Page 12 of Air Force One
Commander Randy Davidson kept an eye on the helmsman. After twelve weeks at sea, patrolling the shipping routes as far south as Rio, an overeager docking might be in the books. But the man brought them in clean, coming to a dead stop exactly in place—not an easy task in a boat almost as long as a football field. She’d been built for seaworthiness and speed, not for cruise-ship-level stability underfoot, which also made her as twitchy as a sullen teenage girl asked to be civil in public. Gods above and below, were his twins really going to be teenagers in high school next year?
He gave the man a clap on the shoulder for a job well done for bringing the ship in so neat and clean. Not a chance of his handling the twins half so well.
A glance at the deck below and he could see the ABs, the able-bodied seamen, getting ready to toss the monkey’s fists across to the pier. The light polypropylene lines had their ends woven into six-inch balls ideal for casting ashore. They would be used to drag the bigger heavy lines across the gap. Once the shore crew looped those over handy bollards, the Bear’s deck winches could haul them to the dockside.
He sighed. It would probably require another day before he could get off the ship. It took time to clear seven tons of cocaine and eleven prisoners. A haul that size would attract every DEA hack, media hack, and pain-in-his-ass Coast Guard hack to create a fanfare. It was his seventh major drug bust and the Bear’s twenty-fifth, which made it old hat for both of them.
His twins were playing in a big school concert tomorrow. First and second viola; he’d been more of an electric guitar man himself. He’d been hoping to make it ashore for that; fifty-fifty at this point.
It would be easier if he was at sea—of course, almost everything was. If he was in port but missed the concert because of red tape and paperwork, they might not forgive him. Worse, Doreen might not. She’d known he was a career man when she’d signed aboard but each passing year proved harder rather than easier. Staffing was down across the services, which meant longer deployments to keep this coast guarded. At least the six-month forays to the Med and the Arabian Sea had tapered off…though Israel was now screwing that up by attacking anyone not wearing a yarmulke. Who knew what would happen over there now.
Not his problem today.
He watched the bow and stern monkey’s fists fly free, trailing their nine-millimeter haul lines. One arced so high that it almost cleared the far side of the wide service pier. He wasn’t the only one eager for this cruise to be done. Once he sounded shore leave, there’d be a hundred bodies racing to be first down the gangway. He’d wager a third would fall flat on their faces when they hit solid land. After this long a deployment, they’d all lost their land legs.
The distinct alarm bell of an encrypted high-priority message sounded.
Probably a welcome-home message from some shorebird who didn’t understand the purpose of the system.
“What have you got, XO?” The ashore line handlers had gathered the fore-and-aft hauling lines. They were ready to begin pulling across the first pair of fifty-five-millimeter mooring lines.
“It’s a little odd, Skipper. Put to sea immediately. Head east-northeast until further notice.”
“Let me see that.” He picked up the handset and punched for the deck PA. “Hold all mooring operations. Repeat, hold all mooring operations.”
Everyone on the deck and pier turned to look up at him on the bridge.
Zeb handed him the printout that a high-priority message always generated.
That was it—except for the bone-chilling phrase: All haste! He’d never seen that particular phrase outside of war.
“Is this some kind of dumb-ass drill?”
Zeb simply pointed out the window. Their sister ships, Harriet Lane and Northland, were both in port, and both were blowing the black smoke of an emergency start on their big diesels.
“Anything on the gouge train?” The USCG rumor mill was usually ahead of most nonsense.
“Nothing, sir.”
Davidson took one last look down the line and saw that several of the forty-seven-foot MLBs—motor life boats—had crews on the scramble.
He hated himself for the moment of relief. Search-and-rescue. Big one if they were calling out all three cutters in port, and close ashore if they were kicking the MLBs loose. At least he wouldn’t have to explain to Doreen and the twins why he hadn’t been able to get off the ship sooner.
He again keyed the PA. “All hands. All hands. Retrieve lines. Prepare to put to sea immediately.”
The blank stares were still directed up at the command bridge.
“I know people. Makes no sense. But we’ve got our orders. On the double.” He kept the mike keyed open for the next order. “Helmsman, best speed to sea and damn any in-harbor limits. Move it!”
That lit the fire under the deck crew’s behinds. The heaving lines were retrieved. By the vibrating deck beneath his feet, he could feel the seventy-three hundred horsepower of his own diesels plowing into the twin screws.
He beat the Harriet Lane and the Northland into the Elizabeth River—a lead he wouldn’t be relinquishing. As he passed US Naval Station Norfolk, they were already making fifteen knots with five of the 47-MLBs at his side. Together they kicked a hell of a wake into the Norfolk Navy yard. Couldn’t happen to nicer people.
Who the hell was important enough for all this?
He also noticed a distinct lack of activity in the US Navy’s largest base anywhere. Commander Davidson could feel squids staring at him as he raced by, but he still had no answers.
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