Frederick Senior High School
Frederick, Colorado
“Alright guys,” John Crosby, one of the math teachers at the high school in the little town in the middle of nowhere in Colorado, said as he clapped his hands together. “I know that today is the last day of the year which I why…” He paused dramatically. “Pop Quiz time!”
A chorus of groans, and a few muttered curses, sounded out in protest only to be silenced by Crosby’s deep laughter. “C’mon guys, you’ve been with me for an entire year and you should all know me better than that.” He flicked off the lights and powered on the large work board that replaced chalk boards a few years ago. “What I really wanted to say was: most of you will be returning to me for your final dose of math next year and if you do please try to remember all you can from this year. Now, let’s watch a movie to round out the last period of the last day.”
Cheers replaced the groans and Crosby selected Treasure Planet from the list of approved movies and it began to play. For the most part few of the students paid attention to the animated film, most saw it as a chance to converse with their friends or exchange text messages with someone else whose teacher decided to turn off the cellular disrupter that stopped cell phones from working. James reached down into his pocket to check and see if he had his Cello-phone. A couple of years ago a branch of his parent’s tech company came out with a new type of technology: a thick piece of clear cellophane that acted as a normal microprocessor, could display images, and send and receive signals. Since they worked on the project and needed live field testing, James was one of the people chosen to try it out and see what he thought about it; he often got new gadgets months before they were released that way.
The familiar three inch square piece of plastic was still there and he felt reassured, especially since people had tried to steal it before. James had told them time and again that unless they had his fingerprints than it wouldn’t work, but no one really listened. For a moment he couldn’t wait to get home and tell his dad that he owed James money due to the bet the two of them made at the beginning of the school year, he bet James would either lose it or break it. Sadness creped in and replaced the fuzzy feeling that he got when he forgot that he wouldn’t see them again.
Instead of watching the movie he crossed his arms on his desk and put his head down. It’s not that he was purposely wallowing in sorrow and hoping for pity but he couldn’t help but feel alone even after three months. The first couple of weeks he was strong and emotionless, acting like it didn’t matter, then all the walls came down when he accidentally went to his parents’ house after school one day; the bank had foreclosed on it even though it was supposed to be his and he couldn’t get in so he just sat on the porch and felt numb. Nick found him that way a few hours later and brought him home. James didn’t actually let anything out until a few days ago when he pulled the weeds out. Candace Burnside had washed his clothes the next day but thankfully didn’t say anything about it.
“Hey James, what are you doing this weekend?” A voice whispered in the darkness.
He lifted his head and turned toward the speaker, when he saw it was his friend Breanne he smiled. “Probably just vegging out on the couch. You?”
She shrugged, with her shoulder length blonde hair ruffling at the edges. “Not sure, I know that I’m working next week though.”
“Boo,” James whispered back. “We should do something fun.”
“That’s what Nick was saying. Something like ‘this is the last summer we’ll have before we’re expected to be adults’.”
“Bree, I live with him so trust me when I say that any idea he comes up with here gets run by me first.”
She giggled and asked, “Well, a couple of my friends wanna’ go hiking in the mountains. You want to come to?” Breanne was always nice to him and very considerate when his parents died. Sometimes he got the feeling that she liked him as more than a friend but he never got the chance since one of them was always taken, he with his two girlfriends and she with her two year long relationship that ended just last month.
“Which friends?” He asked warily; like everyone there was just some people he would not allow himself to be around.
“Uhm… Emily Kisser, Emmel Grace, Tricia – you know Trish, and Ryan Folsom.”
“Two questions. A, have any of them gone hiking in the mountains before? And B, those are mostly girls.”
“Number two wasn’t a question sweetie,” Breanne said smartly. “And…other than me, not that I know of…”
“Well that’s gonna’ have to be a hell no. I’m not going to baby sit a bunch of teenage girls twenty miles in the woods.” He pitched his voice high. “Oh my phone doesn’t work, I didn’t know it wasn’t going to be so much work, do you think such and such is cute?”
“You know not every girl thinks like that. I’ve told them it’ll be a lot of hard work but I also told them that you and Nick are coming…”
“Pfft, like that makes a difference.”
Shaking her head, Breanne smiled sweetly at him. “It kinda does since Emily has a thing for Nick.”
“Well you tell him that, he needs a girlfriend.” Even though girls were always after him, James’ best friend never did date much. It wasn’t that he was gay but he just didn’t see the point in investing his time with a girl that wasn’t going to last and was going to get all clingy before too long. “As for me, I’m not going to be a guide just to lead Tricia and Ryan into the woods where they can shag to their hearts content. “
She gasped and threw her stylus at him. “What they do is their business.”
“Uh huh,” James grunted as he picked up the pen for Breanne’s touch screen desktop. “I’m keeping this by the way. And you weren’t at Tricia’s place when they got into it. Let me tell you, I’m not gonna’ be out there with no gun and hear something that sounds like a bear growling.”
“Well that’s your fault for not liking guns. And,” She paused and looked confused. “Do they really sound like a bear?”
“Do I have to separate you two?” Crosby asked from the middle of the room, apparently he was trying to watch the movie as well. James leaned back to his desk and Breanne did the same, he turned to her and just nodded his head and she giggled again.
She passed him a piece of paper, an old fashioned way of passing notes but effective when the teacher was listening. James unfolded it and read it, in flowery handwriting it simply said, ‘So, are you coming?’ In lieu of replying he just folded it up again and slid it into his pocket.
Office of the Secretary of the Interior
Washington D.C.
Paperwork. The thing that Richard hated most was all the paperwork that seemed to pile up on his desk by the hour. He made his best attempt to work through it but every morning when he walked through the glass and wood door there it was again like a haunted object that just wouldn’t allow itself to be thrown away.
“And just what exactly am I supposed to do with all of this?” He asked himself after filing away yet another report about land management, this one stating the percentage of timber logged in the last year.
Essentially, his day to day consisted of meeting with environmental groups like the Sierra Group and trying to conserve America’s land; and thanks to big businesses bribing Senators, that last part was nigh impossible. And yet he pressed on with only the slightest curious thought as to why he didn’t get an army of aides like the rest of the Cabinet.
Burbank pulled another report off the stack and scanned it to see if it had any merit, a trick he learned early on to help save time and get through enough papers within the work day, and stopped to read it again. At the top of the page were only the black redaction lines that told him someone didn’t want him to find out where the paper came from but felt it was important enough to send to Burbank’s office and ensure that it reached his desk.
In three short lines the page simply read: RAID ON GOD’S ARMY MAIN COMPOUND IN SIERRA LEONE. LEADERS CAPTURED ALIVE. INTERROGATION REVEALS RECEIVING ORDERS FROM HIGHER SOURCE.
With a heavy sigh he dropped the single page on his desk and watched as it slid until it caught under one of the corners of his blotter and stopped. Higher source? He asked himself. What higher source could a terrorist agency hell-bent on chasing the Druidth off the planet be following?
The Secretary of the Interior reached for his phone and dialed up the direct number to William Lovett, the man that Richard suspected of sending him the missive. Within two rings the heavy voice of the DCI answered.
“William, Richard,” He said as soon as he heard the clicks that encrypted the phone lines stop. “I just read the message you sent me and-“
“What message, Richard?” Lovett asked, cutting in. Burbank could almost smell his coffee breath across the phone.
“The message about the raid on the God’s Army compound,” He replied, confused. If it wasn’t the CIA, then who?
“Dick, I assure you I have no idea what on Earth you’re talking about.”
“Oh…” Burbank held the page up to the light in a hope that the senders name or logo would shine through, but no luck.
“Yeah, look I’ve got a meeting in Washington this afternoon. You wanna’ meet at our usual lunch spot?” The head of the CIA asked in a light tone.
Perplexed, Burbank tried to pick a hidden meaning out of Lovett’s offer. As far as he knew they had had lunch together on all of one time. Sure he had dinner at Burbank’s house a time or two but they most assuredly did not have a usual lunch spot. “Sure, Bill,” He replied, using Lovett’s abbreviated name in return. “I’ll meet you at the Lincoln memorial at three.”
“Sounds like a plan. See you then.” The line went dead and Burbank was left sitting there with a quiet phone in his hand and far more questions than he had before. He looked toward the wall and checked the time, 1:47. This left him a considerable amount of time in which to ponder what was going on and how he was going to get any straight answers out of Lovett.
In an attempt to get back to work and take his mind off the message and enigmatic phone call with his friend, Richard picked up another page and tried to focus on it enough to get a basic meaning but found his eyes moving and reading the words without his brain understanding any of them.
By the time Chris stuck his head in the door the ink on the page must have been several shades lighter from the repeated readings Burbank attempted.
“Sir?” He asked trying to get Richards attention. “I have an email for you from a Bill Loveless…” Chris trailed off unsure if he just told his boss about receiving spam.
“Bill Loveless? I don’t know anyone by that-“ Burbank stopped cold and checked the clock. 2:05. He stood and walked into the front office, turning Chris’ screen so the he and he alone could read the message, then tapped the screen.
Dick,
I’ll see you today at Jefferson’s. 2:30.
W.
With a sly grin Burbank tapped delete and grabbed his coat from behind the door and made out with a passing comment to his aide about getting lunch. In a flash he was down the corridor, down the elevator, and into the parking garage where he climbed into a car assigned to the office and not his own car. Perhaps he was being overly cautious and carrying the cloak and dagger stuff a little too far but if William Lovett felt that he should send a random email to Burbank’s aide and not him then it must have been important.
In downtown D.C. at this time of day the roads were pretty congested with all the interns getting food and stimulants for the people they hoped would make their political careers; which is why Burbank pulled into the parking lot of the Jefferson Memorial nearly half an hour later. His door made a solid click and he closed it and surveyed the area and, sure enough, saw a familiar face sitting alone on a bench overlooking the bay.
“I had hoped you would be here earlier,” The man sitting on the bench said as Burbank approached from behind. “But I guess that’s one of the draw backs to having a meeting during lunch hour.”
Richard walked around the green painted iron and sat next to his friend. “I have to say that I feel proud of myself in figuring this out.”
“And why wouldn’t you?” Lovett asked rhetorically. “You weren’t trained in the spy business. Though taking another car certainly was a nice bit of field craft.”
“Thanks,” Burbank felt his ears burning at the compliment paid by the master of spies. “So why here? Why the confusing-ass secrecy?”
“No real point,” William replied with a shake of his head and took out a sandwich from a brown paper bag. “You ever have a cucumber sandwich before? It’s all about the cream cheese.”
“Where I’m from they just put mayo on them.”
“And where would that be, Hicksville?”
“Pretty much,” The suspense was killing him. “So the message…”
Lovett chewed for a moment and, in between bites, said, “I didn’t send you that message. However I can’t say the same for someone in my office…”
“At your behest I’m assuming?”
“Bravo. It doesn’t really mean anything, I just thought you would like to know what’s going on.”
“So the ‘higher power’ that it states were giving them orders, any idea who that could be?”
Lovett shook his head again. “No. I know for a fact that it wasn’t us. So what’s that leave? Two dozen world powers that could supply a group of radicals with the training, logistics, and equipment necessary for something like this?”
Burbank thought on that for a moment before stating the obvious. “So what was the endgame just became another bread crumb.”
“Indeed it has,” Lovett agreed. The two men were silent for a moment as William finished his sandwich. “So since you’re in on it now, let me ask you this,” But he paused as he formulated his question. “What if it wasn’t exactly a world power?”
“What? Like a third world country?”
“No.” The answer came quickly which meant that Lovett had predicated Burbank’s need for clarity.
“So you mean…” What indeed?
USS Florida SSGN 728
Mid-Atlantic Ocean, 5 Miles off George’s Bank
“Helm, bring us right to a bearing of zero-one-five.”
“Zero-one-five, aye sir,” Helmsman Abernathy confirmed before turning his enlarged and glorified steering wheel to the right, causing the whole ship to list.
Castle had just ordered his ship to turn away from their current Northwest direction to a Northeastern one; this made yet another diagonal pattern in the zigzag that the Florida was cutting through the icy waters of the North Atlantic. After they were refitted with armaments and food, unfortunately there was now a shortage on nuclear warheads so the Florida and other surviving ships were sailing with plain Trident cruise missiles, a Navy liaison handed him his orders which were not opened until their second day at sea. Stated simply: the USS Florida was to patrol the North Atlantic from Rhode Island to Newfoundland and ‘intercept all incoming vessels in a non-hostile yet formidable way’. Which basically meant they were to chase down every radar contact they got and be ready to sink it without actually sinking it; and since their current patrol zone was the northernmost segment of a major transportation lane, they had a lot of work to do.
“Conn, radar,” The voice box squawked above Castle’s head and he cursed himself for thinking he had time to sit down as he stood and grabbed the microphone.
“Conn, aye,” He responded with a sigh. “What have you got for me today, Jonas?”
“Sir, we have a heavy surface radar contact at bearing one-nine-three, five miles out.”
Sighing again he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What does it look like?” He hoped he could get away with one or two if it was a clear non-hostile like a sailboat, which had no propeller.
“Cap, it sounds like another cruise ship,” The radar room down in the CIC reported. “But you know how much those new Russian missile destroyers sound like civilian vessels…” Jonas’ voice trailed off as he let the captain come to his own conclusion about what to do.
“Damn Norwegian Lines,” Castle cursed under his breath before keying the mike to respond. “Understood, Radar. Keep me posted, Conn out.”
“Beat to quarters, Sir?” XO Beagle asked from the periscope. Typically, on any other vessel owned by the U.S. Navy they phrase for battle stations was just called ‘Battle Stations’. But Castle enjoyed the throwback from the days of wind driven ships, cannons on every deck, and ship to ship fighting. Not to mention pirates; he never met a sailor who didn’t fancy themselves as Captain Kidd or William Teague at some point or another. He even had a scaled model of the Queen Anne’s Revenge in his stateroom.
“Beat to Quarters, Mr. Beagle,” The Captain ordered, then in a louder voice, “Helm, bring us about to one-nine-three and push us to two-thirds ahead.” He intended to catch up to the ship and then sneak up close.
“One-nine-three, two-thirds, aye sir,” The Helmsman reported again and once more turned the wheel causing the ship to turn towards the right.
Silently, the ship glided through the icy black waters like a metal ghost. Thanks to advancements in sound-dampening technology, sonar resistors, and magnetic scramblers the submarine might as well have been a specter for all the ways it could kill and the few ways it could be detected. Other ships could still pick up faint noises from when the propellers turned the water, that was unavoidable unless you removed the water which kind of defeated the whole purpose of the submarine to begin with, but they were always thin and scattered. Sometimes a Destroyer, a surface ship specifically designed to hunt submarines, utilizing a MAD, or Magnetic Anomaly Detector which was essentially a giant magnetron that told the operator whenever something large and metal was nearby, could find them if they were close enough to the surface and close enough to the ship. Problem was the MAD was usually confused by large veins of Iron in the Earth’s crust or old hulls of previously sunken ships.
John smiled as he remembered just a few years ago when the Iranian Navy was showing off its brand new Destroyer complete with state of the art MAD and sonar when they fired upon, and severely damaged, one of their own subs during a training exercise. If he recalled correctly the boat was underneath the Destroyer and was picked up by the MAD, the operator panicked which snowballed and caused the Captain to drop depth charges. If the sonar man had simply bothered to check the computer for class verification, a procedure that ultimately declared if the vessel in question was friendly or foreign, then none of that would have happened. Iran had sputtered that it was in fact a Western plot to weaken their Navy, but thanks to a few hackers the official documents were leaked and published for all to see.
Glancing over at the chart table, Castle saw that they were closing on the ship in question and ordered speed reduced to one-quarter normal speed, which would have made the Florida nearly undetectable by all but the most advanced equipment. Cross-checking the bathometer, he ordered periscope depth and approached the large tube located in the center of the bridge. “Ready to see more drunken tourists sunning on deck, Pete?” He asked Beagle.
“Only if they’re topless like our first time out,” The Executive Officer declared. On the maiden voyage, well they maiden voyage under John’s command, of the Florida, they had come upon a blip just sitting in the water half a mile from international waters where everything was legal. Castle ordered them to periscope depth, exactly like he just did, and found out what it was: a rather large yacht floated aimlessly as everyone on board, mostly likely the crew as well, partied. Girls stood topless, and some bottomless, all over the deck and danced. Beagle had the mind to switch the tapes that recorded what the periscope saw and kept a copy; each year on the anniversary of John’s commission they get drunk with the rest of the Boat Captains in Norfolk and play it on a big screen.
“You only want a new Micro-Disk for your collection,” He accused.
Gazing through the viewfinder of the bulky metal pole that allowed him to see outside, Castle found his suspicions about the ship were correct. Out on the choppy, blue-grey waters of the Atlantic Ocean sat a fat, white and blue cruise ship with Ocean Star painted on either side of its hull. Now, this certainly wasn’t the enormous ocean liners that carried over 7,000 tourists with an accompanying 1,200 crew members. The Ocean Star was of an older build, bought and run by Britannic Lines; he recalled the Australian based company had built an exact replica of the Titanic with a choice of antique or modern luxuries. “Just as I said,” He breathed.
“Sir?”
“Plot a firing solution and let me know when it’s ready, XO.” Although the crew of the Florida was a well-trained machine, there was never any harm in getting in a little extra practice every now and then.
“Plotted, sir.” Beagle called out from the fire-control console that linked directly into the main computer. Sitting in the direct center of the boat, the main computer performed all sorts of tasks either too complicated or too menial for the sailors to do, such as: keeping track of time, logging radar and sonar contacts for the kids at ONI to examine, controlling the lights and thermostat, recording all the logs that the department heads put in at the beginning and end of each shift, and especially plotting firing solutions for the ships torpedoes.
“And?” Castle asked expectantly.
“At current speed, heading, and course we predict a full strike center mass with ninety-four-point-seven percent probability. Based on her size, tonnage, and build there’s no way she can get out of the way in time. Due to the nature of the vessel,” Beagle paused in the middle of his macabre report and inhaled deeply, almost as if he was bored. “Countermeasures are not likely. Water temperature, wave strength, and current time leave a fifty-one-point-zero-one casualty rating.”
“Only fifty-one percent killed?” Castle asked puzzled.
“Yup. Most will die from falling into the cold water.” Peter typed into the computer and scrolled down the pure data report. “Since it’s in the middle of the afternoon the crew’s response time in getting the lifeboats out will be pretty fast. Again, afternoon with pleasant weather means most passengers will be on one of the decks with outside access instead of in their rooms below deck.” The Executive Officer read on. “Hmm… that’s interesting… it reads that nearly six percent will be killed by trampling or other violent acts by the passengers themselves…”
“And they say we live in a civilized age,” One of the Helmsmen mumbled, to which Castle agreed.
Reaching for the microphone he pressed the button for the whole ship. “Attention all hands. We have pursued our radar contact and sank yet another cruise ship. Making for a total of eight. Stand down to normal operating conditions.” The red lights flashed out, replaced by the standard dim white lights, and Castle hung up the handpiece. Turning to his First Mate he said, “If only it were that easy in real war…”
“Mmmm,” Beagle hummed. “Though I don’t remember sinking cruise liners as valid targets in open war.”
“Did you know the Lusitania was found to be carrying four million three-oh-three rounds? Imagine what the world would look like with if that had been common knowledge back then…”
“Pretty much the same since Britain and France were bribing the U.S. to enter the war,” Beagle replied. “Then there was that whole thing with Mexico…”
It was Castles turn to hum. “I’m gonna’ go stalk the ship. Maybe hit the galley,” He said to Peter. Throughout the ship he was notoriously known for sneaking into sections of the ship and watching sailors do their jobs without them knowing, if they had a bad performance review or found themselves with extra duty they wouldn’t exactly know why but would certainly suspect. Castle and the Florida were both called the ‘Ghost of the North Sea’. “XO has the Conn,” He declared and walked out into the brightly lit corridor.