“I think I’ve proved myself with you these last two days. I’ve matched you step for step. Plus, like I said before, I haven’t exactly been sitting on my thumbs in my years since Delta. In fact, not two months ago, we recovered an Indian Navy warship that had fallen into the hands of pirates. So I actually have some experience in the real thing. I certainly won’t be a liability. And it sounds like you’ll need all the help you can get.”
There was a long silence in the control room.
“At the very least, let me run the camera,” Crash implored Beaux.
Another long silence. Elvis and Monkey were hovering over the control panels. Ghost was still driving the ship. Smash was pulling out their combat gear. But suddenly they were all looking at Beaux, wondering what he was going to say next.
Then Ghost spoke up. “If he stays behind, sir, all he’ll be able to do is tell Higher Authority what we were doing leading up to this point.”
Beaux glanced around at the rest of the team. He had a very troubled look; so did the others. Obviously, this was a real dilemma for them.
Crash took a step closer to Beaux and said, “I have to go, sir. This stuff is in my blood. And believe me, I don’t want to be the guy left behind to give testimony if something goes wrong.”
Beaux thought about it a few seconds.
Then he turned to Smash and said: “OK—get him a suit.”
* * *
THE CHASE TO catch the Wyoming went on for another twenty minutes. Not more than a dozen words were spoken among the 616 team members in that time. Crash had never seen a special ops team so determined, so single-minded. It was as if they were communicating with each other telepathically, talking with their eyes, their hands, via body language. These guys just never ceased to impress him.
At Beaux’s request, Crash had the video cam out again and was documenting the effort to overtake the sub. More than once, though, while looking through the lens, he felt like an interloper spying on a very exclusive club. The men of the 616 were all on the same wavelength—and he was on the outside looking in.
Crash was able to read a training spec explaining how the SEALs would gain entry into the Wyoming using the sub’s lockout chamber. It was a procedure Crash had done in training before—but in those cases, the sub was always stationary. The Wyoming was obviously underway, and Team 616’s attempts to get inside it while in motion would be like hopping onto a moving freight train.
And even if they were able to maneuver near one of the sub’s lockout chambers, the real question was, would they be able to hook on to it? This could happen only if someone inside the sub went through the entry procedures as well, allowing the SEALs aboard. If that happened, then at least they’d know that part of the sub was still in friendly hands.
But what if they were locked out?
That would mean, if Beaux was right, the phantom pirates would be in control of a massively powerful weapon.
* * *
CRASH KEPT ONE eye on the ship’s Level 3 secure computer, waiting for it to explode back to life at any moment. But the Sea Shadow received no further messages concerning the situation aboard the Wyoming. No communiqués at all from Naval Fleet Command, the Mothership or any of the civilian three-letter agencies.
This told Crash the security on this thing was as tight as anything he’d ever experienced. One stray word, one errant message, any misstep at all, could spell disaster. The lid had to stay screwed on here, at least until the SEALs could determine if they could get into the sub, and if so, find out what the hell was going on.
This meant they were facing a blind entry—going into potentially hostile territory with little or no idea what lay behind the first door, or in this case, the first hatch. From that Crash had to wonder: What would a gunfight be like aboard a moving nuclear sub, one that was carrying twenty-two massive nuclear missiles? There were so many ins and outs and places to hide on a boat like the Wyoming. Cabins, storage spaces, crew areas, ladder wells, weapons rooms, vents; the missile tubes themselves.
Gunplay under those conditions would be the equivalent of the worst urban fighting imaginable, shrunk down many times in size, where one stray