Onslaught Page 9

  Aisha cleared her throat. “I need you to go back a minute. You said, ‘He made me take my coveralls off.’ Tell me exactly how those came off.”

  The girl looked up, eyes suddenly blazing. “How they came off? I just told you, I fuckin’ took them off. He had a knife to my throat!”

  Aisha kept her eyes on her notepad. The cracker was recording the interview, but taking notes added a distance that interviewees seemed to appreciate. “You said it was dark when he grabbed you. From behind, right? So how do you know he had a knife?”

  “I fucking felt it against my throat.”

  “Describe that, please.”

  “A knife … a point … a sharp pointed blade. Cold. Metal.”

  “Was the edge smoothly sharp, or serrated?”

  “Smooth.”

  “Now secure from rearming. Secure from rearming. Now darken ship. Darken ship. Make all darken-ship reports to the officer of the deck on the bridge. All hands stand clear of weather decks while transiting at high speeds. Stand clear of missile-launch areas. Now lay before the mast, all eight o’clock reports,” the 1MC said, very loud, out in the passageway.

  Aisha held her pen in the air. “Is that for you?”

  “No. Chief Wenck’ll take eight o’clock reports.”

  “Can you tell me how long the knife was? Or show me?”

  The petty officer held up finger and thumb four inches apart. “That’s a big blade,” Aisha said. “It would certainly scare me. Did you feel the handle? Did it make a noise, a click or a springy sound? Folding, jackknife, switchblade, straight razor, dinner knife, commando-type knife?”

  “I don’t really remember. I was surprised. Scared.”

  “I understand, believe me. But we’ll just go step by step and see what you can recall. When he held it to your throat, did you feel gloves, or bare hands?”

  The corners of Terranova’s eyes crinkled. “He wore gloves. Leather. Soft leather gloves.”

  “Okay, very good. Now, back to disrobing. Where were the two of you at that point?”

  “The Equipment Room. He pushed me back in there.”

  “Did you take your boots off? Are those the boots you were wearing at the time?”

  “Well, my boots—I never did take them off. I just unzipped and pulled the coveralls down.”

  “And then.” Aisha made a note, kept her eyes lowered.

  “Then … you want to know exactly what he did?”

  “I’m sorry, but we need specifics. I know this isn’t easy, but that’s what’s going to help us catch him.”

  “Well. Then he pulled my panties down. And then he got between my legs and—”

  “You were where? On the floor? The deck, I mean?”

  “I was bent over the work surface. The table.”

  “So he was behind you.”

  “I told you that … no … I guess I only said he grabbed me from behind. But he … fucked me from there, too. Only not in the, um, in where you might have thought. And, oh, he stood me over the work stool. So I was up higher. But he didn’t take long, once he was in.”

  Patiently, going back again when she skipped ahead, Aisha drew it out. The mention of the work stool seemed significant. From the geometry, it meant her attacker was considerably taller. Did she feel a beard at any point, heavy stubble? Mustache? Glasses? What did his clothing feel like—was it cotton, like ship’s coveralls, or the slick nylon of a flight suit, or the fine, snag-prone weave of twill polyester? Had she smelled anything? Terranova said she might have smelled something citrusy, like lemons. Aisha explored the voice. Rough, accented, high or low pitch? Terranova said it was pitched low, almost guttural, as if the rapist was disguising himself.

  “So he was afraid you might recognize him,” Aisha suggested. “Which means you know him. Which also means, maybe, you should be careful.”

  The young woman blinked. “Careful?”

  “Not go anywhere without one of your girlfriends. Especially at night. Has anyone talked to you about that? Maybe Chief Toan?”

  “No, but … you think I’m in danger?”

  Aisha said she just meant to take reasonable precautions. “But if anyone threatens you, or harasses you for cooperating with me, tell me right away. Rape’s serious enough, but there are additional penalties if someone tries to silence you. Do you need to change your work center? Or maybe take some time off?”

  Terranova said she couldn’t, the team depended on her, but that she’d report any harassment. She started to fidget, glancing at the bulkhead clock. “I should get goin’ … need to get some sleep before I go on again.”

  Aisha frowned. “Surely they still don’t have you on the watch bill?”

  The frown lines deepened. Suddenly the girl looked older. More serious. “Do you got any idea what I do aboard here, Agent? Without my radar, we’re fuckin’ blind. I got a team to lead. They can’t take me off the watch bill. Not now, at DEFCON Two.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, Beth.”

  Terranova stood. Her voice rose. Her fists clenched. “We’re at war. Don’t you get it? If I can’t do my fuckin’ job, my shipmates’ll die. And it won’t really matter then who raped me, will it? So I have to stay on duty, no matter how I feel, or how much I just wanta fuckin’ run!”

  Aisha kept her eyes on her notes. Victims often rode an emotional roller coaster. From stoic, to crying, to rage, to fear. It was hard not to ride it with them. “Beth, it’s natural to be angry. Rape is a terrible crime. I know. It happened to me. As a child.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And investigating it, this … process, well, it isn’t exactly fun for me, either.” She tried to steady her voice. “It’s natural to be affected. You may have trouble concentrating. Feel overwhelmed. Night terrors, panic attacks. All those are normal.

  “But if we do this right, we can bring this guy to justice. And that’ll keep your friends safe too. Maybe not from a missile or a bomb. But so they can walk the passageways at night without being afraid.”

  Terranova looked down at her, face white. “Without bein’ afraid,” she murmured. “Wow. Sorry it happened to you. I am. But you shueh make a lotta promises, don’t cha, Special Agent?”

  When the petty officer slammed out the door, Aisha turned off the case cracker. She whispered a du’a, asking for patience. For wisdom, to help those who were hurt. And for a little bit of luck. She asked for strength, and for Allah to stay in her heart.

  Then she wiped her face with both hands and sat alone, listening to the throb of turbines, the rush of a speeding ship through a dark and trackless sea.

  8

  USS Montpelier (SSN 765)

  THE second day aboard the sub, in the cramped enlisted mess. Teddy was always taken aback by how tight it was. Every cubic foot was crammed with equipment, leaving only narrow vertical slots through which bodies could fit. The overhead was low, and there were only two dining tables, with bench seats; you had to pull your elbows in tight to your sides. You couldn’t complain about the chow, though. He was digging in when Lieutenant Harch stopped to murmur, “How’s the omelets, Master Chief?”

  “Um, okay, sir.” Teddy was reserved with Harch. The heavily mustached, dark-complected platoon commander was ex-enlisted. Good in one way, not so great in another. You didn’t have to explain certain things, but he wasn’t as ready to defer to his senior enlisted’s advice. As to what kind of a leader he’d be when the chips were down … who the fuck knew.

  “Bunkin’ okay?”

  “Tight, but we’ll make it work. How is it up in officers’ country?”

  “Sweet. Especially the massage girls.” Harch flashed a grin. “Let’s pull the troops together after breakfast, Mast’ Chief. 0830.”

  “Um, got it. Where?”

  “XO said here is okay. Let ’em clean up, wipe down the tables. Then filter back in. Set us up for that big-screen TV.”

  Harch left and Teddy exchanged glances with Knobby Swager. Maybe they’d find out where they were goi
ng. “At long damn last,” the first class muttered.

  He passed the word along to Moogie, the other team leader—Swager was Team One, Moogie Team Two—and by 0820 everyone was mustered. He looked carefully at each man as they sat or leaned about. The platoon was embarked on two subs, as planned, but something had happened to the diver delivery vehicles en route. What, exactly, they had no need to know, apparently; but the DDVs were out of the picture for the operation.

  Which would make it hairier. His guys were about as physically fit as a human body could get, but with all the gear they were towing and wearing, a five-mile swim was the absolute most you could expect and still leave them in shape to fight. The scooters would help, but they were range-limited too. The subs would have to crowd the beach. Which meant they’d be in shallow water, more vulnerable.…

  And they had just fifteen operators, divided into two crews. There was a command and control element aboard the battle group flagship. Commander Laughland, Teddy presumed, had briefed the best course of action to the group commander. He’d also have a quick-reaction force on a short leash, in case things went south.

  True, one SEAL platoon wasn’t that many men. But they weren’t trying to occupy the island, just get in and out undetected. In action, an enemy often took a SEAL detachment for a much larger force anyway. They trained for superior firepower and extreme violence of action. Usually, that obscured their reliance on organic assets—what they carried in with them. They weren’t the Army, with heavy artillery and unlimited logistics.

  Teddy sighed and looked them over again. Echo Platoon, but not the old Echo. Only a few left from the White Mountains. Knobby Swager, yeah, and Moogie, and Mud Cat, his old 249 gunner. The rest were new. Swaggering young dicks, full of napalm and testosterone. But most seemed to have their shit wired. Any who hadn’t, he’d bottom-blown before they deployed.

  Seemed like not that many years ago he’d been one of them. Now he was the master chief. Supposed to teach them. Look out for them. Be an example.

  That was a fucking laugh.

  He was talking to Mud Cat, who was massaging his hand—he’d taken a bullet through his palm on the same godforsaken mountain Teddy had fallen down—when Harch charged in. “Attention on deck!” Teddy yelled, and those who weren’t on their feet bolted up.

  The lieutenant waved them down and handed Teddy a USB stick. “Seats, everyone. Jeezus! Okay, we got the PLO. Critical time frame, critical mission. We need to get in and take action.”

  Building on the warning order, the Patrol Leader’s Order detailed both the mission and each team member’s individual responsibilities. SEALs operated differently from more conventional units. In a way, Teddy thought, they were more like the Raiders had been, or at least the way Carlson had envisioned them. You told them what you wanted done, but not how to do it.

  Harch stroked his mustache. “Time to let everybody in on where we’re going. Not that I didn’t want to before. One cell phone intercept, we can forget surprise. Everyone ready for a hairy-ass, balls-to-the-wall direct-action mission?”

  When the hoo-ahs and whistles died down he said, “All right. Lights, please.” Swager handed him the remote for the screen, and the first slide came up. The legend OPERATION WATCHTOWER was superimposed on a chart of the South China Sea.

  “Within days, combined U.S. and Vietnamese forces will land on the Chinese-held Spratly Islands, east of Vietnam. To cover them, act as a diversion, and prepare for the next step in an island-hopping campaign to the mainland coast, we will raid this objective.”

  An overhead shot, blue and white and green: a reef-fringed island, shaped like an off-center valentine. The tan oblong of an airstrip slanted across its eastern coast, jutting into reef at both ends. Squared-off jetties surrounded artificial boat basins. Someone had devoted years and millions of dollars into turning a few acres of scrub and shoal into a major military base.

  Harch said, “Yongxing Island, also known as Woody Island. Roughly a mile by a mile. Population counts differ, but there’s probably around fourteen hundred civilians, originally fishermen, servicing the military presence in one way or another. Military personnel: originally around three hundred, but since the start of the war, we expect they’ve been reinforced—probably an assault-slash-defense battalion of the 164th Marine Brigade. There’s one runway, long enough to service the Sukhoi Su-30 multirole strike fighter. They’ve been observed operating here, but it’s not clear whether they’re permanently deployed. There’s also a small naval base and refueling pier.

  “Our object of interest, though, is this smaller island”—the image zoomed in, and the men around the room stirred and coughed—“north of Woody. The old charts call it Rocky Island, but we’re not sure of the Chinese name. It was recently connected to the main island by a concrete causeway.

  “Formerly uninhabited, Rocky’s been sealed off and turned into a signal and intelligence monitoring center. Note the antennas in this slant photo, and, near the edge, the tallest, the vertical ones. High-frequency monitoring arrays, for gathering radar and radio intel.

  “From here, they can reach out a thousand miles in every direction, covering most of the South China Sea. Note also the dome-shaped, Quonset-type buildings. A common PLA prefab design, for barracks and other military functions.”

  Harch turned away to cough. “From these overheads, plus traffic analysis, Intel estimates the watchstanders and garrison numbers at at least two hundred, mostly sigint specialists. With both radar and elint capabilities, this is the enemy’s main listening post on their south coast. Making it difficult, if not impossible, for any allied force to approach without being subject to detection, tracking, and air attack from fighters based at the strip.”

  Teddy raised a hand. “Master Chief,” Harch said, not very eagerly.

  “Sir, these antennas, plus the Quonsets—looks like they’re spread out pretty far. How long is this island? The small one.”

  “About a quarter mile, Master Chief.”

  Teddy didn’t like it. Over a thousand effectives, and the Chinese 164th Marines were an elite unit, trained in both assaulting and defending islands. But even assuming the SEALs could elude them, how were fifteen guys going to destroy all these structures, antennas, processing stations? They’d have to spend a full day just placing explosives. The garrison wouldn’t think highly of that.

  But the platoon commander had resumed. “We think these huts, here, and here, are where monitoring and processing take place. DIA suspects the data’s transmitted direct to Beijing, via a submarine cable between Yongxing and the mainland.”

  Harch gave them a few seconds to contemplate the image. Despite his skepticism, Teddy found himself setting up a strategy. Land half the team on the causeway, with machine guns and light antitank capabilities. Once they lit up the night, both as a blocking force and a diversion, the rest of the platoon would insert over the northern beach, which looked like a steep gradient. They should be on top of the antennas and buildings in short order.

  But seven hundred marines on the main island, three hundred more on Rocky itself … beside him Swager twisted his mouth, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Not enough guys, not enough time,” he muttered.

  “No shit. Not with all those fucking antennas. Y’ever try to knock down an antenna?”

  “It ain’t easy.”

  “Excuse me, Master Chief,” Harch said. “Did you have something to contribute?”

  “Just eager to hear the plan, sir,” Teddy said. “But I gotta say, I’m concerned about the force balance.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I briefed three concepts of operation to the ops-o, then Commander L. Then the sub’s CO … but he’s not a happy camper about how close in we’re asking him to go. He thought we’d be thirty miles out, riding the buses in … but here’s the plan.”

  Harch stroked his mustache, talking to the screen. “We swim in submerged. I considered the rafts, but there’s probably tactical radar protecting such a high-value target. As we pro
ceed to target, a combined Tomahawk and standoff weapons strike will hit the airfield and the naval facility. Another salvo of precision-guided munitions will hit the repair shops and fuel bunkers.

  “All in all, they’ll lay down thirty tons of ordnance. Ten minutes later, we hit the beach at two points. Timing will be critical.”

  “No fucking shit,” Swager muttered, elbowing Oberg.

  The next slide showed two points of entry. Pretty much as Teddy’d already figured, one was at the causeway, the other at Rocky’s northern beach.

  Teddy leaned back, fingering his chin. Thinking again of Makin Atoll. You had only two choices in assaulting a beach. Pick hydrography with a shallow gradient … like Tarawa, where the enemy, if he was sighted in, could cut you to pieces as you waded ashore. Or a steep gradient, where the surf could tear you up almost as bad. Carlson’s guys had come in over the open beach, and lost most of their weapons and gear in the surf.

  Why not just chute in, do a HALO drop? But no, the radars made that impossible. No drop plane would get within a hundred miles before the Sukhois were on it.

  Harch said, “Okay, we drilled with the Packages. I had one guy”—he glanced at Teddy—“ask me if they were radioactive. Well, they’re not. And they’re not bombs, either. If we had to just take out a sigint station, there are easier ways to do it than send us in.” He gave it a beat, then said, “The Packages are EMP devices. They contain explosives, yeah, but the purpose isn’t blast or fragmentation. They produce a super-powerful electromagnetic pulse. Enough to fry every radar and computer in a thousand-yard radius.”

  Harch edged past the table to the screen and pointed. “The first team, Echo One, lands here and moves out to the causeway. They set up a blocking position, isolating the island. The movement team, Echo Two, lands fifteen minutes later. Exiting the beach, they head for the center of the island via this forested corridor.” He circled a dark area on the slide. “It’s mixed scrub, dune, and marsh; note what looks like a sewage pond to the northwest. Covert, in the dark, we should be able to traverse it without detection. At the centroid of the island, we emplace the Packages, on top of separate sand hills. The elevation will increase the effective radius of the pulse. Hit the timers, then link up.”