by runway 10. That was where the large, lumbering MH-53J Pave Low III sat.

Because the MH-53J was known to be a special operations only aircraft, nobody was asking too many questions about it. Now with the arrival of the C-20A and it taking a stop near the Pave Low III, even fewer questions were being asked. The C-20A taxied into the open hangar where the doors were shut behind it and its engines were shut down. The cabin door opened and the occupants departed into the colder air of southern New Jersey. The temperature was at least 10°F colder and because they were surrounded on three sides by water, the air was considerably colder with far more bite to it than it had in White Plains. There was a reason that the Jersey Shore cleared out after Labor Day, it was simply too inhospitable a place to live during the winter months.

Team One and the command element were ushered out of the hangar and into a considerably warmer section to the south where they would be billeted for the time being. The flight crew was already in there, enjoying the warmth of the heater, a hot meal, and plenty of piping hot coffee. A television was on showing the latest weather reports but no one was paying attention. The focus was on a dominos game being played by four of the five crewmen with the pilot watching with considerable excitement. It was a thing with the special operations aircrews that dominos was a ruthless game to be played whenever, wherever, and without rules except the basic game rules. Sometimes the games turned violent, they always involved bettering, and curses said against one another during the game would make even a felon blush.

Delaney smiled, having won his fair share of games with them, enough to purchase his classic hot rod. He walked over to an empty cot, dropped his stuff, took off his boots, and let the warm air fill his body. His men more or less did the same thing and the commend element began to set up their gear in another corner. To say that the quarters were cramped was an understatement but for the next few days, they would all accept it. The building had heat, it had hot water – meaning hot showers – it had television, it had a kitchenette, and it had a roof overhead. Nothing else was required, especially for men in the military. Delaney, rather than join the game to introduce himself – because the latter was never done – just finished the chapter of his book.

When the dominos game concluded, with some agitation, Team One members joined in and for the better part of the evening, all the way until 01:00, the men played and played and played, despite their tiredness. No one had a name, not the pilots, not the command folk, and not Team One, everyone was simply called by the pejorative of "airman" or "shooter." It worked fine enough that it was never a problem, nor would it be here or now.

---

• |- 3 -| •

[Layarteb]

---

January 5, 1990 - 12:00 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape May, New Jersey
Naval Air Station Cape May
(39° 0' 31" N, 74° 54' 30" W)

The weather outside was beyond crummy. The nor'easter was already over the area but it was still mostly down south and very slowly working its way up the coast, threatening to stall. For practice and training, CPT Delaney and the men of Force Falcon Team One had put a duct tape grid on the ground of the hangar of certain parts of the ship. They were running rehearsals through it constantly while the MH-53J Pave Low III was out practicing hookups with airborne tankers and flying over the tumultuous seas that were getting worse by the day. Charlotte, the meddlesome overseer of the operation, was splitting her time reviewing Intel documents, watching the rehearsals, and briefing the helicopter crew. She was kept apprised to their hookup progress and on this particular afternoon, she had gone out with them so that she could observe from the cabin as they completed twenty hookups with the airborne MC-130P Combat Shadow.

The crew of the Combat Shadow knew very little of the operation and even the crew of the Pave Low III did not know much. The Combat Shadow crew knew that there was something happening and they would be providing in-air relief to the Pave Low during the operation. They were all told that it was a training operation but the crewmen on both the tanker and the helicopter had been on enough "training missions" to know when one was real. The Pave Low crew was only aware that the men would be dropping onto a freighter in the North Atlantic, in the middle of a nor'easter, conducting an exercise, and returning with a suitcase, the object. They too knew that this was no training mission; there was a submarine, after all.

The submarine crew knew the least. Only the captain, the executive officer, and a handful of men onboard the submarine knew anything and all they knew was that they were part of a training exercise. If the men on the freighter went overboard, they were to recover them. Afterwards, they would test their sonar and weapons systems in the tumultuous, rolling seas of the North Atlantic during a nor'easter. Whenever anyone asked who the men were, no answer was given but SEALS was the hint. There were many players and thankfully, they were all part of tight-lipped communities, with the submarine community perhaps the most tight-lipped of any other military community.

Delaney and his men had just completed another run through when the noise of the Pave Low's slapping rotors filled the hangar, "All right, that's a wrap for now," Delaney ordered, knowing that once the Pave Low was in the hangar, they wouldn't have much room. They had practiced dozens of times for the day and everything was now flawless about their execution. They merely did it for repetition's sake and they did it to stay active. They wanted the whole operation committed to muscle memory and that was what made them excel where most other forces and units faltered.

Minutes later, the hangar doors were opened against the kicking wind and blowing rain. The helicopter taxied into the hangar and it was shut down. Charlotte emerged from the cabin after the engines were turned off, and pulled off her headphones. She yawned and stretched her face a few times, rubbing her ears as she walked towards the kitted up Delaney. "How'd they do?" Delaney asked as he pulled her aside. She gave him a look and a shake of the head meaning "not well" and they hadn't done tell. In twenty attempts, they had only made six connections successfully.

"Weather is getting worse; they're not doing much better. If they can only make six today I doubt they'll make one when we go."

"What's the date looking?"

"I'm still pushing for the 8th, how are you guys?"

"We're fine, worry about the helicopter crew; we're not going for a swim."

"You might not have a choice." She said, condescendingly.

"Charlotte I tell you what, I'm going to leave a bundle of C-4 in that helicopter. If it doesn't agree to come down and pick us up, I'm going to make sure we're all going for a swim, you dig?" She didn't answer but rather she turned away in disgust and went back into the barracks room. The hangar wasn't warm to begin with but with the opened doors, it was just as cold and unpleasant as it was outside on the tarmac. "What a fucking nitwit," he commented to himself before he returned to his men to share the bad news.

---

• |- 4 -| •

[Layarteb]

---

January 8, 1990 - 17:00 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape May, New Jersey
Naval Air Station Cape May
(39° 0' 31" N, 74° 54' 30" W)

"All right, I want a 'Go' 'No Go' for mission," Charlotte said as she looked around the room. The entire team, the helicopter crew, and all of the men that came down with them were present. The MV Blue Star was angling into position out in the North Atlantic, its captain driving it beyond the limits of safety, all to get that "cash reward" in Newark. The weather had worsened and the storm had intensified. The helicopter crew were successful with tanker hookups only about one-third of the time and the submarine was not an option, insofar as Delaney was concerned. That was, at the least, in position. "Infantry?"

"Go," Delaney responded without hesitation. There was plenty of it though; he was all too good at hiding it. He had zero faith in the helicopter crew and that was the most worrying aspect.

"Flight?"

"We're go," replied the helicopter's pilot. He had a concerned look in his eyes that everyone clearly saw. In his mind he was thinking, These sick bastards are for real?

"Ops?"

"Go ma'am."

"All right takeoff in one hour, is that good?" Heads nodded, "How are you boys with the tanker?"

"Shaky ma'am, you've seen, we're going to do our best but that just won't be good enough I'm afraid."

"Doubt? Now?" Delaney roared back, "You've got to be kidding me! Listen, that's our ass on that ship there. We're not going for a swim to catch a fucking submarine." The confinement to close quarters had made no friends between the boots and the helmets and this was the boil over that had been simmering for the week, "You will – and I repeat will – be there to pick us up; those seas will kill us if we go in them."

"We've been at this every day, running our asses in this shit," the pilot roared back, "out there, in that fucking shit, just practicing hookups. The weather fucking blows, you can't do magic with a goddamn helicopter and a Hercules tanker. The wind takes us where it wants to take us. We can fight it only so much."

"Well fight it more, so help you if I have to go for a swim I'm going to shoot down your goddamn helicopter myself when I get back." Eyes crossed, skin turned red, and both men stared at one another. Nothing was said between them and Charlotte stood up, breaking the tension.

"All right before we find out who's dick is smaller, let's get a pot of coffee brewed and the bird pre-flighted and ready, clear?" There was no answer, "I said is that fucking clear because if I don't get a fucking response by the time my lips stop moving I'm going to stick a tampon on all your throats and then piss in them until they fill the fuck up do you hear me clearly?" Everyone blinked and suddenly turned to her. It was an odd threat, no drill sergeant would be so odd with his threats, but yet her voice boomed like one.

"Yes ma'am," everyone replied, near in unison.

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---

January 8, 1990 - 17:50 hrs [UTC-5]
Cape May, New Jersey
Naval Air Station Cape May
(39° 0' 31" N, 74° 54' 30" W)

"The submarine's in place?" Delaney asked as he prepared to leave the barracks and join his team in the helicopter. Charlotte was standing there reviewing a map of the area for a few hundred miles in every direction. It showed water depth too.

"Yeah it is," she looked back at the map, "what's your worry?"

"Them getting fuel, we're all dead if we go in that water, lines and strobes regardless. Those waves are going to be forty, fifty feet. We can't survive in them."

"You know the drill, toss your gear, survival gear only, go in together, activate strobes, and the submarine will pick you up," she looked up from the map. "But I agree, the water isn't an option but it's there and it's all you have if they don't tank up, you're not going to pilot that ship back. It's going to bottom of the Atlantic in about ten thousand feet of water so that nobody ever finds it. Story is it sunk in the storm, a crazy happening but it happens, shame for everyone. Bodies obviously won't be recovered. Nobody's going to talk."

"Yeah, and I'm not keen on adding eight to that figure."

"Helicopter's leaving," she said deferentially. As Delaney walked through the door, she looked up from the map and said, loud enough to be heard, "Good luck and come back on the bird!"

"Yeah, thanks." Delaney exited the barracks and entered the hangar. The rest of his team was standing around the rear of the helicopter. A tractor was ready to bring them outside but they just had to get onboard first. "We ready boys?" Delaney yelled and his men all gave a thumb's up to him. "All right, let's get going then."

"Roger that," the men answered. They climbed into the rear of the MH-53J Pave Low III and the crew chief of the helicopter raised the ramp as the tractor began to tug the heavy helicopter forward. With a full fuel load, including its two, external tanks, the MH-53J Pave Low III could travel about seven hundred miles before it ran out of fuel and with the math, the helicopter would only be going two hundred and twenty miles to the ship. The mission package called for them to fly to the ship, drop off Delaney and his men, and then after five minutes, refuel at the tanker. They would remain on station as necessary. If they needed to tank again, they would. Of course, they would actually have to tank the first time to stay on station and the winds were kicking up fiercely.

The storm had slowed down to just five knots and that meant it was crawling, just quick enough not to be stalled but slow enough to wreck total havoc. Wind speed was over 65 knots with gusts to 80 knots. Even the big MH-53 and the MC-130 would be tossed about like paper airplanes in wind that strong. Add to it, the storm was intensifying. An alert issued showed that heavy rain was battering the coast while further inland there were blizzard-like conditions. This was the absolute worst weather, save for major hurricanes, to travel out to sea and rappel onto a boat, which would be heaving up and down with the waves. Delaney had read the weather advisory and he had reread it a few times, just to make sure he read it right, 63-foot swell. He wondered aloud when he read that and every man in the room wondered too. But here they were, about to head out into Mother Nature's fury. A nor'easter was no joke but in comparison to some of the other storms that slammed through the North Atlantic during winter, it was only on the mediocre side.

Outside of the hangar, the elements beat on the helicopter as the engines were brought up to idle. Systems were checked and rechecked and only then did the helicopter begin to taxi towards the runway. Minutes later, they took off and initially headed south, crossing to "feet wet" soon enough. There, they turned east and began to head towards the ship. Because of the wind conditions, they weren't going to be flying too fast, and the best forward speed they could do was 140 mph, and even then, they were being blown every which way.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

---

January 8, 1990 - 19:30 hrs [UTC-5]
North Atlantic Ocean
MV Blue Star
(38° 44' 4" N, 70° 50' 52" W)

The pilot and the co-pilot saw the freighter first, right where she was supposed to be, heaving to and fro in the waves. The North Atlantic this far out was worse than any nightmare any of the men had previously. It was only through FLIR and night vision goggles that anyone could see anything and what the thirteen men saw was a sea that was doing everything it could to swallow everything on top of it. "Jesus that's," the co-pilot let the words linger in the air. He had no words to speak as he watched the freighter drop forward and list heavily to starboard as it rode through the swells at just a couple of knots. "How the hell is he driving that thing?"

"No clue but he's better than we are," the pilot responded as he brought the helicopter around, fighting the wind. Their arms and legs were sore with the strain of keeping the helicopter heading towards the freighter. Their path across the ocean had been a zigzag but not on purpose. It would have been impossible to tell where they were heading, had anyone been bored enough to track them, nobody had. "All right, get ready!" He announced over the intercom. In the back, the rappelling lines were already in place and the crew chief, strapped in by a safety cable, was lowering the rear ramp. The two gunners were obviously unneeded on their stations but that was where they remained, strapped in tighter than either of the pilots were. Delaney and his men, on the other hand, hooked up to the static line above them, just so that they could move towards the rear of the helicopter and not risk falling out of it.

The pilot and co-pilot worked together and fought the helicopter as they moved over towards the bow of the ship. They were timing the movement of the ship now, hoping to catch it on an upward movement rather than a downward. It took careful precision and eight minutes of maneuvering in black out conditions, using on their night vision goggles, the FLIR, and their instinct as pilots, were required just to get them over the bow and to follow the freighter. Because of the piss-poor visibility, it was doubtful that the captain could even see them; certainly, the freighter gave no sign of actually maneuvering away as the rappelling lines were dropped down. Weighted bags put them on the deck and the pilot took his cues now from the crew chief, who told them how the ship was going.

Seven minutes of waiting and the freighter was back on an upward movement but the crew chief didn't call it, instead he waited. Delaney and the men were ready to go, strapped in and they would all rappel out of the helicopter on two lines, four per line, eight seconds apart. They needed just thirty two seconds to get onto the deck, which was an eternity. "Here comes another one, no, no, she's going down, hold," the crew chief's commentary continued. Sweat was pouring off of every man, despite the frigid air inside of the storm. Minutes passed until they had been over the ship for twelve minutes when finally a massive wave appeared ahead of the ship. The pilot's compensated and rode up with the ship while the crew chief gave the order.

Delaney and his men were gone out of the door, one after the other, each counting in rhythm from the moment the one before them went down the rope. Delaney and Milton hit the deck first and tightened the lines while Rigalo and Wilson followed. They set up security on the heaving deck, which was slippery even with the no skid surface. Howard and Jackson went third and the freighter began to reach the crest of the wave. Then, as Wilkins and Steel went, the freighter lurched the other way. The pilots compensated but it was already set in motion. Wilkins crashed onto the deck hard and Steel came in after him, both of them tumbling on their footing and rolling away. The crew chief, anxious to get out of there, gave the order to bail as soon as he received a thumb's up from Delaney and Milton, who rushed over to their fallen brothers and unhooked them from the rappelling line. As the helicopter banked away, pulling the rappelling lines back in, Delaney suddenly wished they had laser-guided refueling. It was all up to the pilot's now.

The team was a wreck though. Howard, Jackson, Rigalo, and Wilson set up overwatch, looking down the deck, which was devoid of any people. Delaney and Milton went over to Wilkins and Steel, who were still on the ground. Wilkins was grabbing his leg and trying his best to keep his screams stifled while Steel wasn't moving at all. Milton called over Howard and they traded places while Howard went over to check on Steel. He had evidently knocked himself unconscious by the fall but that just meant he needed to get to a hospital to make sure he didn't have any major damage. Wilkins had a broken leg and possibly a dislocated hip. He said his back was feeling funny but he was fine moving his toes on his good leg. Two men down, the team went into action and began their mission, despite the injuries.

Delaney took point and Howard and Rigalo carried Wilkins and Steel while they lined up and moved as quickly as they could towards the superstructure. The ship was heaving around underneath them and the helicopter was long gone. A quick radio check to the helicopter informed them that they were fine but they had two wounded and were going to need the helicopter, no ifs, ands, or buts. They had to tank or else they were in trouble. Protests came but Delaney silenced them fast, "I left a C-4 pack on your helicopter with a fucking timer on it. Only I know where it is, get your asses back here with a full load of fuel, you got it?" Nothing more was said.

Delaney moved to the first hatch he saw, identified its location on the superstructure, and the men stacked up alongside the thick metal of the superstructure. He opened the hatch, peered inside, and entered, bringing his men in behind him. They were in an open area full of tools that were all strapped down. Despite the presence of sharp and heavy metal objects, the room was safe. "Okay, Howard, Rigalo, you stay here with them. The rest on men, when he wakes up make sure he's okay."

"Roger that," came the whispers as Delaney and his men entered the rest of the superstructure. They began moved towards the crew quarters, knowing exactly where it was. They moved quickly but quietly down the stairs and the corridors, balancing themselves as best as they could while keeping their muzzles pointed forward. They passed through many corridors and when they finally came to the crew quarters, they could hear the sounds of men vomiting and a radio playing. Hand signals were exchanged and the men entered the room, firing almost instantly upon their entrance. They were putting out single shots of suppressed 9x19mm ammunition and the only sounds were the sounds of their weapon's bolts clicking back and forth as three rounds left their weapon with every squeeze of the trigger.

The scene was a perfect execution of overpowering and lightning-fast force. In less than two minutes, the crew quarters were cleared and twenty-nine dead bodies were tallied. Taken from fifty-four, that left twenty-five other men onboard the ship. Had things gone according to plan, Delaney's Blue Team would have hit the crew quarters while Wilkins' Gold Team would have hit the engineering spaces. Plans changed and this was where cross training paid off; Delaney knew Wilkins' mission just as well as Wilkins knew his. "All right, engineering, now, go," Delaney whispered. He keyed up his throat mic so that he could inform Howard and Rigalo where they were. "Blue Team moving onto engineering, two-nine tangos down. Two-five remaining, any change?"

"No change," Howard responded, "need to hurry up and get to a hospital for them."

"Roger wilco," Delaney responded, ending the conversation. They moved down further into the bowels of the ship, where they knew the engineering spaces were. Along the way, they took down two more crewmen who were smoking marijuana in an otherwise empty corridor, leaving twenty-three men. He would have hit the radio and the bridge next but with the jamming; he opted for the engines first. It took a few minutes but they got there quickly enough that they were able to catch nine men off guard. They dropped them all, planted their timed charges, and made their way for the radio area next. There were fourteen tangos remaining onboard and they wanted to account for all of them.

They ascended the superstructure area, swept through an empty galley, and past a few other spaces that were unoccupied but could have been. Then, they moved to the radio room and dropped four men inside. They destroyed the radio in the process and kept going, moving further up the superstructure towards the bridge. Before ever reaching it, they put down three more men lounging in a rec room area that smelled like vomit and marijuana. Delaney reported in again to keep Howard and Rigalo updated with their progress. Steel had woken up just after they hit the radio room and he was complaining that his vision was out of whack but otherwise he was not injured too badly, or so he could see. Delaney, pleased to hear the good news, led his men up to the bridge. With just the same speed and force as before, they pounced on the bridge, taking down the captain and another man there, both of them arguing in a haze of cigarette smoke. Neither one reacted too quickly to Delaney entering nor could they, he shot both of them through the head within milliseconds of entering. "Bridge clear, two more what's the count, five remaining?"

"Roger that," Howard responded over the radio, need to secure the package.

"Moving, keep your eyes open," Delaney said as he and his men went back down again. They were going to head into the cargo holds next to try to locate the briefcase. During this time, Howard kept an open channel with the helicopter. They had attempted nine hookups and they had failed each time, things were looking grim for Force Falcon Team One as Delaney and his men entered the cargo hold, dropping one of the remaining five men as soon as they exited the stairwell. A few feet later, Delaney narrowly missed an unsecured door that swung towards him as the freighter shuddered violently up a next wave. Delaney had killed the engines when he was in the bridge and seconds after, the charges blew, destroying the engineering plants, altering the other five men still alive that something had happened. There was no way to know where they all were and now that there were four the numbers were dwindling down further and fast.

---

• |- 5 -| •

[Layarteb]

---

January 8, 1990 - 19:50 hrs [UTC-5]
North Atlantic Ocean
MV Blue Star
(38° 44' 4" N, 70° 50' 52" W)

Delaney and his men had been on the ship for twenty minutes and they had neutralized most of the crew except for four men, four men whose whereabouts were entirely unknown. Delaney, Wilson, Milton, and Jackson were moving swiftly through the bowels of the ship, making their way to the cargo container area, in search of the precious cargo that they needed to get. The helicopter was trying in vain to hook up with the tanker for a refueling and the wind was throwing them every which way, up and down, right and left often more than one direction at a time. They had plenty of fuel left to get back to the coast and they would remain on station trying to hook up with the tanker until they were "BINGO" and had to return to base. Once they declared "BINGO" it was too late for Delaney and his men, they would have to utilize the submarine option.

Delaney, leading on point, moved ahead of Wilson, Milton, and Jackson who was taking up the rear. They had changed their loadout prior to leaving their wounded men behind. Delaney, on point, kept his suppressed MP5SD3 submachine gun. Wilson opted for the same weapon. Milton, on the other hand, was carrying a 12-gauge shotgun but he was maneuvering with a suppressed pistol most of the time. Jackson, taking up the rear, was moving with a shortened CAR-15 Carbine, a CAR-15 Commando, which only had an 11.5-inch barrel. It was only slightly longer than the MP5SD3 but it fired a much more powerful round, the 5.56x45mm round versus the 9x19mm round. It was good for longer ranged work, especially for protecting their rear.

Quietly, they moved into the cargo hold area, heading down the central corridor, which had access to every part of the cargo hold. They would have to check every compartment until they found what they needed. It would be painstakingly slow but this was their mission so this was their task and Delaney moved down the corridor listening for footsteps or any other signs of human presence. He came to the first compartment and opened the door. He and Milton would check it out while Wilson and Jackson provided cover. That was how each compartment would work and in the first, the chilled air of the refrigerator hit them instantly. They were sweating underneath all of their gear and the chilled air reverberated a chill across their skin and up their spines. Still, they did not pause; they did not let it affect them. They simply searched the compartment and when they were done, they moved onto the next. There were sixteen total compartments to check and Delaney and Milton were going to check each and every one of them until they found the suitcase.

After the second and the third compartments, they found nothing. The fourth had a room full of perishables but still nothing amounting to a suitcase. They returned back to the corridor and moved up to the next group. The sixteen compartments were arranged in four groups of four, two by two, and there was a cross walkway between the groups. This allowed machinists to tend to the refrigerator units for each compartment. Since each compartment had its own unit, the failure of one would not necessarily ruin everything. Delaney half expected to find some of the remaining four crewmen there but the cross corridor was empty. They crossed it without lingering, went to the second bank of compartments, and began to search them. Compartments five through eight were all carrying more foodstuffs and so they moved onto the next bank. The MH-53J crew had, as Delaney and his men moved to the next bank, come within inches of a successful hookup but in the end, they missed.

As they did, a figure lunged out at them, holding a large, blunt, metal object. Delaney stepped back to avoid the swing and opened fire as he did, putting three bullets into the torso of the lunging figure. The rounds twisted him around and dropped him onto the ground, "Three to go," Delaney said as he checked over his body quickly for wounds. He hadn't felt any impact from the object but with his adrenaline running, he might not have known that he got hit. They stepped over the dead machinist and moved onto the third bank. It was finally there, in compartment eleven, the suitcase and satisfied that they had found it, Delaney quickly retrieved it, handed it off to Milton, and they assumed their combat formation. "We've got it," Delaney said over the net and then added, "get that bird back here."

"Roger, on it," Howard said, changing frequencies. As he did, Delaney and the men moved back towards the topside areas. "Echo Bravo, this is Foxtrot Alpha, we're set to come home, advise ETA." There was no noise and the MH-53J pilot eyed his fuel state.

"We're joker boss," the co-pilot answered, "we've got to get out of here."

"One more try, just one more," the pilot responded, "tell them we'll advise in five mikes."

"You sure boss?"

"Damn sure am," he said as he maneuvered the aircraft back into position, a certain motivation taking over his mind as he focused on the drifting refueling probe. He concentrated hard, harder than ever, and made another attempt but it was no luck, he missed high. He backed off and quickly moved in for another one but missed to the right. Instead of cursing, he focused and tried again, his twenty-third try, and without any cause for celebration, connected with the probe.

"Got it!" His co-pilot said in triumph, "Fuel is flowing."

"Keep an eye on it, we might get tossed away from this thing," the pilot said, speaking next to the tanker crew, "Listen guys, I don't know how much our luck is going to hold out so pump fast, we need as much as we can get. I doubt we'll make another one, this is our one chance."

"Roger that, we're pumping at maximum rate."

"They are boss, patience," the helicopter was bucking and the pilot just gave his co-pilot a look.

"Just help me hold the fucking thing in there."

"Like fucking my prom date boss," they shared a well-needed laugh, breaking some of the immediate tension. On the freighter, Delaney and his men had made it back topside and all eight of them were inside of the tool room, holding out for the time being.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

---

January 8, 1990 - 20:15 hrs [UTC-5]
North Atlantic Ocean
ILS Buffalo (Los Angeles-class)
(38° 44' 4" N, 70° 50' 52" W)

The crew of the ILS Buffalo were on edge. They knew what the surface conditions were like and they knew that they were conducting, of all things, a training exercise. To most though, it didn't add up, something was amiss. To look at the facts was simple, it was winter, they were in the North Atlantic, there was a nor'easter up there, and they were going to sink a ship. It made no sense whatsoever. This wasn't a training exercise and even the greenest of the green submariners didn't think that this was a training exercise. They all knew that it was something different, something much blacker but still, they were part of the submarine community, the most tight-lipped community in the world.

The submarine was waiting on position, holding three nautical miles from the MV Blue Star and the operation was just waiting for the final stage, when the submarine would fire its two, Mark 48 Mod 4 heavyweight torpedoes into its hull, sending it to the bottom of the ocean in 10,000 feet of water. The MV Blue Star was barely visible, despite being so close; the surface conditions were that terrible. He had instructed the radio room to tune into the main tactical frequency that they were all on but there was no transmitting only receiving. He had the radio feed routed to the Conn and he had his executive officer listening to it on a pair of headphones. This was that classified; only two men were listening to the feed, the radioman and the executive officer. Once the command was given for them to fire, the executive officer would acknowledge it and he would give the order to fire. The radioman would acknowledge with only a code word and in turn, they would sink the ship.

"Chief of the Boat, sounding," the captain asked.

"Aye sir, sounding is one-six-six-zero fathoms."

"Thank you COB," the captain responded. He turned his attention to the microphone in his hand and pushed a button on the set, "Sonar, Conn, any new contacts?"

"Conn, Sonar, negative sir, just Victor Two-Eight."

"Sonar, Conn, thanks," the captain put the corded microphone back and swept his eyes over the control room. The executive officer was eyeing the chart with his headphones on but nothing indicated that they were ready to fire yet. The captain wasn't nervous but he was slightly anxious. He didn't want to be on the surface any more than Delaney or his men wanted to go overboard to get off of the ship.

---

• |- 6 -| •

[Layarteb]

---

January 8, 1990 - 20:25 hrs [UTC-5]
North Atlantic Ocean
MV Blue Star
(38° 44' 4" N, 70° 50' 52" W)

The MH-53J Pave Low III carried 2,277 gallons of fuel internally and a further 1,000 gallons externally. The MC-130P Combat Shadow had a refueling rate of only 300 gallons per minute, meaning that they needed eleven minutes to refuel the aircraft from empty. The Pave Low III wasn't empty but they were well below half of their fuel capacity. With the weather throwing both the helicopter and the Combat Shadow every which way, holding the probe in the drogue was more taxing than flying at low-level, high-speed, and at night. After four minutes and nineteen seconds of bucking, the helicopter lost connection and they'd received just 1,295 gallons of fuel. Their internal tanks were barely full and they were off-balanced so the co-pilot began to pump some of the fuel into the empty external tanks just to even out the load.

"Well thanks for the drink, that's about all we can take, we're out," the pilot said with defeat over the radio. He turned to his co-pilot and nodded his head, "Can we do it?"

"We've got less than six minutes over the ship," he answered. "These guys better be good, they've also got a wounded, we need to lower the penetrator to them for that one."

"We'll need it for all of them."

"All right no sense hanging around here," the co-pilot answered, looking at the fuel gauges. Though they showed a happy number now, they wouldn't after they picked up the men from the ship, which was now dead in the water, bucking with the waves. That meant, without anyone piloting it, there was no telling which way the waves would take the ship. Mother Nature might even take it down before they had a chance to rescue the men and their cargo. As they flew back to the ship, the co-pilot conferred with team, "Foxtrot Alpha, Echo Bravo, we got some fuel, not much. We only have six mikes over you for recovery. That's going to be close, please advise on your wounded."

"One has a broken leg and a dislocated hip, possible back injuries, other sustained a head injured but he's five-by-five for now."

"Maximum capacity on the penetrator is two men, six hundred pounds. Lose whatever gear you don't need and do it fast. We'll be on your position in two mikes."

"We've got you Echo Bravo," Howard answered, smiling. "They got gas boss, they said to lose whatever gear we don't need, they've only got six minutes on our position to get all eight of us out, two at a clip on the penetrator. Six hundred pound maximum."

"All right boys, you heard the man, lose everything we can afford to lose. Include that fucking SCUBA gear!" Quickly, inside of the room, despite the heaving of the boat, the men lost whatever gear they didn't need, keeping only their pistols and its ammunition when they came down to it. Their weapons and the rest of the gear went overboard when they came out of the room.

Above them, the helicopter was barely audible with the noise of the ocean but they could see it plain as day with its strobe lights and a very powerful light being shone by the loadmaster. Delaney quickly gave orders, pairing up the men. Since Wilkins was the most injured, he went first along with Howard. It took forever for the penetrator to get back up to the helicopter, the men to get off, and it to descend back to them. All that time, waves crashed over the sides of the ship and the men, soaked to their bones, were doing their best to stay on the slippery deck as the ship heaved around on them. The precious seconds ticked away as the penetrator came down for the second load of men, already ninety seconds having passed. Steel went with Milton and the penetrator rose up, taking them into the spray and into the belly of the helicopter while Delaney, Rigalo, Jackson, and Wilson waited for their turn.

Ninety more seconds elapsed and half of the time was gone as Rigalo and Wilson ascended into the sky, leaving just Jackson and Delaney on the boat as the waves crashed onto the deck. The freighter heaved and knocked itself out of position. The penetrator came down but the freighter was out of the way and it dunked into the water. The MH-53J Pave Low III swayed and yanked, moving with the freighter, pivoting in the sky as the fuel sucked into the engines. It was taking the pilots nearly all of their strength and attention to keep the helicopter into position as the loadmaster relayed commands to them. The penetrator came out of the water and the freighter was thrown sideways, knocking both Delaney and Jackson off of their feet.

Sliding down the deck, they slammed into the superstructure as the helicopter moved back into position. Both men cursed under their breath, helped one another to their feet, and moved towards the spotlight on the deck as the penetrator dropped down again. Jackson reached it first and seated himself on it but Delaney was thrown sideways. He pushed himself towards the penetrator, towards Jackson's outstretched hand, and the entire freighter dropped out from underneath him as a wave smashed into it. Jackson was in the air all of a sudden but he wasn't going to be there for long as the freighter came up towards him. He screamed out, the loadmaster gave the command to the pilots, and they kept him from smacking into the freighter, giving his legs barely two feet of clearance.

Delaney struggled forward and the penetrator leapt up again as the helicopter pivoted to stay with the wind. He kept his arm outstretched; holding onto the penetrator with the other as Delaney came surging forward. With a grab and the bond of comradeship, they interlocked hands and the penetrator yanked into the air with Delaney being held underneath it and underneath Jackson. Both men screamed in agony as the weight of each bore down on them and the penetrator rose skyward with Delaney dangling underneath. "Don't drop me mother fucker!" He yelled as he got a hand on one of the penetrator legs, taking some of the weight off of Jackson's arm. An eternity later, Delaney was yanked into the belly of the helicopter along with Jackson and both men crashed onto the floor as the door closed, and the helicopter pivoted away from the freighter. A command code went out over the net as Delaney eyed the case in Howard's lap. It had gone with them, it being the entire purpose of the mission. Shortly thereafter, it was placed in a special, small box full of dry ice that they had brought along on the helicopter.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

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January 8, 1990 - 20:30 hrs [UTC-5]
North Atlantic Ocean
ILS Buffalo (Los Angeles-class)
(38° 44' 4" N, 70° 50' 52" W)

"Sir," the executive officer said as he looked up from the navigation map. The submarine's CO looked up and saw the thumb's up from his XO, and went into action.

"Sonar, Conn, reconfirm range to target," he said into the microphone in his hand.

"Conn, Sonar, range to target is fifty-three hundred yards."

"Weapons," the CO said as he put down the microphone, "adjust solution for range, reconfirm solution to target."

"Aye sir," the weapons officer replied, "range and solution are reconfirmed, five-three-zero-zero yards to target."

"Fire torpedo one; fire torpedo two!"

"Aye sir, firing torpedo one and two sir!" A button was pushed and with a whoosh of noise, both torpedoes shot out of their tubes. "Torpedoes away sir! Range to target, five thousand yards… Forty-five hundred yards… Forty-three hundred yards, weapons ready for arming sir."

"Arm at two thousand yards to target."

"Aye sir, arming at two thousand yards to target. Range four thousand yards to target…Thirty-five hundred… Three thousand…" Everyone was on edge, holding their breath as the two, Mark 48 Mod 4 torpedoes raced towards the target at fifty-five knots. They would be in the water for less than three minutes at that speed. "Twenty-five hundred… Two thousand…Torpedoes are armed sir!" The torpedoes, being wire-guided, had locked onto the target and they were using their sonars. There was a lot of surface noise but the wire-guidance kept them on target. "Fifteen hundred yards… One thousand… Nine hundred… Eight hundred… Seven hundred… Six hundred… Five hundred…"

"Brace for explosion," the CO said throughout the control room.

"Four hundred… Three hundred… Two hundred… One hundred… Impact!" The torpedoes exploded remotely as per the program, which was the only way given the surface noise. The explosion reverberated throughout the hull of the submarine moments later as the sound energy transmitted back to them.

Through the periscope, the captain watched the demise of the freighter. Underneath the center of the ship, the torpedoes detonated, creating a massive vacuum bubble underneath the keel. It heaved the freighter upwards but only in the center, both the bow and the stern drooped towards the water. As the freighter sunk back onto the water, the stern and the bow inclined slightly, and a burst of water both white and discolored erupted around the center of the ship. The freighter twisted unnaturally as the water fountain engulfed the entire ship, tossing it around like a toy. Momentarily, the freighter vanished as the captain declared that the torpedoes hit. When it was visible again, he could see the freighter visibly cut in two, its halves listing heavily as water flowed into the compartments of the freighter. He continued to watch as the sonar operators listened to the death of the ship. In less than five minutes, both halves sunk into the waves, the bow nearly vertical in the water and the stern dropping in the water with the superstructure ripping itself apart. Both halves raced towards the bottom of the ocean, accelerating as they began to echo with the sounds of crushing from the ocean's pressure. The sonar operators listened to the entire descent once the noise of the explosion had departed the area.

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• |- 7 -| •

[Layarteb]

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January 14, 1990 - 02:00 hrs [UTC-5]
Layarteb City, New York
Fortress of Comhghall
(40° 41' 28" N, 74° 0' 58" W)

It was a wee hour of the morning on this particularly cold, icy, Sunday morning. Due to the extreme hour, the Emperor was in casual clothing and he obviously had no appointments save for one, his chief of security, Captain Jack Delaney. Delaney entered the office wearing casual clothing as well, giving a friendly nod to the overnight receptionist who was busy sifting through papers for the morning's meetings. Since the doors to the Emperor's office were open, and she had been told to expect Delaney, the receptionist only gave him a friendly smile back and looked into the open, cavernous office. The doors closed behind Delaney who took a seat at the table. The Emperor emerged moments later from his personal quarters and with his hand, beckoned Delaney to stay seated, "It's too early in the morning for ceremony," he said as he took a seat opposite him at the table. The Emperor leaned back and cracked his neck. "How are the men?"

"Wilkins' leg will heal just fine but he's out of commission for six months, doctors' orders. I imagine we'll see him in four. His hip is fine, must have been the pain from his leg. Steel gave us a real scare. Doctor said it was just a minor concussion, nothing too problematic. He was released after a day's observation."

"Good, good, and I'm told the agent you recovered was as requested."

"That's what I'm told too. What was it?"

"Hirgizstanian biological weapon, something new that they were working on, it's going to kick start our own program, heavily classified of course."

"It needs to be," answered Delaney, truly the Emperor's only and oldest confidant. If there was one man who could know the secrets of the Empire aside from the Emperor, it was Delaney. "Word gets out and we're in trouble," he answered.

"We're running it through Umbrella, legitimate washing of all of our research. We're going to do the full workup and now that the funds are there from our lack of debts and the Hirgizstanian weapon will provide the basis."

"What's it called?"

"Cerebral Acute Fever, generic I know. It attacks the brain causing severe dehydration and a very high fever. It's waterborne and it kills the host in forty-eight to ninety-six hours, even with hospital treatment. Fevers run in excess of one hundred and four degrees. Hysteria, convulsions, all sorts of terrible things; I saw a video of the testing from the Hirgizstanian ambassador, the Fuhrer would be livid if he knew we just stole it. It's untreatable, even with the most aggressive antivirals."

"Contagious?"

"Only through blood, perhaps lots of saliva and other fluids but mainly just blood."

"What chance is there that we'll use it?"

The Emperor took a moment to think, expanding a map of the globe in his head and laying out the Empire's strategy for the second phase of the Conquests. With a smile, he responded, "Very probable but only on a small scale, in very localized situations. The Empire doesn't use weapons of mass destruction."

"Heard, understood, acknowledged sir," laughed Delaney as he agreed. He stood up to leave but the Emperor beckoned him back into his seat.

"There is one other thing, before you leave of course. I took a review of your personnel file and I've seen fit to authorize your promotion. Major Jack Delaney, equal footing to myself. When you make lieutenant colonel, don't think you can boss me around," laughed the Emperor in return as both men stood and shook hands. Delaney offered his sharpest salute and the Emperor returned the gesture.

"Sir, thank you sir!"

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• |- 8 -| •