Chapter 11: Crossfire

Friday, August 15th, 1100 ET—Russian Carrier Ulyanovsk

The ship reported its first mishap 15 hours after the intelligence report suggesting hostile stowaways aboard. The central galley, serving 350 crewmen 24/7, reported an explosion at a gas manifold feeding the ovens and ranges. Fifty-five sailors died, some from the blast and others from smoke inhalation and burns. The damage shut down the food service operations for the foreseeable future. Minutes after the disaster, a communications specialist on the bridge notified the Captain that a trailing Onyx class frigate reported a submerged contact 15 kilometers north of their position. They were steaming directly into the path of an American submarine!

“Do you wish to deploy the Helix, Captain?” the XO asked. The Kamov-28 was the most sophisticated anti-submarine helicopter in the Russian (and Chinese) arsenal.

“No!” the Captain barked. “We knew this push would give away our position to the Americans. They cannot bother us in international waters, and I do not wish to provoke a Seawolf-class attack submarine that can wipe out the fleet!” The older man furrowed his brow and cursed under his breath. “Reduce our speed to half and let the group catch up. What is the status of that galley fire?”

“Fire is contained, Captain. No further injuries reported. Engineering expects repairs to commence within the hour.”

“Can they fix the kitchen?”

“Unknown, sir.”

Just then, another alarm sounded, and the bridge became frantic. “Captain! Engineering reports hostile contact by unknown armed combatants trying to infiltrate the reactor station! Security is exchanging gunfire.” The Yeoman removed his headset, and Yinnady could faintly hear shots over the speakers. His heart began pumping furiously as adrenalin flooded his system. “Action Stations! Make battle ready!” he barked before the Captain. Klaxons sounded throughout the ship, and the crew scurried to their stations.

“Send the Security reaction team to engineering,” Captain Sebkov added gruffly. The order was unnecessary as the reaction team was automatically deployed to the most sensitive ship systems. “Lockdown fore and aft magazines and the hanger well!” Another automatic response. “Where else will they attempt sabotage, Yinnady?” His voice was calm. Too calm.

The first officer glanced back at him and considered the question a test: “Aviation fuel bunkers, navigation and steerage, communi—” he blinked and turned to the Yeoman. “Double-check Combat Control Center (the attack bridge) and lock it down!” That was the only means to access the external mast (really a tower).

“Forward magazine reports heavy engagement with armed intruders!”

Of course, they would go for the aviation ordinance lockers! Setting off a single bomb could scuttle the entire ship. Yinnady saw his Captain scribbling furiously on a pad. “Captain? Wha—”

“Just preparing the answer for the Americans when they ask—”

USS Alabama__ (SSN 25) 20,000 yards NNE of Ulaynovsk

“Captain, we are at periscope depth and maintaining turns for 20 knots,” the navigation officer called.

“Raise the mast,”

“Raising the mast.”

Commander Frank Cruz approached the periscope and pulled down the handles. Everything he saw was sent to a large flat panel screen in the CIC for others to observe. “No signs of aircraft deployment,” he muttered. “Send it, Mr. Coppley.”

“Aye, Skipper,” Comms Officer Coppley typed a command and sent an open maritime general inquiry to the Russian vessel.

“Damn, she’s big!” the Executive Officer noted, standing in front of the big screen. “Never thought I’d see a Russian carrier.”

“Impressive,” COB noted. “Almost 100 feet longer than the Ford (CVN 78).”

“Response from the Ulyanovsk, Captain,” Coppley said, removing a sheet of paper from his printer.

That was damn fast! Cruz accepted and quickly read the sheet. +++Ulyanovsk sends a gas manifold burst into the kitchen, forcing the group to slow and make repars [SIC]. Steam Cuba in three days for repairs. No wartime maneuvers/posture+++. “Ask if they need assistance.”

Half a minute later, the response was no. “Send: God Speed, Ulyanovsk. Down Mast. Dive Officer, make your depth 500 feet, and return to station. Maintain original speed and bearing. XO, keep an eye on them.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Activity picked up on the bridge as voices called out, repeating orders over the 1MC, preparing the boat for the dive. The newest fast-attack submarine in the US fleet had spent 163 seconds at periscope depth.

“Weps, maintain, and update firing solutions on every ship in that group.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.” Targeting 17 enemy warships simultaneously? Just another Tuesday.

Monday, August 18^th, 2230 ET—CNN BREAKING NEWS

“Thank you, Evan, and good morning to our viewers. I am Cassandra Simms, traveling correspondent, on the roof of the Harbor Hotel in Taichung City, Longjing District, Taiwan, overlooking the Taiwan Strait amidst rising tensions between Beijing and the separatist island nation—” Shadows played across the mixed-race woman holding the microphone with her back to the blackened water stretching towards mainland China. “With the Chinese Navy intruding into Taiwanese waters; a claim denied and defended by either side—The Taiwan government has raised its defense posture to its highest level in over a decade of discord.”

B-roll showed military fighter aircraft taxiing around a vast airfield full of civilian and military planes. “Taichung International Airport is closed to all civilian and cargo aircraft, which have been diverted to Tainan Airport to the south and Taipei to the north. It is unclear if and when hostilities are uncertain, but the situation is dire.”

Shamir Ad ‘Wali grimaced as he was forcibly seated. The suffocating hood was removed, leaving him wincing and blinking at the sudden brightness. After a minute of teary blinks, he squinted to find himself in a drab cubicle room measuring no more than four square meters. He was seated on a solid bench attached to a wall with a simple metal table before him. There were two chairs on the opposite side, one occupied by a man in a flat green coverall uniform and a plain black ball cap with no logo. He reclined with a leg over his opposite knee and an arm stretched over the backrest. His unshaven, weathered face showed no expression as he chewed a toothpick. But his gray eyes seemed to stare into Shamir’s soul, as he became accustomed to his surroundings. Behind the man, against the far wall, was a windowless door. Next to it were two others, contrasting to the man gazing at him. One was a taller, heavyset man in a US Army uniform decorated with many medals and badges. The shorter woman beside him held a rigid bearing in her tan desert camo uniform. USMC was emblazoned upon her right breast pocket with the solid black eagle globe and anchor logo for the Marines. She was dark-skinned and gave off a cold demeanor as she stared at him. The man seemed to regard him with casual boredom, though his crisp blue eyes seemed to generate a light of their own.

Assessing his condition, he was groggy and sluggish, wearing a faded pink jumpsuit. Metal shackles secured his hands in his lap. He raised them tentatively and rested his arms on the cold table.

“Good morning,” the man before him greeted. “Shamir Ad ‘Wali, son of Ishmil and Fahrial Ad ‘Wali, born in an unremarkable sand hovel of Marjeh, or was it Marjah? Both villages are located just west of Lashkar Gah, where your father taught at the University.” He spoke with a slight drawl, “According to Mukhabarat (Saudi secret police), you are well versed in English,” he continued, seamlessly switching to Farsi, “but we can continue in your language if you prefer.”

Shamir felt cold dread creep down his spine but tried to maintain a façade of indifference as he swallowed... throat is so dry!

“Ah!” the man leaned forward, placing a plastic water bottle on the table. “It is the drugs used on you and your men for transport. You must be parched.” He pushed the bottle closer invitingly, but the prisoner gazed at it suspiciously. The man sat back and tsked. “Please, rest assured the water is untainted. The vessel is unopened,” he assured smoothly, touching his chest with both hands. “I swear you won’t be drugged or poisoned during your stay here.”

“Wh—” Shamir’s voice croaked dryly, and he swallowed, gazing up at the two soldiers behind the seated man. He switched to Farsi, “Where is ... here?” he tapped his finger on the table.

“A place. Somewhere away from the noise and activity. Where we can speak and understand each—”

“Who are you?” Shamir demanded rasping.

“My name is Alan,” the man said, leaning forward. He grabbed the plastic water bottle, shook it, untwisted the cap, and took a long drink. After sighing in relief, he set the open bottle before the insurgent. “There ... see? If it were poisoned, I would have consumed enough to fall over. Drink. We cannot talk if you are stricken with thirst.”

After hesitating, he reached for the bottle with both hands and took a tentative sip. When the cool liquid touched his tongue and throat, he began gulping it compulsively, draining the bottle. Looking back at his interrogator, he found another full bottle waiting. He didn’t hesitate and drank it before sitting back, holding the empty bottle in his lap as if it might aid his escape. He offered a subtle nod of appreciation but remained silent.

“I am sure you are worried about your brothers,” Alan continued without malice. “I want to assure you they are being treated well, and the injured receive the best medical attention.”

He wasn’t worried; he was not concerned with the welfare of the men he was training. Yet he repeated the nod, gazing intently into the other man’s eyes. They were steel gray, reflecting neither warmth nor cold as they stared back. “What do you want from me?” Suddenly, Shamir felt bolstered by his situation, recognizing the thinly veiled façade. These people were weak, ignorant, and foolish if they thought to coerce anything meaningful from him. Indeed, they recognized the scars on his body when they violated him and dressed him in this ridiculous, emasculating garment. No amount of torture would loosen his tongue, and deep inside, he knew the man across from him recognized this.

“My task is to assure my superiors of your mentation,” Alan replied. “It is contrary to the American sense of justice to try a man not in complete control of his faculties.”

A trial, then? He couldn’t hide his arrogance as he smirked, “Friend Alan, assure your superiors that my faculties are intact.” He glanced up at the two observers, smiling benignly at their blank expressions. They didn’t understand his dialect.

“That’s good. They’ll be most heartened to hear that.” The man stood abruptly and slid the heavy metal chair against the table. It screeched as the legs scraped against the concrete floor. “You’ll soon be fetched for a physical examination to ensure your health—”

“My physical condition is excellent, friend Alan,” he sneered. “I’m up for the rigors of Guantánamo.” His smile faltered at the derisive snort from the taller figure in the back as he grinned at his colleague. Alan stepped over to the door, pushed it open, and departed as the Army man turned to face him directly. His complexion paled when he spoke in perfect Farsi, “There is no place for the likes of you in Guantánamo, my friend.”

Tuesday, August 19th, 1300 ET—THE BRONX

Camila Cosari Kobas, the second-term Senator from New York’s 4th district, stood resilient before the podium as she received a lavishly decorated plaque of appreciation for her efforts to stem the tide of violence against Palestinian refugees who immigrated to the lower Bronx. She wore an ivory cabaye gown with rich gold embroidered floral patterns tied at her slender waist with a wide matching belt. Only the vibrant green silk hijab covering her long black hair stood apart from her traditional Muslim attire. Her appearance suggested she wore little makeup as she smiled brightly for the cameras while posing with the plaque, sharing its bulk with the East Coast chairman of the Middle East Children’s Alliance (MECA), who stood beside her.

The camera flashes blinded her, and she blinked, appearing humbled and overwhelmed. As the spots faded, she noticed several official-looking men standing below her, facing the stage, arms crossed. Their demeanor troubled her. They weren’t part of her protection detail as she didn’t recognize them despite the identical sunglasses. That left one possibility, and her fears were confirmed as the cheering quieted, and she turned to find a similarly dressed man stepping onto the stage to her right. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and black. His head was bald, and he wore no sunglasses to mask his dour expression. She felt a shiver as the plaque was lifted from her slender fingers.

She glanced behind her, seeking Adam, her assistant. He wasn’t where he had been standing just moments before, and she felt panic as she glanced around frantically. Then her eyes widened as she spotted the tall, lanky African American man being led across the parking lot behind the stage by another pair of suits toward a dark SUV. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

“Senator Kobas?” the man spoke with a deep voice. “I’m Special Agent Casey Manning, FBI. Please come with me to answer some questions.” His gentle but firm grip on her arm removed any doubt that his suggestion invited debate. She felt her belly clench as fear crept up her spine. What did they know? Adam had assured her that the shell corporations were untraceable. The campaign contributions were impervious to any forensic audit. Were the student visas she endorsed under question? She stumbled on the steps leaving the stage, and the towering agent supported her firmly.

2000 ET—THE PENTAGON

“Ladies and Gentlemen; Persons of the free press. Thank you for coming.” James appeared before the journalists wearing camouflaged fatigues with his red beret. “This briefing is to provide a precise narrative about the tribunal proceedings you will witness live.” He glanced at the expanded seating for twice as many journalists and reporters as had attended his first briefing. The wide projection screen behind him displayed the Pentagon logo in 3-D. “Before we begin, I have a few moments to update you on the weekend. First, I’d like to introduce two unique American heroes.” The screen showed Dobbs and Potter awkwardly on stage, receiving medals attached to silk lanyards. The presenter was Admiral Damien Fletcher, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Beside him stood the Army Chief and the recently exonerated leader of the Ozark Volunteer Militia, Colonel Ted Thrasher.

“The two elderly gentlemen are Ezekial Dobbs and Clinton Potter from the West Virginia foothills overlooking the Ohio Valley. They identified and neutralized a terror cell—capturing or killing over two dozen insurgents.” The reporters watched as the two celebrities shook hands with officials and posed for pictures with wide grins. “They were brought to the Capitol to be recognized for their heroic actions and enjoyed five-star treatment and accommodations at the Marine Corps Barracks on Eight & I.” Several video clips showed the two men enjoying a meal in the famous galley with over a hundred marines who doted on them. Another video revealed a second informal presentation with the older dwarf grinning toothlessly, holding an armful of prizes, including a gold embossed Joint Chiefs of Staff Porcelain coffee cup, challenge coins, and assorted tokens from different officials during their tour. Then, the video returned to the two men being escorted off the stage past a multiservice honor guard. “These men were the first recipients of the recently adopted Meritorious Medal of Valor, a civilian award equivalent to the Presidential Medal of Freedom with the distinction of merit for services rendered in direct defense of our nation during this unprecedented time.”

The screen blinked and changed, showing a cold, courtroom-like chamber. The bench was occupied by three stern-looking flag officers, one from each of the three primary services. The room was sectioned off by a wooden rail with a large holding area partitioned by thick plexiglass. Inside were seven bearded Middle Eastern men in faded pink jumpsuits, shackled at their hands and feet, standing shoulder to shoulder with twice as many armed guards behind them. Most looked confused and weary, though a couple stood stoically, defiant in the face of their enemy.

“These seven men were surviving members of the terror cell that Dobbs and Potter neutralized. They are charged with crimes related to acts of terror, crimes against humanity, armed insurrection, and inciting violence. All are capital offenses.”

The tribunal was quick, hastened by the fact that all the captured terrorists were tried as a group. Their names were listed, with all the charges. None spoke when given the opportunity in their language. They were found guilty based on evidence collected at their capture, including weapons, maps, and documents not made public. Individual remarks and testimony were recorded, translated, and entered into evidence for consideration by the trio of defending counselors.