Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

At that very moment, five hundred miles north of Madagascar, the USS Bataan, an amphibious assault ship sometimes referred to as a helicopter carrier, was steaming at flank speed to the south. She was rigged for battle, blacked out and operating under strict radio silence. But while she could not transmit, she was capable of receiving messages.

Late on the second watch, a member of the communications crew overheard several puzzling messages and reported them to the officer in charge.

The officer looked at the messages and then at the radioman. “What’s the problem, Charlie?”

“It’s these intercepts, sir. Someone is using our call sign. They’re transmitting and receiving uncoded messages and giving out our old location.”

The communications supervisor studied the transmission sheet. “Yep,” he said. “Looks that way.”

Without another word, he handed the sheet back to the radioman and turned his attention to other matters. The radioman stared at him dumbfounded.

“You have a post to man, sailor.”

“Yes, sir,” the radioman said, turning and heading back to his console. Something was obviously going on, but having seen the look on his superior’s face, Charlie knew better than to ask.

Meanwhile, down on the hangar deck of the ship, a swarm of mechanics and technicians worked on a group of UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, making sure all five were in perfect shape for the mission.

In a nearby ready room, forty-six Marines, comprising two Force Recon platoons, were getting briefed on the island compound they were about to attack.

“We go in under cover of darkness,” Lieutenant Brooks told the men. “Secure the perimeter and then search the grounds and buildings with the following objectives. First, to rescue Ms. Westgate and her children. Second, to rescue any other civilians found on the site. Third, to capture the individuals responsible. Fourth, to gather any intelligence regarding their activities or associates.”

“Are we going in as friendlies?” someone asked.

“Negative,” Brooks replied. “We have not been invited and we will not be overstaying our welcome. From wheels down to departure, we have no more than forty minutes. So don’t get lost in the hedges.”

A wave of laughter went around the room.

“How many defenders are we likely to encounter?”

“Based on the two bunkhouses and the size of the main structure, it could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. But not all of those will be armed combatants. Honestly, it should be a walk in the park. Just be ready in case it isn’t.”

Thirty minutes later, the Force Recon Marines were up on the flight deck and boarding the Black Hawks. A long, grueling stretch awaited them, four hours of flight time that included refueling the helicopters from a tanker aircraft approximately one hundred miles from the target.

Assuming they went in and got out in forty minutes, the total trip would be eight hours. At least the journey home would be shorter as the ship would be nearly two hundred miles closer by the time they reached it.

With the pilots going through their preflight checks and the Marines boarding the helicopters and stowing their weapons, the company commander made his way over. He spoke briefly with Lt. Brooks.

“We have the green light to launch, but you won’t get attack authorization until we have confirmation that Ms. Westgate and her children are on-site.”

“Understood,” Brooks said. “Any idea how or when we’re going to get that?”

The commander checked his watch. “A two-man team will be making a LAPES insertion several miles from the compound. They should be on the ground anytime now. They’ll have a ways to go before they’re on-site, but I would expect a go or no-go decision shortly after you refuel.”

Brooks nodded. “LAPES insertion? Who’d they sucker into pulling that duty?”

“A couple of guys from NUMA.”

Brooks stared at the commander blankly for a moment. “NUMA? Aren’t they a bunch of marine biologists or something?”

“They’re something, all right,” the commander said with a strange look on his face. “Anyway, I’m told these guys are good.”

“Right, sir,” Brooks said with disdain in his voice. “I’ll expect our cover to be blown and to be looking for more hostages or dead bodies when we land.”

The commander didn’t respond, but he shared the assessment. “Crack open the operations file once you get airborne. There are photos of the NUMA personnel inside. Make sure you’re familiar. Don’t want to shoot them if they happen to survive. Good luck.”

Brooks offered a salute, received one back from the commander, and then climbed aboard the lead Black Hawk.

As the rotors above him began to turn, he wondered what kind of oceanographer or marine biologist would be up for such a stunt or how such a person would even have the skills to perform what they were being asked to do. With a shrug of his shoulders, Brooks decided they had to be half crazy, whoever they were. At least they had guts, he’d give them that.